The Redemption of Alexander Seaton

‘Surely, baillie, our music master’s voice is a gift from God?’

He turned on me a look of frozen contempt for my words. ‘Do you not recall the words of John Knox? Or is he out of favour with the great Episcopalians of the King’s College?’ There was the disdain in his voice of a man who made no compromise.

‘I am no stranger to the works of John Knox,’ I replied, ‘and neither were my masters.’ And indeed I recalled the words of the great Reformer, and their exposition as my classmates and I had debated the place of music in the worship of God. For the baillie, there was no debate.

He spoke quietly. ‘He knew of the snares of the world waiting on all men, and warned against such as these. The schoolmaster’s gifts should be applied to the edification of the people, not to the parading of his own vanity.’ The vehemence of his words was almost beyond his strength to muster, and the baillie was overcome by the now familiar retching cough.

A spit with a hog roasting on it turned in one corner, near to the apothecary’s well. Some ragged urchins were already gathering near it, ready to risk the wrath of the cook for the chance of a hot meal. I was hungry, and would gladly have sat down and eaten something myself, for I felt weak from hunger and fatigue. It was not time for eating though; the long trestle tables laid out in the courtyard were as yet empty of the delights that the women of Arbuthnott’s kin had been preparing all day. The time of solemnity had not yet passed – that of gluttony and excess was still to come. My fine suit of English wool with its long cloak and collar were not sufficient to take the damp and cold from my bones. I began to feel shivery, and searched out a place beside the fire. Gladly would I have returned to my bed, for I had little time for lykewakes and the superstitions they recalled, but I felt impelled to stay and see the night through.

The psalm the scholars were singing was finally brought to its dolorous end, and, with scarcely enough pause for breath, a new sound filled the air, a sweet and melancholic melody I knew well. One of the older boys had taken up his flute, while another played on the rebec, his bow calling a plaintive tune across the strings, and Charles began to sing out, no psalm now, but a mourning lover’s air – ‘I wish I was where Helen lies’. The women had come out of the house now. Some still stood on the backstairs, while others moved softly amongst the guests in the courtyard. And then, as from another place, the timeless notes of a clarsach joined with the flute and the rebec, matched to Charles’s own voice. I turned my eyes to the source of the sound, for I knew Charles was no harpist. There, on a stool a little behind the musicians’ dais, sat Ishbel, the doctor’s girl, her fingers gently caressing the strings of the clarsach, as those of her people had done for centuries before. The instrument spoke the agony of lost love, of a life and of dreams departed, and for a few moments all other noise ceased. Charles himself fell silent. As the notes followed one another on the air, and the song came at last to its end, I saw that many in the crowd were now weeping. Marion Arbuthnott’s moment had come. The doctor moved towards the girl, pride and love glowing in him. At the top of the forestairs, engulfed in her desolation, stood Marion’s mother, her head buried in the shoulder of Mistress Youngson, whose eyes looked out on her own memories. Most of all though, it was the baillie that I noticed. He too was looking out, far from the place and time he now stood in, to an image of something long lost, long gone. I had never before seen such humanity in his face. Charles did not move, but watched Ishbel for many moments. His lips parted slightly and gradually came together again. A veil had been lifted from his eyes.

Once having composed himself, the doctor, with Ishbel firmly clamped in a father’s embrace, called out, ‘Come now, Charles, let us have something to lift our hearts.’ Charles took a moment to come out of his spell, but smiling, took up his bow, called out a name to his players, who took up pipe, drum and tabor, and led them in a hearty harvest tune. The new sound was as a signal to mourners – guests and hosts both. Women bustled and boys ran up and down from the kitchen to the courtyard, and soon the trestles were filled with salvers, bowls and baskets of every sort of food imaginable: pies filled with pigeon, fish, rabbit; all manner of breads, pastries, puddings; custards, cakes, sweetmeats of every description. The council and the session had proclaimed time and again against such feasting, and this indeed was more of a wedding banquet than a funeral feast; but for Marion Arbuthnott there would be no wedding and all that her anguished parents could now do for her, they would do.

The sun had gone at last, and its amber glow faded. Torches were lit in sconces about the courtyard walls, casting grotesque shadows of men, women and children in perverse celebration of the passage of a soul, two souls, into death. I tried not to look at them. I wanted to talk again with Thomas Stewart – it was not right that things should have been left between us as they had this afternoon, and it was for me to set things right with him. I stood up, my head setting inside my skull like molten lead as I did so, and began to cast around for some sight of the notary. There were too many people now, moving about alone or in groups, from fire, to table, to spit; I had no clear line of vision or access anywhere. I gradually pushed and jostled my way through them until I reached the place where I had seen the notary talking with Jaffray, but both were long gone now. The shivering of earlier now alternated with waves of intense heat throughout my body, culminating in the thumping of my head. I came to a bench and sat down again, fearful that my legs would buckle beneath me. Before I could breathe out my relief to be resting again, an arm shoved into my shoulder, almost knocking me from my seat. I looked round quickly but saw nothing save the ragged hem of a deftly retreating cloak. Lang Geordie’s men had somehow got themselves here tonight, I was sure of it. It was not a night to sit in the dark corners, on the margins: safety lay in the heart of the crowd, and I forced myself to my feet again, and towards the busy tables. I could not tell if it was my own body that swayed, or those I pressed through, yet I knew my feet were not steady. I cursed the wise woman of Darkwater and her sleeping tonic, and my own stupidity in taking it not seven hours ago.