by Alex Dylan
“Up at the Castle probably, nosing about.”
“He’s heard anything?”
“You first,” Heughan offered.
“The O’Neill’s to be pardoned,” said Jack cheerfully. “Mountjoy wants an end to the war. He must be worried the Spanish’ll start up again, and the English need Ireland to be secure.”
Heughan shook his head, “Are you sure? Do you know the terms?”
Jack looked sceptical. “I had it from an Lucht Siúil, from the travellers,” he said. “What does Roddy say?”
“Roddy’s said nothing, except warnings about Scotland,” said Heughan.
“So how do we stand?” asked Jack.
A fiddler started up, a bright tune and a song of fey prophesies. It reminded Heughan of dark Irish nights, sneaking into the comfortable warmth of a turf fire in Carlingford, where a certain bold colleen would wink at him with the hint of counterfeit pleasures.
’True Thomas lay on Eden bank;
A ferlie he spied wi’ his e’e;
And there he saw a lady bright
Come riding down by the Solway Sea.’
Heughan took out one of his small throwing knives, using it to make a rough map on the boards of the table top. “Here’s us,” he said, stabbing at the dark knot of Carlisle. He scratched a rugged coastline, “Here’s Ireland to the immediate west. An army of The O’Neill’s, either on their own or supported by the Spanish, could threaten anywhere along the coast. At this time of year, the currents favour us here in the north even if Ralegh has ships blocking the South West passage.”
Jack nodded his agreement to show he was following.
“Meanwhile, a few miles over the border, King James of Scotland has hungry eyes for England’s prize. Does he have an army or doesn’t he? And then there’s us. Any one of us could trigger a revolution.” He dropped his voice, “So, the biggest worry the English have right now is that without a legitimate successor, there’ll be anarchy in the Borders.”
He grinned, happy to be harrying Cecil’s ulcers. “Cecil’s been hinting to James that he’ll champion his cause to the queen.”
Jack looked serious and whistled surreptitiously through his teeth.
Heughan continued, “So, peace to the north of us, peace to the west of us; that just leaves us. We’re the make or break.”
“Aye,” said Jack. “We can make trouble ourselves, or we can break up the border between us and The O’Neill. Unless it’s a peaceful pardon and we hold to the truce.”
Heughan was thoughtful. “Mind, there’s no guarantee Hugh would submit. He’s sent a list of demands to Cecil; the land of Ireland for the people of Ireland, free rights of travel, the right to an education, the right to choose what occupation or arts we follow, the right to build ships…” he trailed off.
Jack snorted, “He’s dreaming!”
Heughan wasn’t listening; he was dreaming his own dreams. Dreams that include a sturdy ship and a wishing star and the freedom to make a choice. Rhythmic knocking interrupted his thoughts. Jack was tapping his toes to the catchy ditty.
‘Her skirt was o’ the grass-green silk
Her mantle o’ the velvet fine;
At ilka tett o’ her horse’s mane,
Hung fifty siller bells and nine.’
Heughan thought about Melisande appearing out of nowhere, a hunting green witch straight from the ballads. He listened to the rest of the song,
’I’m but the Queen o’fair Elfland,
That am hither come to visit thee,
And if ye dare to kiss my lips
Sure of your body I will be.’
God, but he wanted to kiss her lips. Just the thought of Melisande made him hard. He shook himself. Where were these thoughts coming from? It was her breasts. He just wanted to touch her breasts, to cup them and kiss their softness. No, it was her eyes, the way they reflected her mood like the stormy sea. He wanted to kiss her and see himself in her eyes. Witch! How was she making him think of her? Her legs, the strength of her thighs. He wanted to entwine himself between them, have her straddle him. He could feel his throbbing desire. I should have had the nettle soup, he thought wryly.
Pain cut through his fantasising. It was his own leg throbbing. The wound on his leg was aching, pulsating with the rhythm of his surging heart. The tavern felt suddenly stifling. “I need air,” he said and rose to leave. Jack plucked at his sleeve.
“Mind how you go, Heughan,” he said easily.
Heughan nodded. He limped into Fisher Street and leaned his back to the lime-washed wall.
He didn’t feel like eating anymore. He wanted to feel the sea breeze of a cool night on his cheek. He started to make his way towards the West Walls, from where he could catch a hint of the Solway. Townsfolk were starting to make their ways home now. The streets were emptying. Pounding footsteps resonated down the street. Heughan could see it was La’l Willie hurtling towards him down Castle Street.
Don’t run, Willie lad, he urged silently. No need to draw attention to yersel’.
“D’ya hear? D’ya hear?” blurted out Willie gasping for breath.
“Hear what?” asked Heughan dismissively.
“Old Bess is bad,” puffed Willie.
Heughan looked around to see if anyone had noticed; just an old woman propped against the Cathedral wall, asleep. “What d’ya mean?” asked Heughan.
“The queen, man! They reckon she’s got nae more than a month to live,” said Willie seriously.
“Whusht, hold yer tongue out here, would you?” said Heughan, “Before you get us both hanged for spreading rumours.” He dragged him into the nearest alley; there was no one about. “Oh aye? Who told you?” said Heughan, hoping it wasn’t true.
“I heard some of Middlemore’s men talking; a message wi’ the week’s despatches. They’ll send extra troops up from York and a detachment frae Newcastle too. It’s a madhouse,” said Willie, gesturing over his shoulder at the Castle.
Heughan said quietly and firmly, “Well, if it’s close to true, we’d better get on home and get sorted.”
“Aye, they reckon it’ll be the biggest Busy Week of all time when she goes,” said Willie shaking his head and looking down at the ground. “The bloody Scots! Armstrongs’ll be pouring over the border thinking tha’ own the place wi’ that poxy king of theirs, the wee bastards!”
Heughan smiled, recalling Willie’s birthplace.
“Ne’er mind about that; get yersel’ home and move the bairns and your Jenny, lay low,” Heughan told him.
“Ah umnae! An’ miss all the fun?” smiled Willie. “Och we’ve seen ’em off afore, man,” said Willie drawing himself up to his full height. “If it’s a fight they want, all the families wi’ pull together. I’ll get on over to…”
Even as Willie spoke, Heughan could see the carnage, the fire, the blood staining the ground, the faces of the men he’d killed; he could hear the screams and the cries too. He could see McGuire; he was on the boat, his father in pain lying on the open deck, he was spewing his guts over the side. He was in the burning turf hut shouting for his mother; he could feel her soft hands on his face.
‘Accept her loss, accept the pain and it will pass,’ he heard Melisande whisper to him.
He was warm, the sun crested the hills and washed his face with love and the sea was quiet. He could feel the breeze in the rushes, the sound of his mother suckling his sister cradled in the secret of her elbow.
“Heughan? Heughan, man?” He was aware of someone tugging insistently at him. It was Willie. “Are you all right? Where d’ye go? I lost you there.”
“You still here, Willie?” said Heughan, feeling lightheaded as he came out of his reverie. “Bugger off home and get the family ready to leave. Once they’re safe, we’ll take all the cattle, but not north.”
“Aye dinnae worry, I know. I’m off, but when will you join us?” Willie asked.
“I’ve got some unfinished business here. I’ll get word to you and we’ll meet at Caldewgate cross,”
replied Heughan.
“A wumman again?” suggested Willie. “Which one is it this time?” Heughan looked away, said nothing.
“It’s nae the Castle witch is it, laddie?” Willie spat on the ground and made the sign to ward off the evil eye.
Heughan smiled in spite of himself.
“I dinnae trust her, you know that. She’s mockit powers. She’ll kill you, I feel it,” urged Willie.
Heughan looked at him with wan gratitude, “Roddy seems to think she can be trusted. Willie, you’ve saved my life a few times, but she’s no power over me. I’m intrigued, that’s all.”
“Aye, right. Will Roddy be with you?” asked Willie, unconvinced by Heughan’s answer.
Heughan frowned. “I don’t know where he is; haven’t seen him for two days. I want to find him first, then the woman,” he decided.
Willie smiled, banged him on the shoulder and scurried away.
Heughan wanted to return the smile but he felt a rush of panic that he hadn’t felt in twenty years. It was definitely panic and not that burst of fear some called courage. He watched Willie disappear down the alley and for the first time, felt unsure that he would see him again.
Heughan rounded the corner back into Castle Street. He instinctively looked up; there was a purple-black cloud behind the Keep. The hue of the red stone had darkened. It seemed to be reddening further in front of his eyes, concentrating the power of nature; a conduit for the strength of the gods, divining evil into the world of man. He could see a detachment of troops riding down through the orchards, heading his way. It was bigger than normal, a plump watch. They’re fortifying the gates, he thought. Now they’ll throw us out and won’t let us back in.
He crossed Fisher Street and into the back of the market. He took the long way through the Lanes, wanting the time to clear his head. His leg hurt more with every hot step. His trews were tight against his thigh. Absently, he wondered if they had shrunk in the dousing. He pushed it out of his mind. He had other concerns, needed to find his man. He could just sense Rodrigues was in there, somewhere. He let himself into the front of the wine shop. Eleanor the housekeeper led him through the back to where the Spaniard was holed up, asleep.
Rodrigues was just stirring. He opened an eye and smiled. He didn’t need to focus; he knew it was his lad Heughan.
“I can feel trouble coming,” he said sleepily.
“The biggest trouble we’ve ever seen,” said Heughan.
Rodrigues swung his legs off the settle, pulled on his boots. Eleanor brought him a jug of spiced wine and some sweetcakes on cue, attentive to his needs, as she had been in so many ways over the years.
“How soon will we be fighting and where?” yawned Rodrigues.
“We’re not fighting,” said Heughan.
Rodrigues looked up at him and smiled a broader smile. “Well, I’ve seen you running but never away from a fight. I don’t believe you can run from a fight, it’s not in you. You always run straight towards trouble.”
“Not this time. I have another plan,” said Heughan.
“I thought we agreed that I do the planning,” Rodrigues checked him, pouring wine for them both.
“This is it, Roddy. La’l Un says that troops are already on their way from York and Newcastle. The queen’s health won’t hold.” Heughan put his drink down on the oak table and breathed in their scents of beeswax polish and mace. He still felt strangely light-headed. The wine was pungent and over-powered him. A look of disgust crossed his face.
“Well, they’ll be worried about your famous ‘Busy Week’ festivities,” said Rodrigues, misinterpreting his expression. “No one’s going to shout ‘the queen is dead, long live the king’, and avoid all the fuss. You and I both know that the second the bonfires are lit, the families will be riding hard, grabbing land, cattle and anything else.”
Heughan furrowed his brow, forcing his concentration. “Yes, but reinforcing the garrison like that means trouble for us all. It draws attention to us before anything’s started. I’m worried. The old boys will tell you that the Busy Week was a bit o’ bother but not revolution; there was reiving yes, but just the usual, and if the drinking and games got out of hand, we’d manage it ourselves. It’s the Armstrongs who worry me. Where do the Scottish Wardens stand in all of this? Ross has already locked up Big Man Maxwell. Kerr may stay calm but Sim’s dangerous, especially if he joins forces with the Grahams.”
Rodrigues sipped wine thoughtfully. “So, there’ll be an ill week, and then we’ll go back to normal. Sure, we’ll have to ride out and do our share of the fighting and pillaging, but in a month or so, we go back to running the business.”
Heughan shook his head emphatically. “No, not this time. We need to make ready. If the militia comes this time, they’ll come not only to kill us but to wipe us off the map, literally to rename the map. It’ll mean total war. If Busy Week comes with a new king, then this will be a new country. James Stewart will want to unite the two crowns and with one country, there will be no border; and if there is no border, we have no business, there’s nowhere to hide. They know we will fight. They will hit us with a massive army like we’ve never seen.”
“You are serious, aren’t you, lad?” Rodrigues looked at Heughan intently. “And what are you planning then?”
“I’m going to Ireland. I have my own affairs to attend to.”
Rodrigues raised an eyebrow.
“It’s not about Molly, before you ask,” Heughan assured him. “In fact, it’s not about a woman at all.”
“If you say so,” said Rodrigues slowly, not quite believing him. “Are you going alone?”
“Yes, I’ll go alone but I need your help.”
“What sort of help?” asked Rodrigues cautiously. “More money, is it?”
“You know I’m good for it,” said Heughan.
Rodrigues heaved a sigh of relief. “Sure, lad, sure,” he said, unconvinced. “Whatever you need. Tell me what you’ve got in mind, and we’ll work it all out together.”
* * *
Following a hunch, Heughan walked the backways to Sal’s. He found the girls sitting about the scullery table, gossiping. His hunch was good; Melisande was there. One look had her on her feet and straight over to him. She took his face in her hands and bent his head so that she could kiss his forehead. Her lips burned into him, like the sun flaring on his face. He held her close and kissed her hard on the mouth in return, feeling the hot coal of her heart and her breasts crushing to him, feeling her thumping fists on his back…he opened his eyes, confused, and relaxed his hold.
“Get off me, you oaf,” Melisande said. “I’d slap you except you’re obviously not well. Sit down.” She pushed him onto her low wooden seat.
It felt a long way down for his height and he landed awkwardly, the turned spindles at his back jarring against his spine, making him wince. Melisande ignored him. She had already crouched down by his feet, ripping the cloth of his trews open to look at his leg. As she had suspected, the wound was badly infected, angry red and festering with pus. She was doubly cross with him now. In an instant, she was bossing women, sending them scurrying in all directions – Sally to Rodrigues for the wine lees, Kitty to boil water in the cookhouse, Bridie for bowls – while Heughan sat dazed.
Melisande snatched at cooking ingredients and flung them on the table. “I’m fine,” Heughan said. “I don’t want anything to eat.”
The look she gave him made him wince again. To his surprise, she stuffed a whole clove of garlic and other greenery into her mouth and started chewing. He felt sick again. He wasn’t going to kiss her now, no matter what she did to him. Abruptly, she spat it all out into a bowl and started scraping honeycomb into it. He retched violently.
Heughan closed his eyes. His stomach couldn’t bear him to look anymore. He could hear different voices talking to him as though from a great distance. He felt the pressure of heat on his leg and bubbling pain, liquid trickling down his skin, the smell of something oozing, stinging nettles pricking a
t him irritably. He surfaced again, breaching consciousness after a long dive.
Bizarrely, Melisande had covered a long slice of his thigh with the mucilage of chewed vegetables and what looked like spiders’ webs. She was binding it tight with dry cloth strips. He put a hand down to touch it but she batted it away. “Leave it,” she snapped and then softened her tone, looking at him with grey dove eyes, “I told you to keep it clean, and you didn’t listen to me. It was infected. I’ve cleaned it out, but you must let it heal.”
“You cut me more, witch. Sorcery…” mumbled Heughan testily.
“Not sorcery, Heughan. This is healing,” Melisande said quietly. “You have a fever, there’s poison in you.”
“Poison you put there,” he accused. She shook her head but even as he said the words, she felt guilty. It was her hand raised against him, her knife that had cut him; she didn’t want his death to be on her hands too. He tried to stand but the blackness pushed him back.
“Drink,” she said, offering him a warm posset. She held it to his lips and locked eyes with him. He stared hard, defying her, but in her eyes saw himself reflected in softness; dark, steady vastness like the grey swell of the Irish Sea. He closed his eyes and drank warmed wine tasting of bitter thyme. He heard her low voice command him, “Sleep until you are mended. Forget the rest.” He smelled her breath, fluttering over him with the touch of a butterfly’s wings, brushing the skin of his cheek with transcending lightness, before the blackness drowned him.
* * *
Heughan next opened his eyes when a thin ray of winter-weak sunlight fingered his chest with cold warmth. He was lying alone in bed, and he was hungry. He felt like he was trying to think his way through fog, stumbling to locate his thoughts, as they loomed at him out of the murkiness like smugglers’ dark lanterns and drifted on past him as strangers in the street. A sharp memory bumped headlong into him, and he lifted the coverlet to look at his leg.