Prologue
“Please Lord, don't let him die! This is your faithful servant Alexander, please do not let Mr. Knox die. I will forever do your bidding and go to church every Sunday if you do this for me.”
Alexander Fitzgrant sat on the hard wooden bench in the cobbled yard behind the house in which he had lived for the last year. A tall brick wall surrounded it and beyond that rose the stonework of Glasgow’s Merchant City. The sounds of the city had faded with nightfall from the cacophony of the second city of the Empire during the day. The wind carried the smell of the river and the factories that rose from the buildings of the city like trees in a stone forest.
“The Lord will provide. Do not worry, boy. John Knox is a good man. An upstanding member of the Kirk,” said the tall, thin deacon emerging from the back door of the Knox house.
Alexander looked up from his prayer, tears staining his eyes. He was looking for comfort and reassurance but found none in the white-faced, gaunt man. He regarded the six-year-old Alexander for a moment, eyes cold and mouth a thin line. Then he sniffed and walked across the yard to the gate in the far wall. The deacon was known to Alexander, he had been a frequent visitor of Master Knox, who was a God-fearing member of the Kirk. But, Alexander had never liked him, he had always seemed cruel. Now though, as Alexander’s world seemed to be falling apart, he would desperately reach for any hope. Even the cold, cruel deacon.
“Please, sir!” Alexander called to him. “But is there any news about Master Knox?”
The man paused in the act of unlatching the gate but did not look back.
“Have faith in God, boy,” was all he said.
Rain began to fall as Alexander sat and waited for news of the man who had taken him. Once, Alexander remembered living in a big house, a mansion. Then he had been sent away for reasons he did not fully understand. John Knox had greeted him when he had stepped off the carriage that had carried him north from England to Scotland. A rotund man with thick black whiskers and an accent so broad it was as though he were speaking a different language. He had stopped in front of the trembling young boy, looking him in the eye.
“Aye, you look a strong lad, right enough. Got some meat on them bones, so you do. Well, there’s work for you here. Naebody lives for free in Glesga. A man works for his living and works hard. But, put your back into it and you’ll have a roof o’er your heid and food in yer belly. Are ye ready to dae some work, lad?”
Alexander had nodded mutely, not entirely knowing what he was nodding to. And the work had been hard, but Master Knox was fair. Alexander lived with the servants in the Knox House and was taught his letters. He had begun to learn the loud, brash, and smoky city in which he found himself in, too. Learning the speech, the accent, and the slang, until he felt the place was home. Then Master Knox had become sick. Consumption they said. Alexander didn’t know what that was but he knew the blood that came up when Master Knox had one of his coughing fits was not a good sign.
“You still ‘ere?” said a woman, coming through the same door as the deacon.
It was Mary, the Knox’s scullery maid.
“Is Master Knox feeling better?” Alexander asked, grasping for a friendly face.
Mary looked back at the open doorway, then down at Alexander.
“Look, son,” she said in a tone that was not unkind. “He’s not long for this world. Why didn’t you go with the Deacon?”
Alexander frowned, wanting to run through the open door, up the stairs to Master Knox’s room. “Was I supposed to?”
“That was the talk I heard, yes. The Deacon was asked to take you on, let you stay at the manse in Anderston for a while. Where is he?”
“He left,” Alexander said, pointing in the direction the Deacon had gone.
Mary swore, planting her hands on her hips. Alexander thought he heard a curse on Calvinists. Then, she knelt before him, putting a hand into the pocket of her apron, and taking out a coin.
“Look. Master William is here and he’s said he doesn’t want…can’t take on a boy just now.”
“What he said was he doesn’t want some English pup from the wrong side of the sheets,” came a hard, male voice.
A tall, dark-haired young man stepped out of the house, pausing to light a small clay pipe.
“Now that’s just cruel, Tommy Piper!” Mary snapped.
Tommy shrugged. “Boy’s gotta face the truth. He’s not wanted and he’s gonna have tae fend for hisself.”
Alexander scowled at Tommy, Master Knox’s carriage driver. He had brought Alexander to Glasgow from England and had a mean streak through him a mile wide. Blue eyes watched Alexander, then he turned away dismissively.
“Take this, Alexander. Go tae the orphanage on the sou’side,” Mary said urgently. “The one across from the Green by road tae Rutherglen.”
“The big building with the railings round it?” Alexander asked in a small voice.
“Yeah, you can see it fae the Nelson monument. Go there and tell them you’re an orphan and you’ve got naewhere to stay.”
“Better tell ‘em you’re Catholic too,” Tommy cut in.
