The Redemption of Alexander Seaton

The room fell silent. There could be but one answer that made any sense. What Davidson had drawn was a plan for an invasionary force, landing on the Moray coast and marching – marching where else but southwards – to Aberdeen, to Edinburgh, to London itself, but first by way of Strathbogie. Strathbogie, the centre of Gordon power, the heartland of the Marquises of Huntly, commanding the North East, and ever ready to rise, in concert with their sovereign or against, in the name of Rome. Forfeiture, banishment, death on the battlefield or by the executioner’s axe had failed to slake the thirst of the Gordons for a return of Scotland to the thrall of the papacy. And Strathbogie lay not twenty miles from where we stood. But I would not lay that charge at one I had never met, whom I had already so wronged, and who could no longer answer in his own defence.

It mattered little: the words that stuck in my throat came soon enough from the baillie’s mouth. ‘I think it is evident, is it not, Mr Seaton, that Patrick Davidson was a papist spy?’

He had dropped the words into a silent room and opened the door to a tempest. As I tried to frame some response, Gilbert Grant stood up, rage and dismay contending in him for the ascendancy. ‘That is an outrage, Buchan, that the boy should stand accused of such a deed. He had a thirst for knowledge, for that you would condemn him as a papist and a spy?’ He turned imploring eyes on me. ‘Alexander, tell them, tell them what nonsense they speak …’ But my old colleague’s voice fell away, drowned out by the silence of the certainty that now filled the room.

The notary was the first to speak. ‘I think it well that these papers be kept in a place of security. I propose, Provost, that after we have made more particular examination of these documents, the chest be placed under lock and key in the charter room here in the tolbooth.’

The provost assented, having come to himself somewhat. Thomas Stewart and I lifted the chest to the table, away from the fire, which Walter Watt called to have lit. The baillie told the apothecary he might leave us, with a strict admonition that he should spread no word of this conference. He also spoke a word, an unaccustomed kindly word, to Gilbert Grant, that he need not tarry with us longer if he did not wish to. My elderly colleague rose stiffly. ‘I will go gladly, for I have not the stomach for this. He was a fine boy, a fine boy.’

The provost clasped his hand firmly. ‘Thank you, Gilbert. You do him justice.’ As Grant and Arbuthnott were leaving, the serjeant was told to have the minister fetched. This again was the suggestion of Thomas Stewart, and although the baillie and the provost, I was sure, would have objected if they could, we all assented that it was right that the minister should be informed of what had been found. The provost then took his accustomed seat at the head of the table and invited the rest of us to be seated also.

It was not long before the minister appeared. As Mr Guild somewhat breathlessly removed his hat and cloak, the notary commenced on an abbreviated account of what had transpired at the search of Patrick Davidson’s room.

The minister looked truly astonished. ‘A spy? A papist, I will not believe it!’ No mention of papist had been made by Thomas Stewart, for none was needed. What other enemy could our country have? The minister looked to his brother-in-law. ‘Provost, this cannot be true, man: he was your nephew.’

The provost, who had sat silently throughout Thomas Stewart’s narrative, maintained his composure. ‘I would rather lose my own life than believe it. Never has there been such a taint on my family name. Never. No hint of Romanism, of disloyalty to Church or Crown has ever attached itself to me or mine. I pray to God that it be not true, for the boy’s sake and for the memory of his aunt that is dead, for she loved the child to distraction, and he her.’

To my surprise, the baillie, who was not much given to sentiment, added his voice in agreement. ‘It is known and well remembered that she did. And never did a child have a more Christian example before his eyes. If it be found that the boy did stray into the path of Rome, no blame will attach itself to her memory.’

The minister, ever ready to set himself at odds with Buchan, did not altogether like this. ‘Nor yet to that of the provost, Baillie Buchan. Or to his family.’ In all this, as in all else, the Reverend Mr Guild’s concern was for himself. He was never slow to recall to all who listened that his own sister was now the provost’s wife, but any hint of dabbling with Rome by that family might leave its mark on himself. For Walter Watt, perhaps, the risk was greater. He had worked his whole life to garner position, influence, wealth and power, and aimed higher still than the provostship of Banff. What of all he had gained in this great life’s work would be left to him if his family name should be tainted with the odour of treachery? He could not even approximate to the position of the Marquises of Huntly, forgiven again and again by their indulgent monarchs. The king did not know Walter Watt, Provost of Banff, from any other middling creature in his kingdoms. Both for Watt and for his brother-in-law the minister, the revelation of Patrick Davidson as a papist spy would be a personal disaster.