Pat McIntosh - A Pig of Cold Poison

‘I know Alexander,’ announced Ysonde. ‘Our Da’s got a poetry book about him.’

Her sister shushed her, but Judas bowed to her, and declared, ‘Aye, bonnie young lady, and here he comes the now!’

The black-faced champion came forward into the acting space, saluted the company with his sword, mumbled Alexander’s speech about how he had conquered the world except for Scotland, and summoned Galossian as the champion of all Scotland to come forth and fight him. As the champion’s name was called the requisite three times, Gil found Maistre Pierre’s elbow in his ribs, drawing his attention to Maister Renfrew on the mason’s other side.

One glance, and Gil shared his father-in-law’s concern. The apothecary’s face was engorged with apparent rage, a vein throbbing wildly in his temple under the silk bonnet whose crimson matched his brow and cheeks, his bulging eyes fixed on Agnes, who in turn was gazing adoringly at the young man in the buttoned gown. Gil was just in time to see her brother nudge her, and then pinch her arm viciously. A commotion of her skirts suggested she had kicked him in return.

‘Frankie, you should sit down,’ suggested Maistre Pierre quietly, putting his hand on the apothecary’s arm. Renfrew started at the touch, and looked round, gasping for breath. On the other side of the room Augie Morison had noticed and was watching anxiously.

‘Will I find you a seat?’ Gil asked, while Galossian detailed his defence of Scotland. The man could speak well, but the tale seemed to involve more giants and other heroes than other versions. Renfrew shook his head, but reeled as he did so, and Gil nodded to Morison, slipped quietly past the apothecary and fetched one of the green leather backstools from the nearer window space. Once persuaded to sit down, Renfrew shut his eyes for a moment, then reached for his purse, opened it clumsily and fumbled within for a small flask of painted pottery, which he unstopped and tipped to his mouth. Whatever it contained, its effect was rapid; the man’s breathing settled, his colour began to improve. The people nearest had turned to look, but the players were reaching the exchange of insults between the two champions, and their distraction was brief. Morison, watching carefully, relaxed and sat back.

‘I’m well,’ said Renfrew irritably, waving his free hand at them. ‘Leave me be, I’m well.’

‘I stay with him,’ said Maistre Pierre quietly. Gil nodded, and returned to his place; across the intervening landscape of black silk French or Flemish hoods his sister caught his eye, but he shook his head. Beyond her Alys smiled at him, and turned her attention to the play, where to the chil-dren’s delight the champion of Scotland, describing his armour, had just reached the immortal line:

‘My arse is made of rumpel-bone! I’ll slay you in the field!’

St Mungo handed his garland to the Bessie and stepped forward, straightening his mitre. ‘Here are two warriors going to fight,’ he intoned, ‘who never fought before. Galossian bids you cheer him on, or he’ll be slain in all his gore. A-a-amen.’

The champions bowed formally to one another and to Kate as the lady of the house. Then, apparently taking his opponent by surprise, Galossian swung on his heel, bowed and performed a crashing salute of sword on buckler, his eyes fixed on Agnes Renfrew. Agnes went scarlet; several of the older ladies nodded with sentimental approval, but Maister Renfrew’s colour rose again and by the wall the young apothecary in his buttoned gown looked grim.

‘Lay on, lay on!’ ordered Alexander rather desperately. ‘I’ll rug you down in inches in less than half an hour!’

‘He said that before,’ observed Ysonde.

Galossian turned, took up an obviously rehearsed position, and the fight began. Gil, watching critically, felt it had been carefully practised, and amounted to a display. It was certainly very impressive, with much shouting, stamping, and crashing of the wooden swords on the leather-covered bucklers, and ranged right across the chamber and back again. The players cheered both warriors impartially, and when St Mungo encouraged them again the audience joined in. The two little girls squeaked and shrieked with excitement, young Andrew Hamilton forgot his sulks and jumped up and down, and at length, with a mighty blow which only just missed his helm, Alexander was struck down. He fell his length, and Galossian raised his sword in response to the audience’s cheers, then fell on top of his enemy.

‘Why’s he dead?’ Ysonde asked. ‘He winned!’

Nicol Renfrew produced that high-pitched laugh. St Mungo stepped forward again, and declared the champion slain, while the Bessie attempted to sweep both corpses off the stage.

‘A doctor!’ exclaimed Judas. ‘A doctor for Poor Jack!’ The entire company called for a doctor, in a deep mutter which made Kate’s older stepdaughter scramble on to her knee, shivering. ‘Ten merks for a doctor!’ said Judas.

The mutter changed to a a strange, hissing, grumbling, Here-he-is-here-he-is-here-he-is , at which Gil felt the back of his neck crawl, and Wynliane whimpered and buried her head in Kate’s sleeve. The young apothecary stepped away from the wall, and marched forward importantly, elbows akimbo.

‘Here comes I, a doctor, as good a doctor as Scotland ever bred.’

Kate was coaxing the little girls to look up and watch the funny man. The dialogue continued, much hindered by the Bessie, with the old, old jokes localized for Glasgow ( Where have you travelled? Three times round the Indies and the Dow Hill, and twice across Glasgow Brig ) and the long recital of what this doctor claimed to cure ( The itch, the stitch, the maligrumphs, the lep, the pip, the blaen, the merls, the nerels, the blaes, the spaes and the burning pintle .) The women laughed at that, the men ignored the joke, Judas and the doctor bargained at length over his fee while the two slain champions lay getting their breath back, and finally the doctor opened his scrip, announcing loudly:

‘I’ve a wee bottle here that hangs by my side, will raise a man that’s been seven year in the grave.’

He held up a little flask of painted pottery, very like the one Maister Renfrew had taken from his own purse, paused for a fraction of a moment, and pointed to it with the other hand.

‘Seven year?’ repeated Judas. ‘What’s in it?’

‘Twelve herbs for the twelve apostles,’ began the doctor, ‘and three for the Blessed Trinity — ’

Gil looked round the room. Most of the audience was engrossed, laughing at the by-play between Judas and the Bessie, who had clearly worked together before. Grace Gordon sat by her husband, elegant and modest, hands folded in her lap, watching the doctor intently, critically. Agnes Renfrew was also gazing at the doctor, her father and brother were both glowering at her again, Andrew Hamilton the elder had fallen asleep, Nancy Sproull was looking thoughtfully at Renfrew’s wife.

‘Two drops to Jack’s toes and one drop to Jack’s nose,’ pronounced the doctor. He drew the stopper with a flourish, frowned at the little flask, and bent to apply the treatment. Judas and the Bessie stepped silently backwards while, beside the tight-lipped Maister Renfrew, Maistre Pierre wondered audibly why the hero had changed his name. ‘Rise up, Jack, and sing us a song!’

‘I canny,’ protested the recumbent Jack.

‘Why no?’

‘I’ve a hole in my back would hold a sheep’s heid!’

‘We’ll ha to repeat the treatment.’ The doctor bent with another flourish. ‘Three drops to your beak and two to your bum. Rise up, Jack.’

Jack scrambled up, grinning under his helm, rubbed at his mouth and then raised both arms in a champion’s salute when the audience applauded. Alexander got to his feet, St Mungo came forward again, and the actors all launched into the final part of the play, a mix of traditional songs about Hallowe’en and improvised compliments to the company present. While they sang Jack rubbed occasionally at his mouth, and cast languishing glances at Agnes Renfrew, who studiously ignored him while her father glared at her and the piper went round with a green brocade purse decked with ribbons, shaking it hopefully at the audience.