Bareback

by John Burke

  For once there was no argument. All of them had considered the nomination well before attending the meeting.

  ‘It is agreed, then, that Kirsty Torrance shall be invited to become the Lass?’

  ‘And,’ Jamie Brown pointed out with what he probably considered admirable tact, ‘that should please your good lady, Archie. If her Picts had had their own choice – or your good lady had had hers – wouldn’t it have been Kirsty anyway?’

  ‘That might well be,’ muttered Archie.

  ‘And now,’ said the Convenor, ‘there is the final matter. Right of way across the Black Knowe haughs. Shall we now call Sir Nicholas in?’

  *

  Seated in an armchair in what had once been the sheriff’s robing room, Nick Torrance had dutifully read and re-read last year’s official brochure for the Common Riding while waiting to be summoned before the Committee. The re-reading had been necessary because his grasp of the story first time through had been enfeebled by Tolbooth hospitality. A deferential young man had unlocked a cupboard and taken out a bottle with a handwritten label. ‘A dram while ye’re waiting, sir? A malt from the Convenor’s personal cask.’

  ‘That’s a nice idea.’

  Nick’s appreciation of single malts had been slower to develop than his palate for fine wines, acquired during his travels with his father and then as a freelance. Now that he was here in whisky’s homeland, he hoped there might be secret treasures to discover: new combinations of peat, smoke and golden spirit to savour. He was more than willing to learn, though not from the examples on the shelves of MacKenzie’s Provisions in the High Street. It was a reasonable guess that the Special Kilstane Blend was specially labelled rather than specially bottled. He looked forward to sampling authentic nectar from the Convenor’s own cellar.

  A glass was put in his hand. ‘Never been privileged to taste it myself, sir, but they say it’s unique.’

  Nick nosed it, sipped, and then swilled a reasonable quantity around his mouth, wondering almost at once whether his teeth would stand the strain.

  ‘Unique,’ he managed to gasp. ‘The only word for it.’

  Some whiskies were matured in sherry casks, some in bourbon casks, some in straightforward oak. In this case his immediate reaction was not to ponder the style of cask but to wonder who or what had died in it. Lord Nelson’s body had been preserved in a barrel of brandy on its homeward voyage from Trafalgar. Which historic corpse had been dunked in this whisky cask: Robert the Bruce, with his boots still on?

  Nick wiped his eyes and tried to concentrate on the legend of the land which had now become his.

  At least he could grasp that Kilstane was different from all the other Border towns which made such dramatic spectacles of their Common Ridings, usually associated with some historic skirmish with the English. Every year these others chose their Callant or Cornet as leading horseman, and selection of his attendant Lass came later. Nor was the girl, having accompanied the leader throughout the string of ceremonies, always allowed to ride in the great final sweep of the boundaries. Here in Kilstane, in memory of the girl who had ridden bareback from the Border to warn her town of an English raid, the Lass was chosen first, and was entitled to name her own chevalier. It was a nice bit of women’s lib, centuries before its time.

  And his own part in it? The map of the boundaries and the riders’ cherished route made that clear enough. The final mile cut right across his own estate. It was not difficult to guess what they wanted to ask him.

  He was still trying to inhale rapidly enough to quench the blaze at the back of his throat when the connecting door opened. A diffident yet officious little man said: ‘I wonder if you’d be kind enough to join us, Sir Nicholas.’

  Nick croaked an acknowledgment and went in through the door held open for him into the chamber.

  There was a flurry of introductions, and an official welcome from the Convenor to the new Laird of Black Knowe. Having spent most of his life on the fringes of London, European concert halls, and recording studios, Nick found it hard to believe that he was cut out to become a convincing laird. Dr Hamilton, however, was thanking him for agreeing to give up some of his valuable time to be with them this evening and went on to ask with starchy formality:

  ‘Not wishing to waste any more of that time, Sir Nicholas, may I assume you have read our little pamphlet outlining the procedures of the Common Riding?’

  ‘You may.’

  ‘Most gracious of you. And you’ll have realised that the essential concluding stretch of the route from time immemorial has taken in a swathe across the boundaries of your estate, including a ride across your lower haugh.’

  ‘The water meadows?’

  ‘The meadows by the burn, aye. Now, regrettably your – ah – predecessor –’

  ‘My uncle.’

  ‘Aye, of course. Such a grievous shame that your own father never came into his own . . . but that was what the Almighty decreed. Now, it has to be said that Sir John was reluctant in later years to allow the main troop of riders access across the haugh to the cairn.’

  ‘Even though he was so rarely here.’ A red-faced man was glaring at Nick as if he had been an English infiltrator fit only for decapitation. ‘And then in little mood to listen.’

  ‘The matter,’ Dr Hamilton hastened on, ‘has become more of a problem since a recent official survey has altered the configuration of the Common. It would simplify matters if we could revert to the original definitive route to the cairn. We thought, Sir Nicholas, we’d like to consult you this year before settling on the route.’

  ‘In other words, it’s not all that definitive?’

  Professor Makepeace looked at the newcomer with the beginnings of approval. Nitpicking was very much to his taste.

  The Convenor said: ‘Traditionally –’

  Makepeace groaned. ‘Oh, not all that again.’

  Nick glanced at the faces round the table. Some were set, expecting the worst. There were a few conciliatory smiles, and some fixed and threatening stares. The new minister taking over a parish must feel something like this, surveying his flock from the pulpit: they didn’t know what to make of him yet, any more than he knew what to make of them.

  The man who had been introduced as James Brown wheedled his way in. ‘If there’s any detailed explanation you’re wanting, that’s what we’re here for, Sir Nicholas. That’s why we’ve asked you to come and give us the benefit of your opinion.’

  ‘I think I’ve got the hang of it,’ said Nick. ‘And . . .’ He couldn’t resist keeping them in suspense a few seconds longer. ‘I’ve given it careful thought . . . and I can’t see that any harm can be done by allowing the Riding to continue below Black Knowe along the . . . traditional route.’

  Professor Makepeace smiled less affably than before. The others applauded. Perhaps there was just the faintest tinge of disappointment. They had all come prepared with persuasive arguments, sure that he would take a lot of winning round. His uncle had been in every way a difficult bastard. Perhaps he ought to have carried on the family tradition, and played a bit harder to get.

  The meeting was being wound up. At the door, Dr Hamilton touched Nick’s arm respectfully. ‘Most kind of you, Sir Nicholas. Most understanding.’

  They clustered round to shake hands with him. James Brown, hanging on to his grasp longer than was necessary, said: ‘And the Lass we’re choosing – Kirsty Torrance – with a name like that, she’d be some relation of yours, would she not, Sir Nicholas?’

  ‘I couldn’t say. Haven’t had time yet to catch up with everybody.’

  Hamilton said authoritatively: ‘I believe she was your uncle’s granddaughter, sir. Her father died of food poisoning before he could inherit, as I’m sure you know. Her mother is still with us.’

  ‘Very much so,’ Brown sniggered.

  ‘Puir Archie,’ said MacKenzie. ‘Having to go back and tell her aboot the letter he’s going to have to write to her. I bet he could murder her.’

  ‘Have t
o take his place in the queue.’

  ‘Maybe us choosing Kirsty will ease things a bit. Cuts the ground from under her feet, I’d say.’

  ‘She’ll likely find a reason for disapproving of that.’

  Hamilton tried to distract Nick from this gossip. ‘Would you care for a dram before you go, Sir Nicholas?’

  Nick shuddered. ‘I think I’d best be off.’

  Driving home, he looked up at the silhouette of the huge cairn on Hagg Mound, like some sprawling puppy near the foot of the gaunt tower on the skyline. This, according to the pamphlet, was the marker for the end of the Bareback Lass’s ride, pursued by an English villain intent on ravishing and murdering her before she could raise the alarm. But at the cairn she would be welcomed by her true love, the pursuer would be slain, and they would summon the townsfolk to prepare for the English raiders.

  Everywhere in the world there had to be some picturesque annual custom – cheese-rolling, furry dancing, chasing hot pennies, morris dancing, disguised fertility rites, horns and maypoles and masquers, something fanciful. He supposed the legend of the Bareback Lass was as harmless as any of them.

  *

  As it happened, inside the cairn the girl due to be appointed as the virgin Bareback Lass was herself a barebacked mare, being ridden by a stallion whose name was Colin Robson. Crouched on her knees and elbows, she gasped as he struck her naked flank with a reed switch and urged her on with sounds more breathless and urgent than those of any boundary ride-outs.

  ‘Come on, girl. Keep going. Come on, keep on.’

  She whinnied obediently and snorted a laugh, then winced as he lashed her more wildly, and shook her head from side to side, pretending to try and escape. But she was wearing large hooped earrings – they were all she was wearing – and he thrust forward and got his forefingers into them, slowly drew her head back, and bent to kiss her sweating neck.

  *

  And Archie Ferguson was heading at a slow, dragging pace for home and the wife he had never bedded, his head bowing deeper and deeper in readiness for the insults which would hammer down on it the moment he told her what the verdict had been.

  Chapter Two

  The news had come to him when he was in a recording studio in Lisbon, devising the background for a group of earsplitting young hopefuls. The lyrics of their songs were in Portuguese, but since they consisted basically of only two repeated phrases, both of which would have been unintelligible even in English, this would be no bar to their possible success in the charts. His assistant Maria, a plump girl with a delightfully throaty voice and the beginnings of a moustache, was overawed.

  ‘So now we must call you Sir Torrance?’

  ‘Sir Nicholas is the correct form. Sir Nicholas Torrance in full. But I wouldn’t let it bother you.’

  ‘Sir Nicholas Torrance.’ She rolled the words round her tongue. ‘So now you no longer speak to us. You are too grand, no?’

  ‘No. Nothing’s changed.’

  But absurdly it had changed. He learned that as soon as he got back to England. People who had known him as Nick Torrance made a great point of calling him ‘Nick’ loudly and repeatedly to show how unimpressed they were with his new title; but slipped into conversation with their acquaintances the most casual references to ‘good old Nick Torrance – you know, Sir Nicholas Torrance as he is now’.

  Standing in the first-floor great hall, which in reality was cluttered rather than great, Nick tried to come to terms with the fact that this was his home now. If he wanted it to be. It was too soon for it to feel like home; and he was not sure whether he might not prefer going back to London and getting some estate agent to put it on the market.

  Did he really want to be lord of the manor, laird of the moorland, or whatever?

  Bloody stupid, really. He hadn’t asked or expected to inherit.

  The baronetcy had been awarded by Charles II in honour of the recipient’s blind eye during a period when the King visited Stirling Castle and paid attention to the guard commander’s much younger wife. There had been no rich endowments of land to go with it, so the Torrances had been forced to keep up lairdly standards by business ventures which often kept them away from home and by military service in various parts of the world. While their name came to be respected in the outposts of Empire, their assets were never enough to buy a castle or mansion in their Scottish homeland appropriate to their status. The estate around Black Knowe was largely infertile moorland, though early in the twentieth century they were able to add some steady income from fishing rights in the Leister Water.

  Black Knowe itself was a 16th-century stone tower house designed for defence both against marauding Englishmen and against Scottish neighbours at blood feud or simply greedy. In later more peaceful times its owners had added two turrets with a crenellated parapet between them. Mary, Queen of Scots, had never visited, and if she had done so it would in any case have been before the Torrances’ time; Bonnie Prince Charlie had never slept here on his intrepid way into England or his undignified way back; but Queen Victoria was reputed to have been driven here once for an hour’s recuperation when the royal train had broken down in a nearby cutting.

  Nick sized up the paintings and the contents of glass cases in the hall. They were probably more valuable than the stony building itself. There were two Wilkies, a Raeburn, and an Allan Ramsay. Dominating the east wall was an imaginative study by Alma-Tadema of the Bareback Lass, displaying Victorian voluptuousness rather than athleticism, skimpily clad in a slip of gauze which would surely have blown away if she had urged her mount to more than a gentle canter.

  These came from one of the more prosperous periods of the dynasty. As a Tory MP, Sir John Torrance had received various gifts in the days before it was obligatory to declare such perks. The Wilkies were not among the artist’s major works. What Sir John had done in Parliament, or behind the scenes, to deserve the fleshy, rosy-nippled Alma-Tadema had never emerged.

  More in line with Nick’s own interests were a clarsach, and a set of small pipes which a little card lettered in fine copperplate declared to be the gift of a MacLeod of Skye to an earlier Torrance. He would have to get a piano, a keyboard, and editing deck moved in. All the omens were that he was going to need more income than ever before to keep up his new style of life. If he did decide to stay.

  Better to wait a while before moving any expensive stuff from a cosy studio to this bleak stronghold.

  Sunlight filtered slowly across the glass of the Lass’s picture, reflecting Nick’s own features in the heart of the swirling draperies. He had a lean face, his mouth too wide and expansive for it. Very white teeth gleamed in the glass. His mother had once or twice said he reminded her of a cheerful but lazy crocodile. His hair was darkly swept back in silhouette against the Lass’s blonde tresses. Squinting into the glass, he was trying to decide whether the face of Sir Nicholas Torrance was any different from the face of Nick Torrance he had been used to in his shaving mirror, when Mrs Robson tapped on the open door and put her head round it.

  ‘There’s someone to see you, Sir Nicholas.’

  She sounded sniffily disapproving, either of the visitor or her own present position in the household. The Robsons had had the place pretty well to themselves for quite a long time. It was impossible to tell whether they were pleased to see one of the family back in residence or whether they resented this intrusion.

  ‘Anyone I know?’

  It sounded fatuous. There were so few people he had got to know yet.

  ‘Mr Brown. Mr James Brown.’ She sounded even frostier. ‘He says he met you at the Riding Committee meeting, and as he just happened to be passing’ – her scepticism at this pursed up her gaunt face as if a slice of lemon had caught between her teeth – ‘he wondered if he might have a quick word with you.’

  Brown was already on the stair. He came in and shook Nick’s hand, holding it longer than necessary, just as he had done on the staircase of the Tolbooth. Now Nick remembered the weasel face and the ingratiat
ing tone that went so badly with it.

  ‘Hope you won’t regard this as an imposition, Sir Nicholas. I realise I ought to have made an appointment, but as I happened to be passing –’

  ‘Yes, so I gather. What can I do for you, Mr Brown?’

  ‘Och, now, it’s more a matter of what I can do for you, Sir Nicholas.’ Brown looked past him at the glass case under the window. ‘Some rare family heirlooms you have in this room.’

  ‘I was just inspecting them.’

  ‘Very wise to keep an eye on them. Very wise. That’s the very thing I’ve come about. Now, I wouldn’t want to trespass on ground which may already have been thoroughly gone over. It’s possible you already have everything satisfactorily covered –’

  ‘Covered?’

  ‘I’m simply wondering, Sir Nicholas, whether your insurance cover on these priceless treasures is adequate.’ He sidled towards the case. ‘I can see you keep it tight shut, Sir Nicholas. But I’m thinking a skilled thief could turn that catch all too swiftly.’

  ‘It’s lain there undisturbed for a long time now, hasn’t it?’

  ‘Things are getting worse all the time. It’s no the world we used to know.’ Brown did not so much shake his head as let it dither for a few seconds. ‘In complete contradiction of the good fellowship the quaich stands for.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know. The reivers were just as contemptuous of other people’s property in the old days as the yobboes are now.’

  ‘Quite right, Sir Nicholas. Quite right. But on Days of Truce they did observe the courtesies, and the quaich was an essential part of that. It would never have been stolen by the worst of enemies.’

  The Reivers’ Quaich was a small, shallow drinking vessel made of curved wooden slats, alternating dark walnut and light plane. Through its glass bottom the drinker, putting his head back, could still keep an eye on the dirk hand of his companion. At some stage a silver rim had been added to hold it together, with two silver wedge-shaped handles.