Turn of the Tide Read online

  Glencairn was on his feet, thrusting back his chair, grasping William’s arm. ‘Save your spleen for the Montgomeries. We ride at dawn. I wish no thick heads riding with me.’

  There was a hasty scraping back of benches as most of those present followed Glencairn and William from the hall. Munro slumped back into his chair; knowledge of the proposed ambush acting as a band tightening around his chest. He reached for the ale – thick head or not, it was as well to dull tomorrow’s business.

  He was up and rousing himself under the pump in the corner of the yard while the sky was still black, the only sign of approaching dawn a grey edge to the heavy clouds that bunched overhead. He had a good head for ale, but had taken more than enough, even for him. It had been gone two in the morning, before he had finally drunk himself to a stupor, though no one would have guessed at it as he joined Glencairn. His boots were laced up to his knees, his doublet tightly buttoned against the rain moving in a sweep across the valley. William was already mounted, his black velvet doublet slashed with silver, a peacock feather in his hat, indicating that he had made no concession to the job in hand. Glencairn too was dressed with care, but the others were, like Munro, soberly attired and could have passed for gentlemen of any ilk.

  ‘Easy to see who does the work,’ Munro said in an undertone to John Cunninghame, who circled on the cobbles beside him.

  The clatter of hooves covered John’s reply. ‘Have a care you don’t share your thoughts too widely. There are those who would gladly take the favour that your displacement might provide.’

  Munro changed tack. ‘What do we wait for? Are we not all here?’

  ‘That we are, but Lady Glencairn is bid bring the younger children to give us farewell.’

  ‘So . . . Glencairn’s not as confident as he seems . . .’ Munro broke off as the family appeared at the main door.

  Glencairn didn’t dismount, only leaned down, to rest his hand on the youngest child’s head. Shy of her father, she pulled back and buried her face in her mother’s skirts.

  ‘It isn’t the child’s blame.’ Lady Glencairn spoke quietly. ‘She scarce knows her father . . .’

  ‘See to it that you teach her then, madam.’ Glencairn’s voice was also quiet, but far from gentle.

  She inclined her head and stepped back as he turned his horse, spurring it towards the gateway. Munro thought of his own farewell: of Kate, white-faced and taut, the twins round-eyed, uncertain. Of his forced cheerfulness. ‘This call – it may not signify. I could be gone a day or two only.’ Of his equal failure to draw a satisfactory response.

  Once through the gateway, they rode in a pack, tight at the front, straggling at the rear, according to the quality of the horse, or, more like, the fitness of the rider. Munro sat easily, his grip light, and moved forward without effort until he rode again at John’s side, but made no attempt at conversation, unable to think on anything other than the present affair. They had climbed beyond the cleared ground where cattle grazed, last season’s bracken crackling under-hoof: autumn-gold shot through with curled fronds of fresh green.

  William paused on the brow of the hill, turned. ‘More eager now, Munro? Last evening I thought you less than comfortable with your duties.’ His horse pranced backwards, nudging Munro’s, as if to emphasize the thinly veiled threat. ‘Do you wish it, we could relieve you of your place.’

  Munro bent his head, re-gathered the reins and gave himself time to frame a reply. ‘I have no such wish. I thought only of the King. The talk is . . .’

  William scowled. ‘Ah, James.’ There was a contemptuous twist to his voice. ‘And we are to pass on our obligations while others hold to theirs? We have lost much to the Montgomeries, and do well to remember it. This call to court – it is an opportunity to strike at their heart, that we cannot pass.’

  ‘Revenge may not be so sweet if the King gets wind of it.’

  ‘Who’s to tell?’

  Munro stroked his thumb along the edge of the reins but refrained from answer, as William talked on.

  ‘The Ford of Annock is a goodly choice. We should have no trouble in accomplishing our present end.’

  ‘And the timing is right.’

  ‘You think it isn’t?’ William glared at the rider who dunted him from the rear.

  Munro hesitated. ‘At this pace I fear we make Annock too soon. With the need to keep the horses quiet, it may be that we should walk a distance.’

  With a tightening of his face William slewed sideways, skirting round the riders in front of him until he reached Glencairn. Munro saw the heads bend together. Saw the sharp glance cast backwards towards him.

  John Cunninghame’s voice at his shoulder. ‘Careful laddie. It is a thin line you tread. William may not be eager to face a musket, but he fancies himself with a rapier and is aye keen to show his prowess, though not in a game such as this.’

  Munro turned. ‘I know, but there are times when he makes me fair sick with his dress and his airs. No doubt when it comes to the bit he will find a task for himself that hasn’t danger in it.’

  He saw the slight settlement of John’s shoulders. ‘For all that you arrived a mite late last night, you have a handle on the way we are to play it. Glencairn and William make straight for court and hope by that to keep the Cunninghame name clear.’ There was scepticism in his voice, ‘We are charged with making as neat a job as we can, then those who are bid, to join them at Stirling, looking as clean as if they came straight from home.’

  ‘Neat is it?’ Munro clenched the reins, so that Sweet Briar startled. ‘One hundred and thirty years of tit for tat and none the winner isn’t what I would judge ‘neat’. And for what? The Bailieship? Precedence? Eleventh or twelfth earl? Does any of it signify?’

  John waved Munro’s voice down, glanced about, kept his own voice low. ‘Glencairn doesn’t see the office of King’s Bailie of Cunninghame as a small matter. Nor did our father or grandfather before him. And in truth, to give the charge of the Bailiewick over to a Montgomerie hardly seems a master stroke, for all that they were close cousins, indeed the kinship likely increased the affront. . . . But you have the right of it – death breeds death – look in any direction you please and there is a ruin to testify that we are all the losers. It would be a fine thing if it was only the English we had to fear and not the sow who roots in our own byre.’ His voice dropped further. ‘If I had a choice I would rather be anywhere but here, but we are bid and we have come and may pray we succeed. Else . . .’

  Ahead of them, Glencairn had stopped. Below, the ground fell away sharply, the valley spread out like a plaid. The slopes swathed in the brown of last year’s heather were streaked with grey cuts where water ran in thin rivulets down the steep hillsides. In the valley bottom there was evidence of strip farming: turned earth for the growing of hay marching side by side with grazing land. A river snaked through the strips, the banking sharp.

  He gestured downwards raising his voice to combat the wind. ‘We make good time and need not haste. Nevertheless, follow me close, till we make safe ground. If the Montgomeries see us now, then we must link like the best of friends, or our opportunity is lost.’ He turned his horse, heading for the cover of the woods. Beyond them, in the far distance, the topmost turrets of Langshaw reared. A rider broke from the trees as they approached and galloped towards them, slithering to a halt.

  ‘Well?’ Glencairn was abrupt.

  ‘A clear signal. The Montgomeries are there. I didn’t have to go close.’

  ‘You took your time then.’ Glencairn was turning his horse as he spoke, wasting no effort on thanks.

  They cut diagonally across the hillside towards another clump of woodland, and once among the trees spread out, each choosing their own route, but always keeping others in sight. It was a difficult ride: the horses easily spooked, the riders, although most would not have admitted it, also wary. Each time a woodpigeon was raised or a squirrel disturbed in the undergrowth, all looked about, seeing in the shadows the possibility of dang
er. It was a relief when they emerged at last through the treeline and saw above and beyond them the heather-covered hillside. Glencairn broke into a trot, leading the fan of riders towards the higher ground.

  Without warning the rain came, heavy and straight, visibility reduced to almost nothing. The horses, wary of the soft ground, became nervous and difficult to handle and of necessity all slowed. As they crossed the skyline towards the hill that overlooked Annock, Munro steadied Sweet Briar, disappointment rising that there was little fear of being sighted.

  Glencairn’s plan was clear: to come up below the ford taking advantage of the natural cover the lie of the land provided. It would likely be a miserable wait. As the rain slid down his neck and trickled inside his jerkin, Munro felt for his gun and bag – hopefully drier than his clothes. Another thought, neccessarily stifled – or perhaps better the pan or match be damp and the plan foiled without loss of face for anyone. He urged Sweet Briar onwards, the slick on her coat seeping through his hose where his knees gripped. As if they crossed an invisible line, the rain stopped. Munro stood in his stirrups and looked back to where rain still fell, merging the valley into the sky, and off to the right a second edge, where the landscape returned, blurred and sodden. Silhouetted against it, another group of riders, moving, slowly it seemed, along the ridge.

  The Montgomeries would come this way then – dear God, this is a price to pay for old ties.

  In front of him, Glencairn had halted, motioning the riders to come up close. He swung his horse to face them, William also. Their twin expressions were evidence, if any was needed, that each was eager for this prey, yet each determined that hands other than their own be soiled. As the last straggler brought his horse to a halt, Glencairn raised a hand. In the silence, broken only by the soft snorting of horses, he said,

  ‘Do you wait here for Eglintoun and his men, and when you are done, make for home. But separate quickly, that you do not draw undue attention.’ He turned towards John Cunninghame. ‘A small company only is bid to court. You brother, and you . . .’ his eyes swept the riders and fixed on Munro, ‘. . . you, Munro, make for Stirling. We will put it about that we look for you by nightfall.’ He jerked his horse round. ‘See to it that we do not hear of today’s business from any other source.’

  Munro urged Sweet Briar towards the ground that dipped steeply away from the ford, – no doubting the wisdom of Glencairn making an early appearance at court, but as for William, his was the cowardly choice.

  Glencairn and William were no more than an hour away when the first of the Montgomeries appeared on the brow of the hill. From his vantage point Munro watched their coming, focusing fiercely on the horses, on the shrinking distance between them, his gun cocked and resting on his knee. He wasn’t one to spend much time thinking on God, but as he waited, timing the moment, the thought came to him – if God is watching, I trust He sees the principals in this.

  Behind Munro the rest of the Cunninghames slipped into position at his signal. His first shot took the leading rider in the belly. He saw him falling, blood spouting through the splayed fingers etched into his side. A second rider urged his horse forward, but before he could reach the water’s edge, Clonbeith took him from the left, shooting him in the head at close range. The third rider turned his horse and drew his sword, shouting to the others to pull back. He was rushed by three Cunninghames at once; who carved him up as he toppled, blinded from the rush of blood in his eyes, spearing his own foot as he fell.

  A lad, knocked sideways by the force of the shot that took him in the shoulder, was screaming as he was hauled from the saddle. Munro heard the sharp snap of his wrist as he landed, saw him kick upwards, the man who had pulled him from his horse doubling away, clutching his groin. The lad, his face drained of colour, was dragging himself onto his knees, his left hand dangling, a jagged edge of bone protruding like a dagger point from his cuff. Munro, his gun re-primed, took aim, but before he could fire Clonbeith plunged into the water, blocking Munro’s line of sight, and smashed the pommel of his sword into the lad’s face, stamping on his damaged wrist. Another scream: high-pitched and animal, as the lad made one last effort to twist away, Clonbeith’s sword-slash taking him on his left side, ripping him open from armpit to thigh.

  Out of the corner of his eye Munro saw the last of the Montgomeries, still mounted, turn, his sword raised. Munro swung and fired in one motion, but the shot, higher than intended, took the man in the mouth. The impact tipped him from the saddle, his jaw exploding in a mess of cartilage and bone. He fell backwards onto a jumble of rocks and was scrabbling up again on one leg when from behind a second and third shot pitched him face first into the peat-muddied waters that swirled upwards to greet him.

  Munro lowered his gun.

  Clonbeith came up beside him, his voice betraying no distaste for the job just done.

  ‘Do you remain and finish the business. The rest will ride home.’ He paused and with barely concealed reluctance added, ‘And take my horse. You have further to go. He’s fresher and will ensure that you make good time to Stirling.’

  And so it was left to Munro and to John Cunninghame to pick their way among the scattered bodies, searching for any life. There was a sour taste in Munro’s mouth as he splashed through the water and reached down to turn over the first body – Eglintoun the Montgomerie earl – to judge by the device stamped on his doublet buttons. He sprawled, one foot still trailing from the stirrup, the horse moving restlessly, trampling the sodden ground. Releasing the foot, Munro led the horse to solid ground. The Laird of Braidstane, likewise identified by the initials woven into his saddle cloth, was trapped, his leg caught between two rocks as he swung slowly in the current, which sucked at him, but failed to carry him away. The youth that Munro should have dispatched cleanly had not Clonbeith intervened, lay, his sightless eyes open, one hand tangled in the mess of entrails that spewed from his side. Munro wheeled around, emptying his stomach onto the fast flowing stream.

  They worked quickly, stripping the bodies of anything that could identify them, the horses likewise, before slapping each one firmly on the rump and watching as they galloped away. The job done, it were as well that neither the victims nor those responsible would be easily identified. Fine chance that any part of the day’s work would remain a secret for long: about as likely as snow falling in midsummer, but it was lack of ready proof that Glencairn sought.

  As he followed John, already urging his horse up the slope towards the higher ground, Munro welcomed the return of the rain, thought of his wife – pray God Kate doesn’t hear anything of my part in this.

  Pausing at the top of the rise, John echoed his feeling, ‘We may be thankful. A downpour will destroy all trace.’

  Even dry it would have been a silent journey, for neither had a heart for conversation. John gave his horse no guidance and Munro, noting the uncharacteristic carelessness, understood that he too was less than comfortable with what had been done. A few miles past Annock, the weather, though not their spirits, cleared, and they quickened their pace; so that it was still light as they entered Stirling and presented themselves at Glencairn’s lodgings. Thanks were not forthcoming.

  The earl looked up as they entered, but did not trouble to rise, ‘I trust you can wait. Dinner will be a little delayed. I had not thought to see you quite so soon.’ It was a question of sorts.

  Munro sensed John searching for appropriate words. ‘It was a speedy journey, and nothing to hinder us. We came through heavy rain, but left it behind shortly past Annock, though there it seemed as if on for the day.’

  ‘Well, well. I have a room prepared.’ Glencairn turned to Munro. ‘You I trust will find lodgings nearby, but do not lag for we have a guest or two contracted to join us for dinner.’

  Munro acknowledged the dismissal and with it Glencairn’s adroitness, not only in placing himself in Stirling timeously, but also in ensuring that they had independent witnesses to prove it.

  Chapter Two

  Word came to Br
aidstane.

  Grizel Montgomerie was in the solar, the castle accounts spread on the table before her. She had taken the ordering of the estate upon herself some three months since, when, following on her mother’s sudden death, her father had shrunk in on himself, seeming unable to face even the most mundane of tasks. At first a duty, it had become an interest and a pleasure. Her absent brothers she knew had thought it but a temporary ploy, that would serve to distract her somewhat from her own troubles.

  And with little time to grieve, she had indeed found the memory of her husband fading, so that the brief, if happy, interlude at Annan, their family home, had become like a mist, that lay on her when she awoke, but evaporated so soon as the day was properly begun, her first, sharp grief of widowhood replaced by an understanding that fulfilment could come in more than one guise. Though debts remained aplenty, a situation difficult to remedy without ready cash, she took satisfaction in the knowledge that, college education or not, she had as fine a head for figures and as good a manner with the tenants as any man. Her father restored, she had been guiltily pleased when he was summoned to accompany the Earl of Eglintoun to court, leaving her once again in charge.

  She rubbed at the ink-stained indent on her index finger as she rose to greet the messenger who appeared in the doorway, blocking out the light. Since her mother’s death the lad had shuttled backwards and forwards between Ardrossan Castle, the Eglintoun stronghold, and Braidstane, his increasing awkwardness keeping pace with his height. The corners of Grizel’s mouth began to lift – he grows like a nettle; then froze, as she took in the hair hanging in damp shanks over his collar, the doublet and hose heavily splattered with mud.

  ‘Mistress Montgomerie.’ He held his hat in his hands, twisted like rope. ‘I’m sent from Ardrossan . . .’

  She felt a tightness grip her chest.

  He tried again, raising his head and fixing his gaze somewhere above and beyond her left ear. ‘Your father and my lord and those who attended on them . . .’