In Ireland they had scarcely interacted with anyone, afraid of the inevitable consequences. The widow who had afforded them the convenience of her byre for a little while had spoken a mixture of Irish and the odd English word. It had struck him that it was much easier to make yourself understood when a tongue was foreign to both parties to the conversation. At last, when it became clear that only Mateo and Francisco were left alive, and when Mateo feared that his cousin might pre-empt the swords or nooses of the soldiers and die of fever or starvation or even terror, they had sought shelter from a night of driving rain in a remote graveyard. Did the rain never cease here? He remembered the white limestone slabs peeping through the turf, as though some massive skeleton were buried there, and the smaller human bones scattered on the surface of the graves, where the soil was too thin to cover them properly.
The building at the centre of the burial ground was small, plain and very strange, built of the same flat grey-white stones that littered the landscape, corbelled to form a roof. They took shelter inside, bedding down on the earth floor in front of a rudimentary altar consisting of a slab of limestone on two upright rocks. Well away from this altar was what looked as though it might have been a fireplace of some kind, although the smoke would only find its way out as best it could, there being no chimney. Looking at Francisco, shivering with the cold, Mateo thought he might have risked a fire, but having neither fuel nor flint, nor even a dry stick or two, the question did not arise. The place seemed more pagan than Christian, but it was the only shelter they could find in this remote and hostile landscape.
Surprisingly, they slept, and at the first light of day, were awoken by the unexpected arrival of a young man, riding on an elderly donkey. They had thought the place long abandoned. As though to avoid any antagonism from two ragged strangers, however travel worn and weary, the man immediately confessed himself to be a priest, Father Brendan, although his dark woollen hood and cloak were anonymous enough. He seemed more afraid of them than they were of him, but they communicated in a mixture of fractured English and Latin. It struck Mateo – and almost made him smile – that the gestures for a lack of aggression, for innocence, a spreading of open, weaponless hands, the act of backing away, a shrugging of shoulders, an ingratiating smile, were the same, even between such foreigners as they were. Like dogs intent on avoiding a fight, they understood this much, at least.
Peaceful intent established and the need to speak in English likewise, the priest told them that there was to be a burial in the graveyard the following day.
‘I have to make some preparations. A gravedigger will follow later, although the graves here are very shallow. The place is no longer really suitable for a good Christian burial, but an old woman of my parish has died, her husband is buried here and it was her dying wish to lie alongside him. Who am I to deny her? Besides, it will be easier to hold a Catholic requiem here, well away from prying eyes and ears.’
Mateo explained their situation as best he could, without going into too many of the dreadful details. He gave their names, Mateo and Francisco de Tegueste. The priest thought they were brothers, and he was tempted to agree, but then he remembered the word cousin. Father Brendan was clearly struggling with his own conscience. The tradition of his country and culture demanded a measure of hospitality to strangers, but how far should that hospitality extend when those strangers were most certainly the enemy, about whom so many dreadful tales had been told? Mateo had heard some of them himself, repeated and enlarged upon when he was aboard the Santa Maria de la Candelaria. Word had been put about that the Spanish carried whole torture chambers aboard their ships, specifically for the purpose of tormenting captured populations. That they murdered babies, raped women, branded the survivors in terrible ways. Tortures and mutilations on a previously unknown scale had been rumoured. Well, having witnessed what had happened in Ireland, it seemed to Mateo that both sides in this war were equally capable of hideous extremes of cruelty and depravity. But some of the tales had bordered on madness: that the Armada contained ships laden with pox-ridden whores, sent to infect fine upstanding Englishmen with deadly diseases. Some vessels were even said to be filled with wet nurses to suckle the hundreds of war-orphaned children. Any women at all would have been acceptable, wet nurses or whores alike, said some of the sailors, ruefully, but in the same breath they always acknowledged that there was little space even for the men themselves, never mind demanding mothers. People would believe the most incredible tales, and consequently their fear and hatred of any deemed ‘foreign’ grew, measure for measure.
It was clear that the priest had heard some of these stories himself, but could not reconcile them with the two half-drowned, starving rats taking shelter in his oratory. At last, he took bread from the panniers on his donkey’s back and a leather flask of ale, and encouraged them to eat and drink. They accepted gratefully, and watched while he made such meagre preparations as he deemed fit for his funeral service, sweeping away the white dust and accumulated dirt, the dead insects, the droppings of birds, mice and other small creatures, from the rudimentary altar, placing a couple of candles and a wooden cross there. Mateo offered to help, but he shook his head firmly. He found the grave that was to be redug, and left a marker there in the shape of a twisted hazel staff. Then he covered candles and cross with a shabby piece of linen, remounted his equally shabby donkey and beckoned to them to follow him.
‘I dare not give you any real shelter,’ he said, addressing his remarks to Mateo, who was managing to keep up with the very slow pace of the elderly beast, while Francisco followed in their wake, along a narrow track that wound away from the oratory and, if Mateo was not mistaken, towards the sea. This, the priest explained, was all that remained of an old ‘coffin road’ from a time many years ago when the oratory and the burial ground had been more used than now.
‘It was once the cell of a blessed anchorite,’ he said. ‘Perhaps you don’t know what that is? A holy woman. Her name was Niamh. People would come here and bring her food, drink, fuel, offerings of various kinds, and, in return, she would pray for the souls of the departed who were buried here.’
Mateo thought that it must have been a lonely and chilly existence, but a peaceful one. A peaceful existence seemed greatly to be desired at this moment, however lonely and chilly.
‘It would be more than my life was worth,’ Brendan continued, ‘if it were discovered that I had harboured Spaniards.’ He emphasised the word, as one might say ‘vermin’. ‘And the people of my parish have great need of me in these uncertain times. It is only because these remote lands are still under the sway of the great Gaelic chiefs that I have any measure of freedom to practise my religion, but even that seems to be under threat daily. It’s the only reason that such oratories as that one’ – he gestured back the way they had come – ‘are still in use from time to time. Nobody ventures out here who does not already know about it. But I have been asking the Good Lord what I am to do with you. For you.’ He corrected himself.
‘And has the Good Lord answered you?’ asked Mateo, solemnly. ‘We seem to be going towards the sea again.’
‘We are. My village is some miles farther on. But you say you came ashore on the west coast, and now we are heading more northerly as you can see by the position of the sun.’
Such as it is, thought Mateo, glancing at the pale circle in the sky, so shrouded in cloud that it might easily have been mistaken for the moon.
‘It seems to me,’ the man continued, ‘that you might meet with a more favourable reception in Scotland. There are many over there, especially in the west, who are no friends to Queen Elizabeth.’
‘No indeed.’
The Queen of Scotland had been executed by her cousin only the previous year. Long anticipated, the act – when news of it arrived – had nevertheless seemed extraordinarily brutal and unscrupulous. But kings and queens have their reasons and no doubt the shrewd Queen of England had hers. As to Mary of S
cotland, Mateo knew only that she had once been very beautiful, a vain but soft-hearted and impulsive woman, who had been greatly wronged, cheated of her kingdom. His father had heard as much when news of these events travelled south. Mateo thought that he would never take anything at face value again, never believe anything but his own eyes. All the same, he had some stirring of interest at the thought of washing up on a Scottish shore. It had always seemed so utterly remote and unreal.
The priest drew his patient beast to a halt. ‘We’re very close to the coast of Scotland here, sir. I’ve never ventured forth from this island myself, but if you stand upon any high hill in these parts and look north-west on a clear day, you will see Scotland. I suspect that the sea holds few fears for you.’
‘Then you might suspect wrong, Father Brendan.’ Mateo permitted himself an anxious glance back at Francisco, who had barely been keeping up with them. ‘Paco?’ he called. Francisco smiled, and embarked on a shambling trot. It broke Mateo’s heart to see him. ‘No, no,’ he said. ‘Take your time.’ He turned back to the priest. ‘As you can see, Father, my young cousin is all but broken in body and spirit. He’s barely seventeen years old. The sea has been no friend to us these past months. But yes – I understand that Scotland might be our best hope of freedom. We might stand some small chance of beginning the long journey home from there.’
‘Then I may be able to help you. A mile from here, there is a decent enough harbour, with a few cottages, and an inn of sorts. I suggest you don’t venture in, but conceal yourselves somewhere and wait while I try to make some arrangements for you.’
‘What arrangements?’ Mateo asked suspiciously, though he saw no other way for it but to trust the priest.
Father Brendan sighed, as though reading his mind. ‘There is a Scotsman I know by the name of McAllister, and he captains a small merchantman. They call it a birlinn or galley in these parts. It is a ship that sails – as often as weather and tide permit – between here and some of the Scottish islands. He’s an unmarried man and when he’s not at sea, he frequents the inn.’
‘But if he’s not there?’
‘I have a fancy he is. I think I caught sight of him earlier today, as I passed by. He was drinking his ale and gazing at the sea. We exchanged a few words. Pleasantries. But of course, I didn’t know what was waiting for me at the oratory. The weather has been uncertain and I think he’s waiting only for wind and tide to suit him. These sailors rely on their pagan practices and superstitions when it comes to the sea,’ the priest added, regretfully. ‘They should be saying prayers to Our Lady! However, McAllister remarked that he would soon be sailing, since he smelled change in the air. The winds would be blowing from the right direction, he said, or some such observation. I don’t pretend to know much about the sea. But perhaps you do.’
‘I know something.’
‘I said that perhaps the sun might shine for old Brigid’s funeral, and he grinned at me and said he doubted that. He observed that it would be a rough passage to Scotland, but not impossible. He’s a man who is not averse to a risk here and there I fancy. The cargo changes with the seasons. And sometimes it is human cargo, I think. He could be persuaded to set you ashore on one of the more favourable islands. But he is not a generous man. I have to ask you, can you pay him anything? Do you have the wherewithal? For I would give you something if I could, but the truth is that I have little enough even for my own needs and those of my parishioners.’
The priest surveyed them doubtfully, clearly wondering if they had any resources at all and, if so, where they might be concealing them.
Mateo drew a deep breath. ‘I have a little money left. I’ve been saving it, hoarding it about my person, for desperate times.’ A few gold coins were stitched into the lining of his filthy undershirt. Along with another keepsake that he would, he thought, sooner die than have to sell. His talisman. His luck. But perhaps the coins would be enough. And if not enough, then the knife might suffice. One way or another. ‘Father Brendan, it seems to me that all times have been desperate for us, of late, and now I must spend what little I have left, for surely this is the only way in which I can hope to save my life – and his.’ He looked back at Francisco, who had managed to catch up with them, and was now seated on a stone, trying to pretend that all was well with him, when he was clearly exhausted. The priest looked thoughtfully at him, took a small leather flask from inside his cloak, and motioned him to drink. The spirit brought an unaccustomed flush to his cheek and a smile to his lips.
Brendan took the flask and handed it to Mateo in turn. ‘Drink. It will put heart into you.’
The spirit was rough and heady and did indeed put heart into him. Into them both. It gave them the strength they needed for a final push. They concealed themselves as best they could in a grove of thin hazels while Father Brendan rode on to see if he could arrange their passage at a price they could afford.
SEVEN
Cal and Daisy step out into an extravaganza of green and blue, gold and pink. The house sits on the sheltered eastern side of the island, but this part of the garden slants south-east and now, approaching mid-day, it is very warm for the time of year. The ground outside the house is already a mass of budding bluebells and campion, interwoven with violets and primroses, almost at the end of their short season. The land slopes gently down to the remnants of a stone terrace above the sea.
‘Wow!’ she says, inadequately. ‘Isn’t this beautiful?’
‘Do you know, I’ve only ever seen this from the sea,’ Cal says. ‘I have a boat and I come along here fishing for mackerel from time to time. But when Viola was around, you somehow didn’t trespass on her beach. I don’t suppose she would have seen you if you did. But you just didn’t. I think we were all a wee bit scared of her.’
‘So there is a beach?’
‘Down there. It’s not huge. If we can find the way down, I can show you. Viola used to keep a rowing boat there as well, I think. Back when she could still get about. Many people here do. My father told me she used to row round to the village, to Scoull along there, for her shopping. Where your hotel is. She always preferred the sea to the road. Look. There’s a path.’
‘Are there cliffs down there?’
‘The cliffs are mostly in the north and south. But it’s pretty steep – or looks that way from the sea. It can be a bit treacherous. There must be one or two other paths down, but this is clearly the main one.’
He is pointing to their left where a track, just visible among the undergrowth, curves down towards the sea. Across to the right there is a block of what may once have been stables and workshops, long and low, with slate roofs.
‘You’re short of nothing here.’
‘Nothing but cash to do anything with it,’ she says, drily. ‘Enough to pay the taxes. I suppose that’s some consolation.’
Behind them, a crumbling wall extends beyond the tower, running parallel to the coastline for a little way.
‘What’s that? Back there?’ Daisy asks. ‘I’ve seen it on a plan but there was so much to take in all at once. There’s supposed to be a walled garden.’
‘There is, although I’ve never actually been in it. That could be part of it, attached to the tower and sheltered by it. If you motor or row just a bit further along the shoreline, you can see a wee headland, and there’s some sort of stone structure on it. Circular. We’ll be able to see it if we head for the shore.’
‘Is that Dun Faire on the map?’
‘That’s it. Nothing to do with the fairies, though. I think it’s probably a broch, a small fortress.’
‘I know what a broch is.’
‘Sorry. There’s another one at the other side of the island.’
‘Is there? Do you know,’ she says, ‘there are people who call themselves brochologists.’
‘You’re joking!’
‘They argue about whether various piles of stones really were broc
hs or not.’
‘I’ll bet they’re mostly guys.’
‘They could be.’
‘We do like to categorise and label, don’t we?’
She remains silent. She is remembering one Christmas when her father, feeling flush after some well-paid gig, had bought her a hand-built doll’s house, complete with furniture and furnishings, tiny curtains, a dinner service, pots and pans, and even a family of bendy dolls with porcelain heads, all in Victorian dress. She still has it and loves it, but at the time she was simply overwhelmed by it, by the responsibility of it all. Many of their Christmases had been happy but low budget. That Christmas, she didn’t do anything except sit in front of the miniature house, gazing at it for hours on end, afraid to touch it. Her father had been disappointed. ‘Don’t you like it?’ he had asked, but she had just replied, ‘I love it, Dad, but I need to get used to it.’
Now, she thinks that she will have to get used to all this, but it’s a scary business. Part of her wonders if she should just follow Mr McDowall’s advice and sell the whole lot, lock, stock and barrel. Put it on the market and see what happens. She could travel. Buy a more manageable house on the mainland. A bigger flat in Glasgow. Rent or even buy a proper shop. It’s a can of worms. A Pandora’s box. Once she opens it, all kinds of things will come flooding out and her world will never be the same again. It gives her a feeling of panic.
‘Shall we try and get down to the sea?’ Cal asks, impatiently. He clearly likes to be on the move.
‘Yes. Why not?’
They start to pick their way among primroses and violets, passing the remains of a stone terrace with half-obliterated flagstones, surrounded by a low wall looking out over the sea.
‘It’s almost like a big rock garden here.’ He glances back towards the tower. ‘I don’t think it’s huge, the walled garden, I mean. But it would be sheltered enough to grow apples, pears, plums. Things thrive here if they get a bit of shelter from the wind and the salt. Back at the hotel where you’re staying, one of the old owners planted all kinds of shelter belts so that they could grow things. God knows what state your walled garden is in now, though.’
The Posy Ring Page 6