The Lanimer Bride

by Pat McIntosh

  ‘Is that all you want to know?’ asked Madame, an edge in her voice.

  ‘By no means, but it’s a start.’ Alys smiled at the pale eyes set in their bright paint. ‘Come, we are on the same side, and I am used to keeping counsel. Oh, and what do you know about the gunpowder?’

  After a moment Madame’s tinted mouth twisted.

  ‘I am not certain, you understand.’ Alys nodded, but kept her disbelief to herself. ‘The man on the pied horse is Irish. He seeks those willing to,’ Madame paused, selecting a word. ‘To eliminate a certain person at a time when he is a guest of the Scottish Crown.’

  ‘At whose behest?’

  Madame shrugged, with a rustle of brilliant green silk.

  ‘The Tudor, I imagine, though more than he would like to see the boy vanish from the board.’

  ‘Not an Irish— not anyone in Ireland?’

  ‘There are some who have lands in Ireland and in the Isles as well. Those who disapprove of offers which have been made already to the boy.’

  ‘Offers of friendship and support,’ Alys stated. ‘An offer of marriage.’ She smiled again into the painted face. ‘Gil told me this last night. Come, there is more. This name, for a start, O Flaherty. What does that tell you?’

  ‘It isn’t his name, of course. As you said.’

  ‘We have a description, of sorts.’ Alys relayed what Gil had told her. Madame Olympe nodded, as if she had expected it, and Alys added, ‘I have set Euan to ask about Lanark for the pied horse. The markings sound distinctive.’

  ‘Ah, the egregious Euan Campbell. He won’t find the beast, our man won’t risk Lanark.’

  ‘Further, he has only to shave to change his appearance mightily,’ Alys said.

  ‘As a final recourse only. They are much attached to their beards, these Irish.’ Madame tittered. The sound had not changed, Alys thought, since they first met.

  ‘Eh bien, tell me about him! How dangerous is he? Why does he want to find Audrey Madur?’

  ‘Why should he?’ countered Madame Olympe. ‘She’s surely no great prize.’

  ‘Why then did he question his hosts?’ Alys said again. ‘What other matter could they have had or known, that he wanted?’

  ‘Did they have aught that he’d want?’ put in Agnes in Scots. ‘A jewel, a paper? Could they ha hid something in the bairn’s wrappings, or the like?’

  ‘Heavens, I hope not!’ said Alys.

  ‘Qui peut dîre?’

  Madame shrugged dramatically, spreading her white hands.

  ‘Sandy,’ said Alys crossly, ‘we already know you are a solsecle of swetnesse and lady of lealte. Now will you stop fencing like this and answer me direct? I’m concerned for Gil, and for Audrey Madur, before anything else, but I’ll serve the Crown so well as I may after that. Now tell me about the Irishman. Or begin at the other end: what could Audrey’s uncles know or hold that he would want? What were they doing? Where did they get the money for this venture, whatever it is?’

  ‘Money?’ said Madame warily.

  ‘My good-mother says both are perpetually short of money,’ said Alys, ‘but Gil has described The Cleuch to me. Even by lantern-light, it was a handsome house, well appointed and quite new built. I could make a good guess at how much Somerville paid for it, first and last. What has he been at?’

  Madame Olympe sat back and began to laugh, dropping the elaborate manner so that Sandy Boyd surfaced.

  ‘It bites!’ he said. ‘I’m sorry, cousin, I do you an injustice. I should remember you took a wanted murderer on your own the last time we met.’ Alys maintained her quelling stare. ‘Very well.’ He crossed long legs under the gaudy silks, displaying one large, elegant leather shoe. ‘So far as I know, Jocelyn Madur and Somerville hatched a plan with the late burgh clerk to plant out timber on the Burgh Muir, which is like to cause a riot when the burgesses get to know of it. I do not know whence came the funding, though I suspect not from Ballantyne. They stole away Mistress Audrey to use as a bargaining token with her man, to get them permission before the Council to use part of the common land.’

  ‘That would not be lawful,’ Alys objected. Boyd shrugged one shoulder.

  ‘Une bagatelle. Our good friend William brought the little trees from Ireland. I am not certain how much more he carried, but there was certainly a cartload of trees.’

  ‘Ah.’

  Boyd nodded, and continued, ‘He tells me, and who am I to doubt him, that he took exception to the use of a lady in Audrey’s state, and demanded his due payment from Ballantyne, who laughed at him. Then Ballantyne was slain, not by Billy, I suppose by Somerville from what your good-brother had to report, and so we come to what you know already.’

  Not entirely, thought Alys, but close enough. What has he left out?

  ‘Do you know where Tarbrax is?’ she asked. Boyd blinked in startlement.

  ‘No,’ he said.

  ‘I was told Somerville has a place there.’ She considered him. ‘I want to ride up to Forth and question them there, to see if they saw Audrey being moved. Even shut into a horse-litter, she’d be noticed, I’d have thought.’

  ‘True,’ agreed Boyd.

  ‘Will you ride with me?’

  He looked even more startled, and Agnes raised her head from her mending, looking from one to the other.

  ‘I think you should, madam,’ she said in Scots. ‘Mistress Mason has her men wi her, it’s no as if you’d be riding out your lone. You’ve the blue worsted riding-dress,’ she added.

  Getting Madame Olympe apparelled for riding and on horseback was less than straightforward. The blue worsted riding-dress, braided on body and sleeves with enough red and green silkwork, Alys estimated, to trim any three of her gowns, was not easily assumed, given how many parts must be laced, buckled, strapped and tied on. The headdress which went with it was similarly secured by two separate gilded leather straps. Certainly, Alys reflected, if Madame took a tumble from her horse, she would not wish her headdress to come off. Over that went a wide-brimmed straw hat. Then a pair of red leather boots must be introduced on to Madame’s large feet and shapely legs.

  ‘Mon Dieu, what a labour of Hercules!’ exclaimed Madame, as Agnes fastened the buckles on these. ‘We must take food with us, or I shall faint with exhaustion!’

  Agnes, rolling her eyes, set out to the Nicholas Inn to order matters, and shortly returned with Alys’s men, who were leading the Belstane horses and a sturdy bay with a wall eye.

  Henry, assessing the two figures on Maister Lightbody’s doorstep, said only, ‘Where are we for, mistress?’

  ‘Forth,’ said Alys crisply as he put her up into the saddle of her own beast. ‘Is it far?’

  He thought briefly, watching Euan attempting to offer Madame Olympe a knee to mount by while the third man, a garrulous fellow called Patey, held the bay’s bridle.

  ‘Eight mile or so. No that bad. I wondered why she,’ he jerked his head at Agnes, ‘wantit bread and cheese in the saddlebags.’

  Riding through Lanark in company with Madame Olympe was an experience Alys felt she would rather not repeat. People turned to look, many ladies curtsied and waved, small boys ran alongside the horses until Henry threatened them with his whip.

  ‘You never do anything unobtrusively, do you?’ she said.

  ‘Oh, my dear, why would I do that?’ returned Madame, with a hand at her jaw. ‘One must always be observed. Why else were we given clothes to wear?’

  ‘For modesty?’ Alys offered, thinking of Mère Isabelle’s strictures.

  ‘Modesty,’ pronounced Madame, ‘is for those who have that concerning which to feel modest. You, for instance, my dear. The rest of us must make do with being noticed.’ She waved and bowed to the gate-ward on the North Port, while Alys tasted this remark, coming to the conclusion that it was a compliment.

  It was another hot day, and nearing noon. About them the fields lay peaceful, the grain ripening, the second crop of hay rising almost while one watched. Larks sang overhead, small brown
birds whirred back and forward between the grassy banks on either side of the road, a kestrel hovered on their right. A straw hat like Madame’s might have been a good idea, Alys thought.

  ‘Where is this Forth?’ Euan asked behind her. ‘I was thinking it is the river where Linlithgow is, but we will not be riding so far the day, surely?’

  ‘It’s a wee toun up yonder,’ said Patey, waving an arm at the hills which rose purple ahead of them. ‘Aye windy up there, the folks a’ grow sideyways like trees.’

  ‘These hills are very different from Ardnamurchan,’ said Euan, his tone disapproving. ‘Barely they deserve to be called hills.’

  ‘Still kill you if you get lost out here in bad weather,’ said Henry.

  ‘What did you find when you led the trod to Castlehill?’ Alys asked Henry. He shook his head.

  ‘That was a waste o time. I’d my doubts the hale time we was there,’ he admitted, ‘but what wi young Crombie shouting about his mammy, and Richie Thomson the steward going on about how affrontit he was, what an inconvenience and offence this was for his tenant, which is a William Lindsay that’s a cousin to Montrose, it was kinna hard to keep my mind on what I was at.’

  ‘So what made you doubt them?’ Alys asked, aware of Madame Olympe listening.

  ‘For a start, the trail led straight there. You’ll no ken the house, mistress?’ Alys shook her head. ‘It’s on a spur atween two burnies where they run into the Mouse, high up, a good spot to defend. They’s no other spot they could ha been headed, the way they climbed up out the glen. So claiming he’d never set eyes on the lassie or on Mistress Lithgo, well, it didny hold water. I’d wager Lindsay had no notion o what we asked about,’ he added thoughtfully, ‘but Thomson kent a lot more than he was saying, for all young Crombie’s flyting at him.’

  ‘And you searched the barns,’ said Alys.

  ‘I did, mistress, and the outhouses and all. I couldny see any sign there’d been two women and a bairn in any o them. I wished I’d thought to take the dog wi me.’

  ‘He was asleep and snoring,’ said Alys. ‘You’d ha needed to carry him.’

  ‘Maister Gil said when he cam home, he thought the women had been there for a while and moved on, perhaps direct to The Cleuch. And then moved again last night.’ He grinned sourly. ‘Ye’d think they’d be seen, all this riding about Lanarkshire by night, and the nights as short the now.’

  Forth was an unprepossessing village, a huddle of little houses each in its toft, perched on the bare hillside below a tiny church, surrounded by bent trees and ripening crops in the striped fields. The crops, Alys noted, were nowhere near so far on as the grain around Lanark. Several dogs ran out as they approached, barking a warning; they included a couple of shaggy grey creatures with long legs at which Alys stared, frowning. Several children appeared to shout at the dogs and watch, round-eyed, as the travellers rode into the hollowed-out street of the village and halted, looking about them. Somebody ran into one of the low houses, and a couple of men emerged, dressed in patched homespun and peering under their hands at the travellers. One of these came forward, ducking in an awkward bow, blue bonnet in hand revealing a balding pate.

  ‘What’s your will, ladies?’ he said politely enough. ‘Are ye seeking somebody here in Forth? I’m Martin Burns, see, I’m the clerk,’ he nodded at the diminutive church further up the hill, ‘if there’s aught I can do for ye—?’

  Alys, finding both Henry and Madame Olympe looking at her, realised she had not completely thought this visit out. She swallowed, and composed her mind.

  ‘I think there was a fire up at the house last night,’ she said.

  ‘Aye, there was, mistress.’ The clerk bent his head and crossed himself.

  ‘I should like to speak to those who were there.’

  ‘At the fire, mem?’ he said, startled.

  ‘I’m Alys Mason. My husband was there,’ she said reassuringly, not looking at Madame Olympe. ‘Maister Cunningham. He helped the household, and spoke with the Depute after.’

  Enlightenment came to his face.

  ‘Och, him!’ he said. ‘Aye, we’ve cause to be grateful to him right enough. Would ye maybe step inside, mistress, out the sun, and take a drop o Ellen Brewster’s ale? Tammas, run to your mammy,’ he said to one of the children. ‘Bid her bring a couple jugs o ale to my bit.’

  ‘That grey dug wi the long legs,’ said Henry, catching Alys as she slid from the saddle, ‘it’s the image o our Socrates, in’t it no? And the other one and all.’

  ‘How could that be possible?’ she asked, looking him in the eye. He grinned and gave her a tiny nod. Alys looked about, and found that Madame Olympe, elbows out, her wide skirts held up out of the dust on either side, was already picking her way towards the house Martin the clerk had indicated. Alys followed her, working out what she wanted to ask.

  Inside the clerk’s house it was dim, and smoky, but there were several stools, two kists and a settle, and a box bed lurked in the shadows at the back of the single chamber. The peat fire glowed red on the central hearth, with a stewpot bubbling quietly above it on a tripod. A woman in a faded red kirtle appeared almost on her heels with a jug of ale slopping over in each hand, eager to pour for Martin Clerk’s guests and find out what brought them to Forth. She was a sturdy woman, with bare muscular forearms and a generous bosom, and she lost no time in extracting beakers from a shelf near the door, wiping them carefully with her sacking apron, and filling them with ale, while Burns himself placed seats for his guests. Outside, beyond the open door, Alys was aware of the horses being moved into a shady spot, of another jug of ale being carried for the men.

  ‘And ye’re wanting to speak to those that were at the fire,’ said Burns, after suitable healths had been drunk. ‘Ye’ll ken we lost one o the laddies. A sad thing, very sad.’

  ‘I do,’ agreed Alys, aware of her companion’s silence. ‘Our Lady bring him safely from Purgatory.’

  ‘Amen,’ agreed Burns, crossing himself again.

  ‘How do the others do the day? I hope they’ve no trouble wi their breathing.’

  ‘One or two,’ he admitted. ‘Coughing, pains in the chest, and the like.’

  ‘I can recommend an elixir will help that; we found it a useful thing when I witnessed a great fire at the Blackfriars in Perth. And I suppose there’s little work at the house meantime,’ she went on. ‘That’s, is it five households? that have lost earnings, and no saying when Somerville’s heir will fee them again.’ He nodded. ‘I’d like a word wi the mistresses o those households and all.’ Madame Olympe looked sharply at her, but remained silent. ‘Have you heard aught from the Depute the day, or from the heir?’

  ‘No from the heir, it’s ower soon,’ said Burns. ‘The Depute was in the toun this morn, asking who kent aught, but there was none o our laddies kent nor buff nor stye as to who set the fire nor how it spread, nor where the man might be that rid the pied horse.’

  ‘And Somerville’s steward has never shown?’

  ‘Jackie Somerville? No him,’ said Burns witheringly. ‘If he’s heard the word, I’s wager he’s —’ He bit off what he was about to say. Heading for Leith? Alys speculated. Filling his purse? Nothing complimentary, at all events. ‘As to the way Somerville was treated,’ Burns went on, ‘no to mention Eastshiel found deid in the paddock, it’s been a dreadful day for The Cleuch yestreen, mistress, a dreadful day.’

  ‘Indeed it has,’ she agreed. ‘And to think that if Somerville hadny sent half his men away after suppertime, the house might ha been saved.’

  ‘So they say,’ he said, eyeing her in the dimness. ‘I never seen them go, myself, but the laddies tellt me.’

  ‘What, they never came through Forth?’ Alys said, and took another mouthful of the thin, sour ale. ‘I’d ha thought they’d ride through here whatever road they took.’

  ‘Aye, well, maybe no if they went the other way,’ said Burns. ‘If they went to Tarbrax, or the like.’

  ‘Tarbrax?’ she asked innocently.
‘What’s that?’

  ‘Another o Somerville’s places. Seven or eight mile east fro here, it is. He doesny— he never dwelt there much, the tower’s no in good repair, but there’s sheep and a bit barley, and the ferm-toun. They might ha went there.’

  ‘They did,’ said Mistress Brewster. ‘I seen them.’

  ‘What, are you here yet, Ellen?’ said Burns, startled.

  ‘You saw them, mistress?’ said Alys. ‘How was that?’

  She moved forward out of the shadows at the back of the chamber, nodding to Alys, trying unsuccessfully not to stare at Madame Olympe’s painted face.

  ‘I was out at the midden after supper,’ she said. ‘I looked up the hill, and I seen them on the road, gaun away from The Cleuch, up past the ewe-buchts, ye ken? That’s the road to Tarbrax, right enough.’

  ‘There’s other houses that road,’ said Burns dubiously. ‘Will ye tak more ale, mistress?’

  ‘I’ll take more, wi pleasure,’ said Madame Olympe, holding out her beaker, her French accent much moderated. ‘Is it your own brew, mistress? I never tasted the like, in Scotland or France.’ A true word, thought Alys. ‘What do you place to the wort? Will you not sit a moment and let me know?’

  ‘Aye, sit, Ellen,’ said Burns, getting to his feet, ‘while I tak Mistress Mason to speak wi them that was at the house.’

  He led Alys out into the street, where Henry and the other two men, in the shade by one of the gable-ends, looked up alertly from the jug of ale. She gestured to them to stay where they were, and followed the clerk to the next house down the hill, away from the little church.

  ‘This is Eck Smellie’s house,’ he said quietly. ‘Danny cam home fro the fire, but Davie didny. Their mother dee’d last Yule, o the chin-cough; there’s four more weans after Davie. The neighbours will be in, for the wake.’

  She nodded, recognising this for what it was: the priest’s recommendation, or that of his delegate, to the giver of charity. Grateful for the preparations she had made before leaving Belstane, she delved for her purse under the wide skirts of her riding-dress, extracted the largest of the small bundles in it, and tucked it into her sleeve.