Wilson Dunbar sang to his children that night in their little house at Abbey Hill. He sang them songs he had heard in Spain, twenty years ago. Sang them the tunes, at least; he did not remember most of the words, and those he did were not fit for the ears of children, so he made up nonsense ditties to ride along on the melodies. Silly things, childish things, which were to him the sweetest things of all.
Ellen, his wife, sat quietly in the corner with her embroidery, a constant smile upon her face as she passed the needle back and forth through cloth stretched over a round wooden frame. A hundred times this scene had been repeated, since Angus—the older of the boys—had been a mewling babe in his cot. Dunbar sang then because the sound of it soothed and softened the child; he sang now because it was what he did, part of the pact between him and his boys. They expected it of him, and he obliged them gladly. It was as much a part of the fabric of their home as the stones in the wall, the slates in the roof.
And when he was done, and those Spanish tunes were spent, and the boys were asleep, he sat with his wife by the sinking fire. They did not talk much, and did not need to, for they shared in a single, swaddling contentment that required no expression beyond their presence there, together, and the sound of their children, shifting lethargically in their sleep. All was right with the world, within the walls of that house, and in that company.
Old Acquaintance
There was no older tavern in Edinburgh than the White Hart on the Grassmarket. Lined by inns and low houses and shops purveying every kind of provision, dominated by the castle and the craggy cliffs atop which it stood just to the north, the Grassmarket had been a place of commerce and execution, revelry and riot for centuries. Through a great many of those years, the White Hart had stood there and been witness to countless dramas played out before its windows. For generations, every scandal and oddity and delight of the Old Town had been chewed over by its patrons. The idle talk of choice now was diverse, little of it distinguishing between the real and the imagined: tales of plague skeletons uncovered in the course of the works for the new bridge over the Cowgate; the bakery boy attacked by a wild mob of rats at the West Port one dawn; the girl at the tannery along the way growing fat with child, and her all unmarried but a friend to half the soldiers in the castle barracks.
Amidst this hubbub of speculation, one man sat alone and quiet, nursing a mug of ale that he never drank from. His eyes did not stray from the foamy head of his beer, and his hands—still in their black gloves though the little room was warm—remained clasped around it. If the great crowd of drinkers packed into the White Hart found his solitary, silent presence odd, they gave no sign of it. None paid him any more heed than a brief glance.
Two men entered, though, whose roving eyes picked him out at once, and they shuffled and elbowed their way to the little table he occupied.
“Is it Blegg?” the taller one asked curtly, his voice rich with the tones of his Irish homeland, and at that Blegg did lift his gaze, and fix it upon these newcomers with still clarity.
“Sit,” he said, and they ferreted out stools from amongst the forest of legs and bodies.
“Are you buying us drinks?” one asked as he slapped his backside down.
“You pay your own way until we’ve taken the measure of one another, don’t you think?”
The two Irishmen looked at each other, in silent consultation, until one grunted and rose with evident annoyance.
“I’ll get them in, then,” he grumbled, and began to push his way unceremoniously towards the bar.
Blegg watched him sink into the crowd, and then turned slowly back to the other.
“So. You’ve my name. What should I call you?”
“Oh, I like to keep my name close, like a sweetheart, until I know a man a little better.”
“You’ve a pretty turn of phrase, for an Irishman.”
“Is that so? You’ve a cocky tongue, for a Scotsman.”
“Hah.” It was an entirely cold and humourless little laugh. “Nice. And what’s your trade?”
“What’s it to you? I could mend your shoes if you’ve a need for a cobbler, but that’s not what we came to talk about, is it? I’m not looking for employment.”
“I like to know what manner of men I’m dealing with. And maybe you are looking for employment, of a sort. That’s what I heard, in any case.”
“Did you.”
It was a curt, sharp utterance. The Irishman glared at Blegg, the look thick with the spontaneous animosity that might easily arise when two men scented difference of temperament or type between them. Blegg was unmoved, and stared passively back, contemptuous amusement tugging at the corners of his lips. It was the other who looked away, watching his countryman barge his way back towards them, bearing his precious cargo.
“I’ve lost my thirst,” the seated man muttered as he was passed a cup.
“Why’s that?”
“Don’t like his manner.” He flicked his chin at Blegg. “Thinks he’s clever, this one. Cleverer than us, anyway.”
“I’m not caring who’s clever and who’s not. Clever’s fine, if it comes with money. Knox’s doorkeep said it’d be worth our while meeting with you, that’s all. Fifteen pounds’ worth, he said.”
“Ah, now you’re a forward kind of man,” Blegg said approvingly. “Not like your fellow here. What’s your name, friend?”
“The two of us share one name—William—and part thereafter: he is Burke, I am Hare.”
“Now what did you go and tell him that for?” Burke snapped.
Hare shrugged.
“There’s half a dozen folk in here know my name, and yours as well. If he wants to know, he can find it easy enough.”
Burke was unappeased.
“This cocky bastard wants to know who he’s dealing with; I say we do too. I’ve no more than a name for him, and I’d want more.”
“Would you?” Blegg murmured. “It’d not profit you to have it. Look at Mr. Hare, here. He’s not caring what more there might be. Just the price, eh? And it’s fifteen pounds, right enough.”
Burke drained his mug in a single long series of gulps, and smacked it down on to the table with a touch more force than was needed.
“Don’t care if it’s a hundred pound.” He leaned closer to Hare. “I’ll not bargain on things such as this with a man I don’t trust. And I don’t trust this bastard. Nor like him.”
Blegg looked away, evincing disinterest.
“Come away,” Burke urged his companion. “We’re not needing him. We’ve got all the arrangement we need with others.”
Hare looked doubtful, and Blegg abruptly turned back, and stared at him. When he spoke, it was to Burke, though his eyes remained fixed upon Hare.
“You’d best be away, right enough. I’m not needing
“I’ll stay a bit,” Hare said softly.
“On your head be it, then,” Burke growled, angry. “He’s the stink of trouble, and I’ll not be sharing it with you.”
He pushed himself up from the table so firmly that the little stool toppled over backwards. He kicked it aside as he made for the door. Blegg looked after him with a sour expression.
“Have you cold hands or something, then?” Hare asked, eyeing the black gloves with which Blegg held his still full mug of flattening beer.
“Something,” Blegg grunted. “Listen, our mutual acquaintance, Mr. Paterson in Surgeon’s Square, tells me you’re the very man I need to talk to on the matter of… well, shall we call them certain goods that are not easily obtained? I pay him well enough to put some faith in his advice. Is he right?”
“Maybe so, maybe not.”
“Come, don’t be coy. I’ve no wish to intrude upon whatever trade you’re plying with Knox. My needs are modest, and you’ll be well recompensed if you can meet them.”
