The Posy Ring

by Catherine Czerkawska

  ‘Don’t worry about it. It’s quite comforting, really.’

  Later, she wonders why she said that. He must think her pathetic. Especially after his sister who is allegedly afraid of nothing. He has his bedside light on for a while, presumably reading, and then he switches it off and the house is in darkness, except for the subtle glow from the expiring logs through the glass door of the burner. It surprises her that she trusts him so completely. She’s attracted to him, but there is no sense in which she feels anxious here. He seems absolutely trustworthy. In this at least. She’s not so sure about him where her new possessions are concerned. It crosses her mind that he may quite deliberately be trying to gain access to those new possessions. That’s what Mr Cameron seemed to be implying, in the hotel. Well, he’ll be disappointed. She’s no fool. No pushover.

  On the verge of sleep, she again hears the piercing note of a seabird passing over the house, an impossibly lonely sound, at once enchanting and saddening. She hears his voice from the next room, very low, in case she’s asleep. ‘Oystercatcher,’ he says. ‘St Bride’s bird.’ She doesn’t respond. The image of Lilias comes into her head, a young woman gazing out of the picture, gazing enigmatically at the artist, looking into an exhausting future, but with hope in her eyes.

  She’s woken in the morning by Hector, gently licking her nose. There’s a smell of coffee in the room. Cal, wearing shorts and a baggy white T-shirt, is prowling about the kitchen, trying to be quiet. He comes through with a couple of mugs of coffee. He has remembered how she likes it: milk and one sugar.

  ‘Did you sleep well?’

  ‘Like a log. I hadn’t realised how badly I’ve been sleeping since I got here. This is the best night I’ve had on the island.’

  ‘Well that’s good to hear.’ He smiles at her. ‘I don’t have much in for breakfast I’m afraid, but there’s toast.’

  ‘Toast is fine.’

  The shower room is warm and still scented with his shower gel. He must have crept in there and had a shower without waking her. By the time she has showered and dressed, he has already taken Hector down to the beach for a quick run and is back, slicing the bread.

  ‘You’re very domesticated,’ she remarks.

  ‘Comes of living alone for a while.’

  ‘You don’t have a partner?’

  ‘Not right now. I lived with somebody who works in the shop for almost a year but it didn’t work out.’

  ‘Does she still work in the shop?’

  ‘Annabel? Yes. It was all very amicable. And let’s face it, I’m not in the shop all that often. She sees more of my mum and dad. She was never going to leave a well-paid job just because she’d had enough of me. But that was a couple of years ago. Nothing serious since. What about you?’

  ‘I was in a fairly serious relationship for a while but it ended last summer.’

  ‘Puts you off, doesn’t it?’

  She finds herself laughing. ‘Well, yes. In a way it does. You kind of need breathing space from all the angst.’

  They drink coffee, eat toast and home-made marmalade from the shop at Scoull. Then he drives her back to Auchenblae. To what they have begun to call her ‘crumbling castle’.

  ‘Do you want to borrow Hector?’ he asks. ‘I’m serious. I’m quite happy to lend him to you. And I’m sure he’d be happy to stay with you till you get used to it.’

  ‘Will you be here next week?’

  ‘Should be. I’m away this weekend. There’s a big house sale near Oban. But I’ll be back on Monday or Tuesday. I’m working on a bit of restoration. It’s a nice old Scottish dresser. I should have shown you. I never thought.’

  ‘Well, I’ll maybe take you up on the offer of Hector as house guest for a little while. But I think I might just head for home today. My dad’s going off on tour for a few weeks and I want to see him before he goes, make sure he’s organised. And I have things to sort out in Glasgow. I could come back on Tuesday, though, and stay for as long as it takes.’

  As long as what takes? she thinks. But she doesn’t know the answer to that one, not yet, and he doesn’t seem prepared to ask the question either.

  ‘Well, I’ll see you next week, Daisy.’ He pauses, just before she gets out of the car.

  ‘What are you going to do about the picture? The portrait? Lilias.’

  ‘I don’t know. Why? Should I be doing anything about it?’

  He frowns. ‘I know you think I have ulterior motives in all this. I know you don’t really trust me. But it’s potentially a valuable piece of work, you know. It’s been safe because it’s been so hidden away. Now we’ve brought it out into the light. Don’t just leave it sitting on a table. I know this is a low crime area, but it does kind of leap out at you as soon as you see it.’

  ‘Would anybody else think that? I mean, it doesn’t seem to be signed.’

  ‘No, it doesn’t. And if you decide you want somebody to look at it with an expert eye, then my mother would be the person. I don’t know half enough. She does. But I’m not twisting your arm. Just – make sure you put her away, eh? Lilias? While you’re not here. Hide her somewhere. Just in case.’

  ‘You’re making me nervous.’

  ‘I don’t mean to. I’m certain it’ll all be fine. But there’s something about her. I don’t know what it is. And it may have nothing to do with value at all. Or not monetary value.’

  ‘I know what you mean.’

  She gets out of the car, waits by the door to wave him off. Hector jumps into the passenger seat and pokes his head through the open window. He is grinning, his tongue lolling. Cal has wound down the window on his own side too and, as he pulls away, he blows her a kiss. She returns it. She can’t help herself.

  FIFTEEN

  1588

  Mateo recovered his physical strength quite quickly. He was, however, beset by persistent nightmares and an occasional sense of disorientation. Sometimes he would wake up in the night with a feeling of panic, an apprehension of danger so intense that he would sit bolt upright, staring into the grey light of early morning, filtering into the room from the single high window, his heart pounding. Once or twice it happened in the dead of night, and the suffocating darkness made it much worse. At such times, he would find it hard even to catch his breath, his whole chest feeling tight and constricted, his head buzzing with a peculiar sound, like insects dancing in there. He would have a dreadful sense of unreality, as though the whole world had changed, magically, becoming altered in some terrible and threatening way. Then his eyes would find the glowing remnants of the fire, banked up with ashes to keep it smouldering for morning, and gradually the feelings would subside.

  The first time this happened, he realised at last that in his panic, he had filled his chest with air and was holding his breath, rigid with fright. He managed to persuade himself to force the air out and, slowly but surely, the feelings subsided and he became properly aware of his surroundings, leaving only a sort of general anxiety, with very little obvious cause. The house was quiet enough at night, with only distant snoring from the other inhabitants, the bark and whine of a dog, and the occasional footstep as somebody passed by to relieve himself. He was aware too that a couple of men always stayed on watch in the great hall, taking it in turns to sleep, making sure that the big fire was stoked and the house was safe from unwanted intrusion, although such things were rare in this enclosed world of the island.

  Mateo had been a vigorous man and his strength returned with good food, activity and a certain amount of personal security. He was aware that the people living and working in and around the house were deeply suspicious of both of them, but they obeyed McNeill unquestioningly. It was their custom and their habit and though they might occasionally look askance at the Spaniards, or make remarks in their own tongue that he knew were less than complimentary, they would not translate any of that suspicion into physical abuse. Not yet, anyw
ay. McNeill had spoken. They dared not go against his wishes.

  Francisco took longer to recover. During the weeks following their arrival on the island, he became very ill. Beathag came to their small chamber, felt his forehead and said that, although her inclination was to give him one of the higher rooms with more light and air, he had better stay where he was. If it was some sort of contagion he should be kept well away from the rest of the household. He burned like a torch in the night, and Mateo, sleeping beside him, would have to move away from him as his poor body radiated heat. He feared greatly for his cousin, believed that one morning he might wake to find that Francisco had not survived the night. But the lad lingered on.

  One day, not long after their arrival, Lilias came to their room with Beathag. The women consulted together about the young man’s condition and then left for a while. When the two of them came back, some time later, it was with a little three-footed pipkin of some fragrant liquid and a stone jug of plain water.

  Mateo sniffed at the medicine. ‘I didn’t know physic could be so palatable!’ he said. It had a faint scent of honey, along with green and growing things. A grassy scent with something of springtime in it.

  Beathag glanced at Lilias, expecting her to explain. Her own Scots, although growing in confidence, was still hesitant.

  ‘It’s made with water from a holy well called Tobar Moire, Mary’s well, on the other side of the island,’ said Lilias. ‘I suppose you might call it a spring. It is something of a catholicon for all diseases, or so the people here believe, and we always keep some in the house. It’s fresh and cool and none takes ill from drinking it. But all the water here is good.’

  ‘How do you make the physic?’ he asked.

  ‘Beathag makes a tincture from the blessed thistle. And a few other herbs for good measure. Self-heal, marigolds. And honey, of course.’

  ‘I didn’t know you had the knowledge of such things.’

  ‘Oh we are not quite savages! We cultivate a small physic garden among the kale, in the shelter of the wall beyond the tower. Not everything will grow here, but some things will. It may do your friend good, if you can encourage him to drink. And...’ she glanced sidelong at Mateo, ‘it might do you some good as well. At least it will do no harm.’

  ‘But I’m not ill.’

  ‘No. But Beathag tells me your spirit is troubled and your sleep likewise, and we must not neglect you in trying to treat your friend.’

  Mateo had another shameful desire to weep. He had been beset by these sensations too often of late. Her sympathy struck him to the heart. And for a foreigner, and an enemy at that. He could feel the constriction in his throat, and tears forming behind his eyes. It would be terrible to weep in the presence of these two women. He clenched his fists, trying to banish the misery that had descended on him like clouds on Meall Each.

  To his surprise, Lilias reached out and caught hold of his hand. Her fingers were cool and dry.

  ‘Sir – there’s no shame in sorrow. You’ve seen unimaginable horrors. You and your cousin both. You must take time. This is a peaceful place, for now.’

  ‘So it seems.’

  ‘It hasn’t always been, for sure. There have been turbulent times for us, many of them. And it will not always be peaceful. Who knows what the future may bring? Those who can foresee such things have no great comfort to give. These are troubled times as you well know, and there are troubles to come. We are small people, caught up in the grand dreams of others. But for the present, my father takes good care of all who rely on him. You have washed up on a tranquil shore. Let it soothe you for now. Be like the lilies of the field. Be like my namesake, in the words of yours.’

  ‘Mine?’

  ‘Mateo. Mata in my tongue. Matthew in the Scots tongue, I think. Or Matha, sometimes.’

  He found himself eager for her fingers to remain on his, and he clung to her, briefly. She smiled and her smile lit up the gloomy room.

  ‘Be not careful for your life, what ye shall eat or what ye shall drink, nor yet for your body, what raiment ye shall wear.’ She quoted the words almost merrily as though they were deeply ingrained in her. As though they were favourites with her. ‘Behold the fowls of the air; for they sow not, neither reap, nor yet carry into the barns and yet your heavenly father feedeth them. Are ye not better than they?’

  She paused, retrieved her hand suddenly as though reminded of the unsuitability of the contact by Beathag’s frown, even though the older woman had understood only some of the conversation.

  ‘Beathag,’ she turned to her companion, full of mischief. ‘I’m quoting Matthew’s own gospel. These are my verses. My mother always said so, at any rate. I still have the holy book she brought with her. She taught me my letters from it, and taught me to read in the English tongue at the same time.’

  ‘Aye,’ said Beathag, dourly in her own language. ‘Quoting the New Testament and holding hands with a foreigner!’

  Lilias laughed even more, but keeping her hands neatly folded, resumed her instruction.

  ‘And why care ye then for raiment? Behold the lilies of the field how they grow. They labour not, neither spin. And yet for all that, I say unto you, that even Solomon in all his royalty was not arrayed like unto one of these.’

  Confused as much by his own feelings as by the words, Mateo bowed to her. ‘My lady, your name is fitting for I think even Solomon was not as wise as Lilias.’

  ‘How charming you are! And you must know how seldom I ever receive fine compliments even here in my father’s house. It is not the habit of our people. But we must leave you to tend to your friend.’ She was suddenly serious. ‘Make him drink the physic if you can. He has such a fever, but if it will only break, he may survive. Beathag has brought clean linen and more of this blessed water. Bathe his forehead, his arms, his feet even in the plain water and all may yet be well.’

  The room seemed cooler and sweeter when she left. It was as though for a brief moment her presence had illuminated and freshened it. He could and did follow her instructions, bathing his cousin’s poor attenuated body, and encouraging him to drink, wetting his lips with the physic constantly when it seemed that he could not swallow.

  Whether it was the physic itself, the water from the holy well, Mateo’s constant ministrations or Francisco’s own spirit rejecting an early death, he couldn’t say. But the young man recovered. One night the fever left him. The bedcovers were wringing wet and Mateo feared that the end had come, but in the morning, Francisco sat up, weak as a kitten, but cool, wide awake and able to eat a piece of oat bread and drink a cup of Beathag’s heather ale. When he slept again, it was peacefully, his breathing gentle, and Mateo was able to leave him alone and report on the improvement to those responsible for the physic.

  SIXTEEN

  Daisy takes the small car ferry to the mainland in the early afternoon and drives the long road home through Inveraray, crossing the Firth of Clyde to Gourock at Dunoon and heading for Glasgow. Loch Lomond might be quicker, but the road there is busy and always seems too narrow for the traffic. Instead, she drives down the side of Loch Eck and hardly sees another car all afternoon. The road is fringed with birchwoods and vivid bluebells. It’s a long drive and she finds herself wishing she had Hector in the car beside her. Cal too, but it seems safer to be missing the dog than his master. She stops once for tea and a sandwich at a small lochside café, then drives on. She has been on Garve for only a few days, but already she finds the city overwhelming, the constant noise of traffic, the looming buildings. Heaven knows what it will be like if she stays on the island for a few months. She manages to find a parking space not too far from the flat and hauls her bag past the pretty art nouveau tiles with their stylised lilies, and up the stone stairs. The residents take turns to keep the stair clean and she realises that she has probably missed her turn. If her dad hasn’t done it – and he may be too excited about his road trip to remember – she’l
l have to do it tomorrow, otherwise there will be complaints.

  Her father is in his room, sorting out his instruments: a fiddle, a mandolin, a selection of whistles. He has got out a couple of old kitbags and his precious army sleeping bag but he hasn’t begun packing yet. He looks happier than she’s seen him in a while.

  He gives her a hug. ‘I’ve been worried about you. How was it?’

  ‘Fine,’ she says. ‘It was fine. But I’m really glad to see you all the same.’

  ‘Is it a wreck?’

  ‘No. Not at all. Things need doing. But it doesn’t seem particularly damp or derelict. There’s a lot of stuff. Especially in the tower. I thought it would be more or less empty, but it isn’t.’

  ‘I shouldn’t be going anywhere,’ he says, anxiously. His hands go to his pockets. She suspects he sometimes smokes when she’s not looking, when he’s under stress, but he pretends he doesn’t. ‘I should be going back over there, helping you to sort all this out.’

  ‘Don’t be daft, Dad,’ she tells him. It used to be him telling her not to be daft, telling her that she could do anything she wanted. ‘Of course you have to go. You’ll love it. I’d feel bad if you didn’t do it. When are you leaving?’

  ‘Monday. I’ll help you with your fair, though. Are you sure you have enough stuff?’

  She begins to laugh, helplessly. He seems quite bemused. She’s on the verge of tears. He hands her a tissue and she dries her eyes, then starts to laugh again, stuffing the tissue into her mouth. Her laughter is infectious and he laughs too. He can’t help himself, even though he’s not sure what they are laughing about.

  ‘Are you OK?’ he asks eventually, when the hysteria has subsided. ‘I didn’t think I’d said anything very funny.’

  She takes a deep, shuddering breath. ‘It isn’t funny at all, really. It’s just that you asked me if I had enough stuff. Oh, Dad, I’ve got enough stuff to last me a whole lifetime. The place is literally stuffed. I don’t even know what’s valuable and what’s not. There are boxes, chests, tea chests, cupboards. And she left it all to me.’