‘You’ll not get any joy there.’ The voice behind him was matter of fact. ‘If you had a lucken-booth and your stock your only capital, would you open your door in this rabble?’
Munro stopped pounding. Something registered in the voice, but not enough to distract him from the problem in hand.
‘If you’d any wit, it would be a close you’d make for, not a shop.’ The voice was still behind him, still detached, still niggling for recognition, as the woman stirred. Munro spoke without turning. ‘And you could help by making a bit of a clearance.’
‘I could.’ The man was already herding those who pressed in on them away from the walls. ‘There’s an entry about ten yards to the left that will take us out of the flow.’
Once into the entry, Munro and his fellow helper paused for breath. Ahead of them, through another archway, steps led downwards. The stranger now leading the way, had all but disappeared in the shadows of the close. Munro heard the footsteps stop, the voice floating up.
‘If it’s air she’s after, don’t stop there.’
The woman stirred again, this time opening her eyes. She tried to detach herself from their grasp, but Munro held on and spoke softly to her as he would to a horse. ‘Rest easy, we mean you no harm. You had a faint and we have brought you from the crush.’ He and the lad, who had likewise grasped her as she fell, continued downwards, half-supporting, half carrying her and she made no further resistence. The steps led under a third archway and into a small cobbled courtyard, lines strung across it, stone troughs set around the walls, the sting of ammonia indicating that it was a bleaching yard.
‘Not the most savoury of airs, I admit, but space to sit at least.’ Munro helped the woman to a seat on the edge of one of the troughs.
‘You’ll not be needing me now,’ and the lad bowed to the woman then dashed back along the close to resume in the festivities.
The man who had led them to safety lounged against the wall, grinning.
‘Patrick!’ Munro, peered into the shadows, ‘I thought I knew the voice but believed you were still in France?’
‘Clearly not.’ Patrick’s grin widened. ‘It suited me to take some leave . . .’
Mentally colouring what Patrick had left unsaid, Munro heard nothing more until the mention of Elizabeth.
‘Elizabeth? She’s here?’
‘She wouldn’t stay away, with Hugh likely to be stuck until the coronation is past. They have a daughter and Elizabeth wished that I bring her and the babe both that she may meet her father.’
The woman was slowly rising, dusting down the apron that covered most of the front of her gown. She touched her head and finding she still had her hat, ran her fingers around the brim, in an attempt to improve its shape. ‘You have my thanks, sir, but I must go. I have family but we were separated . . .’
‘Dear God . . . Kate.’
The woman looked up at him questioningly.
‘I also am separated . . .’ He bowed, ‘I trust you find your family.’
‘And you.’ She bobbed a curtesy and hurried away.
Patrick took hold of his arm. ‘Your wife was with you in the press?’
‘Yes . . . no . . . we had been separated minutes before. I was trying to make for her when the woman collapsed. God knows where she’ll be now.’
‘We’ll find her.’ All the fun had gone from Patrick’s voice. ‘What direction was she taken?’
‘Towards the castle.’ They were taking the steps two at a time, their conversation breathy and disjointed. ‘We thought to make our way to the park, and were trying to cross towards the Grassmarket. Kate will be fair sore if she misses anything.’
‘As to that, she needn’t worry. The King and Queen don’t come from Leith today and I can promise her a grand spot when they do.’
‘If we find her.’
Patrick gripped his shoulder, ‘When we find her.’
The crowds were beginning to thin, ebbing away with the rumour that the King and Queen bided at Leith while preparations were made for a fitting entrance. The main flow was down towards the Canongate and Munro hesitated, unsure of which way to go. Though there were fewer people and therefore less chance that Kate be injured by the crush, he was aware of a new mood of truculence, borne out of the general disappointment, and his worry remained.
‘Perhaps we should separate.’
‘You make for the castle then and I’ll plough my way to the Grassmarket. If I have no joy there, I’ll head for the Tolbooth.’
‘We need a meeting point. Do you know Merlyon’s Wynd?’
‘Above the Grassmarket?’
‘Aye. We have lodgings there. On the third floor.’ Munro was already turning away.
‘I’ll make for that then.’
Munro was dodging and ducking through the knots of people. Twice, against the tide, he made his way to the castle entrance, the first time turning immediately and tacking back down again, criss-crossing the spur, his anxiety growing as each sweep proved futile. The second time he penetrated through the long passageway under the portcullis, to wash up onto the cobbles at the foot of the Lang Stair. He looked up towards the watch-tower at the end of the Forewall Battery and though he thought it unlikely that Kate would have been swept so far, he was unwilling to discount anything and so made for the main castle courtyard. Out of breath by the time he’d climbed the seventy or so steps, he emerged through the archway into the sunlight.
No sign of Kate.
He halted, bent double, his hands on his knees, his breathing jagged, resting his backside against the outcrop of rock that thrust through the cobbles directly in front of the entrance. Then he straightened and clattered back down the steps, heading for the wall overlooking the town. Directly below him the High Street stretched, people still milling but no longer packed tight. He could see shutters being removed, doors propped open, stall canopies fluttering in the wind as poles were straightened and stallholders re-established their pitch – she can’t be lying hurt and I haven’t found her. Perhaps Patrick . . . or maybe she’s made it back to the lodgings.
They were welcome thoughts buoying Munro as he headed down through the Landmarket for the third time. Nevertheless, he remained on the lookout and drew a few angry looks and rude gestures from those who took exception to his staring as he passed. He turned into Merlyon’s Wynd, and fairly flew up the stair. The door was pulled open from the inside and Kate was there, laughing and crying all at once.
‘Kate! I feared . . .’
‘You feared?’ Her voice rose half an octave. ‘I couldn’t keep my feet on the ground, and breathing wasn’t exactly easy. I didn’t think it altogether impossible that I might die in the crush and not see the Queen at all.’
‘And me?’ His hands cupped her face, his eyes dark.
‘And you.’ It was barely a whisper, her lips close to his, their breath mingling. ‘And you.’
When Patrick knocked at the door half an hour later, he found them seated in the window reveal. Kate, her head bent, was mending a long tear on the hem of her dress, Munro doing his best to distract her.
‘Safe and sound, as you see.’ He rose, pulling Kate with him. ‘Patrick Montgomerie, Braidstane’s brother. He also was looking for you.’
Patrick bowed, ‘And wouldn’t have found you, not by his description: he didn’t have you so pretty.’
Kate managed a stiff, ‘You have my thanks.’
Munro said, ‘Have you time for a bite? It would give Kate a chance to become acquaint.’
‘I am sent to Leith to find Hugh and bring him back with me.’ Patrick was shaking his head with every indication of regret and Kate, Munro’s eyes on her, said, ‘Perhaps another time then. Do you stay long in Edinburgh?’
The words were fine enough but there was little of encouragement in either her tone or her expression.
‘Long enough to see that Hugh doesn’t get into bother, or if he does, to pull him out of it.’
‘A winter away will have cooled him surely, forb
ye his new responsibilities.’ Munro turned to Kate. ‘They have a bairn, just five months.’
Patrick re-directed his smile. ‘And your namesake.’
Munro, sensing a slight relaxation in her, tried to develop the topic. ‘Who does she favour?’
Patrick ran his fingers through his hair. ‘Without her bonnet: a cat with the mange.’
Kate tried to suppress her laughter.
Munro pressed the advantage. ‘Serious though?’
‘Serious: her mother. But as to temperment . . .’ He shrugged, ‘. . . as you know, Hugh isn’t always steady.’
‘Is any man?’ The coolness had returned to Kate’s voice.
Patrick appeared to consider. ‘Some . . . and those tedious.’
‘Folk don’t die from tedium.’
‘I’ve come close. But have always been brought back from the brink,’ He enclosed her in his smile. ‘Mostly by a pretty face and a kind word.’
‘Kind words need earning.’
Munro withdrew his arm, but before he could say anything, Patrick slapped himself on the side of his head.
‘I almost forgot. Failing to find you between here and the Canongate, I called at our lodgings to explain my delay, for we bide in Airlie House that Robert, Master of Eglintoun has taken and I have two womenfolk watching for me and must account for every minute. They charged me with an invite for you both for tomorrow. Around noon. It will be hard words I earn indeed if I don’t bring your promise with me.’
Munro ignoring Kate’s bent head, said, ‘Tomorrow then.’ He saw Patrick to the door. ‘I’m sorry she wasn’t more welcoming.’
‘She sees danger in our contact and with justice.’ Patrick was picking at the painted stair-rail. ‘Don’t fret, Elizabeth will thaw her. Women have their own ways of getting on, especially with a bairn to admire.’
Patrick gone, Munro stood by the window staring over the roofs of the houses towards the open ground beyond, the razor-edged cliff that cut the horizon rust-red against the deep green of the hill. In the distance, near the West Port where the houses backed on to the Park, he could see squares of linen draped over the bushes. A woman emerged and began to gather in the cloths: one, lifted by the wind, evaded capture and she stretched up to grab hold of the corners and jerk it taut before folding. From nowhere, ringing in his ears, the voice of Lady Margaret Langshaw. ‘There will be a white napkin hanging. Beyond that I cannot do more.’ He shut his eyes against the image of her hand at her throat, the slender fingers still clutching the child’s shift. And squeezing around it, other pictures. A line of riders strung out along a ridge. The ford at Annock, the banks unmarked. He pressed his head against the sharp edge of the window moulding, welcoming the pain, seeking to halt the memories that pressed on him. The horses trampling the edges of the river, spooked by the smell of blood. Water flowing red over the rough stones, dragging at the bodies. The face of the young lad. Why did Kate have to bring it all back? An unjust thought, but one he carried with him through the rest of the day and into their bed also, the mood of the morning broken.
Chapter Three
‘Can you not bide at peace?’ Grizel was sitting on a bench under a walnut tree in the garden of a house on Edinburgh’s Canongate. ‘Pacing won’t bring them any quicker, forbye that it may drive me mad.’
Elizabeth perched on the edge of the bench, stood up again. ‘I can’t settle. Patrick has been gone for ages.’
‘Give him time.’ Grizel checked off her fingers as she spoke, ‘One, he had half the High street to traverse to check on the Munros. Two, it isn’t just a step to Leith. Three, he doesn’t know what vessel Hugh comes on, and he can’t just take himself onto any ship he pleases without permission. And four, we don’t even know how far out the ships were when the cannons were fired or if they are berthed by now or not.’
Elizabeth halted beside a climbing rose trained against the wall, ‘I know. But it’s the end of a long winter.’ She plucked a rose and systematically began to detach the pale pink petals, one by one.
‘You at least know that Hugh comes, whereas I . . .’ Aware that she betrayed more of her feelings than she intended, Grizel shifted focus. ‘I wouldn’t let our hostess see that you destroy her roses for they aren’t so plentiful she can afford the loss.’
Elizabeth looked down at her fingers, the tips stained pollen-yellow, and at the ground where the petals curled. ‘I didn’t realise.’ She tossed the stem onto the soil at the base of the plant and trod it in with the toe of her shoe, scuffing up the soil around it. ‘. . . Did Sigurd give you any reason to suppose he might accompany the King’s fleet?’
‘Only a hint, and even that may have been my imagination, but I sent back word, that it was our intention to meet Hugh on his return.’
‘Well then.’
Grizel worried at her lip. The single evening she had spent with Sigurd, while the November rain pelted on the windows and they crept nearer and nearer the fire and each other, had blurred so that she had come to fear to depend on her own recollection.
As if she read her mind, Elizabeth said, ‘I don’t doubt his interest in you. If he can, he will come.’
Hugh was in the cabin he shared with Alexander, cramming the last of his possessions into his bag, when the ship’s bell sounded. Easy to pack on his outward journey, it was much harder in the home strait.
Alexander had laughed each time Hugh bought some new trinket for Elizabeth or the babe to add to his growing pile. ‘It’ll likely be wasted effort. Lad or lass, the bairn will take precedence and you be relegated to second place.’
Hugh refused to rise to the teasing, and first in Oslo, then Elsinore and finally Copenhagen had sought for tokens to sweeten his return.
It had been gone two in the afternoon when the small fleet docked in Leith. With the cannon-fire salutes from surrounding ships ringing in his ears, the fears that had fermented in him all winter, slow and feeble like the third brewing of ale, surfaced, suddenly strong. He didn’t know how Elizabeth had fared, or if indeed he was a father, and chafed at the thought that James would expect his presence in Edinburgh until the festivities surrounding their homecoming and the coronation were done. Perhaps he would be able to slip away . . . he could be home and back in three days if he pushed, and likely miss little, for despite that Maitland had been chivvying the corporation for months, the word was that the city was not yet prepared for all the victualing required, the preparations for the coronation at the Abbey likewise incomplete. He hurried to the deck.
James stood at the prow, Anne by his side, slightly pale still from the rough weather that had threatened to disrupt her journey for the third time. James’ mouth was close to her ear as he gestured to the crag that dominated the Edinburgh skyline and the castle that straddled the rock beneath it. Though common knowledge that James wasn’t overly keen on the castle, his favoured residence Holyrood, the castle was visible and impressive and no doubt James wished to show pride for his Queen’s first sight of the capital. Hugh pushed his way to the rail.
The windows of the warehouses bounding the quay were packed tight with folk clapping and cheering and craning for a glimpse of the young Queen. A cheering which redoubled in volume as the couple disembarked through the covered way erected for the occasion. It was covered in tapestry and cloth of gold, the colours glowing in the sunlight, the cobbles beneath carpetted with Turkish rugs. Cannons from the castle joined in the salute as James and Anne walked the short distance to the King’s Wark which, though the customhouse, was now to do double duty as a temporary royal lodging. Anne’s corn-coloured hair and pale complexion made a pleasing contrast to James: ginger as a child, his hair had deepened to a rich auburn and his skin, unmarked by the pox, was sallow.
Alexander hadn’t followed James down the gangway, instead battling his way to Hugh. He looked up at the people who hung from the warehouse windows. ‘If it’s looks she is judged by, then her popularity won’t be in doubt.’
Hugh was watching James and Anne’s progre
ss along the quay. ‘She carries herself like a queen – for all that she is little more than a child and in a foreign country.’
‘A child who has been bred to royalty and to the responsibilities that entails. She was but nine when a Danish marriage was first thought on, and she might have come to it sooner had not her father made difficulties over the dowry.’
‘Or not at all, had not her sister been promised elsewhere.’
‘True. Had the Orkney issue been settled sooner, then it would have been Elizabeth we feted and not Anne.’
The ship was beginning to empty, the courtiers following James and Anne in a slow stream towards their temporary lodgings.
Alexander moved towards the dock. ‘Are you coming? The word is that Elphinstone waits at the King’s Wark and has the task of presenting the oration.’
‘No doubt as dull and predictable as the Sermon of Thanksgiving to follow.’ The King and Queen had passed beyond their view, the crowds that milled on the quayside thinning, heading for the church, hoping for another glimpse of the royal pair. Hugh was just about to broach the question of whether or not it would be possible for him to make for Braidstane and be back in time for the state entry into Edinburgh, when they were hailed from the quay. Patrick took the gangway in two strides to appear at their side.
Turn of the Tide Page 21
