The Lanimer Bride

by Pat McIntosh

  ‘And there’s a hot trod going about the Upper Ward,’ Gil remembered. ‘If you come across them, send them hame to Belstane.’

  ‘A hot trod?’ repeated Hamilton incredulously. ‘What, for this?’

  ‘No, for the lassie Madur that’s missing from Lanark. That’s what brought me up here,’ Gil admitted. As he guessed it might, this led to another long explanation. Hamilton heard him out, shaking his head.

  ‘I knew of this: Provost Lockhart sent word. You’d think we dwelt in the Marches. So have you any notion who the corp in the stableyard might be? Or where the lassie is?’

  ‘None,’ said Gil, again with partial truth. ‘You’re as done as the men,’ said Hamilton eyeing him.

  ‘I could do wi asking some questions, just the same,’ said Gil. Hamilton nodded, and waved the last of Somerville’s household forward. It was the man Danny, who had insisted there was no lassie present at The Cleuch. In answer to Hamilton’s questions, he gave the same account as his fellow, that he had never seen Somerville dead till his corpse appeared in the yard, that he had been searching the house when the cry of fire went up.

  ‘Who was at the house afore that?’ Gil asked. Danny looked at him sharply, startled by the change of subject. ‘There was Somerville himself, but who else was here?’

  ‘There was Madur o Eastshiel.’

  ‘Of Eastshiel?’ Gil repeated. ‘That’s Jocelyn? No Henry?’

  ‘I couldny say, maister,’ said Danny, becoming sulky. ‘No having been presentit. Our steward cried him Eastshiel, is all I ken.’

  ‘Mind your tone, man,’ said Hamilton.

  ‘Was that all?’ Gil asked quickly. ‘Somerville, and Madur of Eastshiel?’

  ‘There was—’ Danny hesitated, and looked about him warily, as if expecting someone to leap over the wall, knife in hand. ‘There was,’ he said again, and swallowed. ‘It’s an Irishman, see, that’s been here two-three days. I never heard his name.’

  ‘Describe him,’ said Hamilton.

  ‘Well, he’s Irish,’ said Danny, as if that was sufficient. Under patient questioning, he divulged that the Irishman was of great height, black-haired and black-bearded, ‘wi manners like the gentry though he doesny look it’, and his horse was no longer on the premises, being a piebald, hogged and docked and fifteen hands in height wi a great black stripe down his brow and a black mark on his quarters like a cat’s face.

  ‘We should be able to find that,’ said Hamilton in satisfaction. ‘Have you more questions, Gil?’

  ‘Aye,’ said Gil. ‘When did the steward go out fro here, Danny? And what’s his name?’

  ‘He’s a Somerville and all,’ said Danny cautiously. ‘Jackie. He’s a second cousin, I think.’

  ‘And he left?’ Gil pressed.

  ‘Afore supper, it was. Maybe four o the clock?’

  ‘Was he no expected back the night?’ Hamilton asked.

  Danny shrugged. ‘They never tellt me. Nor where he went,’ he added, anticipating the next question. ‘Just it was him and all the other men rode out, and left us to mind the house, and then Davie,’ his voice cracked and his face crumpled, ‘Davie found Somerville deid and we none o us kent where Eastshiel was nor the Irishman, and then it came dark, and there was naeb’dy to order us, till Maister Cunningham came. Can I go to my Da, maister?’ He scrubbed at his eyes with one hand, and waved the other at the man kneeling by the side of the dead boy.

  ‘Aye,’ said Hamilton, sighing. ‘And I still canny learn how these two corps came down into the yard. It wasny you, was it, Gil?’

  ‘No,’ said Gil.

  ‘They must ha flown.’ Hamilton eyed Gil in the morning light. ‘You’re as beat as the men. Get away home wi ye, if ye will. I’ll be in touch.’

  Chapter Eight

  Alys helped herself to more porridge, reflecting that breaking one’s fast to the sound of argument was never a good beginning to the day.

  ‘You’re telling me,’ said Adam Crombie explosively, ‘that he found where my mother’s been till yesterday afore suppertime, and never followed on to where she’s been taken now? I’ve a mind to go and waken him—’

  ‘You’ll not bother, maister,’ said Lady Egidia from her great chair by the empty fireplace. ‘You’ve had a night’s sleep, my son hasny, since he was putting out fires until after sunrise. Besides, we’ve no idea where she’s been taken.’

  ‘One o Madur’s houses, one o Somerville’s,’ said Crombie. ‘That’s none so many, he’d just to go round and ask.’

  ‘Fetching up at the door and shouting isny maybe the best way to win her free,’ offered Michael. Crombie glared at him. Ignoring this, Michael put his empty porridge bowl on the plate-cupboard, to the visible disappointment of Socrates, and began to smear butter on a wedge of bread. ‘I think it’s time we spoke wi the Depute.’

  ‘He was up at The Cleuch at dawn, by what Gil said,’ Alys offered.

  ‘How would they move two women and a baby about Lanarkshire,’ Lady Egidia wondered suddenly, ‘without it being noticed? They’d ha recognised Beattie Lithgo at Forth as soon as set eyes on her, let alone down by Castlehill. She lived in your house, after all, and went all across there wi her herbs and her wisdom.’

  ‘Maybe inside a litter?’ Michael suggested. ‘If the curtains were down and they were threatened no to speak out, none would ken who was inside. Or what.’

  ‘There’s no that many folk go about in a horse-litter,’ said Lady Egidia, frowning. ‘It’s the likeliest answer, but it would still be noticed. Worth questioning the folk at Forth, I’d ha thought.’

  ‘Aye, and why did Cunningham no do that while he was there?’ demanded Crombie.

  ‘I’ll ride to Lockharthill wi you,’ said Michael reluctantly, ‘and we’ll talk to Robert Hamilton. I think it would take the Depute’s word, and some o his men and all, to get cooperation at some o these houses, given that Somerville and Madur the younger are deid.’

  Or even more than that, thought Alys, but said nothing.

  ‘Thank you, Michael,’ said Lady Egidia. He reddened.

  ‘Aye, well, Tib’s in a right tirravee about this. She’s bade me do all I can.’

  ‘I’ll ride for Lanark,’ Alys said. ‘May I take Henry, madam?’

  Her mother-in-law looked closely at her, eyebrows raised, and finally nodded.

  ‘A good idea,’ she said. ‘Take your man Euan and another and all.’

  Alys pulled a face, but agreed. Gil would be in no mood when he woke for Euan’s insouciant approach to life; better to get the man out of his way.

  ‘I still canny see,’ said Crombie, ‘why it’s taken this long to get this little. You’d think as many men searching Lanarkshire would ha turned something up afore now.’

  ‘If only this cartload of gunpowder,’ agreed Michael.

  ‘It’s a big county, maister,’ Lady Egidia reminded him pointedly. ‘Now if you’re to reach Lockharthill wi time enough to ride on, you’d best get moving.’

  When the two young men had left the hall, she looked at Alys, eyebrows raised again.

  ‘I thought to call on, on, on Madame Olympe,’ Alys said. ‘Her maid will be present,’ she added. ‘And on the way, I shall go into St Andrew’s kirk and get another word with St Malessock. He should have a care to Mistress Lithgo, after all.’

  ‘A good notion,’ agreed Lady Egidia, with some ambiguity. ‘There’s a lot you could ask.’

  ‘So I thought,’ said Alys. She set her bowl down for the dog, and caught her breath as the kitten scampered out from under the plate-cupboard to investigate. Socrates, finding a morsel of grey striped fur climbing into the bowl, lifted his head, staring down at the little creature, then waited carefully until it had had its fill before he continued to lick out the dish. Alys made no comment, but bent to pat his head as she passed him, and he wagged his tail briefly.

  ‘Silky’s dam was the same,’ said Lady Egidia reminiscently. ‘She had my lord’s dogs cowed before she was three months.’


  St Andrew’s kirk was busy, at this early hour in the day. Many in the village had called in to pay their respects before one altar or another, Sir John and his clerk were singing Terce in the chancel, a group of elderly women were in avid discussion near the south door, and St Malessock’s side-chapel blazed with lights. Clearly he was popular in the parish he protected. Alys, putting some coins in the offertory box, selected a candle, lit it from another and fixed it on the pricket-stand next to the altar-rail, curtsying to the painted wooden box on the altar where St Malessock rested. Then she knelt on the folds of her skirt and drew out her beads, not the Sunday set of red glass with her mother’s little cross and her grandfather’s carved cockleshell on it, but the everyday wooden ones with the St Elizabeth medal, just as eloquent under her fingers.

  Drawing a breath, she turned her mind to the battered figure she had seen raised from the peat, two years since, when Beatrice Lithgo had been accused of murder. Naked but for a fox-skin girdle, slain in three ways and drowned in the bog, the man had lain there for who knew how long, but Sir John had decided he knew his name and translated him to the kirk, and the small healings had begun almost immediately. Blessed Malessock, thought Alys, if that is your name; there is one of your subjects missing, a wise-woman who uses her gifts for good, and a young woman taken for her harm. Show me how to find them, how to rescue them. You are the guardian of your people, she thought, use me as your shield. And Gil as well, she added hastily, and was suddenly aware of a ripple of – was it amusement? Her eyes flew open, but there was nothing to see.

  And why did I call Mistress Lithgo his subject? she wondered. Saints don’t have subjects.

  ‘Is that yourself, Mistress Mason?’ said an aged voice nearby. She turned her head, to find a pair of old women watching her with beady eyes. Searching memory, she found their names, and jumped to her feet, hands out to clasp theirs in greeting.

  ‘Mistress Mally, Mistress Isa,’ she said. ‘Forgive me, I never learned your surnames. Are you both well?’

  Both were well enough, though she had to hear all the detail of what had ailed them the past winter. She coaxed them to the bench at the wall-foot, thinking they should not stand so long, and heard them out politely.

  ‘And yoursel, mistress?’ said Isa, the small spare one with the claw-like hands. ‘I’ve no heard any news o ye this last year or so?’ She cocked her head enquiringly.

  ‘No,’ she said, aware that her colour was rising. ‘I’m well enough.’

  ‘Hmph. And is that right,’ said Isa, cutting across something her stouter friend was about to say, ‘that your man’s trying to find the lassie Madur that’s gone missing?’

  ‘It is,’ Alys agreed. Their eyes brightened, and she settled down to tell them as much as she felt was wise. They listened eagerly, with occasional glances at one another, much nodding and significant Mphm sounds.

  ‘And still no sign o her,’ said Isa when she finished. ‘Taken fro The Cleuch afore supper last night, and vanished again.’

  ‘They might ha seen her go down through Forth,’ said Mally.

  ‘They might,’ said Isa. ‘But it’s in my mind Rab Somerville had a place ower towards Lothian.’

  ‘Did he, now?’ said Alys. ‘Where would that be?’

  ‘Oh, I’ve no notion,’ said the old woman, her gaze raking Alys’s face. ‘I was never out o Carluke, save to the Lanimer Fair once when I was a lassie, I couldny say where it is. But it’s up in the hills ahint The Cleuch, by what I heard.’ She paused, thinking.

  ‘It’s Tanbrack, isn’t it no, Isa,’ said Mally.

  ‘No,’ said Mally decisively. ‘That’s no the name.’ She considered again. ‘Tarbrax. Aye, Tarbrax, that’s it.’

  ‘Tarbrax,’ repeated Alys. ‘I will tell my husband.’

  ‘Will ye, now?’ said Isa, the bright eyes gleaming. ‘Here, Mally, we’d best get on. That’s Sir John done wi Terce, we’ve a kirk to clean here.’

  ‘Oh, aye,’ said Mally with reluctance. She rose, lifting a bundle of cloths from the bench beside her. Isa watched her bustle off, then turned to Alys, putting a hand on her arm.

  ‘Listen, my pet,’ she said quietly. Alys stared into the wrinkled face. ‘I was four year waiting for my first. Then we did it, ye ken? we did it in the orchard, under the apple trees, at the new moon. I’m no saying that’s the answer, but it’s aye worth a try.’

  Alys, anchored by those bright eyes while the church swung round her, nodded. The old woman patted her arm, and got to her feet. Alys found enough voice to say, ‘Thank you!’

  Isa waved a clawed hand, and trotted off after her friend, leaving Alys staring. In the orchard, at new moon. And how would she persuade Gil – could she persuade Gil? Would she have to behave like, well, like a—

  ‘Mistress?’ Henry was beside her. ‘The day’s wearing on. Are ye for Lanark, indeed?’

  ‘Aye, very true, madam,’ said Mistress Whitehead. ‘It’s a sad tale, and I canny see that it’ll end well.’ She arranged her mustard-coloured velvet sleeves, which Alys reckoned must have come off the same bolt as her husband’s best gown, and fanned herself happily. ‘And you, Mistress Mason,’ she added, turning from Madame Olympe to Alys. ‘Did I hear you say your man’s hunting for the lassie?’

  ‘He is,’ Alys agreed. ‘He’s had no luck so far, though he was out all last night.’

  ‘Oh, he was, was he?’ Mistress Whitehead’s tone altered to a prurient sympathy. ‘All night?’

  ‘He was at The Cleuch when it burned down,’ Alys said innocently. ‘Robert Somerville’s house.’

  Beyond the Provost’s wife, Madame Olympe hid a smile in her silken sleeve and said in shocked tones, ‘Burned down? Ma foi, what is this? I had thought Lanark a peaceable place, and are people burning one another’s houses down?’

  ‘I heard about that and all!’ exclaimed Mistress Whitehead. ‘What happened, mistress? Was it fire-raising, or a candle owerset, or what? Your man was up at the very house? Did he see how it begun?’

  ‘Nobody kens how the fire started,’ said Alys. ‘It’s sad, Somerville died, and one of his men.’

  ‘Well!’ said Mistress Whitehead. ‘And is that right, that there was none o his household there, so the house and stables burned to the ground, and all in it?’

  ‘Few of the household were present. They got the beasts out,’ said Alys, ‘but the house was lost while they did that. My husband was directing the men, and said the well ran dry afore the fire was out.’

  ‘Well!’ said Mistress Whitehead again, in suppressed excitement. As Alys had hoped, after a very short while she excused herself, on the grounds of a press of household duties, and left Madame Olympe’s lodging, calling to her groom. Alys, peering circumspectly from the window a moment later, saw her hurrying, not towards her own house, but across the wide street, to order her man to rattle at another wide door.

  ‘She’ll have that spread round the town by dinnertime,’ surmised Madame Olympe in French. ‘Cleverly done, cousin. Enough to keep her happy, nothing to endanger her.’

  ‘She’s fly, this one,’ observed Agnes in Scots, coming into the chamber with a tray. ‘Here’s a wee refreshment, mistress, you’ll be dry after the ride from Carluke.’ She set the tray down on a kist and poured something with leaves in it from the jug.

  ‘And how did you leave them all?’ Madame Olympe enquired, passing a beaker as Alys thanked the woman.

  ‘Madame Mère is in excellent health,’ Alys replied, sniffing the drink. Recognising a honeyed infusion of garden mint and thyme, she drank gratefully. ‘My husband still slept when I left, and the two guests we had last night had departed to find the Depute.’ Were they likely to be overheard, she wondered. Did she need to be cautious in naming people?

  ‘And what brings you into Lanark by yourself?’ Those pale eyes were studying her. Today Madame was gowned in a screaming green brocade faced with carnation-coloured silk, worn over a kirtle of red and white stripes. The result could do no favours to the natural col
ours of the fair skin and pale brows, but these were painted in such high contrast, Alys found she could hardly pick out the lineaments of the man who had coaxed Lady Egidia into lending him Gil yesterday evening. This was the reason for the paint, she recognised.

  ‘Two reasons,’ she said, smiling sweetly. ‘I was to give you these.’ She reached into her sleeve and drew out the wad of papers Gil had showed her last night. ‘Madur of Eastshiel had them on his person.’

  Madame took the papers in one large white hand, unfolded them, and froze briefly.

  ‘Where did you— how did you come by these?’

  Alys relayed Gil’s account of the trampled corpse, its retrieval, and his discovery of the papers and the tablets with the undelivered message. Madame Olympe listened, skimming the papers meantime, then sat back and smiled.

  ‘What a gift he has sent me!’ she pronounced. ‘This is as a ruby of great price, and I thank you for bringing it to me.’

  ‘De rien,’ said Alys. Madame looked from the papers to her face.

  ‘And your second reason? You said you had two reasons.’

  Alys looked her in the eye. ‘I need answers from you,’ she said bluntly.

  Madame tittered, and raised a hand in assumed surprise. ‘You need—?’

  ‘Yes.’ She met the pale, challenging stare. ‘If my husband goes into danger, I wish to know why.’ Madame made no answer. ‘There is more at stake here than one young wife and her baby. I’ve read those papers, madame. What was Somerville playing for?’

  ‘Oh, my dear, how should I know?’

  ‘No,’ she said, ‘I won’t accept that. The day you don’t know what the stakes are in any game you’re in is the day you will lose it.’

  ‘I tellt ye she was fly, this one,’ said Agnes. She had lifted some mending and seated herself by the window, with an excellent view of the street.

  ‘Agnes,’ said Madame, in warning tones.

  ‘So what was Somerville entangled in?’ Alys pressed. ‘Who is the man who rode away on the pied horse, and why did he question his hosts à l’outrance before he left, and then fire the house and stables? I assume, whatever his name is, it isn’t Felim O Flaherty.’