The Redemption of Alexander Seaton

Epilogue

August, 1626

William Cargill laughed as I tried to steady myself after clambering onto the boat.

‘You would never have made a sailor, nor yet a merchant, Alexander.’ No one else had noticed my awkwardness – it was of little interest to the shore porters that the black-cloaked man of learning could not balance himself aboard ship. The loading of the salmon barrels for Aberdeen had almost finished, and William and I took ourselves to the bow of the ship to keep out of the way of those that had work to do. We looked back at the town.

‘It is not a bad sight, as such places go.’

‘You have travelled more than I, William; you are the better qualified to judge.’

‘Maybe, maybe so,’ he said. ‘But while I see fine buildings and poor hovels, you see the histories of those who inhabit them. I see the bricks and mortar; you see the fabric of the life.’

‘And have often shut my eyes to it, and that gladly.’ I looked up beyond the town, up towards the Sandyhill Gate, where a black smoke was rising and curling into the sky. The new provost, and the baillie, his health recovered now from the eight years of strain that he had very nearly succumbed to, had begun their work of cleansing the burgh: the codroche houses were ablaze. Few on the quayside cared to turn their gaze to the flames; there had been too many fires in this town. I wondered about the children, taken from their mothers and put to work in the salmon house, all to the service of God and the stability of the realm.

The last of the barrels was loaded, and there remained but one piece of cargo before the ship could weigh anchor and set sail. I watched with some foreboding as the shore porters lashed ropes around my great oak chest and signalled for the men aboard to winch it up on their pulley. My life’s worth of books was in that chest, with old notes, theses, sermons, and a fur rug pressed upon me last night by the doctor. Another, more flimsy kist carried my two changes of clothing, my winter cloak and old fur rug, and the pewter cup and plate that had come to me from my mother. Around my waist was the belt and great silver buckle that had been my father’s last gift to me, and in the bundle at my feet one of Mistress Youngson’s famed clootie dumplings. ‘Mind you feed yourself – the college buttery is near enough bare, they tell me,’ was all the old woman had said as she’d pressed it into my arms. Then she had straightened the collar of the fine suit I had not worn since Marion Arbuthnott’s lykewake some months before. ‘And mind you do not disgrace us; I will know of it from Elizabeth if you do.’ William had assured my old landlady that his wife would indeed keep her apprised of all my misadventures and misdemeanours.

In the pocket at my breast as the ropes were loosed and the vessel finally began to move away from the dock at Banff was the letter, the precious letter bearing the seal of the Marischal College in Aberdeen. My hand went to my pocket and felt for the hundredth time the fine vellum, and the hard wax of the seal. It had been delivered to Banff by none other than Robert Gordon of Straloch, sent by his master of Huntly to assure the new provost and council of Banff of his friendship and goodwill. And who would it have been more fitting to send on such a mission? For as I had passed my wakeful night in his house, Robert Gordon had sent his own young kinsmen through the dark night to Strathbogie to seek assurances from the marquis himself that he knew nothing of maps or invasions. But what was Huntly’s word worth? Only time would tell. Patrick Davidson’s maps, fine work that they were, were ashes now. And we would never know whether they had been, as Gilbert Grant always insisted they were, the blameless pursuit of a young man with a thirst to understand the world, or a God-given talent tainted and betrayed at the behest of the agents of Rome. Those secrets had gone with him to the grave.

Straloch had sought me out in my schoolroom, and had found me in the midst of explaining a passage of Buchanan to my scholars. The laird would not hear of me interrupting my lesson, and had sat quietly at the back of the room, now nodding, now noting a query, until I released the boys for lunch. But the letter he had then handed me was not of history, nor yet of politics or plots, but of philosophy, of logic, of rhetoric, and of mathematics. In short, it was an invitation from Patrick Dun, principal of the Marischal College in the new burgh of Aberdeen, to submit myself for trial before the principal, regents, magistrates and ministers of the new town for the vacant place of Regent of Philosophy in that college. The letter bore reference to recommendations of me from Dr John Forbes of Corse, from Bishop Patrick, his father, and from Robert Gordon of Straloch himself. At the end of Principal Dun’s letter was a short note from Dr Forbes, a few words only, but they spoke from Philippians to my soul. ‘He which hath begun a good work in you will perform it until the day of Jesus Christ.’ As I read it and reread it, chains and bounds snapped and fell away at my feet. After the laird had gone, I climbed the thirty-seven steps to my chamber and prayed as I had not prayed for almost a year; I prayed and knew I was heard. That night, I opened my books, grown dusty and threatened with damp from misuse, and I began to read once more. And then, within two days of the arrival of Gordon of Straloch had come, hot on his heels, William Cargill, who knew all the business that passed in Aberdeen, often before it had passed. Such was his fear that I would still keep to my pit of self-pity that he dared not trust me to answer for myself and so had come to do it for me. How could I tell him that, within a moment of breaking the seal, I had known that I would accept this new call, and leave this place, with no mind ever to return?

Charles Thom was not there to bid me farewell, for he was returned to his post in the music school, and the baillie and his fellows kept a closer eye than ever on their young precentor, having learnt, at last, to look beyond a man’s face to know his heart. There was no Jaffray there, either. He had wished me my farewells last night, over a bottle of the finest uisge beatha in his house. He had waxed long and hard at my ingratitude in leaving him now, in a household where his maid no longer cared whether he ate or starved, such was her anxiety for their new lodger. He had warned me of the fickleness of women, and the weakness of men, lamented the distance from Banff to Aberdeen and yet complained at my stubbornness at not taking ship for Europe, where a real career was still to be had. At the last he had told me he could not spare me the time to come down to the shore and see me off, for he was a busy man, and what was I to him but the ingrate stripling of an honourable hammerman and his lovely Irish wife. And he had held me close and called me son.

I looked towards the Gallow Hill, where but a month ago Walter Watt had been sent to meet his maker. He had been caught three days after his flight, his horse abandoned, trying to enter Aberdeen, alone, by night. It was thought he had been heading for the harbour, and a cargo ship bound for the Low Countries. He would never see them now.

And as I took my last look for many years at the burgh of my birth, my eye was drawn down to the shore side. A lone figure stood still amidst the hubbub of the harbour and watched until our vessel disappeared from sight. He stood there, unmoving, in the town where he had been born, grown up, fallen in love; the town where he had had to withdraw to the shadows and watch the girl he loved be given to a higher bidder, a man of greater means. He had had to see her suffering and loss, and see her buried, dead at that husband’s hand. And he had had to wait eight years to see her have justice in this world. I raised my hand in silent farewell, understanding now, at last. It would be many a long day before I again came upon a man such as Baillie William Buchan.