Turn of the Tide

by Skea, Margaret

  ‘Where is he now?’

  ‘God knows. He stormed out and I judged it best to let him go.’

  Grizel and Christian were wrestling with the table when they entered the hall.

  ‘Let me.’ Munro hefted the table, swinging it round one end at a time until it rested against the wall.

  Grizel began to sweep at the rushes with sharp, staccato strokes.

  Munro turned to Christian. ‘Where’s John?’

  ‘Looking for Hugh. With Elizabeth.’

  ‘Should I go?’

  She considered. ‘No. If we can get here to rights before they come in, it will be more than helpful.’

  With all of them working, it took barely ten minutes to clear the debris and for Munro to reposition the table in the centre of the room.

  Gillis burst through the door, unable to conceal her excitement. ‘Hugh’s gone. Star isn’t in the stable and Hamish says. . .’

  ‘Wheest, Gillis.’ John shook his head as he followed her in.

  Elizabeth, coming in behind them said, ‘It’s true. Hamish heard the sound of hooves on the cobbles and saw Hugh ride out . . .’

  ‘Perhaps he’s gone to Braidstane.’ Christian had moved to stand beside Elizabeth.

  Munro edged towards the door and motioned to Kate to follow. Reaching the stable he said, ‘Hugh won’t have gone home. It’s Maxwell’s blame and Maxwell he will follow.

  ‘To tackle Maxwell,’ her eyes were fixed on his, ‘is to tackle William. Is that wise?’

  ‘Wise? No. For Hugh or anyone else. But I cannot stand aside.’ He was saddling Sweet Briar, tightening the girth, slipping the bridle over her head. ‘There is more at stake here than Elizabeth’s reputation, important as that may be. If this was to lead to another Annock . . .’ Kate sagged against him, her legs buckling and he pulled her into his chest, resting his chin on her hair. ‘If I can halt that . . .’

  ‘And if you cannot?’

  He gripped her more tightly, ‘We have twice come close to losing all that matters . . . and this feud the root of it. I owe it to you . . . to the bairns, at least to try.’ His hand slid to her face, his thumb smearing a tear across her cheek. ‘Sometime there has to be an end . . . wait here for me . . . or go to Braidstane. Tell Elizabeth . . . tell her that I have gone to make them see sense.’

  She dipped her head against him, her voice muffled. ‘Pray God you can.’

  He tilted her face upwards, sought for words of reassurance, ‘Neither Glencairn nor Montgomerie would thank them for any trouble, and Hugh has worked gey hard with James to lose it all now. They must see sense.’

  He skewed through the gateway at Newark and brought Sweet Briar to a quivering halt. A lad was disappearing into the stabling leading a bay that Munro, with a leap of gratitiude for Sweet Briar’s speed, recognized as Hugh’s.

  Walking the mare across to the stable, he ran his hand down her neck. ‘Well done lass, well done.’ And to the lad who reappeared in the doorway, ‘I don’t know how long I’ll be, but look to her well for she’s been hard pushed and deserves of the best.’

  The main door to the castle stood open, thrust back against the yett and he took the wooden stairs at a run, recognizing danger in the voices that spilled out.

  ‘This is intolerable. You burst into my home and threaten my person. . .’

  ‘You insulted my wife.’

  ‘I said but the truth, unpalatable though it may be . . .’

  There was a crash and splinters of glass from a window showered Munro. He leapt the last two steps and slid to a halt in the entrance of the hall. Maxwell was beside the broken window, his back against the wall, Hugh’s fist, blood oozing from the knuckles, inches from his face.

  ‘Are you mad?’ Munro sprang at Hugh, grabbing his arm, but Hugh shook him off as a bull mastiff might a terrier pup, sending him careering into a wooden chest, so that he tipped backwards over the domed lid, cracking his head on the floor.

  He scrambled to his feet. ‘Dear God, Hugh . . .’

  Maxwell had ducked under Hugh’s arm and was making for the door.

  Hugh dodged past him and slammed it shut, ramming the bolts home. He stood against it, snarling at Munro. ‘This isn’t your fight and I would throw you out, but that I don’t want this weasel to have any chance of running for help.’ He rubbed his hand down the side of his jerkin, leaving a sticky trail of blood. ‘We have unfinished business here and I’ll thank you not to interfere.’ He had drawn his sword and was advancing, spinning his wrist, feinting and thrusting, slicing the air in front of Maxwell’s face. ‘Not so cocky now, eh, Maxwell?’

  Maxwell dived sideways and grabbed an iron candle sconce, using the splayed feet as a guard.

  ‘Or is it that you are brave with women only?’ Hugh was driving Maxwell back, his eyes glittering.

  There was a sound of running footsteps on the stair, and a hammering at the door.

  Maxwell jerked his head towards the noise. ‘You won’t get away with this. And who will look to dear Elizabeth then?’

  Munro edged round – Hugh’s the more dangerous, if I can but disarm him . . . dear God, but they are fools both.

  Hugh half-turned, and Maxwell, taking advantage of his momentary distraction slashed at him with the sconce, the blunt end of one of the feet raking across Hugh’s cheekbone. Hugh pivoted with a roar, his sword swinging in earnest and as Maxwell tried to sidestep, his foot caught on the edge of the hearth and he fell heavily, the sconce skidding from his hand.

  It was the opportunity Munro needed, and he leapt between them, flinging up his arm to protect his face, the tip of Hugh’s sword slicing through his sleeve. Behind him Maxwell was scrambling to his feet, reaching for the sconce. Munro kicked it away, and grasping Maxwell’s wrist, thrust him back against the wall and held him there. Hugh had lowered his sword and was staring, bemused at the blood running down Munro’s hand. Munro glared at him.

  ‘Kill me and Maxwell both and you may have another Annock on your hands.’ Then to Maxwell, ‘Did you bed Elizabeth?’

  Hugh lunged.

  Ignoring him, Munro continued to press. ‘Did she even offer?’

  The hammering on the door had been replaced by a scraping.

  Maxwell tried to bluster, ‘I never claimed . . .’

  ‘No?’ Munro cut him off. Then you have no grounds for your claim of knowledge of her.’ The scraping had become a sawing. ‘An apology would be wise.’

  ‘An apology is nothing.’ Hugh made to by-pass Munro, but was once again blocked,

  ‘Drop your sword, Hugh! You are in Cunninghame territory. Eglinton won’t thank you to open old wounds and as for James – you have spent four years courting him, what good will it do you or Elizabeth if you lose it all now?’ He tightened his grip on Maxwell’s wrist, drawing him forward. The sawing had been replaced by the sound of a hammer and chisel. ‘You’d be advised to make your apology quick if you wish to save your door.’

  Maxwell was sullen. ‘Elizabeth but came to make a collection for the poor. I cannot fault her virtue.’

  Munro released Maxwell. ‘Hugh?’

  With a roar, Hugh raised his sword and thrust, Munro too late to stop him, Maxwell pressing himself back against the wall. Hugh waited until the last possible second, then pivoted, forcing the sword tip deep into the table top, releasing the hilt as if it burned. ‘Let me out of here.’

  Maxwell darted to the door, pulled back the bolts, pretended normality, ‘Good-day, Braidstane.’

  As Hugh shoved his way through the servants clustered at the head of the stair, Maxwell stepped into the doorway behind him, blocking Munro’s passage.

  ‘I take it Glencairn knows where your friendship lies? Or is championing the Montgomeries a new pastime?’ The bravado was back. ‘Rest assured, Munro, William will hear of this . . .’

  Munro clenched his fists, dearly wishing to feel his knuckles crunch into Maxwell’s face, but thought of Kate and the bairns restrained him. Better that he catch up with Hugh and ma
ke sure that he returned to Greenock, which, if they hurried they could make by dinner-time. Wresting the sword from the table, he thrust Maxwell aside. ‘Dear God, Maxwell, but you are a fool.’

  Kate knew as soon as she saw Munro’s face that though he had brought Hugh safe home, it wasn’t the time to be sociable, and so saved him the trouble of making an excuse. She kept her voice light, as if it had been the plan all along, ‘If we leave shortly, can we make Broomelaw by dinnertime?’

  He shot her a glance of thanks. ‘Firefly won’t have a problem and half an hour of respite will, I think, be enough for Sweet Briar.’

  ‘You’ll take a bite before you go then?’ Elizabeth followed their lead. ‘There are plenty pickings from yesterday and they won’t take long to set.’

  It was an unfortunate choice of words and Kate, seeing Hugh tense, excused herself. ‘I have a few things to pack.’

  In the chamber above the hall, Kate fingered the burgundy gown laid out to air. She could hear voices from below, but couldn’t make out anything that was said, only that it was no more than a word or two each, first Elizabeth, then Munro, then Hugh’s deeper rumble. She was kneeling on the floor folding the gown when Elizabeth came in, shutting the door behind her.

  Kate said, ‘I’m sorry we have to go. I had thought . . .’

  ‘Yes, so had I.’ Elizabeth knelt down at her side and stroked the line of pearls ringing the waist of the dress. ‘It’s a pretty gown and a pity you won’t have the chance to wear it.’

  ‘There’ll be other and maybe happier times. Perhaps you could all come to Broomelaw?’

  ‘You know I’d like that fine.’ Elizabeth was swivelling her wedding band back and forth.

  Kate tried to be encouraging. ‘This thing with Maxwell. It can’t have been hard to sort. They weren’t long away and are back safe.’ She finished the folding of the dress.

  ‘What Maxwell said . . .’ Elizabeth sounded choked, ‘. . . I should never have given him the opportunity to twist things so.’

  ‘It’s over now and no heads broken.’

  ‘It won’t be the end of it. It cuts too deep, and Hugh . . . it isn’t in him to hold his temper when provoked, however much anyone may counsel. And besides,’ Elizabeth hugged her arms against her chest, ‘Maxwell is too close kin to the Cunninghames.’

  Kate stiffened at the bitterness in Elizabeth’s voice.

  ‘If it hadn’t been me, it would have been something else. The Montgomeries and the Cunninghames have aye been at each other’s throats, and a forced clasp of the hand or a clap on the shoulder and a few careful words of regret won’t change anything. I am heartily sick of them all, with their talk of insult and injury and the need for satisfaction. Why can Hugh not find satisfaction in his family, with one child already to his credit and another on the way?’ She broke off, ‘I didn’t mean . . . Oh, Kate, I’m so sorry . . .’

  ‘Don’t be. I have felt and said the same a hundred times.’ Kate tightened her grip ‘You aren’t the only one to wish this nonsense over. We can’t undo the past, but we need not live in it. You will come to Broomelaw?’

  Elizabeth patted her stomach. ‘Or you to Braidstane. You have a good man and he did well to broker this peace with Maxwell. For that, I will always be grateful, however short its effect.’

  Chapter Ten

  For the second time, the promised visit didn’t materialize.

  October slid into November and no word coming from Braidstane, Kate buried her regrets and focused her energies on the rejuvenation of the attic chamber where the children slept. Munro, recognizing the significance of what she did, made no protest, mixing bucket-load after bucket-load of limewash and trailing it up the four flights of stairs.

  December came in hard, heralding a season of frosts that silvered the loch with ice a foot thick, so that he fashioned wooden skates for all but Ellie, the blacksmith fitting them with narrow blades. In January, when it was clear that the cold snap would last, frost fairs were held along the upper reaches of the Clyde and it took little persuasion for Munro to fit runners to the cart and take Kate and the two older children.

  It was Maggie’s first experience of a winter fair and she hopped up and down on the shore, impatient for Munro to lace her skates. Kate and Munro each took one of her hands and they struck out towards the braziers burning on the ice and bought chestnuts so hot that even with mittens, they had to toss them from hand to hand until they cooled enough to eat. A flesher had set up a spit and was roasting a pig, the fat sparking like a scattering of bawbees. Maggie wrinkled her nose at the smell of mulled wine and roast meat and burning tallow, and wheedled three pennies from Munro to have her name and the date scribed on a card with a drawing of the fair.

  Robbie came flying to drag them to see a man who played a whistle and had a monkey who danced and gibbered on the end of a rope. There were tents with ‘fat ladies’ and fortune-tellers and stalls selling simples: aloes, camphor and ginger, punguent salves of egg-white, rose oil and turpentine. One stall-holder brandished a pamphlet hailing tobacco as the cure-all for everything from toothache and bad breath to kidney stones and carbuncles.

  Kate dragged Munro away. ‘Don’t even think on it. I have no wish to kiss a chimney, supposing it could do all that is claimed.’

  There were entertainers of all kinds: tumblers in rainbow colours, spinning and wheeling like human kaleidoscopes. Jugglers spinning plates on the ends of long poles balanced on their chins. Musicians who scraped and beat and blew, so fine and so fast that those who hadn’t skates hopped and jigged on the ice around them. Best of all, a conjuror: his silver hair corkscrewed around his face, who began his act by plucking a groat from behind Maggie’s ear.

  She was entranced: tipped forward onto the toe of her skates, leaning into Kate that she might not lose her balance; as he spun cards into spirals of kings and queens, aces and jokers, hearts and spades and clubs. He made coins appear and disappear from his hands, under pewter tankards, into a tiny, brightly coloured wooden box with a sliding lid. A dove placed in a tall-crowned hat was gone in a puff of smoke, replaced by a multi-coloured streamer yards long. And best of all: the rabbit that hopped from his sleeve. The act was finished, the conjuror bowing and smiling, Munro fishing for a penny for Maggie to drop in the bonnet he shook.

  A slow, contemptuous clapping; a voice impossible to mistake. ‘Well, well. Munro . . . and family. This is an unlooked for surprise. Enjoying yourselves? I daresay this is cheap enough entertainment, even for you.’ William’s eyes raked over Kate, lingering on her breast and she tensed, but tilted her chin and returned his stare.

  Beside her Munro smouldered, ‘You’re a step from Kilmaurs. Are you likewise straightened, or is it that Glencairn does not countenance the aggravation closer to home?’

  ‘I play where I choose and tonight I chose here, and might have been the sooner had I anticipated so pleasant company.’

  A gust of wind lifted Kate’s hair, whipped her skirt around her legs, and against her will she shivered.

  William leaned close. ‘But come, Munro, you do not treat your wife well. A pretty piece deserves to be kept warm . . . I have a horse-blanket that would serve.’

  She was rigid with defiance, determined not to rise to his goading. ‘Thank you but no. I am not truly cold, and if I was I have a shawl in the cart I could put to use.’

  ‘Some mulled wine then? You will not refuse to drink with me?’

  ‘We would not, but that we have already had our fill and the bairns hope to see the conjuror’s next act.’

  ‘This fellow? He is scarcely proficient, or not to a discerning audience at least.’

  Maggie, who had followed the sense of William’s comment, though not all the words, shot out a foot and caught him on the shin with the blade of her skate. ‘He is clever and magic and . . .’

  Kate caught her round the waist, pulled her back, and though she would have dearly liked to kick William herself, reproved her. ‘Maggie! It is not well done. Apologize this ins
tant.’

  ‘Shan’t.’ Maggie escaped from Kate’s grasp, her eyes fixed on William, hard and bright.

  ‘Already feisty . . . like mother, like daughter.’ William was rubbing at his leg. Have no fear Kate, I take no account of a child’s pettiness, how ever ill-bred. When she is grown, I shall take an apology then, no doubt the sweeter for the wait.’

  Munro thrust Maggie behind him to turn on William, but Kate had beaten him to it, her hand whipping out, the crack as it met his cheek, echoing like a pistol shot. Off-balance he staggered and then Robbie was hammering at him with his fists, Maggie, who had ducked round Munro, kicking furiously at his shins. A small crowd was gathering, the conjuror, with an eye to further profit, offering odds on the bairns. Kate dived for Maggie, Munro for Robbie.

  William straightened, and then as if suddenly aware of the folk who gawked, that they made of him a laughing stock, ground out, ‘Ill-mannered as well as ill-bred. You would do well Munro to train your children better, or you may live to regret it.’ He spun on his heel and thrust his way through the crowd, daring any to stop him.

  The silence lasted only as long as it took for the conjuror to re-start his show for the new audience that the confrontation had drawn. Maggie, no longer fighting Kate, was craning to see, but Munro, recognizing the wisdom of putting as much ground between themselves and William as possible, said, his voice brooking no resistance, ‘Home.’

  They found their way to the cart in silence, the children unusually subdued, Munro and Kate, though both occupied with this new danger, neither wishing to air it. On the hill they stopped and turned to take a last look. Maggie, pointing to the moon riding high and full in the sky, whispered,

  ‘There is a man. I see his face.’

  The lights of the lanterns twinkled all along the shore, the flames from the braziers flaring spasmodically, figures like dolls still skating on the ice.

  Kate leant back against Munro, risked, ‘If it were not for William, I could have stayed all night.’