‘There is no need for that,’ objected Hew. The coroner ignored him. ‘Michael,’ he repeated, ‘will take you to the ship. I have letters here prepared for the shipman, Master Beck, and for George Hacket, who is our Conservator at the staple of Campvere. They will furnish you with everything you need. From Campvere, you must make your way to Ghent, by whatever means you can. You will understand, the countries are at war, and our influence does not extend beyond the port of Vlissingen. I do not know if the roads or waterways are passable. Hacket will be better placed to tell you more.
‘I will furnish you with all the papers you will need. As you are aware, you will require a passport when you leave Campvere; the staple is itself a special case and you may assume you are on Scottish soil, such privilege as you will find there extended to you. Consider it safe haven, and Hacket as your friend. Trust those he trusts, and I would advise you, no one else. Always expect the worse, until you know the better of a man. Yet that lesson as I know, you have learned from your experience.’
Hew flinched at this, as Andrew Wood went on, ‘Four sets of papers are required, together with the wherewithal for bribes, as you are to pass from place to place. And Hacket will provide a man, that kens the Flemish tongue.’
‘I do not want a man, for I prefer to go alone,’ Hew retorted quickly.
Sir Andrew sighed. ‘But that is rank stupidity, as you must surely know,’ he pointed out. ‘Since you do not know the politics, or lying of the land, and you do not ken the Dutch, and the country is at war, then tis plain enough to see that you cannot go alone. Hacket will provide a man, and that will be an end to it.’
Hew had to concede there was some sense in this, yet privately determined he would hire a man, and not of Hacket’s choice, who was no doubt in the pocket of Sir Andrew Wood.
‘And the man that he provides,’ Sir Andrew Wood concluded, ‘will go with you to Ghent. Are we then agreed?’
‘We are agreed, said Hew. ‘Yet may I ask you something?’
‘Aye, you may.’
‘You are Lord Comptroller to the royal court. The man that is the pocket to the king.’
‘For my sins, I am.’
‘And yet the king no longer has control.’
The coroner corrected him. ‘The king is safe and well, and we have stable government, under the Earl of Gowrie.’
‘And what of Monsieur d’Aubigny, the so-called Duke of Lennox?’
‘The so-called Duke of Lennox,’ Andrew Wood repeated, ‘is no longer in the close sphere of King James’ influence. He is expected, very shortly, to depart for France. It is a state of affairs that sits well in London, with the Queen Elizabeth. And I myself cannot be sorry his excesses have been curbed, for as you have observed, I hold the purse strings to the pockets of the king. Does that answer your question?’
‘It does not, sir,’ Hew challenged boldly. ‘For I would wish to know whence your commission comes.’
‘As I think you do know,’ answered Andrew Wood, ‘I have it from the Crown.’
‘Ah, the Crown!’ smiled Hew. ‘And what is that? Is that King James, or Gowrie? Is it Arran, or Lennox, or the lord enterprisers? You say that I am watched; then tell me who is watching me. Tell me, if you will, whose man are you?’
‘I think you understand, I cannot answer that,’ the coroner returned.
The next day, Hew set out, with Sir Andrew’s servant Michael at his side. The coroner had also left behind a horse, which Michael would return to him once Hew was on the ship. He was glad enough to leave Dun Scottis safely banked, where a quiet winter pasture kept him safe from risk, for Dun Scottis was a horse who seldom travelled well. He wrapped the documents carefully, mindful of past accidents. Yet the presence of the escort, and the unfamiliar mare, felt faintly disconcerting, as though he were a renegade and taken under guard. Hew himself was armed with dagger and a sword, and in command of both, in case of dire necessity. He made the man stand patient while he broke his fast, more to prove a point than from a wish to cause delay, for the thought of an excursion, on this bright October day, had wakened up an impetus he realised that he had not felt for several sluggish months. In his inner heart, he was anxious to be off. He forced himself to stay awhile, and sit through the formalities of breaking bread with Nicholas. And at his friend’s request, he knelt awhile to pray with him, that he should not depart without the blessing of the house.
The gift horse was nimble and slight, taking to the track with a lightness, ease and grace that cast a poor reflection on the dull trudge of Dun Scottis. Hew resolved to enjoy the ride, in the cool fresh sunlight, and ignore the brooding presence of the servant by his side. He gathered momentum, flying on the wind at a speed Dun Scottis had not thought of in his dreams.
‘You must pace the horse, else you will tire him out afore we reach the ferry port,’ the man advised repressively. He spoke no other word for the whole of the four miles.
Hew dismounted at the abbey wall, and gave the man his horse to hold, walking to the Swallow Gait. Since it was early still, he found both Giles and Meg at home. They were sharing breakfast in the nether hall, with Matthew settled in Meg’s lap. Hew noticed that his upper bands were loose, and his fists waved free. ‘The fury is unbound.’
‘It is only for a moment,’ Meg explained. She caught the infant’s hands. ‘He is about to have his bath. Would you like to see it, Hew?’
‘I do not think so,’ answered Hew. He supposed that infants, since they must be swaddled, also must be washed. He could not for a moment think why he might want to see it.
‘For certain,’ Giles said dotingly, ‘Hew must see him bathed.’
‘Another time,’ said Hew, ‘for I am going to Ghent.’ He took a childish pleasure in their faces as they gawped at him, which later he remembered with regret.
‘I do not like it, Hew,’ concluded Meg, once Hew had told his tale. ‘I do not like it well at all. Why would he send you far away, at this unhappy time? Surely, he can use you better here?’
‘There is some little sense in it,’ reflected Giles. ‘And yet I think the profit there may not be worth the risk. The countries are at war.’
Meg set Matthew back into his crib and began to rock him gently with her foot.
‘Do not eat the damsons,’ cautioned Giles, ‘or they will give him colic.’
‘So you have informed me, several times. I do not think that he should go,’ said Meg. ‘For it will prove too dangerous.’
‘You ken your brother well enough by now, to know that you have put the devil’s argument. Tis danger that attracts him, beyond doubt,’ Giles returned.
‘Then tell him,’ pleaded Meg, ‘he must not go.’
‘I cannot, for you know that he will do what he will.’
‘Your pardon, I am here and party to your argument,’ grinned Hew. ‘Your husband is correct, I am resolved to go, though not through any urge to risk my life.’
‘You see, Meg, it is hopeless!’ answered Giles.
‘I promise you, I do not look for danger,’ Hew replied more seriously. ‘Yet when I see the two of you, with Matthew so content, then I am the more convinced of it, that I should take the letters back to Beatrix and her child.’
‘That is a kind commission, and a cruel one, too,’ said Meg.
‘So I understood it when I undertook the charge.’
‘What are less clear to me,’ Giles considered thoughtfully, ‘are the deeper motives of Sir Andrew Wood.’
‘I have the sense,’ said Hew, ‘It is some kind of test.’
‘A test of what?’ asked Meg.
‘I do not know. The coroner has intimated I am being watched.’
‘How, watched? By whom?’ asked Giles.
‘He declines to say. And yet, tis plain enough to put me on my guard.’
‘Then you must take great care.’
‘I see and apprehend it,’ Hew agreed.
‘But you know that he does not,’ Meg observed, despairing, as her brother left. ‘For though he
apprehends the danger, he will blunder into it.’
Giles broke off a piece of bannock and began to butter it. ‘For sure, he is your brother, Meg. He knows no other way.’
Chapter 17
Mal de Mer
The journey to the ferry port passed with little incident, and still less conversation, as the coroner’s man Michael refused stubbornly to talk. His patter was restricted to ‘Ah dinna ken,’ with a rare and grudging ‘Mebbe’ where the question had been forced. Hew was glad enough to see an end in sight, as they crossed the river Tay to Broughty Ferry. From there they rode the few miles to Dundee, to settle for the night at the tavern on the shore, where the Yellow Caravel was moored beyond the dock. Hew was shaken from his sleep at the first faint trace of dawn, and delivered to the shipman, captain Beck, while Michael took the horses and his leave. Hew felt no regret to see him go.
The master of the Caravel was genial and garrulous, and promised Hew a tranquil passage on his ship. The journey, he advised, would last a mere five days, and Hew would have the comfort of the captain’s cabin.
‘I cannot take your quarter,’ Hew objected.
‘Nay, sir, so you shall,’ the shipman puffed out generously. ‘The Caravel is light, and no so well equipped for gracing special guests. The great, or captain’s, cabin is the only one we have. The merchants here make do wi’ pallets under deck.’
‘Then so shall I,’ said Hew.
The shipman would not hear of it. ‘Nay, sir, not at all. You shall have it, sir, and gladly, by order of the coroner of Fife.’
He furnished Hew with bedding, cups and plate, which were tied up in a roll and strapped up to his saddle bags, ready to be shipped out to the Yellow Caravel.
Having nothing else to do, Hew wandered to the shore, and stood to watch the loading of the ship, the to and fro of little boats with baskets, creels and crates. Among the milling crowds, he heard the rustle of a woman’s shot silk dress. It took him for a moment to another time and place; another ship set sailing from the port of Leith, where the light had faltered in a pink-streaked sky. He saw her grey eyes mocking, in the turning of the crowd, the shiver of a ghost in the dark flame of her hair and in the flawless whiteness of her skin. For a heartbeat, as he stood, he whispered to the wind. The woman stirred and smiled, holding fast his gaze. Hew coloured. ‘Ah, forgive me. I mistook you for a friend.’
‘Is that so?’ She came close. ‘Who was your friend?’
‘It was a mistake. It does not matter now.’
‘It was Catherine, that you said.’
She was teasing and inquisitive, and he was conscious that he had to shake her off. For of course, he was aware that she could not be Catherine, that the half-light of the harbour and the bobbing of the boats had thrown up ancient ghosts, that caught him unawares.
‘Another lass, another quay,’ he said regretfully.
‘Your pardon, sir.’ She would not let him go. Though she spoke low and softly, she was very young, and another, quite another, sort of lass. The brightness of her hair and the pallor of her skin were coloured by her art, and her softly ruffled silks were the loose appropriation of another woman’s gown. In common parlance, she was called a common drab, though nothing, as it seemed, could be less appropriate. ‘Your pardon, sir, but are you going to travel on that ship?’
She had a strange way of talking, open and precise, as if she had been schooled. Hew thought it very likely that she had been schooled. He ought to shake her off. Instead, he answered, ‘Aye. Why do you ask?’
‘It is only that . . .’ she started and broke off. ‘I have no right to ask it, sir. I’m sorry I have troubled you.’
‘But you have not.’
It was money that she wanted, he supposed. And she had given him the chance to turn his back, and fend her off, and he had failed to take it.
‘I wondered, sir, if you might vouch for me?’
Hew was astonished. ‘Vouch for you? As what? He wondered if she wanted letters of testimonial for working at the mill. The whole thing had the tenor of a curious dream, in the fragile morning light. He had the sense that he had met with her before.
‘My husband is a captain in the Scots Brigade, under Colonel Balfour. He is presently in barracks at the port of Vlissingen. He sends for me to join him,’ she explained. ‘I have money for my passage on that ship.’
‘Truly?’ Hew said sceptically.
‘Aye, sir, truly. Would you like to see it?’
‘Thank you, not at all. What is your name?’
‘Elizabeth. But Colonel Balfour calls me Bella.’
‘Colonel Balfour does?’ he asked, incredulous.
‘Did I say Colonel Balfour?’ she answered with a smile. ‘I meant my husband, George. George is very anxious I should join him at the barracks. He is lonely there. And he will send a man to meet me at Campvere. And I am afeared to travel on that ship. There are no other women, and the sailors here are rough and wild. I wonder, might I travel under your protection? I want nothing from you, sir, and I shall not impose on you.’
‘But since you do not know me,’ Hew observed, ‘how can you be sure of my protection?’
‘I cannot, sir, of course,’ Elizabeth agreed. ‘And yet I feel that, strangely, we were meant to meet. And I know you felt it too, when you called that name. There is a bond between us.’
‘Ah, no, no, no, no!’ Hew shook his head. ‘I will not have that! When I called out to you, it was a mistake. Forgive me, mistress, but I cannot travel with a woman that I do not know. Pray make yourself known to the shipmaster. He will ensure that your journey is safe.’
Elizabeth said meekly, ‘Aye, sir, you are right, and it was foolish to expect it. I am sorry that I have disturbed your peace.’
She quickly moved away, and Hew had all but forgotten her, when he came to board the small boat that would take him to his cabin in the Yellow Caravel, to find her in the grip of one of the sailors, while another struck her hard across the face. Hew stepped in at once. ‘I do not like to see you strike a woman,’ he said coldly.
The sailor asked, ‘Why not?’
‘That is not a woman, sir,’ his colleague echoed reasonably. ‘She is a common whore.’
‘She is under my protection.’
‘She is what? Oh Jesus Mother Christ,’ the second sailor swore, and spat into the sand. ‘Ye will have to take it up with Master Beck.’
The genial captain soon appeared, and Hew demanded of him, ‘Has this woman not paid passage for the ship?’
‘She has paid it, aye,’ admitted Master Beck, ‘but there was a mistake. She shall be reimbursed.’
‘There is no mistake. She will come aboard, under my protection.’
‘Under your protection?’ The shipmaster was startled. ‘Oh, no, son – sir – I dinna think that a guid idea. The law forbids us to transport a woman to Campvere, unless she is of proven character, someone’s daughter, or his wife.’
‘Elizabeth is someone’s wife. Her husband is Captain George . . .?’ Hew looked to Elizabeth. ‘Captain,’ she confirmed.
‘Captain George Captain of the Scots Brigade, stationed now at Vlissingen, under Colonel Balfour,’ Hew reported smoothly.
‘Colonel Balfour? Ah, I do not think so, sir.’
‘You do not think there is a Colonel Balfour?’
‘Of course there is a Colonel Balfour,’ Elizabeth said huffily. ‘He calls me Bella.’
‘I have no doubts of Colonel Balfour,’ Beck concluded with a sigh. ‘Take her wi’ ye, if you will. But keep her out of trouble on the ship.’
Hew saw her next on the Yellow Caravel, shortly after they set sail. Already, he was feeling queasy, and it did not help that he had gone on deck to see the Dundee windmill circling in the distance, turning its white sails against a darkening sky.
‘Where we are going, there are a good many of those,’ Elizabeth remarked.
‘Aye,’ he said shortly. He had no wish to encourage her.
‘I heard that the captain had gi
ven you his cabin,’ she tried next, like a bairn that came fishing through his pockets to find sweets. Sucket candies, in a box. Marmalades and sugar plums. He closed his eyes in horror, at the last thing he should think of now, but found it did not still the giddy motion of the ship. ‘Do not say a word. Do not even think it,’ he replied.
She pouted. ‘Why are you so cross? You never used to be so cross.’
‘What?’
‘You never used to be so cross. You liked me, then.’
Hew demanded, ‘When?’
Elizabeth seemed not to hear. ‘I forgot to thank you. Colonel Balfour will be pleased.’
‘I pray you, now, do not pretend. There is no husband,’ Hew informed her, ‘in the Scots Brigade.’
‘You, sir, are quite wrong,’ Elizabeth replied, ‘for there are a good many husbands in the Scots Brigade. And all of them are pleased to see me. Especially Colonel Balfour. He calls me . . .’
‘Bella, aye, I know,’ Hew groaned. ‘Please go away.’
‘But I have not thanked you yet,’ she said.
Hew lost his balance as a wave of sickness struck him. Elizabeth, distracted for a moment, turned. ‘He likes me too,’ she pointed to a merchant walking on the deck. His name is Archie Chandler, and he likes me very much.’
‘Then perhaps you should attach yourself to him, instead of me.’ Hew fought against the dizziness, feeling his gorge rise. He tried to close his eyes again, but still the windmill turned.
‘But I,’ replied Elizabeth, ‘do not like him. Archie Chandler is a brute. I saw him strike his servant full across the face, and burst his poor nose open like a plum. That was uncalled for, I think. Why do you not have a servant?’
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