Since he was no merchant he had nothing to declare. The young man, Hew Cullan, found little to detain him. True to its name the flieboat had crossed the North Sea from Holland fiercely and swiftly and soon disgorged its contents in the sunlit bay. Criss-crossed between them, from north to south, vennels, wynds and closes narrowed and made deep its inner life. These four streets converged on the cathedral, and with their rigs and gardens set the pattern of the town. Beyond, from east to west, were ranked the four main thoroughfares: the fair and leafy south street, with its colleges and kirk the broad and bustling Mercatgait the north street, with its college halls and chapel braced against the winds the Swallowgait that opened on the Castlegait and cliffs, falling sheer into the water, sweeping west towards the links and eastwards to the harbour, where the shallow basin washed into the sea. And the cathedral, by the square-built tower and chapel of St Rule, had crumbled further into stone, allowing the sunlight to stream through its frame and illuminate the town that had grown up in its shade. Perhaps it was a trick of the light, but the strip of land between the castle and the shore appeared to have diminished as it weathered the encroaching of the tide. It looked as it had always done, fronted by the ramparts of its castle, etched on the horizon by the starkness of its rock. For it was not the motion of the ship but the length of his absence that caused his soft belly to flutter and fall. As the land unfurled before him like a map he began to feel less sick. It was a relief to escape down the narrow stair to the last of the late summer sun.įrom the deck of the Dutch flieboat Zeedraak a young man looked out to shore. The boy’s bright hair, he thought, was the only warmth in the sour and windowless room. The evenings are too chill to sit in your shirt. ‘Alexander, take the blanket from the cot. Nicholas turned at the door, exasperation failing at the sight of the boy huddled miserably over his work in the guttering light, and spoke again, in Latin now, to mask the gentleness. But yes, I will look at them when I return. ‘You would do better to spend more time with your books and less making verses, if you ever hope to matriculate. Nicholas forced down the impulse to hurt him, to say something childishly spiteful in reply. He did not look up as he spoke, but stared hopelessly down at the paper between his fumbling hands. ‘Won’t you just look at them?’ The boy spoke in Scots, so quietly that Nicholas took a moment to hear him. In the meantime, please try to apply yourself. The kindness felt too clumsy and too intimate. It was a mistake perhaps, because Alexander’s eyes began to fill with tears. In the privacy of that small room, blanched yellow in the candlelight, Nicholas spoke to the boy in his own tongue, no longer accusing but low and soft like a girl. With the exception of King James and his retinue, the people in this book have had no previous lives. This moment, snatched from history, underlies the fiction that is Hue and Cry. The event was noted in the diary of James Melville, who left a record of his time at St Andrews University. On his first royal progress he visited the town of St Andrews where he saw a play performed in the courtyard of the New Inn of the priory as part of the entertainments. In the year 1580, King James VI of Scotland turned fourteen. Thanks also to Neil Rhodes, for advice (not always welcomed) and for his constant love and support to Alice, for believing and to Peter, for putting up with it, even though he wished I had a proper job.Īnd above all, to my agent John Beaton, without whose tireless guidance, patience and persistence, Hew Cullan and his friends would not have braved the world. Thank you to Caroline Knox and Lynn Curtis, who both provided invaluable editorial advice on early versions of the manuscript to Caroline Oakley, for her careful and constructive reading to Anita Joseph, for her shrewd and sympathetic editing and to Neville Moir of Polygon, who caught a glimpse of sunshine in the haar. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or transmitted in any form without the express written permission of the publisher.īritish Library Cataloguing-in-Publication DataĪ catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library The moral right of Shirley McKay to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988Īll rights reserved. First published in 2009 by Polygon, an imprint of Birlinn Ltd
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