Turn of the Tide Page 5

  John lounged in the doorway. ‘I hadn’t thought to find you quite so changed.’ His tone was mocking, but mild. ‘You used to scoff at such care.’ He drew Hugh towards the door. ‘It’s an offence easily forgiven, by the ladies at least. Mind, I don’t think Elizabeth would care if you arrived covered in glaur, so long as you are come at all.’ He sobered, ‘We had a fear, my mother especially, that her name would play against us. Cunninghame she may have been once, but she has long been a Shaw, and we none of us desert our friends.’

  Hugh stiffened.

  As if unaware of any awkwardness, John continued, ‘But I counted, if not on your good sense, at least on your need for a good dinner.’ He parried the playful cuff that Hugh directed at his head, and ducked through the low doorway onto the stairwell. ‘Come on, do you wish all the world to know that Hugh Montgomerie has at last taken thought to his appearance?’

  John’s sisters were waiting in the hall, the meal set, when John and Hugh entered. They were clustered by the fire, and for a moment Hugh thought that Elizabeth had not, after all, been well enough to come down. Then Christian turned and he saw through the gap that opened behind her Elizabeth seated on the bench, her hands outstretched to the flickering flames.

  She made to stand up, but he hunkered down in front of her. ‘No need to rise.’

  Her eyes were inches from his and shining, her voice a little lower than he remembered, husky, perhaps from the fever. ‘I would wish that you were come in better circumstance, but am happy for it none the less.’

  He floundered, aware of a flush in his face and heat in his palms and cross that he stammered like an idiot boy. ‘I have been away over long and you have . . .’

  ‘Changed? I find you much changed also, and more than your name; six years ago you had plenty to say for yourself. Indeed . . . rather too much.’

  ‘I believe I owe you a gown.’

  ‘I shall expect it then, and before another Yuletide, else you may claim the year of Jubilee and the debt cancelled.’

  ‘You shall have it and soon.’ He was beginning to find himself. ‘I am home now and to sort the estate. But the debts cleared, there will be a wee pickle left to settle with my personal creditors.’

  ‘Do you have many gowns to buy?’

  Despite that he knew she teased, the colour crept in his face.

  Gillis was swinging on Christian’s arm. ‘Are we never to eat?’

  Christian patted her head, ‘Hush, child. It isn’t polite to hurry the greeting of our guests.’

  Gillis pulled her eyebrows into a frown, ‘But I’m hungry.’

  Hugh turned. ‘And so am I, and so I’m sure is everyone.’ He proferred his arm to Elizabeth and through the fine cambric of his shirt felt the touch of her fingers as a flame. John sat at the head of the table, his manner easy saying the grace and ordering the seating and the serving of the ale. At twenty-five, his face had broadened and carried a shadow of stubble. His jaw, sharp at nineteen, had begun to merge into his neck, indicating the thicker figure he would likely become.

  Belatedly noting the absence of the elder Shaws, Hugh said, ‘Your parents are from home?’

  ‘My father thinks to set up a permanent trading base at Veere in the Low Countries and mother has accompanied him in case, I think, that he will find too much distraction among the continental ladies for her comfort.’

  ‘Tush, John,’ there was disapproval in Elizabeth’s voice. ‘You know the truth of it: that she wishes for once to have the choosing of silks and velvets rather than be forced to depend on father’s erratic taste.’

  John rolled his eyes, began to protest that it was a joke only, as Christian cut in,

  ‘And I for one will be happy for it.’

  There was a general ripple of laughter at the intervention, for all knew the store she set by fashion, so that she blushed and smiled and the awkward moment was past. The evening spun on, Hugh at Elizabeth’s side and attentive. She plied him with questions: about France and The Hague and Prince Maurice of Nassau, and how it was that he was not called ‘Orange’ despite the death of his brother. From the way in which she followed up each of his answers with another, often more pertinent, question, Hugh realised with pleasure that she had an interest in, and a not inconsiderable grasp of the politics of Europe. But some of her questions were more personal.

  ‘Tell me of life in the barracks.’ Her pause seemed just a fraction too long to be for breath. ‘And out of it. Is it exciting?’

  Afraid that his laugh was too loud to be altogether convincing, Hugh was dismissive. ‘Exciting enough in its way, I suppose.’ Misdemeanours there had been, but minor, and relatively infrequent, and of no importance at all. ‘It’s not all roistering. There is much of routine and court life can become very tedious.’

  ‘And court ladies?’

  He held her gaze, ‘They also.’

  The dimple came and went in her cheek. ‘But how will you find life at Braidstane now? There will be little to distract you bar the sheep, and they are not noted as the liveliest of creatures.’

  ‘To tell the truth, I don’t know how I shall do but,’ he smiled, ‘there shall at least be time to keep up with old friends. That I am determined on.’ Remembering his last leaving of Greenock, he said, ‘If your father will make me welcome.’

  Elizabeth’s expression was thoughtful. ‘Six years – I don’t think it was of sufficient importance for father to recollect.’

  He took a swallow of ale, felt it on his stomach like meltwater. He had come to Greenock, ignoring their Cunninghame connection; on the back of a memory that had surfaced often and unbidden during his years abroad. Triggered by a glance of hazel eyes, or a discussion overheated, or the smell of mulled wine mingled with roast pig: the memory of this table and of his own youthful voice: ‘. . . I have little wish to settle to the rearing of cattle . . . or children come to that, or to grow a paunch to match my station’; of the steadily darkening countenance of James Shaw, and fifteen-year-old Elizabeth, lifting her glass and tipping it, so that wine the colour of juniper berries flowed across the table, slipping over the edge and splashing the front of her gown. Of how she jumped up, dabbing at the damp stain that spread across her embroidered plackard, biting her lips in good imitation of vexation and apology. And, over the memory, Jean Shaw’s superscription, ‘You are fortunate, it seems. Elizabeth is not noted to be careless’. An implication that he allowed to lie in his mind as an anchor that shifted a little from time to time with the moving tide, but always held: that Elizabeth had perhaps more than a passing interest in her brother’s friend. Now, afraid that the memory was his only, he said, ‘It was of importance to me.’

  She met his eyes. ‘To me also.’

  He put himself out then to entertain the whole company, mimicking some of the more memorable of his fellow soldiers. John watched, a wistful expression on his face, so that Hugh knew he thought of the experiences he might have had, should he too have been able to sell himself as a mercenary. When Hugh caught Christian in a yawn, so that she blushed a rosy red, he turned to talking of the courts of France and Holland, the masques, the games, the plays, the meals that went on long beyond sufferance. But when the girls fired questions on the width of a farthingale, the height of a bonnet, or the pattern of a lace, he flung up his hands, ‘I didn’t pay such close attention, but am sorry for it now.’

  And in the midst of this company, was able to forget for a time the journey he must resume on the morrow.

  Chapter Seven

  The Montgomeries’ arrival in Stirling went unnoticed, and they took the chance to find lodgings before making their way to the court. Hugh chose to slip in quietly, finding a space towards the rear of the great hall, despite that he could see Alexander Montgomerie, a close kinsman, near to James. It was a connection that Hugh was minded to foster, for what use an uncle close to the King, if gain was not made of it? For the now though, he preferred to watch from the background and, with a soldier’s eye, gauge the mood of the moment.
Mindful of his own quick temper and of James’ command, it were as well to note those that he should take particular care not to insult.

  Later that evening, making a show of wasting no time, he presented himself at the entrance to the King’s apartments. The Presence Chamber was full as he elbowed his way through, for there were many who, mindful that the King had not yet reached his majority, sought to make capital of his youth. The bedchamber was more private. Alexander Montgomerie was there, and a few others, including John Stewart of Baldyneis, who had the additional privilege of near kinship to the King to add to his membership of the poetry circle. His name Hugh remembered because his father had made a jest of it once on his return from court. Some verses were spread out before the King, a lively discussion in progress.

  James gestured towards the parchments strewn across the coverlet. ‘Ah, Braidstane, you are not a poet, like your good uncle here?’

  Hugh bowed low, gave himself time to compose his features. ‘I have not that gift, sire.’

  ‘No matter,’ Both James’ voice and expression suggested that a verse or two would have greased the wheels a little. ‘I trust that you are come in a mood of reconciliation. Anything less will not please us.’

  ‘Sire.’

  ‘It is our wish that all should swear to end this folly.’

  ‘We Montgomeries aren’t so many that we can afford to be picked off over precedence . . .’ Hugh was struggling to keep the anger out of his voice.

  James narrowed his eyes. ‘As to precedence, we will make a judgement on it . . .’ He rubbed at an imaginary roughness on his right hand, ‘. . . when the moment is opportune.’

  Hugh wanted to take the opportune moment and stuff it into James’ prissy mouth, but, mindful of his promise to Grizel, and aware of Alexander’s careful expression, said instead, ‘I am grateful sire.’

  The King’s expression didn’t soften. ‘Wait on us then – in the morning, and early.’

  Hugh bowed and escaped through the Guard Hall into the fresher air of the passage where Patrick paced.

  ‘I have pledged myself, despite the likely ill to my stomach. The sooner it’s over and we can turn to more pleasing matters the better.’ As they left the royal quarters, Hugh tried to sound casual. ‘I mustn’t forget I have the makings of a gown to buy.’

  ‘This I want to see,’ Patrick paused by a window overlooking the courtyard, the sound of female voices carrying through the open casement. ‘You have trouble enough buying clothes for yourself.’ And when Hugh didn’t respond, ‘Serious then? And not just about the gown?’

  ‘With your experience to aid me . . .’ Hugh glanced out the window, ‘. . . I heard tell of a young lady in Leyden, whose dress is particularly fine.’

  Patrick refused to rise. ‘Our cousins at Giffen speak well of a clothier in Glasgow. Maybe that would meet your need?’

  Hugh matched his neutral tone. ‘More than likely, but come, we don’t want to find our lodging taken. Flea-ridden no doubt, it is at least a bed.’

  They turned towards the gap between the Royal apartments and the Great Hall, picking their way across the cobbles in the failing light. And flea-ridden their lodging turned out to be. But this they did not discover until the morning, woken at first light by the snarling of a pair of dogs in the street below, as they fought over scraps that had been flung into the gutter. A volley of oaths issued from an adjacent window and the well-aimed contents of a chamber pot caught the larger of the two dogs square in the jowls, so that he sprang away to slink off down a nearby alley. Amused, Hugh watched the smaller of the dogs enjoying the fruits of a victory won for him. It was only as he saw the dog lift his back paw to scratch vigorously at his ear, that he realised he himself was scratching at a line of lumps which stretched round his waist like a belt. The skin around them was red and swollen, each lump standing out white, with a tell-tale pinhead centre. If he hadn’t already been keen to get the business over as quickly as possible and seek immediate permission to leave the court, the beasties who shared his lodgings would have convinced him. The dog, having worried away at the scraps until there was nothing left worth eating, was nosing his way down the street, halting at every doorway to lift his leg. Hugh turned towards Patrick, who still lay on the narrow pallet the rough blanket pulled up to his chin, and could see from the movement that Patrick too was scratching.

  ‘I wouldn’t lie too long. There may be a whole colony of fleas waking up for their breakfast at any moment.’

  Patrick stretched and swung his legs over the edge of the bed examining the clusters of bites that speckled his thighs. Downstairs, they met the bold stare of the landlady and the enquiry as to how long they would be staying, with withering looks. Hugh threw a handful of coins onto the deal table that filled the centre of the taproom and called over his shoulder as they left, ‘If you wish to have company of merit, you must needs look to expelling the smaller creatures that claim space in your beds. We won’t stay to be eaten alive: not if yours is the only lodging in Stirling.’

  A volley of curses, which would have done justice to he roughest of soldiers under Hugh’s command, followed them half way down the street. They weren’t clear of her complaints until they reached the end of the lane and turned onto the wider thoroughfare curving up the steep hill towards the castle. Despite the early hour, it thronged with people, jostling and pushing, so that they kept a close hand to their purses. The gutters steamed with the contents of night-pails and they took care to watch both their feet and the windows above them. James, though not the most fastidious of men himself, was not above sniffing at others if they presented themselves with muck on their clothes. He was capable of making it a personal affront that, in the present circumstance, would hardly be designed to serve them well. Glencairn likely would have taken particular trouble with his appearance, and Robert would expect Hugh to have made an equal effort, with no allowance for any disparity in their lodgings. In the business of precedence, appearance was no small factor, so that Hugh couldn’t afford to turn up smelling as if he came straight from a tumble in the mire.

  At the entrance to the castle, Patrick looked Hugh up and down. ‘It were as well,’ he said, without a trace of humour, ‘that we find our uncle, and take advantage of his chamber to improve our appearance before we present ourselves to the King.’

  A potboy sought to squeeze past and Hugh grabbed hold of him, demanding that he direct them to Alexander Montgomerie’s rooms. The lad shook his head, protesting unconvincingly that he knew not of any such Montgomerie, but Hugh kept a firm hold, propelling him back through the gate. He hopped up and down on one foot, clearly needing to be off on some other errand.

  Hugh said, ‘Take us, and quick – we’ll make it worth your while.’

  They followed him across the inner close to a low doorway set in the corner, where he clattered up a flight of stairs and along a narrow passageway, Hugh and Patrick hard on his heels, and slid to a stop outside a small, iron-studded door. It was obvious from the way that he grabbed the coin offered, stuffing it into his jerkin without troubling to test it with his teeth, that if he didn’t hurry, he was like to get into trouble from some other source. He had disappeared around a corner in the corridor before Hugh had lifted his arm to knock on Alexander’s door.

  He was seated in an alcove, light spilling into the room from the window in front of him and Hugh, looking out through the narrow embrasure, noted the inconvenience, should one wish to make a speedy escape from the castle. Forbye the bars set firm into the stone, the wall and the cliff below it plunged, he guessed, at least a hundred feet into the valley below.

  ‘I have no need of any route other than the stairs Hugh. It is . . .’ Alexander placed a slight but deliberate stress on the word, ‘. . . but one advantage of my trade.’

  ‘There are others?’ The retort was out before Hugh thought, but Alexander didn’t rise to it.

  ‘Oh yes,’ and then, with a smile that failed to reach his eyes, ‘There are more ways than one to catch
a fox, nephew, and you would do well to remember it.’

  ‘My apologies, uncle. I didn’t come to disparage, only that. . .’

  ‘Nor have I a wish to quarrel with you, Hugh, but do not think I feel the pain of your parents’ deaths the less, because I do not broadcast it.’ There was an odd note in Alexander’s voice. ‘Your mother . . . we were fond . . . but she didn’t fancy a life at court . . . and perhaps she was right. She went to bide awhile at Giffen and Adam found her there. And she came to love him and he her. And there is much to be said for that, however short their time was cut. If you are as fortunate. . .’

  Hugh studied a mark on his doublet, but aware of the light pressure on his arm felt obliged to look up.

  ‘. . . You will be fortunate, indeed.’ There was a slight involuntary tremor under Alexander’s eye. ‘There are worse ways to die . . . and living a widow one of them.’

  Heat coursed through Hugh. Despite that he had begun to make his own plans, or perhaps because of them, all the while since his mother’s death it had been as if he had lain under a fallen tree, his movements constricted by the weight of the trunk. Now, with this new perspective that Alexander provided, he found the weight lifting, the anger that had been smouldering in him dying away. In its place a more kindly understanding of his parents; and with it, respect and fondness for this uncle who, laying aside his own pain, would put himself out to further Hugh’s cause. For the first time in the whole exchange, he looked Alexander full in the eye.

  ‘I am grateful, uncle – perhaps it is the soldier in me that doesn’t see what a poet may discern.’ He struggled to find words that would express what he felt without sounding maudlin and was relieved when Alexander interrupted.

  ‘Let’s not dwell on what is past. You have your sword, I have verse.’ His smile extended a little, ‘And for what it’s worth, I am at your disposal. I imagine you have some little favour to ask?’ A chill crept back into his voice. ‘A word in your ear – favours come easier salted with respect.’