“What have you done with him?” I asked.
“I sold it. There is always someone ready to buy a horse at a fair price, especially when you have not long since stumbled upon a post house with stables,” he boasted, sporting a cheeky grin.
“But he will be alright, won’t he?” I asked, feeling as though I had just lost a best friend.
“Aye, Corran, Percy will be fine. Now, do you see that print shop?” he said.
I nodded, turning my head slightly to get a better look at the shop. A sign above the door read. ‘Their Majesties’ Printer for the City of York and the Five Northern Counties’. Well I guessed that was fairly impressive but hardly worth the mention, given that this particular area seemed awash with print shops, goldsmiths, glass painters and ale houses.
“What of it?” I asked.
“It’s run by a John White. He is a supporter of the English King William. White risked his life printing William’s manifesto. James had him imprisoned in Hull for his work and he was awaiting execution when news came that James had fled to France and William was the new King. Be careful what you say to him, he is not a man to be trusted,” he paused, thoughtfully. “Be careful of his wife too.”
“How do you know all this?” I asked.
“I know of his work,” he said simply, wrapping his arm protectively around me as we completed our short journey through the alley.
“You want your key?” I asked, fumbling clumsily in my skirt pocket, eventually holding it up for him.
“I gave it you to open the door with lass,” he said.
“Well I thought you might like that honor, seeing as how it is your house now,” I joked, handing the key to him.
The door was heavy and creaked loudly as he pushed his way into a room. It was as dark inside as a moonless night and it smelled of damp wood and stale smoke.
“I can’t see a thing,” I said, reaching in front of me for Simon.
“Nor can I. We need some candles, come on, let’s give up on this and get something to eat and see if we can find someone who sells candles around here.”
I held onto his hand as he led us out of the house, pulling the large oak door closed behind us.
Movement through the city was much simpler without the encumbrance of a horse. York was a small, compact city and it was not long before we stumbled across a woman with a wicker basket of layered beeswax and lard candles. Food and ale were not difficult to find either, with inns and alehouses lining most streets, along with stall sellers peddling every type of food imaginable. We bought some cooked bacon, cheese, bread, whisky, ale, kindling and peat blocks for a fire and two heavy woolen blankets. Dusk was falling and the street lanterns were lit by the time we reached the yard on Langton Lane. The wind was rising and the sky threatened a night soaked with icy rain. A chill ran through me as we reached the oak door of our new home. It creaked once more as we pushed it open and entered the house.
“Remind me to get some grease on these hinges tomorrow.”
Striking his flint, Simon lit one of our newly acquired candles. I could see an inglenook fireplace to the right of the front door in an alcove of the wall straight ahead of us. Simon moved purposefully toward it. Through the dim light of the candle I could see a cast-iron cauldron, suspended from a hook above where Simon was sparking the fire.
“These walls are black with soot. They are in desperate need of limewash,” said Simon, rising from the fireplace.
“Why do we need to limewash the alcove?” I asked, wondering what could be going through Simon’s mind.
“Because the fire will be more effective if I do. The limewash will reflect the heat of the fire off the walls and into the room.”
Perhaps he was right but I remained unconvinced by his explanation.
“How old do you think this house is?” I asked, surveying the oak paneling on the walls, the ancient-looking floorboards and the thick, dark beams above our head.
“I don’t know exactly,” he said thoughtfully, wiping his arm across his forehead. “It has had a lot of new additions to it, like this fireplace, but I should think it’s a good few hundred years old. This paneling is new though,” he said running his hand over the smooth surface of the wood covered walls. “The oak has not aged and is still light but I think the floorboards and beams have been here much longer.”
The only furniture in the room was a large scarred wooden table and four chairs neatly tucked underneath it. Having established that it was as sturdy as its appearance suggested, I put the jug of ale and the saddlebags neatly on its top and turned to survey the whole of the room. It had two exit points; the front door, through which we had come, and a staircase, which stood immediately to the left of the front door. Having decided that there was not much more to explore downstairs I pointed toward the staircase. “Shall we have a look at what is up there?”
“Let me check the stairs first, I don’t know how safe they are,” he said, furrowing his brow in concern. Tentatively, he put his foot on the first step, pushing with the ball of his foot against the wooden slat. It held firm. “Perhaps it’s not as bad as it looks. Let me go up first, just in case... you can follow when I am up.”
The staircase was little more than an old wooden ladder, hanging precariously from an opening in the ceiling so it was not without trepidation that I followed Simon through the hole in the ceiling. Having successfully made the journey up the stairs I had to concede that it had been very much worth the effort. To our delight we discovered a large, beautifully furnished room boasting a wooden window of six rectangular panels, glazed with horn. The furnishings consisted of a bed, wardrobe, round table and two chairs and an exquisitely carved oak chest, which appeared on initial glance to be at least a few hundred years old. Simon had also spotted the chest. Wasting no time he made his way toward it and lifted the heavy oak lid to examine its content. Amongst the treasures we found buried in the chest was a fine bed sheet, four bone-handled eating knives, four pewter spoons, two turned wooden bowls and two embroidered, green-dyed cushions.
“Should we put this sheet on the bed then?” he asked, lifting it triumphantly out of the chest.
I smiled and nodded fervently, not bothering to hide my delight. “Aye, it will make for a comfortable bed and those cushions look very nice too,” I replied, bending to retrieve them from the chest. “You do the bed sheet and I will fetch blankets from the saddlebags downstairs,” I said, tossing the cushions at him and making my way toward the precarious looking staircase. “We could do with lighting the fire up here as well as the one downstairs,” I said thoughtfully. “Do you think we will have enough peat for both?”
Simon frowned and shook his head. “No Corran, I don’t think we do but if you want to finish this bed I will go and see if I can find us some wood.”
“You may have recalled, Simon, that we are in a city now and not on the road,” I said playfully, smiling across the room at him. “I am not so sure you can just pop out and forage for a few sticks and some kindling around here.”
His eyes sparkled with mischief as he grinned back at me. “Is that a challenge wee Corran?” He chuckled.
“If you wish it to be,” I baited.
“Right then,” he said, abandoning the sheet and cushions, he turned and made his way toward me.
“A challenge it is lass!” he said, raising his eyebrow in question and planting a kiss on my cheek.
“You have something ready for me to eat when I get back, and I will return with some fuel for a fire in this room.” He disappeared through the hole in the floor, down the stairs and out through the front door.
Suddenly, I felt the need to make this place a home, a place where we could live, without the ghosts of the past, and a place where no one would know us or what our pasts held. I sighed deeply as I looked across the room to the oak chest and thanked God for the gift of this new life and the tools with which to survive it. I unpacked the chest and the saddlebags, made up the bed and prepared a meal and knew that tonight I wo
uld sleep as normal folk do, in a normal place with a future that was not scarred and bloodied by the past.
Simon had returned as promised, with the wood. Both fires now blazed comfortingly, fueled by blocks of dark, slow, burning, peat and sweet smelling dried wood. Although I had no idea where he had found the wood, I was more than impressed and grateful for his resourcefulness.
As promised, in his absence, I had unpacked the saddlebags and chest, and set out some cheese and ham on the table downstairs for a meal. After only a few hours the house already felt like a home and I smiled contently to myself as I thought of the comfortable, clean, warm bed that was waiting upstairs.
“Do you want some cheese?” I asked, reaching for the large creamy block of cheese on the table.
He smiled, clearing his throat, and reached across the table for the jug of ale. “I would prefer this,” he said, swigging a mouthful from the bottle.
His hand brushed mine as he moved the jug. I shivered at his touch and the hairs of my arm stood on end. “Are you cold?” he asked.
“A little,” I lied.
He smiled teasingly, drawing his lips to one side in feigned contemplation.
“I seem to recall we have played this game before, Corran.” His eyes twinkled and I knew I had been rumbled. “But if you are cold then perhaps I should add some more peat to that fire,” he teased.
I felt the color rise in my face and I hoped he would not notice my blush.
“Come here,” he said, raising his eyebrows. I did not move. We sat across the table, our eyes locked on each other. Then, unexpectedly he rose from his chair and made his way toward me and took me by the hand. I let him lift me gently to my feet, my eyes staring up at him as he pulled me toward him, crushing me fiercely against his chest. I could feel his heart pounding against me. I raised my hand to his chest, resting my palm lightly against his heart.
“You want me as much I want you. There is no need to pretend otherwise,” he whispered into my ear.
I wrapped my arms around him and he kissed me hard. I could feel the muscles of his thighs, quivering against me and the smell of ale on his warm breath. He bent and scooped one arm under my knees, lifting me effortlessly off the floor.
“I mean to make love to you, here in this very room and then again in our own soft bed,” he moaned, his voice thick and hoarse with desire. “But first,” he said, “I have something to ask you.” He set me gently onto the floorboards in front the fire. Kneeling in front of me; he raised my left hand in his. “Will you do me the honor of becoming my wife wee Corran?”
A gentle orange light from the fire cast an illuminating glow over the corner of the room. The long dark curls of his hair shone brightly in the firelight as they loosely hung around his face. I met his eyes, staring at him in shocked silence, scanning his face for the truth in his heart and I found what I was looking for.
“Yes,” I whispered eventually, “I will marry you Simon.”
His eyes never left mine as he gently slid a silver band; set with a tiny gray stone flecked with gold, on to my finger, then lifted my fingers to his lips and gently kissed them.
“I had this made for you in Dundee,” he said softly. “Do you see the gray setting?” I nodded, running my finger over the top of the ring. “It is a chip of slate from Ballachulish, to remind you always of home,” he said, wiping a tear from my face. “I love you Corran and don’t you ever forget it.”
“And I you Simon,” I choked, “but, are you sure this is what you want to do... I mean, after what you saw in Newcastle?” I ran my hand absently over the scar at my throat. It had faded to little more than a faint shadow but the memory of it and what it meant would always be with me. I lifted my eyes to meet his, desperately searching for the truth behind them.
“Can you truly love me Simon? We neither of us know how I came to live that day or how I survived the mountains of Glen Coe. I don’t understand who I am myself.”
He took my hand in his and held it firmly against his chest.
“I swear to you Corran that I love you and I that I will always love you, no matter what you are,” he paused, his eyes dark and shadowed.
“It is true that I don’t understand what you are or how you came to survive that slash, but I have thanked God each day since we left Newcastle for the fact that you did survive.”
His words and eyes were honest and sincere and I knew that whatever I was or whatever life held for me, I could not live without him in my world, not now, not ever.
******
CHAPTER 12
April 1696
The evening air was warm as we made our way over the bridge, occasionally casting a wandering glance at the boats as they went about their business.
“Do you want to go down to the river? It shouldn’t be too noisy this time of the evening.”
He was right, most of the warehouses would be closed now and the banks of the river fairly deserted.
I nodded. “That would be nice, aye Simon, let’s,” I said, sliding my hand into his.
We turned to our left at the end of the bridge and headed down the steep steps to the banks of the river flanked by the mighty warehouses of the merchants of York.
The ducks scurried toward us, hopeful of a treat. Simon scowled impatiently at the birds.
“Shoo, go away you greedy creatures,” he yelled, waving his arms in annoyance at them.
I giggled, thinking how silly he looked. “They can’t understand you Simon and it wouldn’t do you any harm to throw them some stale bread, if you had any on you that is.”
He frowned, grumpily. “They get food aplenty around here lass, no need to bother folk for more.”
I was distracted from our conversation by the sight of a small woven basket, tucked under the eaves of one of the warehouses on our right.
“Simon, do you see that basket?” I asked, my slightly raised tone betraying my concern.
He turned his head to where I was pointing. “Aye, I see it. What of it?”
“I don’t know, but something doesn’t feel right,” I replied, squinting my eyes in an effort to sharpen my view.
“Do you want to take a look?”
“I do,” I replied, already moving in the direction of the basket. As we got closer I realized with horror what the basket held and gasped out loud.
“Simon, look, it’s a baby! Oh dear God it looks close to death. Simon, do something,” I rambled, lifting the baby from the basket and clutching it to my breast.
“Let me see the child, Corran.”
I did not hear him at first. “Let it go,” he said, raising his voice in a firm tone, whilst attempting to remove the baby from my grip.
Shaking, I slowly released my hold on the baby, letting him take it gently from me. He held it in his arms, his eyes scanning its tiny body for signs of life.
“I don’t know if it will live lass, I think it’s starved. It has need of its mother’s breast and you can’t give it that.”
Suddenly, the baby choked and a tiny meow of a cry escaped its lips.
“Get me some goat’s milk and a rag,” I demanded, taking the baby off Simon and turning toward the steps to the bridge.
“I am taking it home; I will not let it die. Do you hear me Simon? I will not let it.”
“I hear you Corran,” he said, already at the stone steps.
“Take the little mite home and I will see you there,” he ordered, and with that he was gone, up the steps, over the bridge and back into the crowded city.
“Hello sweetheart,” I whispered, pulling the limp frame tightly against me. “You have got to hold on little one, do you understand me? You have got to try.”
Gently, as if I held the most precious bundle in the world, I cradled the baby in my arms, whispering desperate words of encouragement as I carried it home.
Finally, after what felt like an eternity, my hand closed around the cold handle of our door. Simon was already inside, the round wooden bowl on the table and a piece of torn linen besi
de it. He had found some milk, and as impressed as I was by his resourcefulness, I did not think to ask how he had come by it so quickly. My only thought was for the tiny, listless child in my arms.
“Tie a knot in the end of the cloth.”
He did as I had asked, pulling a chair out from under the table for me to sit on. I took it gratefully and loosened the baby from the square blanket in which it was wrapped. “Dip the knot in the milk,” I said, gently rocking the baby in my arms.
Supporting the child in the crook of my left arm, I reached across the table and took the sodden piece of linen. Lightly, I ran the knot over the baby’s lips, willing it to accept the milk, to open its little mouth and suck fervently. Simon got up from the table and poured two large glasses of whisky, gently placing one on the table in front of me. “Here, take this. I think you will have need of it before this night is out.”
I looked up from the baby. “Where do you think its mother is?”
“I have no idea, but wherever she is, it’s not where she should be,” he said.
We both looked down at the baby together, the same sadness filling both our hearts.
“Drink, damn you child,” he said, banging his fist on the table.
The baby’s eyes flew open, its little chest expanded and an almighty wail bellowed from its lips. Shaken, we stared at the howling baby, smiles expanding rapidly on our faces as the tiny mouth found the linen cloth and started to suck.
“Oh dear God, thank you,” I said, my pulse quickening with every drop of milk the baby sucked off the cloth.
“How did you know to do that?” he asked.
“Do what?” I replied.
“Dip the cloth in goat’s milk for the child.”
“It’s from a story my grandmother used to tell me. Of a baby boy whose mother abandoned him at birth and how he was found by a stranger who brought him back to life by dipping a linen cloth in goat’s milk. I had no idea if it would work or not when I did it. I just remembered the story at the right time and in the right place.”
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