Turn of the Tide Read online

  Turn of the Tide

  Margaret Skea was born in Ulster, and now lives with her husband in the Scottish Borders. Her degree in Linguistics at St Andrews University was followed by a Ph.D on the Ulster-Scots vernacular, which led, in turn, to an interest in 16th century Scottish history. An Hawthornden Fellow and award winning writer: Historical Fiction Winner in 2011 Harper Collins and Alan Titchmarsh People’s Novelist Competition, Neil Gunn 2011, Chrysalis Prize 2010, and Winchester 2009. A finalist in the 2012 Historical Novel Society Short Story Competition and shortlisted for Mslexia Short Story 2012, she has been long-listed in the Fish Short Story and Fish One Page Prize, and published in a range of magazines and anthologies in Britain and the USA.

  First published by Capercaillie Books Limited in 2012.

  Registered office 1 Rutland Court, Edinburgh

  © Margaret Skea. The moral rights of the author have been asserted.

  Printed by Antony Rowe, Chippenham

  Set in Galliard by 3btype.com, Edinburgh

  A catalogue record of this book is available from the British Library.

  ISBN 978-1-909305-06-9

  eISBN 978-1-909305-07-6

  This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical or otherwise without the written permission of the publisher.

  Contents

  Main Characters

  Foreword

  Part One

  Part Two

  Part Three

  Afterword

  Glossary

  Acknowledgements

  To the many family, friends, and fellow authors on Authonomy and elsewhere, who encouraged me while I was writing this novel – thank you. Particular thanks to James Long and Sam Llewellyn who, by suggesting I focus on Munro, led me, one sunny afternoon, to revisit my manuscript, and thus to begin Turn of the Tide.

  Main Characters

  All the main characters are real unless specified otherwise. By convention Earls were often referred to by their title rather than family name and lesser nobles by their place of residence. This avoided confusion among the many branches of one clan.

  The Cunninghame Faction

  Earl of Glencairn:

  The head of the Cunninghame clan, ranked 11th in the order of precedence among the Scottish earls. These rankings were often a matter of dispute, with earls petitioning the King to raise their ranking. His primary residence is Kilmaurs in the bailliewick of Cunninghame in Ayrshire.

  Lady Glencairn:

  his wife.

  John:

  his brother.

  William, his eldest son and heir

  Master of Glencairn.

  Clonbeith, Robertland, and Waterstone:

  other prominent members of the Cunninghame clan in Ayrshire, owing allegiance to the Earl of Glencairn.

  Patrick Maxwell of Newark:

  a cousin of the Cunninghames.

  Lady Margaret Langshaw:

  a Cunninghame by birth, but married into the Montgomerie clan.

  The Montgomerie Faction

  Earl of Eglintoun:

  The head of the Montgomerie clan, ranked 12th in the order of precedence among the Scottish earls. His primary residence is now Ardrossan, Eglinton castle having been razed to the ground by the Cunninghames.

  Robert Montgomerie:

  brother to the earl and Master of Eglinton.

  Jean Montgomerie:

  Robert’s wife.

  Adam Montgomerie of Braidstane:

  a Montgomerie laird, close kin to Eglinton.

  Hugh, his eldest son:

  Master of Braidstane.

  George, Adam’s second son:

  a cleric at the court of Elizabeth Ist.

  Patrick:

  a cavalry officer in a French regiment, Adam’s third son.

  John:

  a physician in Padua, Adam’s fourth son.

  Grizel, Braidstane’s daughter. (Fictional)

  Though evidence exists of Adam having (un-named) daughters, few records remain.

  Alexander Montgomerie:

  a poet and favoured courtier to King James VI, who is later accorded the title of ‘Master Poet’.

  The Munro Family

  (All members of this family are fictional.)

  Munro:

  a minor laird who’s family have had close connection to the Cunninghame clan since the 14th century. They live at Broomelaw, a tower house near Renfrew, gifted to Munro’s father by the Cunninghames.

  Kate:

  his wife.

  Robbie and Anna:

  his 3-year-old twins.

  Archie:

  Munro’s younger brother.

  Mary Munro:

  his mother.

  Sybilla Boyd:

  a family friend.

  The Shaw Family

  James Shaw:

  a merchant with many connections to Europe, and laird of Greenock; his tower house is prominently situated above the port of Greenock.

  Jean, his wife:

  a Cunninghame by birth.

  John, his eldest son:

  Master of Greenock.

  Elizabeth (marries Hugh, Master of Braidstane), Christian and Gillis:

  his daughters.

  Sigurd Ivarsen, (Fictional):

  a Norwegian merchant regularly trading into Edinburgh, charged with transporting Queen Anne’s carriage from Norway, following her marriage to James VI.

  Foreword

  In 1567 Mary Queen of Scots was forced to abdicate in favour of her one-year-old son James and fled to England. A magnet for Catholic plots, including the infamous Babington conspiracy, which threatened both Elizabeth I’s throne and her life, Mary was imprisoned in England and finally executed at Fotheringhay on 8th February 1587. The years of James’ minority were characterised by lawlessness, brutality and the escalation of many of the centuries old feuds between clans and families. Nobles jostled for control over the young king and over precedence in the official ranking of the earls. When James became king in his own right every aspect of Scottish life, political, social, religious and economic was in turmoil. He set out to subdue the earls, to encourage a professional aristocracy from among the lairds, to regulate the new Protestant religion and to establish a more settled and stable society.

  The Cunninghame and Montgomerie feud was the most notorious in Ayrshire’s history, beginning in 1448 and not finally resolved until the early years of the 17th century.

  Part One

  April – May 1586

  In all of Ayrshire there was no feudal hatred so long and so engrained as that between the rival Lords of Eglintoun and Glencairn.

  Ayrshire, Its History by William Robertson

  Chapter One

  The dying sun held no heat and little colour, nevertheless it dazzled both mare and rider as they crested the rise.

  ‘Easy, lass, easy.’ Munro slid his hand from the reins to gentle Sweet Briar, his palm, as he stroked her neck, dragging against the salt sweat. Stifling his disquiet, he pressed again with his heels and, his thoughts focused on the task ahead, allowed the mare to pull away, trusting her instinct to carry them safe over the uneven ground. They flowed swift and smooth across the grassy, heather-studded hillside, flushing a scattering of partridge as they went. Had anyone watched their passing, they would have found it hard to distinguish where man finished and mare began, for
both were dun coloured – from the top of Munro’s soft bonnet, devoid of decoration, to the mare’s fetlocks – the only flashes of contrast the dark hooves and the pale oblong of Munro’s face in the fading light.

  Another mile, another crest, and Langshaw’s towers ahead of them, drowsing, half in, half out of the shadows. The mare faltered again, her ears flattening.

  ‘Come on lass,’ Munro’s hand strayed to the letter tucked into his jerkin, ‘I haven’t a choice, and the sooner it’s done the sooner food and rest for us both.’ He leaned forward to flick at her ear and she snorted back at him, accepting his pressing.

  As they came through the arched gateway, a stable lad tumbled from the hayloft, his legs spindle-thin.

  Munro slipped from the saddle. ‘I’ll not be long. Walk her, and find a blanket and some hay, but no oats mind.’

  The lad took the reins without enthusiasm or any mark of respect and Munro felt a flash of irritation. He flicked a glance at his clothes, then back to the lad – it wasn’t always politic to draw attention. He thought it an unmanly thing to take much stock of looks and so, despite his wife’s best efforts, wore his clothing almost to extinction: his leather jerkin polished to a shine around the buttons and his boots heavily scarred along their length. He injected an extra edge of impatience into his voice, ‘Look sharp. We have travelled a distance and have a way to go yet, and I don’t wish for her to be chilled nor to stiffen.’ Behind him the sun slid below the west tower, the last rays, fractured by the battlements, casting a gap-toothed grimace on the cobbles. Munro shivered, turned towards the tower entrance, and pausing at the top of the wooden steps, caught the smell of baking bread, which settled on his stomach like an ache.

  As he entered the solar Lady Margaret Langshaw rose from her seat by the inglenook, one cheek flushed, the draught from the door rippling the tapestry on the wall behind her. She came towards him: a figure come to life. He bent over her hand, her skin, buttermilk-white, unblemished, drifting with the scent of almonds as they touched.

  ‘A request, Lady – from Glencairn.’

  ‘My husband is from home. Can this wait?’

  Munro proffered the letter. ‘It’s for you. Glencairn expects a reply tonight.’

  Frowning, she slid her forefinger under the wax seal, her grip on the parchment tightening as she read. She looked up at Munro. ‘To betray a guest . . . a kinsman . . . and to such an end . . . Glencairn presumes much.’

  Slate eyes met blue. Munro made his voice flat. ‘The Montgomeries are kin in marriage only. You are a Cunninghame.’

  She bent to pick up the small shift, fallen to the floor as she rose to greet him, her fingers teasing at the edge of the unfinished smocking. ‘And for that I must risk my peace and that of my children?’

  He dragged his eyes away, focused on the fire flaring in the hearth, on the basket of split logs calloused with moss, stifled the unbidden thought – her bairn is likely ages with my own. Blocking the anguish in her voice and hating his own tone, he said, ‘We are none of us at peace. Our cousin Waterstone’s lady lies cold in bed at night and his bairns they say still cry out in their sleep.’

  ‘And am I to bring trouble to my lord too?’

  ‘No trouble. Glencairn asks a signal only – the real work is elsewhere.’

  ‘And if it goes awry? The sound of the rout will rebound to my door.’

  ‘Am I to take your refusal to Glencairn?’

  She spoke so softly he had to bend his head to hear her. ‘I am a Cunninghame, God help me.’ A hesitation . . . ‘I expect the Montgomeries tomorrow, some ten or twelve only. Braidstane is bid meet Eglintoun to sup here, and make for court thereafter. You may tell Glencairn to look to the battlement, on the west side. If they arrive as arranged, there will be a white napkin hanging.’ She was looking past him to the square of window framing the darkening sky. ‘Beyond that I cannot do more.’

  He bowed over her hand. ‘Glencairn is grateful, lady.’

  She dismissed him with the smallest of nods. ‘Good-day Munro.’

  He bowed again and escaped, clattering down the stair. Outside, glad of the sting of the air on his face, he wheeled through the gateway, closing his ears to the sound of children’s laughter floating over the barmkin wall.

  William Cunninghame, Master of Glencairn, turned from the gable window, his dark eyes sparking. He made no offer of his hand to Munro, nor any concession to ordinary courtesy, his voice echoing under the high-raftered ceiling of Kilmaur’s long hall.

  ‘What kept you? The job is done?’

  There was only one suitable answer. ‘She will provide the signal.’

  ‘As she should. And willingly I hope.’

  Silence.

  ‘She can be trusted?’

  ‘Oh yes . . .’ Munro thought of the look with which Lady Margaret had dismissed him. ‘Your father is a dangerous man to cross. She understands that.’

  ‘As do we all.’ William’s laugh was a bark, resounding over the clusters of men grouped in each deep window reveal, muting their conversations. Munro inclined his head to each group in turn. They numbered about thirty and all were known to him, albeit slightly, for all hailed from North Ayrshire or there abouts and all shared allegiance to the Earl of Glencairn and the Cunninghame name. What they did not all share – clear, even from his cursory glance – was an equal inclination to answer this summons. Prominent among them was Clonbeith, noted both for intemperance and, more importantly for the current purpose, his skill with a hackbut. And with him, Robertland, another close kinsman, who no doubt thought to make capital from the venture. In contrast, Glencairn’s brother, John, stared at the Cunninghame arms carved into the lintel above the hearth and shifted his weight back and forward from one foot to the other, as if he suffered from a stone in his boot.

  Munro studied the floor – dear God . . . there is not a house within twenty miles that will not feel the weight of what we do.

  ‘You took your time.’ The Earl of Glencairn filled the doorway. ‘I had not thought to have to wait supper beyond our normal hour.’

  ‘His horse. . .’ William, with a sideways glance at Munro, lied fluently, ‘a lameness delayed his return, but the news is good.’

  Glencairn shot another look, a little warmer this time, at Munro, who forced himself to smile in return. Glencairn was, like his son, tall, but without William’s languid manner, though both took great stock of their dress. He wore the latest cartwheel ruff over burgundy trunk hose and a cream, brocaded doublet, lined with the same blood red. Stationing himself at the head of the table, he grasped the carved horn of the Cunninghame unicorn which crowned the back of the heavy chair, the gold ring on his forefinger catching the light.

  Munro met his gaze. ‘The Montgomeries are expected at Langshaw tomorrow. Eglintoun and Braidstane both.’

  ‘And Lady Margaret? She will do her duty?’

  ‘She hangs a white table napkin from the battlement. It will be easy seen.’

  ‘And numbers?’

  ‘A small company only, some ten or twelve men.’ The candle in front of Munro flared and he looked down, lest in the momentary brightness any trace of reluctance showed on his face. Clearly not fast enough.

  William, picking his nail with a cheese-knife, glanced at Munro. ‘Have you not the stomach for this fight? I hadn’t placed you for a coward.’

  A muscle twitched at the side of Munro’s eye. ‘I too know my duty.’

  ‘See that you do.’ Glencairn sat down, William on one side, Clonbeith and Robertland on the other. They attacked the supper with relish, as if the gathering was no more than a social occasion; their conversation spiced with the latest gossip: the rumour of the return of the pestilence to Perth; how the young minister Andrew Melville, with a taste for presbyterianism, was well set in St Andrews as a thorn in the flesh to Bishop Adamson; the plummetting value of the pound Scots against the English currency. Munro settled near the foot of the table, toying with a cutlet, and noted that John Cunninghame, folded into
a space half-way down the long bench, shredded his slab of beef as if he prepared it for a grand-dame with no teeth.

  Clonbeith helped himself to a handful of pickled chestnuts. ‘This talk of a school at Stewarton. Word is the minister at Ayr subscribes to the notion that everybody should have their letters – lads and lassies both.’

  ‘I have no problem with education for those who can make good use of it.’ William looked around, as if daring challenge. ‘We have a minister in every parish and I daresay derive some benefit . . .’ he acknowledged the ripple of laughter, ‘. . . but to educate folk beyond their station, that I can’t see the sense of. There may be reason in a bonnet laird with a grounding in French, if only to avoid being cheated when he buys his wine, but if we can all spout Cicero, who will clear the middens? Tell me that.’

  ‘When you spout Cicero,’ slivers of chestnut sprayed from Clonbeith’s mouth, ‘I’ll clear your midden myself.’

  A louder burst of laughter, reaching the length of the table, so that William flushed, half-rose, his right fist clenched.