by Pat McIntosh
‘Like a charnel-house,’ she said, with a slightly hysterical laugh, recovering herself as the new odour reached her. ‘That sounds like what we’re seeking. Let me look.’ She moved over to peer at the mass he had uncovered, keeping the dog away with difficulty. It did indeed resemble a sheep’s pluck, nearly a week old and stained greenish by corruption, and with a reassuring absence of small limbs, of hands or feet or a face. ‘Aye. Cover it over, Henry, for decency.’
He obliged, making a thorough task of it, then looked intently at her and said,
‘Will ye ride for hame, mistress? I canny think ye’re weel, sic a colour as ye are.’
‘We could get after them,’ suggested Mealsack. ‘You can see their track fro here, they gaed away up the Mouse.’ He pointed across the clearing. Alys peered that way, and made out a swathe of crushed bracken and grass, which led under the trees and up the riverside.
‘No,’ said Henry, ‘no wi a lady to keep safe.’
‘Three people and the dog is hardly enough,’ said Alys at the same moment, making an effort. ‘And only two wi swords. You thought there were five or six of them? I knew I should ha brought my weapon. Better, surely, to go to Kettlands, tell them there and collect more men. Yes, I’m well,’ she added inaccurately, while the clearing swung round her, and Socrates leaned anxiously against her knee. ‘No, wait, Mistress Somerville was to send her men to hunt for the tinkers. They’ll all be fro the place.’
‘Come and mount up, lassie,’ said Henry, a hand at her elbow. ‘We’ll see you hame, and then get the countryside raised for a hot trod, catch up wi them wherever they went. I’ll wager they’ve made for Jerviswood.’
‘Wrong side the Mouse,’ said Mealsack. ‘How about Castlehill?’
‘How much a start would you say they’ve got?’ Henry asked, bending to offer Alys a knee to mount by. She swung herself into the saddle and arranged her skirts, trying to think clearly about that.
‘Mistress Madur left home late in the afternoon. It must have been evening already when they came here,’ she realised. ‘There’s no sign they made camp, or lit a fire, or the like, is there? I’ve seen none, but I was—’ She bit her lip.
‘They’s been a fire down yonder.’ Mealsack had clearly not stood idle while he minded the horses. ‘On the sand at the waterside. And you can see where they cut wood to it.’ He pointed again, to a series of white cuts in the trees. ‘Mind, if they were burning green wood—’
‘The smoke would alert the countryside,’ Alys said. ‘Someone would ha come to see. There’s dead wood to burn, though they’ve had most of what’s nearby. I think the green wood was for a litter, a hurdle, to put Mistress Madur on when she was fit to move.’
‘And when would that be?’ Henry wondered. ‘When could they ride on?’
Alys closed her eyes as the images rushed in on her again. The girl alone in the cave, in the twilight, in the dark, fighting to bring her bairn into the world. The men, helpless as most men became at such times (we cannot blame them, said a small part of her mind, we shut them out, small wonder they are no use) milling about down by the water. What could they do? Heating water was a traditional task, if any had a kettle or pan, but what would they do with it if they did?
‘They sent for help,’ she said in sudden relief, opening her eyes. ‘You mind, we saw one set of prints go out fro here, and return extra-laden. One of the men went for help.’
‘Who would they fetch fro here?’ Mealsack asked blankly. ‘They’s no wise-women down the banks o the Mouse, that’s for sure.’
‘Would they go into Lanark?’ Henry wondered, receiving his own reins from his junior. ‘More than one howdie in Lanark, I’s wager.’
‘So they were here,’ said Alys, resolutely sticking to the point, ‘long enough to fetch help, and then to bring the babe to birth. Maybe a while longer, till Mistress Madur was well enough to be moved. Then they cut withies for a hurdle, and carried her out.’
‘They’d no want to take her far like that,’ said Henry. He mounted up, and turned his horse to leave the clearing. ‘Likely it was dawn or later, they’d be here the maist o that night.’
‘I think,’ said Alys, ‘they were quite close to where they were going, close enough at least for a man to take word that she was captured and well. Well enough,’ she amended. ‘Maister Vary had word on Friday morning, you mind. They’d at least want to be sure she was taken afore they sent a message, they’d look all kinds of gowks if they threatened him and she’d already come safe into Lanark.’
‘So why’d they no go there for help?’ Mealsack objected, following on behind Alys.
‘Likely there was none to be had,’ said Henry. ‘It would have to be a woman they could lift and hide away wi the lassie. Whoever they took must be missing like she is, for they’d no be able to set her free, she’d bring the countryside down about their ears.’
‘But there’s none missing, is there?’ objected Mealsack. ‘We’d ha heard, surely.’
‘Best we start asking,’ said Alys.
At Henry’s insistence, they rode straight to Belstane, without calling at Kettlands. Alys, sunk in her own thoughts, surfaced long enough to agree with him, but left him to deal with Mealsack’s repeated offers to ‘jouk up the track and let them ken, afore we ride on’. She saw no point in adding to Mistress Somerville’s anxieties about her daughter before they had to. Herself, she was full of turmoil. To her faint relief, uppermost was a similar anxiety for Audrey Madur and her tiny baby, jolted about the Mouse valley on a hurdle, with one woman for company amidst a group of rough men. Surely men who would agree to such an action must be rough and dangerous? At least Audrey was valuable to them, as a playing piece to threaten Vary. But Audrey had a baby, however hard come by, and Alys had none; the familiar, powerful, painful waves of envy and jealousy surged through her, gripping at her belly, biting between her shoulderblades. Mary, blessed Mother, she thought, free me from this sin of envy, help me think as a Christian ought.
In the hall at Belstane she found not only Lady Egidia but also her youngest daughter. Tib was reclining on a daybed when Alys entered, her pretty face puffy with the effects of her pregnancy, dark curls straggling from beneath her linen hood and clinging damply to her forehead. She was fanning herself with an ivory-mounted goosewing and saying pettishly, ‘It wasny as hot when I left the house, Mother, I’ll swear it got hotter as I walked. I’ll be well enough when I’ve rested a bit. Alys!’ she added, struggling to sit upright, as Socrates padded past her to sprawl by the empty hearth. ‘You never came to see me.’
‘Gil and I are seeking Audrey Madur,’ Alys explained, ‘and I think we have found her traces.’ She curtsied to Lady Egidia, and crossed the wide chamber to embrace her good-sister. ‘No, lie back. How are you? Madame Mère is right, you should never have walked this far.’
‘It’s no more than a mile or two, and Beattie said walking was good exercise. I hoped to see her, but she’s from home. Besides, I’ve been on my own all day.’
‘We asked Michael’s help,’ Alys agreed. She drew a stool close to the daybed, took the fan and began wielding it, and Tib lay back, her face relaxing slightly.
‘As to that, anything he can do,’ she admitted. ‘Did you say you’d found her?’
‘No, but her traces,’ Alys said. ‘We found where the men took her first, and the track leads on up the Mouse Water. Henry wished to bring me home before he started to gather a trod. There were five or six horses. If all those had riders then three of us was never sufficient to approach them.’
‘Three?’ said Tib drowsily. ‘Oh, you and all. I hope you can find her soon. It’s a right worry, her being away from her friends this near her time.’
‘She’ll be safe enow,’ Alys said. She watched, still fanning the goosewing, until her good-sister’s eyes closed and her breathing grew even. When she was certain Tib was asleep she rose, caught Lady Egidia’s eye, and went quietly into the solar.
The older woman followed her, and closed t
he door behind her, saying, ‘What is it? Is Audrey safe, or no?’
‘She has borne the babe,’ Alys said. She was aware of a single swift, concerned look.
‘Go on,’ said her mother-in-law. ‘You found the traces, I take it?’
Alys recounted the afternoon’s findings. Lady Egidia listened, stopping her in the middle when Silky mewed at the door. Sitting down with her pet she heard the rest of the tale out, her expression growing grimmer as she listened.
‘So on Friday at morn,’ she said, ‘so far’s we ken, Audrey and the bairn were alive, there was a howdie or another woman wi them, and they set off towards Castlehill or further east, wi five or six men for an escort.’ Silky nudged her hand, and she caressed the cat’s ears, staring at the painted wall-hangings. ‘Then whoever ordered this done sent word to Vary. Which message was that?’
‘Seik not yir wyf do wir biddign,’ Alys quoted. ‘That arrived atween Terce and Sext on Friday. Then in the day, a man spoke in his ear, Tell nobody. No a word to a soul. And then nothing till this morning, when it was, Seik hir and scho is deid.’
‘Someone is aware that you and Gil are seeking her,’ said Lady Egidia.
‘I fear that,’ said Alys.
They looked at one another.
‘You say Henry is calling a hot trod thegither,’ said Lady Egidia. ‘If he can take charge, it will go well enow, he’s a man of sense. I wish Gil had come back wi you.’ Alys nodded, and went to sit down opposite her mother-in-law. ‘So what do we ken?’ Lady Egidia continued, still stroking the cat. ‘What do we ken about who has stolen her, for a start?’
‘He can write,’ said Alys, ‘or at least has someone about him who can write, and he can command silence in his men.’
‘He kens the lassie’s movements,’ observed Lady Egidia. ‘This was no deed of impulse; it was planned, in my estimate.’
‘So either he dwells close by,’ said Alys, ‘or he kens her well, and also her mother’s household.’ They looked at one another again.
‘Gil hasny thought of that one,’ said Gil’s mother. ‘How would it work? She guested wi her mother for a few days, wi instruction from Vary to stay till after the fair was over. I’d wager most of Lanark kent that. So the one that ordered it must ha kent when she left, and she only decided to leave that day.’
‘No, I think Vary expected her home on Friday, early in the day,’ said Alys. ‘Their anniversary. They had paid for a Mass, he looked for her to come hear it wi him.’
‘So I suppose,’ said Lady Egidia slowly, ‘they – the ones that took her – could ha watched for her day by day. I suppose they would see her leaving, or maybe arrange a signal, for they could hardly spend the entire day hidden in the branches to wait for her.’
‘They might,’ said Alys, ‘but they’d be gey uncomfortable.’ She considered for a moment. ‘The road runs near straight from Kettlands road-end to the brow o the brae, at the edge of the valley. Someone could hide under the trees, just by the brow, and see when Mistress Madur set out. A donkey and one of your horses, they’d be easy enough recognised. Then it’s a good half-mile from Kettlands to where she was taken. They’d ha near a quarter-hour to get to their positions.’
‘It would work,’ said Lady Egidia, her fingers stirring in the cat’s fur. ‘It would work. But it’s still worth maybe questioning the folk at Greentower, or Yolande Somerville’s own people, come to that, to see if they saw aught that evening or ken anything about signals.’
‘Nobody saw anything,’ Alys said, then added with guilty reluctance, ‘I suppose I should go out and see to that.’
‘It’s near suppertime,’ said her mother-in-law. ‘No a good hour to call on folk.’ There was a scratching at the door of the solar, and Alan Forrest’s voice called. Lady Egidia’s elegant brows rose. ‘Aye, Alan, what is it?’
‘It’s that chiel Crombie that used to be at the coal-heugh,’ said Alan apologetically, edging round the door. Behind him Tib made muffled, half-waking noises. ‘Raffie, or whatever his name is. He’s seeking his mither, willny hear me when I say she’s no here.’
‘Mistress Lithgo’s son,’ said Alys, opening her eyes wide. ‘Seeking his mother?’
‘Who is a wise-woman,’ said Lady Egidia. ‘I’ll come down, Alan.’
‘No need to disturb yoursel, madam,’ said a voice behind Alan. ‘Is my mither truly absent? Her house seems as if she’s just stepped out.’
Adam Crombie the youngest had improved, Alys thought, in the two years since she had seen him. His manners were nearer to acceptable, and he had lost his air of having a grudge at the world. The family had moved across the Clyde, to another coalheugh somewhere on the banks of the Avon; it seemed as if he must be doing well there, despite his quarrelsome wife. He was covered in dust from the roads, slightly smeared where the cup of ale Alan must have served him had washed his mouth clean, but his clothes, like his hair, were well cut and well kept.
‘She was to come to us a few days since,’ he was saying. ‘It was Bel’s birthday on Sunday, we were to have a wee bit feast. She never came, and I took it she’d been called out to a birth, but when she’d never appeared by this morn I thought to ride across and see all was right wi her.’
‘I’ve not seen her for a few days,’ said Lady Egidia. ‘I took it she’d been—’
‘But her house,’ said young Crombie, in a return to his former manner. ‘Have you looked into her house?’
‘Indeed no,’ said Lady Egidia, in cooler tones.
‘It’s as if she’s just now risen and gone out to the yard.’
‘Aye, he’s right, madam,’ said Alan, still holding the door open. ‘I looked in there just the now along wi him.’
‘Left all as it stood,’ Crombie said, ignoring this. ‘She’s rose from a meal, I’d say, and taken a cloak about her and left, and no returned. The mice have had the remains o the meal, but I’d say it was several days syne, long enow that if she’s called to a birth the whole countryside would ha heard tell of a lassie groaning this long.’
Alys stared at him, recalling with a chill how Gil had told her of a meal similarly abandoned to the vermin, the last time they had dealt with a death out here by Carluke. She shook herself, about to ask if there was any other sign in the house.
‘She’d no birth to attend till mine,’ said Tib behind him. They all turned to look through the doorway into the hall. She was sitting up on the side of the daybed, rubbing her eyes. ‘How long did I sleep, Mammy? No, Beattie’s engaged to me for the end of July, and she said the other day she’d no other hereabouts, and she’d need to get the word round.’
‘It looks as if it’s got round,’ said Alys. She looked at Lady Egidia. ‘I think we ken who was fetched to Audrey Madur.’
It was not easy to explain to Adam Crombie what they thought had come to his mother. For a start, both he and Tib kept interrupting, asking why this or that other action had not been chosen, asking why Henry had neither followed the trail of Audrey Madur’s captors nor alerted Kettlands. Alys found herself becoming sharp with them both. Finally, to her relief, Lady Egidia said firmly, ‘Small purpose in quarrelling wi what’s done. What we need now is to decide what we do next. Adam, do you want to ride out after Henry and the trod once you’ve eaten? I can lend you a horse and a helm. Or you could wait till Michael gets back,’ she added, with a faint malice which only Alys detected, ‘and ride wi him.’
‘No, I’ll go the now,’ said Crombie hastily. ‘I’d be glad of the loan of a beast, if you would, madam, for my bay’s about done. It’s no the distance, it’s the hills, this heat.’
Alys hid a smile, recalling how he and Michael had reacted, encountering each other here in the hall; some enmity engendered at the college in Glasgow had followed them out here, never explained. ‘I’ll come down,’ said Lady Egidia, rising, ‘and get a word wi whoever’s in the stables, since Henry’s away out. Come and choose a beast.’
Tib retired to the daybed to put her feet up again, and Socrates never stirred
, but Alys followed her good-mother and Adam Crombie down to the door of the tower-house, and out to the stableyard. She was sitting on the mounting-block in the cooler air of the evening, watching Crombie’s reaction to the various beasts in their loose-boxes and wondering idly if he had ever won his degree – if he should be called Maister Crombie or not – when there was a clatter of hooves outside. Several of the horses whinnied a greeting to the newcomers, and an ancient groom shuffled out to open the gate to the yard. Michael Douglas rode through it, followed by two of his men on horses Alys recognised. He reined in beside her, and slid from the saddle.
‘Where’s Gil?’ he said abruptly. ‘I think there’s treason afoot.’
Chapter Six
‘Aye, I doubt ye’re right, maister,’ said Provost Lockhart. He sat back in the saddle, scowling across the Burgh Muir at the fenced-off portion with its neat rows of juven ile trees, and fanned himself with his wide straw hat. Late in the day though it was, the sun was still hot. ‘I can see Dod Ballantyne’s hand all ower this.’
‘Will we get in there and uproot them, Provost?’ asked one of the constables hopefully.
‘No, we’ll leave them the now,’ said Lockhart. ‘I’ll see if I canny turn this to the burgh’s advantage first. What are they, Mattha?’
‘Larch, I’d say.’ Mattha nudged his nag closer and peered over the fence. ‘Or maybe Norrowa pine. I’ve no seen that growin and these areny just like larch. Daft time o year to plant slips, mind you,’ he added. ‘As hot as it’s been, they’re like to parch afore they take root.’
‘Aye, but if any o them does take root, it’s timber for the cutting down, in five or ten year,’ said the Provost thoughtfully.
Gil preserved silence, considering the document he had seen in the burgh clerk’s chamber, for an order of slips of something. So far as he recalled there had been no name and no other detail.