Turn of the Tide Page 8

  ‘You will have opportunity then to further your interests here, resting easy that you need not fear what happens at home.’

  ‘Aye, though there are also visits about the country that I would make, friends that I would wish to see, acquaintances that I would wish to turn into friends.’

  ‘These friends are of a sort that will lead you away from trouble rather than into it?’

  ‘Indeed.’

  ‘And any more than friends?’

  Patrick laughed. ‘The rumour is out and must either be admitted to or scotched.’

  ‘Admitted to, then.’ Hugh put down his glass. ‘I have thoughts of taking on responsibilities of the family kind.’

  ‘And the lady is willing?’

  ‘And the lady is willing. At least,’ he corrected himself, ‘I trust so, though it isn’t quite settled.’

  ‘He means he hasn’t asked,’ Patrick had stretched out on the settle, resting his boots on the arm. ‘The lady or her father.’

  ‘And who is the unlucky lady?’

  ‘Elizabeth Shaw. Of Greenock.’

  ‘Her mother is a Cunninghame, is she not?’

  Hugh coloured, but Robert put up his hand.

  ‘That wasn’t a criticism, just a thought . . . it’s an aspect you might do well to emphasize to James. It will likely add to his approval, and who knows, might earn you a wedding gift . . . maybe even that bauble of William’s.’

  ‘Hugh, in pearls?’ Patrick raised an eyebrow.

  ‘They would sell. The acquaintances, I trust they are worth the trouble of investing in their friendship?’

  Robert’s reversion took Hugh by surprise. ‘So I’ve been advised.’ Beginning to feel hot and dearly wishing to rub his hands on his hose, but fearing to do so lest it raised doubts of his truthfulness, he contemplated making mention of the man in the Cunninghame camp, but decided not. And so was much relieved when Robert said,

  ‘Well, if I can be of assistance . . . but now, will you stay to dine?’

  Hugh shook his head. ‘We’re bid to supper with Alexander.’

  ‘A last drink then.’ Robert filled the glasses for the third time. ‘To good sport, and to advancement and . . .’ as if to show that he had not forgot the kernel of their conversation, ‘. . . to circumspection in friendship.’

  Hugh and Patrick walked back to their lodgings towards dusk, after a handsome meal. They had talked at length over supper, Alexander placing great store on the potential value of a successful chase and pleasing hospitality to follow. He stressed, to Hugh especially, the importance of ensuring that not only was the chase fast and furious, as befitted James’ taste, but that James took rather more than his fair share of the kill without any obvious holding back of others. It was clear that the scheme had not been thought of on the spur of the moment, but rather simmered for some time. Hugh wondered, but didn’t enquire, for what purpose Alexander had first conceived the plan, preferring not to know what private gains had been put aside to serve his needs.

  As they came down Castle Wynd, Patrick said, ‘This scheme of Alexander’s. It’s gey . . .’

  ‘Well planned. I know.’

  ‘Are you not curious?’

  ‘If it was me, I don’t think I’d welcome curiosity.’ Hugh was scanning the sky. Out to the west, the sun dipped towards the horizon, and he watched the few clouds, strung out like strands of bog cotton, flood with colour. ‘I think I begin to look forward to this hunt. It’s long enough since we had the thrill of the chase.’

  ‘Aye . . . well . . .’ Patrick was more wary. ‘Just remember whose is to be the major pleasure in this.’

  ‘Is it not enough to endure Alexander’s lecture? I don’t need the kill to enjoy the thrill.’

  ‘It may not all be thrills, and it isn’t only James’ temper you need look to.’

  ‘William won’t keep the pace, he will be that feart for his clothes and, for the rest, between us we can surely best them.’

  ‘On our horses? Don’t be so sure. The word is that Glencairn has hired the best that could be found – and intends to keep close to James, that he doesn’t lose all benefit of the day.’

  As they reached their lodging Hugh said, ‘What of the man with William? Did you find him out?’

  ‘Yes. He bides but a step from us and will be easy watched. With luck, I can contrive a meeting. Though from what I’ve learnt, forbye his discomfort this morning, he is a Cunninghame man, as his father and grandfather and more before him.’

  ‘A Cunninghame man is one thing, William’s is another, and maybe harder to thole.’ Hugh opened the door of the taproom that gave onto the stair. ‘If you can meet, casual-like, it wouldn’t be a bad thing to have acquaintance in the other camp.

  Chapter Eleven

  Wednesday broke cool and clear, with scarcely a breeze.

  Munro woke at first light, and feeling it politic not to present himself to Glencairn or William too early, chose instead to ride out to the crag east of the town. Despite his attempts to restrict the amount he had drunk, or perhaps as a result of the blow he had taken, he felt as if a farrier had set up shop in his head – his right temple the anvil – and hoped that the fresher air to be had away from the town might sort it. Concentrating on minimizing the jolting as he rode over the cobbles, he paid scant attention to the rider who trailed him out of the town and who, once the buildings dropped away, struck across the valley towards Cambuskenneth Abbey.

  Reaching the foot of the crag, where the tail of the hill met the marsh, Munro tethered his horse to a tree and set out to climb to the top. Used as he was to tramping the hills around his own home, looking for stock that wandered, he found himself gasping as he cleared the trees and scrambled to the summit. He bent, his hands resting on his knees, while the pounding in his head slowed and the stitch in his side subsided. Across the valley the castle reared against the skyline, the town tumbling down the slope below, wisps of smoke beginning to unfurl, first one, then another, then too many to count, as Stirling awoke.

  The countryside was spread out before him like a map; the distant hills to the south-west purple thumbprints smudged against the watery sky; the river a dark ribbon snaking through the marshland below, cradling Cambuskenneth in a giant u-shaped loop. He noted the scattered areas of woodland and wondered idly where the hunt would take them. Which brought him to thoughts of the Montgomeries. He knew little of Braidstane, save what rumour made of him, and that not always reliable, though he could hardly be worse than William. He found himself hoping that the jaunt would provide the opportunity to make his own judgement.

  Behind him, a muffled oath. He swung round to an explosion of feathers as a black grouse burst upwards, gliding in a wide arc before finding new cover. The man coming towards him was a little younger than himself, perhaps mid-twenties, with a mop of dark hair and a wide mouth that looked more suited to smiling than frowning. Munro narrowed his eyes, trying to place him – he had accompanied Robert Montgomerie in yesterday’s charade. Odd that he should come on me now, just as I thought on them.

  His own breath fully recovered, Munro was glad to see that the newcomer also peched, and was therefore disposed to be generous. ‘It’s a step. I was a mite out of breath myself.’

  The other man laughed. ‘Wings are better than legs for such a hill as this.’ He looked back towards the valley floor, ‘I fancied the fresher air, and it didn’t look such a climb.’ He massaged the backs of his calves; ‘I near broke my neck over that bird.’

  ‘It were well flushed, and would have made a fine breakfast, had I expected it.’ Munro held out his hand. ‘We haven’t met, though I believe I saw you yesterday. Are you with the Montgomeries?’

  ‘You could say that.’ A flash of even, white teeth. ‘Patrick Montgomerie, brother to Hugh of Braidstane and therefore part of that pretty play of James’. And you?’

  ‘Munro.’ He hesitated, ‘Of the Cunninghame connection.’

  Patrick scraped at a patch of lichen with his boot, ‘We can’t
always choose our families.’

  A momentary silence, Munro’s smothered thought – if he knew the whole of it. . . .

  Patrick said, ‘Do you join us for the chase?’

  ‘Aye, though I’m not sure my horse will stay the pace.’

  ‘We have something in common then.’ Again the flash of teeth. ‘I would wish that I could have brought a horse from my regiment. They’re aye well bred and handle fine.’

  ‘A cavalry officer?’ Munro felt a stab of envy.

  ‘And would wish myself back where I belong, though . . .’ Patrick’s gaze switched to the opposite hill and the castle that topped it. ‘. . . With horses and with women I am most at home . . . and there are one or two women of the court I wouldn’t mind handling.’

  Munro laughed and they made down the hill together, parting companionably enough at the bottom where Munro’s horse waited, cropping at the damp grass.

  ‘You needn’t wait for me,’ Patrick waved vaguely southwards. ‘I came from the Cambuskenneth side. I have a wee step yet to retrieve my horse. We may each be cosy with others the morrow, but it doesn’t mean we can’t think on friendship thereafter.’

  Chapter Twelve

  On Thursday Hugh woke again to the sound of dogs fighting in the street below and to the calling of a pedlar, the accent so thick that he couldn’t make out what was sold. He moved to the window and tried with his sleeve to clear the glass, but succeeded only in smearing it further. Putting his shoulder to the frame and ignoring the splintering, he thrust his head out. The overhang of the upper storey impeded his view of the street, and whoever was making the racket was clearly tucked well in towards the wall, but as he breathed in he caught the yeasty tang of fresh bread. The light filtering into the room around his head roused Patrick, who stretched and yawned and swung his legs onto the floor.

  Hugh said, ‘There’s a right good nip to the air, but little wind. We shall have a good run today, if so be that the quarry prove easy to flush.’

  Behind him, Patrick relieved himself into the pot in the corner then turned his attention to the basin and ewer.

  ‘Our good landlady is generous with water, I doubt a sparrow could make much of a job in this.’

  ‘Have it all and welcome. I’ve no wish to wait around till the bread that has just been delivered be spoken for. I hold no great hopes of our host taking account of our needs if we don’t present ourselves promptly.’

  Patrick lifted his face from the basin and shook his head like a terrier, droplets flying. The sun, filtering through the open window, made a nimbus of the water that shone on his hair.

  ‘St Paul himself wouldn’t recognize you this morning, angel that you appear.’ Hugh sidestepped the snap of the towel and headed for the stair, Patrick scrabbling for his doublet and tucking in his shirt-tails as he followed. The bread was surprisingly good, even without butter and Hugh bought a second farl to carry with him. After a brief stop at Alexander’s lodgings, they collected their horses and reached the meeting point well before the time appointed with the King. Groups of riders in ones and twos were heading towards the open ground in front of the castle. Glencairn was among the first to arrive, his greeting to Alexander curt, almost to the point of rudeness. Hugh, he didn’t acknowledge at all, pointedly turning his mount to face back towards the town, scanning the approaching courtiers.

  Alexander’s smile broadened with Glencairn’s increasing unease. ‘It isn’t done to keep James waiting. Little wonder that Glencairn is champing. We are timely, and can only benefit further if William is not.’

  Almost as he spoke, two riders emerged from the cover of the huddled dwellings of the lower town and began to make their way up the hill. Hugh felt a stab of disappointment as the ring of horseshoes on the cobbles warned of the approach of the King’s party. William would make it, though by a whisker.

  There was a general jostling as James reached the Esplanade. Alexander, who had established himself at the prime point to meet the King and who had indicated to Hugh to stay close, held back at the last, so that it was Hugh who made the first greeting. Tutored by Alexander, he did not dismount, but made a low bow.

  ‘Your Grace, our party is complete. We need only your lead and we shall follow, though . . .’ his brown eyes, wide and guileless, met James’ ‘. . . we may not be able for your speed or skill.’

  James accepted the compliment as his due. ‘If I am to lead, our mystery destination must needs be revealed.’

  ‘We are for Fintrie, sire, and have been promised the woods won’t disappoint us.’

  Pleasure flared in James’ face. ‘Then I trust they do not.’ He touched his heels to the horse’s flanks and leapt away, horse and rider alike straining.

  At the foot of the hill, where the dwellings began to thin, he broke into a canter, the others streaming out behind. A flash of white caught the corner of Hugh’s eye as a scrawny kitten shot straight from an alleyway towards the flurry of horses. Behind it a child; no more than three or four years old. William glanced sideways, looked towards James, spurred his horse on. One hoof caught the kitten under the belly, sending it spiralling onto a jumble of rocks, its piercing wail cut short. A louder wail as the child darted towards it. Munro tugged his horse round but Hugh was there first, reaching down and snatching the child, who kicked and bit and scratched at him. He turned out of the melee, and slid from the saddle, releasing the child, and returning, rescued the kitten. Its small head was tilted to the side, a trickle of blood at the corner of its mouth. Hugh hunkered down beside the child, passed over the limp body. She cradled it against her chest, rocking back and forwards. Hugh touched his hand to the kitten’s neck, felt the faint pulse, and ran his fingers lightly over the shattered ribcage. He stroked the kitten’s head, at the same time easing his thumb downwards until it rested on the windpipe. His eyes fixed on the child’s bent head he pressed firmly until the pulse stopped. She was sobbing in earnest now, her small shoulders shaking. Hugh turned her towards the town. ‘It’s best you go home.’ He rested his finger against the kitten’s cheek, the warmth already draining out of her. ‘She had no chance. It isn’t your blame.’ He gave the child a push towards the cluster of houses and swung back into the saddle. The tail end of the hunt party had passed them and Munro, who had held back, along with Patrick, merged into the stragglers. Although it had been a matter of minutes only, James and the leading riders were well ahead, William and Glencairn moving up fast. Hugh had reason to be sorry that his father’s hunter was at home in the stable at Braidstane, no doubt becoming fat and lazy, while he pummelled away at the sorry nag that was the best to be had at short notice.

  Reaching Alexander, Hugh saw that William had caught up with James. He urged the horse again, but was held back by Alexander.

  ‘Bide your time, laddie. Don’t press the beast too hard, the terrain we cover today will tax the best of mounts – something in reserve will, I think, serve us well.’

  Alexander, although making every appearance of pushing his horse, was, in reality, holding him in check.

  ‘Not much chance of pressing this one,’ Hugh saw James favour William with a smile and some pleasantry that brought an answering smile in return. ‘William makes capital at our expense. This was not, I take it, in the plan?’

  ‘Of course not,’ Alexander was brusque. ‘We have a day ahead of us. The end will be better than the beginning, have no fear. Let William burn himself out in the preliminaries and do you make sure you are in at the finish.’

  ‘And how,’ Hugh, gave his horse, who showed signs of slowing further, another jab, ‘do you suggest I achieve that on this beast?’

  ‘I don’t. Your poor beast will serve me well enough later and mine you. There is not the expectation on me to keep up with James – my talents are otherwise. We can exchange mounts once the real work starts. I suspect William will be less than pleased when he finds yours is the fresher horse. And though I cannot swear to it, it’s likely Glencairn will give him blame if his horse fades before t
he finish. But still, I have no wish to end the day in walking, so content yourself with second place for now.’

  Chapter Thirteen

  At Greenock, it was a different sort of sport that concerned Elizabeth. The steward stood at the door of the solar, rabbits in one hand, his other firmly clasping the back of the urchin’s ragged tunic.

  ‘Janet cried me to the warren to choose a fine pair of bucks and there was this rogue bagging them as if they were his own.’

  ‘Rogue, Hamish, hardly, he’s only a child and not above five or six.’

  The steward did not relinquish his grip of the lad. ‘Old enough to know right from wrong.’

  ‘There are different sorts of right and wrong.’

  ‘Stealing’s stealing whatever your age and he will do well to learn his lesson now, before he grows up to swing for it.’

  The lad looked up at the mention of hanging and wriggled uneasily, hopping from foot to foot, so that she saw that his feet were not only dirty, but also criss-crossed with old scars. It was likely he came from one of the clutter of cottages that huddled on the fringes of the town, though she couldn’t tell if she had ever seen him before.

  ‘What matter a rabbit or two, and that probably the only meat the boy’s family are likely to see this side of the fair. With half the household away, we have plenty and to spare. Leave the child to me. I’ll reprimand him and send him on his way. And take the rabbits to the kitchen.’ She looked down. ‘I don’t wish to have them drip blood on my floor, more than I have already suffered.’

  He turned and she saw by the set of his back that he didn’t trust her to deal with the boy, but that his sense of loyalty, if not to her, at least to her position as temporary mistress of the house, meant that he would not openly question her authority. No doubt in the kitchens it would be a different matter. As he pressed down on the latch, she said, ‘And would you take a look at Star. I thought this morning he was perhaps a little lame. Your opinion wouldn’t go amiss.’