The Rough Collier

by Pat McIntosh

  ‘Marion?’ said the small woman. ‘No a Marion. There’s Mysie, and Eppie, and Jess.’ She counted on her fingers. ‘Aye, and Maggie and Nan.’

  ‘Eppie Lockhart’s youngest is a Marion,’ said the other woman, and sucked noisily on her remaining teeth.

  ‘No, but the lassie’s name’s no Lockhart, it’s Robertson,’ objected her companion.

  ‘There’s many Lockharts in the town,’ Sir John explained. ‘It’s a common name in this parish, madam. Indeed. I confess I canny place a Marion.’

  ‘This would be an older woman,’ said Alys. ‘She’d be near sixty, I think, if she still lives.’

  ‘Oh, Marion Lockhart!’ said the small woman. ‘Marion that was daughter to Robin Lockhart the sawyer, Mally. No, she’s dead, ten year since. Afore you came here, that would be, Sir John. Was she kin of yours, lassie?’

  ‘No, no,’ Alys said. ‘But a friend of mine in Glasgow bade me, if she still lived, to say she was asking for her.’

  ‘Glasgow?’ said the stout woman suspiciously. ‘I mind Robin Lockhart’s Marion, but I never heard her mention a friend at Glasgow. Did she ever say such a thing to you, Isa?’

  ‘No, never, Mally,’ said Isa, shaking her head. ‘What friend was that?’

  ‘Hardly a friend, I think,’ said Alys, ‘merely that Mistress Lockhart did her a good turn once and she minds her kindly. She’ll be sorry to hear she has died. What came to her?’

  The two heads turned, and a portentous glance passed.

  ‘I’ll away about my business,’ said Sir John hastily. Alys curtsied, but the old women hardly noticed him go.

  ‘Women’s trouble,’ said Mally, lowering her voice. Alys made the appropriate response, the indrawn breath and tilted head, and Mally nodded in satisfaction, sucked her teeth, and folded brawny arms under her large bosom. ‘See,’ she pronounced, ‘she’d the two boys no long after she was wedded.’

  ‘That was to Will Brownlie across the river,’ supplied Isa, clasping her claw hands at her narrow waist.

  Her friend sucked her teeth again. ‘Aye, and she was never the same after the second one. Terrible, it was, so her mammy tellt me.’

  ‘A big bairn,’ said Isa, nodding in turn, ‘a gey big bairn. Three days crying wi’ him, she was, and then he tore her.’

  Alys flinched, and Mally put a hand on her arm.

  ‘They’re no all like that,’ she said encouragingly, ‘she’d an easy time of it wi’ her first, likely you’ll no have trouble. You’re no . . .?’

  ‘No,’ said Alys.

  ‘Plenty time, lassie,’ said Isa. ‘Enjoy your man while you can, it’s never the same after the bairns come.’

  ‘But was that how Mistress Lockhart died?’ asked Alys, thinking that this comment was more acceptable than others she had had.

  ‘No, no. She lived another twenty year,’ said Mally.

  ‘Five-and-twenty,’ corrected Isa, ‘for she was buried the year after my George. But she was never no more use to her man, she tellt me that herself once. Troubled her the rest of her life, that did. She would aye see blood, ye ken,’ she confided in a whisper.

  ‘She’d the lassie, mind you,’ said Mally. ‘When her boys was near grown. Fifteen, the oldest one was, and Marion turned up here on a visit at her mammy’s yett wi’ a lassie bairn in her plaid.’

  ‘Aye,’ said Isa drily. Alys looked quickly at her, and met the sharp dark eyes under the folded linen headdress.

  ‘Had she an easier time with the lassie?’ she asked.

  ‘I never heard,’ said Mally regretfully. ‘Her mammy said it wasny long, the bairn slipped out like a calf, but I never got to ask her myself.’

  ‘I did,’ said Isa, and looked surprised at her own words. ‘She said the same to me. You mind, her mammy was bad at the time wi’ that spring cough that was in the town, and her at the Pow Burn, that was a great friend of Marion’s mammy, was away and no help to be got there, so I went in to see to the house for her and get her man’s supper, and there was Marion sitting wi’ the bairn, and a lassie from Dalserf wi’ her to nurse it. Easy time or no, she’d nothing to nurse it wi’ herself. No milk. The bairn must ha’ been four week old by then, old enough to ha’ lost the look of its daddy that they all have when they’re newborn. No great look of Marion it had neither,’ she added. ‘Strange, how it happens.’

  Mally shook her head, tut-tutting in sympathy.

  ‘What help could the Pow Burn folk have been?’ Alys asked. ‘Surely you’d never burn coal with a cough in the house, the smoke makes a bad chest worse.’

  ‘Oh, aye,’ agreed Mally. ‘Coals is the worst thing there is for a bad chest. You can’t beat a good mustard plaister, I always say.’

  ‘No, it was that Mistress Weir,’ said Isa. Both women crossed themselves. ‘She was awful handy wi’ a pill or a bottle at the time, if you went up the Pow Burn to ask, but she was away, you ken.’

  ‘Now is that no a strange thing,’ said Mally, sucking her teeth.

  ‘What?’ demanded Isa.

  ‘The bairn we’re speaking of – Marion Lockhart’s lassie – that’s Mistress Weir’s good-daughter now. No the one that does the healing, the other one, Mistress Brownlie.’

  ‘Oh, aye,’ said Isa. ‘I ken that. For her new man, him that’s missing, was asking me the exact same questions, just after Candlemas.’

  ‘Do you tell me!’ exclaimed Alys, in genuine astonishment. ‘Now if I’d realized, I could have asked about her mother when I saw her yesterday, and saved myself the walk into Carluke. But then I’d never have met either of you ladies,’ she said gracefully, and they nodded and smiled, much gratified.

  ‘Nor you’d no ha’ seen St Andrew’s kirk,’ added Mally, ‘and that’s worth a longer walk than here to Belstane.’

  ‘Was there aught else you wanted to learn, lassie?’ asked Isa.

  Alys met her sharp gaze again.

  ‘Mistress Lockhart’s sons might recall my friend,’ she said. ‘Where did you say they are now? I think neither of them has their father’s land?’

  ‘Aye, that’s right,’ agreed Mally, ‘for they were both wedded and away to their own place long afore Will Brownlie died. Barely saw his lassie wedded, he did, but at least he lasted so long, thanks be to Our Lady.’

  ‘I’d ha’ looked for him to last a while longer,’ said Isa. ‘Fine upstanding man he was. But there you are, you never can tell when you’ll meet your end, and at least he made a good death, so I heard.’ She crossed herself, and her friend nodded and did likewise. ‘Where did Marion’s boys go, Mally? There’s one of them in Draffan, is there no?’

  ‘Draffan,’ agreed Mally. ‘That would be Tammas, I’d say. And Hob’s in . . .’ She paused, and sucked her teeth again. ‘Is it Canderside? Both of them went into Lesmahagow,’ she explained to Alys, who understood her to mean the next parish.

  ‘Too far for me,’ she said.

  ‘Depends on why you’re wanting to go there,’ said Isa acutely.

  Lady Cunningham was in the stable-yard, seated on the mounting-block watching a young horse being led round, oblivious to the light drizzle which had started. She was booted and spurred, clad in a muddy riding-dress and crowned by a battered felt hat shaped like a sugar-loaf, and drew the eye as she always did.

  ‘Trot him out, Dod,’ she said, and turned her head as Alys came in at the gate. The young maidservant bobbed nervously to her mistress, then hurried by and into the house. ‘There you are, my dear. You’ve missed Gil.’ She turned back to scrutinize the horse’s action. ‘Aye, he’s still going a wee thing short on that leg, isn’t he? Another hot soak, Henry, I think. Now let me see the piebald.’

  ‘I have missed Gil?’ said Alys. ‘I thought he had gone out with the colliers, before I left. And he has not taken Socrates,’ she added, as the wolfhound commanded her attention from the end of the cart-shed with one deep imperious remark. ‘Why is he chained up?’

  ‘The brute’s to get washed,’ said Henry resignedly from his post at Lad
y Cunningham’s elbow. ‘A bath.’

  ‘A bath? Has he rolled in something?’

  ‘Gil came back,’ said his mother, ‘lifted a clean shirt and a bannock, and left again half an hour since for Linlithgow or somewhere of the sort, saying he might not be back tonight. He’s not alone, he took that fool Patey with him.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Alys blankly, over the sudden lurching feeling in her stomach.

  ‘I have a kiss for you,’ continued Lady Cunningham. ‘I will say, it’s a long time since he kissed me like that. He’ll be back the morn’s night, I should think. Then maybe Patey can get on with his work here.’

  He would not wish to delay by waiting for me, thought Alys. How far is it to Linlithgow? Can he be there in daylight?

  ‘And the dog?’ she said, to distract herself. Socrates sat down as she spoke and scratched vigorously at his ribs with a narrow grey hind foot.

  ‘That’s why the bath,’ said Henry. ‘Maister Gil said he’s been after a strange bitch up at Forth, and likely picked up all sorts off her. I’d as soon wait till he gets back, but I suppose it had best be done the day.’

  Alys looked at the dog again. He grinned at her and thumped his tail; there was a self-satisfied air about him which it occurred to her she had seen on his master at times.

  ‘I can help,’ she said. ‘He will mind me. What do you put in the wash for fleas or lice?’

  The piebald clopped out across the yard as Henry began to enumerate the herbs he preferred for the purpose. Lady Cunningham rose and went forward to feel the horse’s legs. The animal tossed his head, taking the groom by surprise, and she seized the halter-rope with calming words as hoofbeats sounded outside the high gate, one horse, approaching fast. Henry moved quickly to the gate, peered through the judas-hole, and visibly relaxed.

  ‘It’s young Douglas,’ he said, swinging one heavy leaf wide as Michael slowed to a halt and dismounted before the gateway. ‘We never looked for you till this evening, Maister Michael. Was it himself you wanted, or her ladyship?’

  ‘Is Maister Cunningham here?’ demanded Michael, leading his horse into the yard. Finding first Alys and then his godmother present, he stopped, stammering a greeting, and bowed to both.

  ‘My son has gone to Linlithgow,’ said Lady Cunningham, still by the piebald’s side.

  ‘Linlithgow?’ repeated Michael incredulously. ‘Why? I – I mean, I thought we were looking for the man Murray.’

  ‘I think this is about Murray,’ said Alys. ‘The sister of the two sinkers had heard they had gone there. I suppose he got confirmation of that at Forth, and he has followed them.’

  ‘Aye, but,’ said Michael, replacing his hat, ‘Murray never got as far as Forth. That’s what I’ve learned this morning. The trail’s crossed – our man never got beyond Lanark.’

  ‘I thought you said he had collected the money further on,’ Alys said.

  ‘Aye, at Ravenstruther,’ agreed Michael. He accepted a second beaker of ale from Alan Forrest, and sat down opposite Alys by the great fireplace in the hall. ‘Alan, that’s gey welcome. I’m as dry as a tinker. That’s what I thought too, Mistress Mason. Turns out I had the wrong questions. I asked, had the money for the coal been uplifted, and their steward answered me, Aye it had. I asked him when, and he checked the accounts and told me what days. I never asked him who had been there, or named any names to him yesterday.’

  ‘Ah,’ said Alys. Alan set the tray of ale and bannocks on a stool at Michael’s elbow, and withdrew to the side of the hall, listening with interest.

  ‘So today I rode on to Carlindean, that’s by Carnwath, you ken . . .’ Alys nodded encouragement, though neither name meant anything to her. ‘Jackie Somerville that stays there’s a friend of mine. He was from home, but I’d a word wi’ his mother, and she called their steward for me, and he turned up the accounts. The colliers lay there just the one night, but even so, there was only the one mess of food written down for their dole. When I said I wondered at that, that they must have eaten frugally for three working men, the steward said, Oh, there was but the two of them.’

  ‘Two?’ repeated Alys. ‘So we have lost only one? Is it Murray?’

  ‘Aye. There was just these brothers, Paterson, or whatever their name is. Murray was never there.’

  ‘So where have you lost the trail, Michael?’ asked Lady Cunningham. She swept in from the stair, restored to her indoor garments, and her grey cat sprang down from a shelf of the plate-cupboard and paraded across the floor to meet her.

  ‘Murray was at Jerviswood, before they went to Lanark, but not at Carlindean after it,’ supplied Michael. ‘And I went round by Ravenstruther the now and asked them, and he wasny there when the fee was uplifted, and he’s not been there since, either. That’s close by Lanark town, mistress,’ he elaborated, and Alys nodded.

  ‘Somewhere in Lanark, then.’ Lady Cunningham lifted the cat, which turned its smug yellow gaze on Alys. ‘Do you suppose he’s still there?’

  ‘Well, if he’s elsewhere, I’ve no notion where it might be.’ Michael sat down again as his godmother settled herself in her great chair. ‘Your good health, madam.’

  ‘Gil told me Murray goes drinking in Lanark. How big a place is it?’ asked Alys.

  ‘Big enough,’ said Michael gloomily. ‘It’s a burgh, maybe the size of the lower town at Glasgow. It’s got no cathedral or college to draw folk, but there’s good merchants and tradesmen in the place. I suppose there are five or six streets of houses, and all the vennels and back-lands.’

  ‘It should be simple enough, I suppose. You must search the taverns,’ said Lady Cunningham, ‘until you find some trace of the man. Someone must have seen him. Do we know who he sells coal to? Whatever householders he called on might have information for you.’

  ‘Aye,’ said Michael.

  ‘I could come with you,’ suggested Alys. ‘I have never seen Lanark.’

  ‘No, I don’t think –’ began Michael.

  ‘An excellent idea,’ pronounced Lady Cunningham, making room for the cat inside her loose furred gown. ‘You’ll not be in any taverns yourself, of course,’ she continued. ‘I can trust you to take care of Mistress Mason, I know, Michael.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Michael, and then, as this penetrated, ‘You can? I mean, aye, you can!’

  Alys, with a vivid remembrance of the occasion when she and Gil’s sister Kate had visited a tavern off Glasgow’s Gallowgait, simply nodded.

  ‘But why has Gil gone to Linlithgow?’ she wondered. ‘He did not say exactly what he had learned this morning?’

  ‘At Forth? No, he said little but what he thought of the dog’s exploits, and when he would be back.’ Lady Cunningham looked from Michael to Alys. ‘I suppose, if those two men got as far as Carlindean as you say, Michael, they might have completed the round, which I think would take them to Forth, do I remember right?’ Alys nodded. ‘So he might have found word of them there after all.’

  ‘And word that took him to Linlithgow. I wonder what it was.’

  ‘If they were to take one or two of the men, mistress,’ suggested Alan from the wall where he was still listening avidly, ‘they would make a faster job of it. Is there much doing in the stable-yard the day?’

  ‘Nothing that won’t wait, apart from the young horse’s leg,’ admitted his mistress. ‘Aye, that would make sense.’ She cast a glance at the windows. ‘You’d best go, then. The day’s wearing on. And you can get on wi’ your work, Alan, rather than stand about with your ears flapping like a gander’s wings.’

  * * *

  The rain was getting heavier.

  ‘Good for the oats, I suppose,’ said Michael, as they rode past the fields of Carluke town, one of the Belstane grooms ahead of them and one bringing up the rear. The fine turned earth of the strips showed dark between the narrow lines of rushes in the intervening ditches, and the boy who was supposed to be scaring the crows was sheltering under a white-blossomed apple tree. ‘So long as it doesny get too heavy.’


  ‘Is that a coney running on the plough-land?’ said Alys. ‘Surely it’s too big. Oh, and there is another. What are they doing? Do look, they are dancing!’

  ‘That’s hares,’ said Michael, peering under his hand at the brown creatures skipping across the near field. ‘You can tell by the black tips to the ears.’ He smiled, watching the animals’ antics. ‘They do that all the spring. Some folk says they’re gone mad, but it’s just how they choose their mates, so our huntsman tellt me.’

  ‘Good eating, a bawd is, if they wereny such unchancy beasts,’ commented the man riding behind them, a fair-haired leather-visaged fellow in his thirties called Steenie, a name Alys knew to be the Scots pet-name for Stephen. ‘You get them up on the grazing land and all.’

  ‘I saw them when we went to the peat-cutting,’ Alys recalled. ‘When Sir David was so sure they had dug up Thomas Murray. Do you think we will find the man today?’

  ‘I’m past caring,’ admitted Michael, ‘save for the need to silence Davy Fleming. He was on at me again this morning before I’d broke my fast, about all the misdeeds witches gets up to, according to his wee book. If I ever learn who lent it to him, I’ll cram it down his throat.’

  ‘I never thought to hear Gil abuse a book the way he did that one,’ said Alys.

  ‘I’ve not looked in it myself, but the things Fleming was telling me made my gorge rise.’ Michael rode in silence for a short space. Alys was looking about her despite the rain, admiring the blossom on the fruit trees for which Gil had told her the neighbourhood was famous, when he suddenly said, ‘Mistress Mason!’

  She opened her mouth to tell him to use her first name, but he hurried on.

  ‘Have you – did you see my Tib? Before she was sent to Haddington, I mean?’

  She was aware of a great rush of sympathy. No need of birthmarks or stolen children, here was a tale out of the romances, riding beside her under the wet blossom.

  ‘No, but I assure you she went to Haddington voluntarily – is that the right word?’ He stared at her. ‘I had a letter two weeks since. She said she was bored with her imprisonment, and weary for you, and her sister – Sister Dorothea – had invited her to visit.’