The Posy Ring

by Catherine Czerkawska

  ‘Why would you think that?’

  ‘Lilias,’ he said simply. ‘You love her and she loves you. I know that you two have been meeting in secret. There have been times when I have smelled the very scent of her on you, at night. Don’t lie to me, of all people.’

  ‘But she is to marry another man. Her father wishes it. Her brother wishes it. The plans are made. There’s nothing to be done.’

  Francisco shook his head. ‘Nothing is certain until it happens. You’ve taught me that, cousin.’

  ‘I have nothing to offer her. It would be folly. And she dare not disobey her father.’

  ‘But she has no feelings for this other man. This Darroch.’

  ‘How could she, when she’s met him only a few times? Love may grow. Few of her status ever marry for love. Few of ours either, Paco. It’s a dream some of us have. Few ever attain anything but the cold shadow of it. I’ve heard nothing bad about him.’

  ‘Nothing good, either, I’ll be bound.’

  ‘Well, he’s considerably older and he has children from his first wife. But he has men and cattle and horses in plenty and a fine house. As big as Achadh nam Blàth. Bigger. It will be a good match. She’ll be comfortable there. And who could not love her?’

  Francisco was silent for a moment or two. Then he repeated, ‘But she loves you. I’ve seen it with my own two eyes. When I was painting the portrait of her, whenever she was sitting and you came into the room, I saw her eyes light up for you. I know I saw it, because I tried to catch it with my brush. And I think perhaps I did. If I’m honest, Mateo, I was envious. I half wished that she would look at me like that. But she never did. Look at the portrait and you’ll see that she has eyes only for you!’

  ‘Don’t! Don’t torment me.’

  ‘You gave her the poesy ring, didn’t you?’

  ‘How do you know? She wears no ring.’

  ‘She wears it next to her heart, on a golden chain. I’ve seen the chain and guessed what it held. I see everything. It’s what I do. I use my eyes and paint what I see and what I feel. Oh, Mateo, can you do nothing? Will she not tell her father how she feels?’

  ‘I don’t think she can. And I can’t betray her trust. If I did, her good name would be gone for ever. And we would still be banished. Or slain. We’re still the enemy, even here.’

  ‘Have we not won some respect?’

  ‘Our position is equivocal at best. No. It’s better to let things take their course. We’ll go, as we came, with McAllister. And soon it will be as though we had never been here, and life will resume its old pattern for them, as it should. It’s the best I can do for her now.’

  *

  Heartbreak is not instantaneous. It takes time, like a lingering malaise. Mateo thought he might die of the pain of it, but he didn’t. He worked hard by day and was glad of the oblivion of sleep, but as soon as he woke up, he was instantly swamped with more pain. He and Lilias managed one more meeting before the day of their planned departure, slipping out of the house independently, very late one night. She was quieter than usual but when they made love on the heather bed in the old round tower she clung to him in sudden desperation.

  ‘I shall die,’ she said simply. ‘I shall die. How can I live without you?’

  ‘Don’t say that.’ He was helpless in the face of her love.

  ‘It’s the truth. I can’t do without you. I’ll have to tell my father.’

  ‘You mustn’t. If I thought it would do any good I would have told him myself. Asked him for your hand. But I have nothing to offer you. Nothing that would suffice for the laird’s daughter. I don’t much care what happens to me, but you would be shamed in the eyes of your people.’

  It was a warm night. The dim twilight of midsummer hung over the island. It would never quite get dark. The air was soft and sweet. They heard the sudden sharp piping of an oystercatcher, passing overhead, seeking its mate perhaps.

  ‘Bride’s bird,’ she said. ‘That’s St Bride’s bird. Perhaps it’s an omen.’

  But of what, she didn’t say.

  They rose, dressed, climbed down the stone steps and walked along the shore below the Dun. She kilted up her skirts and paddled out into the water a little way. Her hair was loose, the heavy red length of it, and when she bent down and lifted water in her cupped hands, he saw that the droplets glowed and shone with their own inner light as they fell. He caught his breath.

  ‘Is this magic?’

  She laughed, close to tears. ‘No. It’s no magic. Or only in the way that all beautiful things are magical. It’s usual, on fine summer nights like this one. Our fishermen speak of it often.’

  ‘How can I leave this place?’

  ‘Don’t go!’

  ‘How can I stay when you’re marrying somebody else?’

  They walked back to the house, but separated before they reached the door. He let her go first, heard her greet the man who was on watch in friendly fashion. ‘The night is so fine that I thought I would walk along the shore!’ she said. She went inside by a private stair that led up to her and Ishbel’s chamber, high up in the tower. He lurked outside for a while and then went round by a circuitous route, and in by another door, where Francisco was waiting for him.

  ‘Come and see,’ he said. ‘Come and see what I have done!’

  In the room they had shared for so many months, the portrait of Lilias was propped up against the wall. The little crusie lamp was burning. By its uncertain light, Mateo saw that Francisco had inscribed, across the background to the portrait, the words Un temps viendra. A time will come.

  ‘My work,’ he said. ‘I thought it a fitting inscription.’

  ‘What will they say when they see it?’

  ‘I doubt if they’ll even notice it. Not McNeill, anyway. He doesn’t have his letters, does he? It will mean nothing to him. But it may mean something to Lilias.’

  A few days later, McAllister sailed into the bay. The birlinn anchored offshore, and the light tender was rowed ashore and hauled onto the sand. The two Spaniards were carrying packs made of hide, containing a few spare clothes for the journey and enough food to last them for some days: oatmeal for mixing with spring water to sustain them along the way, oat bread and cheese, flasks of ale and a little whisky. More than they had arrived with, anyway. Beathag had hugged them, and then run off, weeping, her face buried in her apron. Ishbel had done the same. Lilias was nowhere to be seen, and McNeill, who was resolved on walking down to the shore to wish them a safe voyage, seemed annoyed. The dogs were frolicking around him, uncaring. All comings and goings were alike exciting to them, as long as McNeill himself or his daughters did not leave.

  ‘The least the lass could do is show herself to wish you God speed and a safe journey,’ McNeill said, irritably.

  ‘Perhaps she dislikes goodbyes as much as we do!’ said Mateo, bleakly. ‘Don’t scold her on our account, sir. We saw her earlier. Give her our good wishes for her wedding.’

  ‘Hmm.’ McNeill persisted in his ill temper, although whether it was at the disturbance of their departure, or at the thought of the forthcoming wedding, they could not say. He was a man who liked things to be the same, day by day, week by week. To everything there was a season.

  The tender was floated, the Spaniards stepped in, being careful to step into the middle, so as not to overturn the little craft. Then one of the oarsmen pushed it off the sand, and stepped deftly aboard, picking up the oars as he did so, making sure that the boat turned with the sun. As they began to pull away from the white shore, Mateo looked up and saw Lilias standing – as she had stood on the day of their arrival, last autumn – on the very tip of the promontory, close to the Dun. She was wearing her yellow gown, and her hair was streaming out in the sudden breeze that seemed determined to push the coracle back towards the island. The oarsmen cursed and struggled to keep her right. Slowly but surely they began to make way. L
ooking down, Mateo could see an underwater garden through clear water, another world, like a mirror of this one, where anything might be possible. Out on the skerries, seals were singing, sounding curiously human. No wonder the islanders told stories about seal men and women, strangers who came ashore and stole the hearts of humans. Did all such tales end in disaster? Need it always happen?

  He looked up again and was lost.

  She was calling to him, frantically, her arms extended and wide open to him. He didn’t think twice. He left bag and baggage, half stood up, and then, almost upsetting the tender and risking throwing the other men into the sea, he went head first into the water. The intense cold was a shock. He had forgotten that the waters here never really grew warm. For a moment or two he was under the surface. Time slowed. He opened his eyes, saw the reddish sea ware waving sinuously below him, like a woman’s hair. Saw crabs walking sideways along the bottom. Saw tiny silver fishes swarming and scattering in front of his gaze. Then he broke the surface like a seal himself, the droplets cascading down his face and his hair. He was gasping for breath, his heart pounding with the shock of the sudden immersion. But he was floating. He saw the surprised faces of the men in the boat, saw Francisco break into a smile. Already the tender was moving away in the direction of the birlinn. Leaving him behind.

  His cousin cupped his hands. ‘Go!’ he shouted. ‘Go back! God go with you!’

  Mateo raised a hand in acknowledgement, almost sank again, and then turned towards the shore. It was further than he thought, and before he reached shallow waters, he was struggling. Suddenly, there was a flurry of activity, and he saw that Lilias had pulled up her skirts and was wading through the water, heedless of her fine gown, heedless of her father who, quite unable to swim and thoroughly bemused by the turn of events, was wringing his hands on the shoreline – ‘Come back!’ he called. She paid no attention to him at all, but stretched out her two hands to Mateo again, and hauled him ashore. She toppled backwards and he fell forwards and they lay for a moment, quite winded, laughing and crying simultaneously. The dogs thought it was some wonderful game. They gambolled about, licking faces, tugging at clothes, delirious with delight.

  It was Mateo who got to his feet first, pulling her with him. He had captured her hand in his and was vowing that nobody would ever prise them apart again, even if her father killed him for it. But he spoke in Spanish, lest McNeill should suit the action to the words.

  McNeill stood in front of them, frowning, shaking his head in astonishment. The tender had reached the galley, and Mateo saw them unfurling the sail, preparing to leave.

  ‘What is the meaning of all this?’ McNeill asked. ‘Daughter? Mateo?’

  Mateo shook himself and the drops scattered onto the sand. ‘Sir, I should like to marry your daughter. I love her. I have loved her from the moment I first set eyes upon her, and I will go on loving her until death and beyond.’

  Lilias looked, clear-eyed and defiant, at her father. ‘He’s my husband,’ she said. ‘Do you understand me, Father? The man I want to share my life with. He wants to stay here with me. I want to be his wife.’ She moved her hand to her stomach, damp with seawater. ‘I think I need to be his wife. Do you understand what I’m telling you? Will you agree to this match? You’ll not shame me, will you, you who have always been so kind to me?’

  McNeill was speechless for a moment or two. It was not a condition in which he ever found himself. He puffed out his cheeks and blew a breath out, slowly, buying time perhaps.

  ‘Darroch will be angry,’ he said at last, as much to himself as anyone else. He shook his head. ‘I think I shall just have to pay him. Siller settles most matters, does it not?’ He turned to Mateo, frowning. ‘But it must come out of your wife’s dowry, Spaniard. I take it...’ he halted, anxious to regain his dignity. ‘I take it you’ve changed your mind about the offer of Dun Sithe? I take it you want to stay here, on Eilean Garbh, and become my tacksman as well as my son-in-law?’

  Mateo found himself bowing and nodding, still holding Lilias by the hand. The water dripping steadily from both of them somewhat undermined this attempt at dignity. He realised that McNeill was trying hard not to laugh. ‘I do, sir.’

  ‘Then so be it. Although I wonder that you had to half drown yourself and my daughter besides, to achieve what you could have had for the asking.’

  *

  It was much later when Lilias realised that, in the struggle to save Mateo from the sea, her chain had broken and the poesy ring had gone missing. They spent time down on the seashore, hunting for it, but they never found it again. Mateo realised that it did not worry him unduly. It seemed a fair exchange: a sacrifice of sorts, a ring, however prized, for a much-loved wife. In due course, somewhat earlier than might have been expected, there came a much-loved daughter, too, the first of many children. Perhaps the sea had taken what it needed in exchange for the gift of a future. Perhaps St Bride, whom he discovered was also responsible for boats and boatmen, had taken it for herself. Seoras Darroch professed to be angry at the loss of a bride, but it soon became apparent that the delay on his side had been the result of his sudden fondness for one of his house guests, a lady of more mature years, whom he married very soon after.

  They never heard from Francisco again.

  Stories were told that Elizabeth had betrayed the Scots yet again in her hatred of Spain, that although she had granted the ships safe passage, she had managed to get word to the so-called Dutch Sea Beggars, seamen of fearsome repute, who had waylaid the Scottish ships, and that many sailors had died in their attacks. Still, some had managed to win home. Perhaps Francisco was one of them. They liked to think so.

  The portrait of Lilias remained at Achadh nam Blàth, to remind McNeill of his elder daughter, although truth be told, he was always finding or making excuses to ride to the south of the island to see her and her husband in their hilltop house, where Mateo was always turning up elf shot with the cas chrom. But perhaps the cold iron was effective against the wrath of the fairy folk, for no harm befell them. If McNeill noticed the inscription on the picture, he did not remark upon it, but then, he could not read.

  Mateo de Tegueste fulfilled the single request that McNeill made of him, beyond the relinquishing of some of his daughter’s dowry to placate Seoras Darroch. Truth to tell, he would have taken her without a tocher. He would have taken her even if she had come to him in her shift. But he did not say as much to Ruaridh McNeill. That would have been beyond his pride and besides, Lilias had forbidden him from saying it, and he had fallen quickly into the habit of doing exactly as he was told, where she was concerned at least. Thus, they began how they meant to go on.

  He did, however, change his name.

  Records show that in the year of Our Lord 1589, one Matthew McNeill, a visitor to the island and a gentleman, was lawfully married to Lilias, eldest daughter of Ruaridh McNeill, Laird of Eilean Garbh, of whom he subsequently became tacksman, holding lands at Dun Sithe, for himself and his many heirs in perpetuity.

  THIRTY-TWO

  Much later, they are all four of them, Cal, Daisy, Fiona and Hector, at Carraig. The humans have eaten cheese and biscuits and are still drinking an inadvisable amount of wine, while Hector has been salivating over the occasional piece of cheese that has come his way like manna from heaven. The weather seems to have settled for the time being. The house is warm, bathed in late evening sunlight that is slanting in through the bedroom window at the back of the house. The sunset is colouring the western sky from deep crimson to palest pink but the living room is falling into shadow. Fiona has shed her cardigan and sandals and has her feet up on the sofa, with Hector leaning against her to have his ears scratched. Daisy is in the big armchair and Cal is sitting at her feet, leaning back against her. The temptation to stroke his hair is becoming too much for her but she is slightly distracted by Fiona’s presence. She is also worried about going back to Auchenblae. They have all drunk so much. Given
that Fiona will either be taking Cal’s bed or the sofa bed, she wonders where on earth she will sleep. Then she realises that Cal is stroking her feet. Surreptitiously, she reaches down and runs her hand across the back of his neck, where the hair grows softly over his collar.

  ‘Right,’ says Fiona briskly. ‘Sleeping arrangements. I don’t mind the sofa bed. It’s very comfortable. I take it Daisy’s staying. And there’s more room through there, Cal.’

  Daisy finds herself blushing. But she sees that Cal has gone rather pink as well. The back of his neck has, anyway.

  ‘Oh for goodness sake,’ says Fiona. ‘Anyone with an ounce of awareness could see that you two are an item, so why pretend otherwise?’

  ‘It’s kind of new for us,’ confesses Daisy.

  ‘Is it? You look as though you’ve known each other for years.’

  This is true, and also disturbing.

  They set up the sofa bed for Fiona while she commandeers the shower room. She comes through wearing scarlet tartan pyjamas and clambers into bed. She seems to fall asleep almost instantly, snoring gently, with Hector lying contentedly at her feet, but then, as Cal says, it has been a very long day for her. And for the dog too.

  They go to bed in the next room, the door jammed shut, and conduct a conversation in whispers, so as not to wake her.

  ‘What do you think of it all?’ he says.

  ‘Aren’t you happy about Carraig?’

  ‘I’m delighted. And she’s presented me with a fait accompli. But I worry about her all the same.’

  ‘Your father?’

  ‘Aye. It sometimes feels as though the sky will fall if she crosses him. As though all hell will break out but I don’t know why. I sometimes feel that way too, although I’ve fought against it, and him, all my life. Catty was the bravest of all of us and she’s supported me through thick and thin. But we can’t make Mum’s choices for her. And in some strange way, I think she still loves him. Always has done, always will.’