He’d come to the fair once with Evan the summer of their fifteenth year. While he entertained himself eying the lasses, his twin brother had visited the tippling houses, sampling the whisky and getting into fist-fights with the local lads. At sunset Jamie had thrown his inebriated brother across his horse and led him home to Glentrool, promising his mother they’d never visit Keltonhill again.
A decade later here he was. Might his brother make an appearance at the fair as well? They’d hardly parted on speaking terms, with Evan threatening to kill him and Jamie fleeing for his life. A brother is born for adversity. Aye, that was Evan. On Jamie’s first Martinmas in Dumfries, he’d mistaken another man on the High Street for Evan and nearly seized the red-headed stranger before the man turned round and Jamie realized he was not his brother. He’d not make a similar blunder this day, though Jamie still intended to keep an eye out for broad-backed men with red hair and a staggering walk.
They emerged from Carlinwark with a short distance to go and a long line of carts and carriages ahead of them. Duncan gestured toward the temporary stables by the roadside. “If ye dinna mind the walk, we can leave our horses.” They chose the most reputable looking of the stablers and made arrangements for their horses to be well fed and well guarded. Walloch had already been stolen from Jamie once, only to be recovered with Lachlan’s silver; he would not lose the gelding again.
Without their mounts, the men were able to wend their way through the crowd and head for the high ground. Duncan pointed out a large Gypsy encampment in passing. “Billy Marshall’s folk.”
The Marshalls were one of many Gypsy families in Galloway. Jamie counted two dozen or more wagons, each with a pair of shelties standing nearby, nibbling on the grass. Mean tents, made of rough canvas and held up with sticks, were stationed round steaming kettles. While the women tended the cooking fires, their men sat on blankets, mending pots and carving spoons from ox horns.
“We also have Marshalls in my parish.” Jamie’s hand went to his purse, making certain it was well concealed. “One of them was standing o’er me the Sabbath morning I woke from my unco dream.”
“The same Gypsy who staw yer boots?”
“The very one.” As they walked past, Jamie looked for the elderly Marshall with his thick arms and short-legged strut, his dark eyes glowing, his breath reeking of onions. A man doesn’t get tricked out of his boots and not remember the clever Gypsy who managed it.
Duncan nudged him. “Did ye spy the Marshall mark in his hand?” He held out his weathered palm and drew an X between the thumb and forefinger. “The lines in me ain hand go their separate ways.” He picked up Jamie’s hand long enough to glance at it. “Yers do as weel. But folk say true kin o’ Billy Marshall, chief o’ the Gypsies, have a mark on their palms, like I showed ye. The sign o’ the cross.”
Jamie nodded as they neared Rhonehouse, only half believing the tale. “I’ll be sure to check the man’s hand if I see him. Though ’tis not likely in this crowd.”
The riotous sound greeted them first, then the inescapable smells, and finally the astounding sight of a sleepy village transformed. Two long lines of colorful tents created an avenue of grass along which bright flags waved in the passing breeze. Down the makeshift street hundreds of folk bustled and jostled, quarreled and caroused, the whole human mass in constant motion—farmers, tinklers, drovers, fishers, smugglers, thieves.
“This way.” Duncan guided Jamie to the right, one hand gripping his elbow lest the two men become separated by the crush of people. Raised voices with foreign accents clamored to be heard. The hawkers pitched their calls above the din, promoting their wares as they held them aloft.
Duncan nigh to shouted in his ear, “I come ilka year, and ’tis the busiest I’ve seen it. Maun be the guid weather.” He tugged Jamie toward a blanket covered with leather goods, dressed and colored by the currier who sat proudly beside them. “What say ye tae a new pair o’ boots?”
“The pair I have will do,” Jamie said absently, moving on to the hosier’s bounty of silk, wool, and cotton stockings, some with ornamental clocks, a decoration on the side of the stocking meant to hide the seams. He soon found fairings for Ian—a spinning top and a wooden soldier—and at the glovers he fingered a pair of kid gloves, thinking of Rose.
The men spent several hours working their way round the tents, taking it all in, keeping watch for cutpurses and pickpockets. One merchant, a chandler, caught Jamie’s eye when he spotted cakes of heather soap among the candles. “Two,” Jamie told the bearded man, fishing out a coin, then slid the small cakes inside his vest as he winked at Duncan. “At least they smell better than St. John’s wort.”
Despite the pungent aroma of cattle and horses that permeated the air, Jamie’s nose led him to a tent where sweetie-wives held court, their trays of sweetmeats on tempting display. His eyes were soon as glazed as the confections spread before him: candied fruit, sugar-covered nuts, butterscotch, vanilla tablet, barley sugar, treacle candy, sticks of glessie, bars of rich comfits stuffed with bits of fruit, and a charming young sweet seller prepared to take his pennies.
“What’ll it be, sir? Toffee?” She held out a bite of glessie for him to sample, and he was quickly sold, buying a handful of the buttery sugar candy.
Duncan returned from the pie sellers tent with potato fritters and mutton pies for their dinner. Since there was nowhere proper to sit, they simply stood in a tent corner, enjoying their humble meal and watching the gentry and peasantry of Galloway rub shoulders for one Midsummer Day.
“Time for some entertainment, and then we’ve a horse to buy.” Duncan led him past several low platforms on which mountebanks extolled the virtues of various medicines by way of storytelling and chicanery. They steered clear of the noisy cockfighting pit, where oiled gamecocks fitted with spurs sent feathers and pennies flying. Farther along, a tenor balladeer, his voice already hoarse, sang a tragic tale of love won then lost, while printed broadsheet ballads were offered for sale. A juggler deftly tossed wooden balls in the air as fruit sellers with trays of apples hung round their necks made their way through the jubilant crowd, holding up their ripened goods.
Each time the two men stopped, Jamie searched the crowd for one face in particular.
“If ye’re leukin’ for that Gypsy, ye’re wastin’ yer time.”
“I’m looking for my brother,” Jamie admitted, “though I’ve yet to see any man with hair the shade of his. If Evan’s here, I do believe I’ll spot—”
“McKie!” A familiar voice rang above the throng, stopping Jamie cold.
Twenty-Nine
We met—’tas in a crowd.
THOMAS HAYNES BAYLY
Several heads turned when Jamie’s did. It wasn’t his brother bellowing across the fairgrounds, but it was a voice he knew—a voice from home—and a braw face he remembered well. “John! John McMillan!” Jamie hollered back, not caring who heard. He motioned the giant of a man in their direction, even as he grabbed Duncan’s arm. “Come meet an old friend of mine from the glen.”
Duncan’s eyes widened. “Glad tae hear he’s a freen, for he’d be a meikle enemy.”
The crowd parted, making room for a black-haired man who stood a full head taller than anyone near him. He walked with a loose-limbed swagger, tipping his cap at every lass who caught his eye, a considerable number. “Look who’s come to Keltonhill Fair,” John said as he reached them, clapping one of his meaty hands on Jamie’s shoulder. “I ne’er thought to see you again, old friend.”
“Nor I you, McMillan.” Jamie laughed, even as his throat tightened. Five years his senior, John McMillan was his closest neighbor in the remote fastness of the glen of Loch Trool. As lads, John, Evan, and Jamie had been inseparable, clambering over the hills together, fishing in the loch, and tracking roe deer in the Wood of Cree. A loyal friend, John, and honest. If there was news of Evan, he’d not keep it to himself.
Jamie nodded at both men. “John McMillan of Glenhead, meet Duncan Hastings, overseer
of Auchengray in Newabbey.”
“Your uncle’s property, aye?” The two men exchanged greetings, John’s hand swallowing Duncan’s whole. “Have you settled there for good, Jamie, or will we see you in the glen soon?”
“At Lammas,” he answered with a measure of pride, knowing the months of squirming beneath Lachlan’s thumb would end. “ ’Twill be good to see everyone again.”
John folded his arms across his massive chest and cocked an eyebrow. “Including your brother?”
Heat crept round Jamie’s shirt collar. “I believe Evan will be … ah, gone … by then.”
John nodded but did not comment, his gaze drawn to a chapman with a tray of ribbons and lace. He called out to the stoop-shouldered man, immediately garnering his attention, then pilfered a handful of silk ribbons from the tray and tossed the man a coin. “For the lasses,” John said with an indifferent shrug, stuffing the ribbons in his vest pocket. “As to Evan …” He eyed Duncan for a moment. “May I speak freely?”
“You may.” Jamie looked at Duncan. “Like most herds on the hills, we’ve no secrets between us.”
John directed them toward a narrow stretch of grass separating two busy tents, then planted himself between them like an oak, shading them from folk who might hear their conversation. “Here’s the truth, lad: When you left Glentrool, Evan spread the sorry news of your … er …”
“My deceit,” Jamie finished for him. “There is no other word for what I did to my father and brother. Will any in the parish receive me?”
John regarded him with an even gaze. “Your father does not speak ill of you. Nor your mother, of course. Only Evan. I’ve ne’er seen a man so fixed on vengeance. Mind you, I’ve not spoken to your brother in many weeks. He’s been venturing south a good bit, attending to business in Wigtownshire.”
“ ’Tis my understanding he plans to settle there. Have you heard when Evan and Judith will leave Glentrool for good?”
John dragged his hand across his chin stubble, the sound like emery paper against dried pine. “That I cannot say. In the glen truth does not travel as swiftly as clack.” He lowered his voice, his gaze growing more intent. “You’d best be sharpening your sword before you start west, Jamie. Evan will stop at nothing to protect his son.”
Jamie’s heart stopped. “His … son?”
“You mean to say …” John’s face was awash in disbelief. “Your mother didn’t tell you? Jamie, I’m …” He wagged his head, then started again. “I’m verra sorry you’re hearing this from me: Judith was delivered of a son. Last October.”
Jamie sensed the ground shifting beneath him. October. The same month as Ian. As things stood, Jamie would inherit Glentrool and Ian after him. But if Evan succeeded in killing him, and if Evan’s son was older than Ian…
“When in October?” Jamie asked, dreading the answer.
John stared at the tent pegs near their feet, as though the date might be carved into the rough wood. “ ’Twas at the start of the month,” he said at last. “On a Saturday, for I recall Evan fretting o’er the auld rhyme.”
Duncan supplied it, though they well knew the words. “Saturday’s child works hard for a living.”
“So does Evan McKie now that I’ve robbed him of what was rightly his.” Jamie jammed his boot heel into the soft ground, angry only with himself. “Was it the first Saturday, then?” The day before Ian was born.
“Aye. The third of October, I remember it now. Judith and her babe had their kirkin at Monnigaff on Lukemas Day, the eighteenth.” John McMillan’s crooked smile, as broad as the rest of him, spread across his face. “The kimmer—Sally Crawford, you’ll remember her from Carseminnoch, a sonsie lass with the greenest eyes in Galloway—handed the child to his father for the minister’s blissin. A fine lad is wee Archie.”
“Archibald, is it?” Their grandfather’s name. Evan had bested him twice. “I’ve a fine lad of my own,” Jamie declared, not caring if he sounded boastful. “Ian James McKie. Born October the fourth.”
“Have you now?” John had no sooner congratulated him than his countenance fell. “A day apart? I fear ’twill be the older and the younger all o’er again. And here I’d hoped to see you two joined as brothers. Like the days of auld lang syne at Buchan Burn.”
“A time best forgotten,” Jamie said, though his memories held fast: he and Evan dunking each other under the Buchan’s cool linns, tumbling down the slopes of the glen together, trading punches on the winding paths along the loch, and laughing all the while. Aye, they had been brothers once. But too many years and too many sorrows had come between them.
Watch your back, man. Evan’s last words to him, spoken in anger.
“ ’Twas good of you to tell me.” Jamie clasped McMillan’s arm with gruff affection. “I’ll be better prepared come Lammas.”
“Have your dirk where you can reach it, for Ian’s too young to lose his father.” John’s gaze lifted, aimed over Jamie’s shoulder. His smile returned in force, a glint of gold in his eyetooth. “If it’s not the verra lass I’d hoped to see. The one I mentioned by name, Sally Crawford.” He gave Jamie a conspirator’s wink. “Must have called her to me, aye?”
Jamie chuckled, stepping aside, their conversation ended. “Our paths will cross again, John McMillan.” His friend raised his hand, already past him as he navigated the wide expanse between the two lines of tents, headed straight for a buxom lass with golden hair and a blush on her round cheeks.
Duncan snorted. “We’ll not see him again this day, I’ll wager.”
Jamie watched in amusement as John presented Sally with a bright blue ribbon from his pocket. “I’m sorry to see the man go. We’ve a long history together, John and I.”
“ ’Tis guid tae be thinkin’ o’ hame, Jamie.” Duncan steered him toward the far end of the tents, where the sale horses were gathered. Their progress was slow, for no one was in a hurry to be anywhere but the place they were standing. “Guid tae be thinkin’ aboot how ye’ll mend things wi’ yer brither.”
“Mend?” Jamie stopped in his tracks. “Duncan, we’re not talking about some boyhood argument, easily put to rights.”
“What are we talkin’ aboot then, lad? For ye’ve niver told me—”
“You’ve never asked,” Jamie shot back, regretting it immediately. “I’m sorry, Duncan.” He groaned, releasing some of his frustration. “If you’re willing to listen—for ’tis not a pleasant story—I’ll tell you the whole of it.” Jamie aimed for the village street, suddenly thirsty.
If a man fancied a drink, he did not have far to walk. Rhonehouse’s four inns, including the Boar’s Head and the Crown, overflowed with patrons tossing back ales to slake their thirst. Every house in the village had flung open its doors, pouring libations and serving cold victuals. Evan McKie might be found in any one of them, Jamie realized. Or none of them.
“We’ll not be drinkin’ awa our silver,” Duncan declared, pointing him toward a booth selling lemon punch. “Buy us twa cups, and we’ll find a place tae rest.” Procuring the punch was simple; locating somewhere to sit was not. They’d started well down the other side of Keltonhill before they stumbled on a patch of grass not yet trodden to mud, offering a fine view of pastoral hills rimmed with woods and dotted with farmhouses.
Once they were seated and their punch cups put aside, Jamie wiped his lips dry, wishing he could dispatch his past as easily. On the night of Ian’s birth, when Duncan had seen him through the agony of Leana’s travail, the subject of what had happened at Glentrool had been broached. Duncan had spared Jamie from sharing any details. I ken all aboot that. There’s none at Auchengray who don’t. The time had come for his friend to learn the things that no one knew.
“You’ve heard the gist of it,” Jamie began, the punch already souring his stomach “If I say ’twas my mother’s idea, I will sound like the coward I am.”
“Ye’re nae coward, lad.” Duncan’s voice was kind, utterly without judgment. “Ane Sabbath I watched ye stand tae yer feet in the
kirk and defend yer wife whan she sat on the stool o’ repentance.”
“Leana, you mean.” Jamie rubbed at his mouth, stemming his nausea. “ ’Tis another subject, one I cannot face this day.”
“Anither day,” Duncan agreed. “Tell me aboot yer mither. Is she at a’ like her brither, Lachlan McBride?”
“She is. My mother is clever with words and not above using trickery to get what she wants.” Much as Jamie hated confessing it, the similarities could not be discounted. Nor the differences. “Rowena McKie is more charming than my uncle, though, and more caring. I’ve ne’er doubted her love for me. But therein lies the tickler, Duncan.” He stretched out his legs, crossing his boots at the ankle. “My mother favored me, and my father favored Evan. They compared us like sheep at market. ‘This one has a sound mouth.’ ‘Aye, but this one has an even coat.’ ”
“Och.” Duncan spat his last taste of punch onto the grass. “ ’Tis a daft parent wha pits ane bairn against anither. I’ve warned me dochters o’ that verra danger.”
“Would that you’d been round when we were born. Twins, but not identical. A minute apart, yet on two different days, for our births straddled the clock at midnight.”
A look of awe came across Duncan’s face. “Ye were birthed at sic a canny hour? Folk say—”
“So they do.” The mention of the old belief made Jamie’s hands grow cold. To think of having the ability to see the Spirit of God abroad in the land simply because he was born just after midnight.
At Duncan’s prompting, Jamie continued. “While Evan and I were still in her womb, my mother sought the advice of a pious midwife. The woman declared that, by and by, the older would serve the younger. She assured our mother ’twas a word from the Almighty. My mother determined it would be so.”
Whence Came a Prince Page 19
