‘We paid him the whole of what we still had in our possession, sir. But we were desperate. And it means we must throw ourselves on your mercy.’
McNeill took the letter, broke the seal, unfolded it and gazed at it in silence for a moment or two. Then he raised his voice.
‘Lilias!’ he shouted. ‘Where are you, lass? I need you.’
He turned his attention back to the pair, and quite suddenly pulled an oak bench across from its place beside the fire. The bench was heavy, but he shifted it as easily as if it had been made of straw.
‘Here,’ he said. ‘Your friend seems on the point of fainting clean away like a lassie. Sit yourself down lad, before you fall down.’
Mateo deposited Francisco on the bench and pushed his head forward. His cousin sank forward, his head on his knees. ‘Thank you, sir. I’m afraid he’s at the very end of his strength. And we’ve eaten very little for weeks. Months even.’
‘That we may be able to remedy in due course. But don’t thank me just yet, son. I haven’t made up my mind what to do with you.’
‘Father?’
Mateo turned around at the sound. It was the woman they had seen earlier, as they approached the bay below the house. Divested of her wrap, she was revealed to be a tall girl, of perhaps eighteen summers, dressed in a simple worsted gown, kilted up to reveal a golden petticoat – the saffron colour again – beneath. There was some lace at her throat, and she wore a necklace of small freshwater pearls. All of this, perhaps, was in token of her status in this community. The red hair that he had seen blowing in the wind, longer and more vivid than her father’s, but familial hair all the same, had been tamed and was pulled back, quite severely, into a long plait. He had never seen hair quite this colour before, and had to stop himself from gazing at it in wonder. A pair of slender, long-nosed dogs, sleek as grey and white seals, sloped into the room behind her, setting up a great barking and growling when they saw the two strangers.
‘Hush, Bran, Finn!’ she said sharply. ‘No use in raising the alarm now, when you were sleeping soundly earlier!’
The dogs slunk off to sit by the fire, eyeing the incomers over their shoulders from time to time and curling their lips to show their contempt.
Wordlessly, McNeill handed her the letter. She took it, glanced across at the men, smiled faintly at them, and began to read.
‘You don’t know what the priest wrote?’ McNeill asked.
Mateo shook his head. ‘No, sir. The letter was sealed. But he was kind to us. Kinder than he needed to be and at some risk to his own safety, I fear. I hope he is not betrayed.’
‘Aye. There are some who are fearless in fulfilment of their own Christian vows. Not many, these days, I’ll allow, but a few. You were lucky to meet him. And what’s your story? How came you to be wandering the Irish coast in search of deliverance? And speaking in the English tongue, as well.’
‘I was taught by a tutor, an exile. From an English monastery. My father believed in learning.’ And fighting, he thought. His father had believed in fighting. Manly virtues. There had been nothing indulgent or kindly about him. As he saw it, mind and body alike must be disciplined.
‘Aye. And so do I believe in learning, having suffered from the lack of it all my life. I will make sure my sons are not so deficient. Although I would have them learn the arts of war as well. The times are very uncertain.’
‘We came with an unwise expedition. You’re right. Most of our ship-board friends, our fellow countrymen, are drowned or slain. I’m sure you have had news of it by now.’
‘We have. And are in two minds about it: whether we approve or not. My main concern, however, is that I should bring no trouble to this island, which is my own, its people in my care. Do you bring trouble in your wake, Mateo de Tegueste?’
‘I hope not. It’s not my intention. There are just two of us, and few people who know we’re here. Only the priest. And beyond him, McAllister and his crew.’
‘Aye, well, they are men who would keep a secret for a thousand years, so we need have no fear of them whispering tales into hostile ears.’
He glanced at the young woman again. ‘This is my daughter. She also has more learning than her father. Tell me, Lilias, what does the letter say? Does it confirm their story?’
‘Aye it does. It’s very brief, father. The priest says he writes in haste. He has taken pity on them and found them passage to a safer country.’ She scanned the note, frowning a little. ‘He isn’t certain why, only that they don’t seem to be of evil intent’ – here she glanced at them – ‘and it seems the Christian thing to do. He asks that we shelter them for a time, and make enquiries as to how they might be returned home for they have...’ She hesitated, gazed at the letter again, colouring slightly. ‘He says they have suffered much.’
Her skin was so pale as to seem translucent, with a dusting of freckles, as though some friendly saint had scattered gold there. That’s what he found himself thinking. But she would never be able to hide her emotions, never dissemble, colouring easily and often.
McNeill gazed at them in silence for a moment. Mateo could hear the big piece of driftwood in the fireplace crackling and sparking and settling into its enormous bed of ash. The woman who was tending to the cooking went about her business quietly, humming under her breath. Outside it was almost dark and a wind was rising, wailing about the roofs of the old building and moaning in the chimney, sending little gusts of peat smoke back into the room. He thought how terrible it would be to be cast out again, into the chilly night. They might as well be dead. Francisco would be dead, in no time at all.
McNeill seemed to have made up his mind. ‘Well, the former I can do. I can give you shelter, if you’re prepared to work for your keep. All stray dogs who take shelter here must do some work, even Bran and Finn here, although they are remiss at times.’
The two dogs raised their heads simultaneously and wagged their tails, obligingly.
‘As for the latter, the enquiries as to how you might win home again, I am not entirely sure about that. Sirs, I would much rather keep your presence here a secret until I find out what way the wind is blowing. This is a woefully divided country. But those who unlawfully kill a lawful queen cannot expect very much in the way of regard or respect from the professed subjects of that queen, can they?’
In the gathering gloom, Mateo saw a sudden flash of anger on the man’s countenance, but it was as quickly veiled. He knew that it was not directed at himself, or his cousin, and was glad of it. He thought about the Scottish queen, the news of her execution at the behest of her English cousin. Perhaps the priest had been right. Perhaps they might be safer here than anywhere else in these islands.
Francisco raised his head. He spoke to his cousin in Spanish. ‘Tell him we’ll do anything we can, anything they wish, if only they’ll give us food and shelter for a while. I would dearly love to be able to stop running for a while, Mateo.’
McNeill looked enquiringly at Mateo. ‘What does he say?’
‘My cousin has little English and is not at all well. Misery and sickness have robbed him of his courage, as such things are wont to do. I think they have made a coward of him. Of us both, perhaps.’
To his surprise, Lilias interposed. ‘Gentleness is not the same as cowardice. And sickness can turn the bravest of us into mere bairns.’
Her father did not reprove her for the interruption, but only smiled at her. ‘My daughter is a soft-hearted creature. But so was her mother and I can’t complain about that, having so much regard for her.’
‘Francisco says that we will do whatever we can in exchange for food and shelter. And he’s right. We will. For as long as you see fit to keep us here.’
‘My daughter is also right about your cousin. He seems very sick. There’s little strength in him that I can see. He’s weaker than my wee Ishbel.’
‘But there’s strength in me, sir. I
can work for two. Until he feels well enough.’
‘Well, well, we’ll see.’ McNeill raised his voice slightly. ‘We need some light!’ he said and an elderly man immediately hurried up to light several candles secured about the room from a taper thrust into the fire. ‘For now,’ he continued, ‘I think you must wash, and Beathag here,’ he gestured at the woman who had been cooking flat cakes and tending to the cooking pots, ‘Beathag will find you some clothes. What you are wearing must be exceedingly verminous and your garments are certainly filthy. Even for one like myself who is not just so particular about a wee bit of mud as some in this household.’ Here he glanced across at his daughter again, a smile playing about his lips.
It was true. The heat was drying their rags and the smells emanating from them were not pleasant. Mateo thought he had grown used to the stench of unwashed garments and bloodied, fouled bodies, but this was beyond all endurance. He was ashamed.
‘These garments must be destroyed,’ added McNeill. ‘Once you are in a more respectable condition for a siobhalt – a civilized – house, we can think about food. And find somewhere for you to sleep.’
Lilias spoke to Beathag in her own tongue. The older woman regarded the pair of them with deep suspicion in her dark eyes, but at the behest of her mistress, came over to them and motioned to them to follow her to a door at the tower end of the great hall.
Lilias smiled at them. It made Mateo realise how seldom he had seen the kindly smile of a woman directed at himself over these past months. Not since they had sailed from home and his aunt had embraced him and bidden him and Francisco farewell. His own mother was long dead. Usually, his father frowned on these displays of affection, but even he had been caught up in the emotion of the moment. Mateo had an almost overwhelming sense of sorrow, a great desire to be comforted. He was too exhausted, too miserable to feel anything for the young woman but a vague thankfulness that she seemed to be regarding them with sympathy rather than the all-pervasive fear, suspicion and hatred that had been their lot over the past months. For the present, that was enough.
‘Go with Beathag,’ she said. ‘She’ll show you where you can wash. And she’ll find clean clothes for you. But – you have no possessions with you? Nothing at all?’
Impulsively, Mateo reached inside his clothing. ‘May I?’ he said, still afraid of giving offence. When McNeill nodded, he pulled out his treasured dagger, reversed it and handed it to the chieftain, with another little bow. ‘This is our only weapon, sir. I wish to hide nothing from you, so perhaps I could leave it in your safekeeping until I have need of it again.’
McNeill took the dagger and examined it. He raised his eyebrows. ‘Small but beautifully made. Then perhaps you are men of some consequence after all, and not the thieves and vagabonds your appearance would suggest. But I’ve long learned not to judge men by their outward appearance. Thank you for your confidence in me. You’ll find it is not misplaced.’
As they were following Beathag, there was a scurrying of feet and a little girl with the same vivid red hair as Lilias and her father came running into the room. She halted at the sight of the Spaniards.
‘Oh!’ she exclaimed, nonplussed. ‘These are the men we saw on the shore, Lilias. You said they would be coming here and I didn’t believe you. I thought they were beggars and might pass us by or go to Beathag for food. Who are they? I don’t like strangers!’
‘They are visitors, not strangers, Ishbel,’ said Lilias.
She held out her hand and the child ran over and took it, swinging from her arm. Mateo thought she must be seven or eight years old. His sister had a little girl of about the same age. This must be the last child, the daughter whose birth had, as McAllister reported, ‘caused the death of her mother’.
‘They have come a long way and suffered a great deal on the journey,’ continued the older girl, ‘so we must make them welcome. Isn’t that our custom, Ishbel? Isn’t that what I have always taught you, and what our mother taught me before you were born?’
McNeill looked indulgently at his two daughters. ‘Soft,’ he said, in the Scots tongue. ‘Soft, daft lassies. My wife, Bláithín, was a great one for welcoming the stranger to our shores, if any ever ventured so far.’
‘She was,’ said Lilias.
‘Me – I’m not so certain about this, but I make up my own mind. There are times when such generosity is folly. Not everyone sets foot on my island without malice in their hearts so you’ll forgive me if I’m cautious. But my Bláithín was right in this, at least. It is our custom not to turn the stranger in dire need away from our door, and it is also our custom not to do violence to any who come in peace, once we have offered hospitality. So you need have no fears, sirs, as long as you do not abuse that hospitality. Eat with us, and then sleep without fear of betrayal.
TEN
The following morning, this time suitably fortified with the full Scottish breakfast, including tattie scones, eggs and crispy bacon, Daisy checks out of the hotel.
‘We do have a room free if you decide you want to come back, dear,’ says Mrs Cameron, kindly. ‘Don’t feel you have to stay in the house if it doesn’t seem...’ she hesitates. ‘Comfortable. If it’s not comfortable for you there. It’s a big old house by any standards. Especially if you’re not used to country living.’
‘I’m sure it’ll be fine,’ says Daisy, with a confidence she doesn’t really feel. ‘I live on my own a lot, you know. It’s my dad’s flat but he’s away half the time.’
Still, she thinks, a tiny city flat isn’t quite the same thing as a remote and ancient house. She certainly won’t be reading The Shining in bed tonight.
She drives down to the Scoull village shop where she buys some supplies: milk, bread, butter, eggs, more biscuits, a packet of bacon, a few tins, a couple of bottles of wine and a bottle of island malt whisky. She hadn’t investigated the Auchenblae cupboards yesterday, so there may be unsuspected stores in there, although she doubts if, latterly anyway, Viola had much of an appetite. She has a feeling she may have need of the odd dram of whisky before the week is out, for purposes of courage and comfort if nothing else.
The house already feels faintly familiar. She senses that just as she will have to get used to being there, the house will have to get used to its latest owner. She has a sense not so much of hostility as anxiety, if such a word can be applied to a building. It is a cloudy day, threatening rain. Elspeth Cameron has told her that sometimes the rain clouds skip right over the island from the west and head for the mainland, but today the forecast is for showers. All the same, she opens the door of Auchenblae on the seaward side and finds a big stone, shaped like a rudimentary figure, with a broad base, a tiny head and a narrow neck. They hadn’t noticed it the day before, but it seems to be deliberately left there as a doorstop. She hefts it into position, wondering if it has been shaped, or if it is a natural stone. One more thing to find out about. The wooden block is still perched on the windowsill where she left it, drying out slowly.
She unpacks her shopping and is pleased to see that the fridge seems to be working. She switches on the immersion heater, goes upstairs, and takes a sheet, pillowcases and a duvet cover from the bottom of the pile in the linen press. They smell quite fresh. A clutch of home-made lavender bags fall out as she tugs at them, and they still smell faintly of the herb, as does the bedding. She makes up the bed in what was once her mother’s room. There are a couple of hot water bottles in the linen cupboard too. Grandma Nancy would have worried about the damp, so she fills both of them and tucks them under the covers.
Rewarding herself with a big mug of coffee, she takes it into the big living room and switches on the television. Bargain Hunt is on. ‘You could do a whole series of programmes from this place,’ she says aloud to the television. ‘Maybe I’ll issue an invitation.’
There is a rattle of rain on the windows and the delicious scent of rain-soaked grass drifts in the doorway. A squall h
as come bowling in from the sea. She leaves the television on, since the voices are comforting, and heads up the stairs, past the bedrooms, to the second stair, darker and narrower, to what was once the servants’ quarters. The light is muted up here, since these rooms are tucked into the roof, with sloping walls. Anyone of any height would be forever banging his or her head. Cal certainly would. Small, dusty skylights, one in each room, are the only sources of natural light. She would have to stand on a chair even to open them, let alone look out. There are grim iron bed frames, looking vaguely institutional, although one of the rooms, a little larger than the rest, has a rickety brass double bed. There are chipped washstands, bedside cabinets with broken hinges, a dismal collection of substandard furniture and naked lightbulbs without shades. Perhaps the Neilsons had thought that their servants deserved no better.
As on the floor below, one of the rooms seems to have been used for storage and has several tea chests plus – more intriguingly – a couple of oak blanket boxes with iron hinges. The more accessible of the two seems to be full of old table linen, layer upon layer of it, so densely packed that the leaves of stiff cloth have begun to stick together. The sour smell of hundred-year-old starch emerges from the box. She can see damask tablecloths in fascinating patterns with the blurred and slightly random designs of handwoven linen. There are tea tablecloths and tray cloths with cobwebby lace inserts or crochet edging, heavy white cotton embroidery on white linen. She flattens the cloths down again with some difficulty and fastens the lid. Something else that will need to be examined, catalogued, maybe laundered before selling. So much work. She’s again torn between the desire to explore and sort everything and the urge to let somebody else take over and just get rid of it all for her.
At the end of the corridor is a bathroom with a worn tiled floor, very like the one downstairs, but in much worse condition. There’s a lavatory with nasty brown stains on the porcelain, a cracked pedestal sink with a cold tap, a small hip bath tucked into one corner. A wobbly cupboard holds a few suspicious brown jars and bottles and a pile of thin towels, frequent laundering having reduced them to a sort of uniform grey. The contrast with the furnishings in the rooms below is striking. Beside the bathroom door, she finds a low door that she thinks is a cupboard, but when she opens it, she sees that it is another staircase, a bare stone spiral, very gloomy and damp. She doesn’t venture in, but she thinks it must once have given the staff access to the main bedrooms and the big downstairs room, so that they could carry water and tend fires without intruding on the family too much.
The Posy Ring Page 10