From the window he could see piles of planks in a distant field. They were for the Fair footbridge, of course. It was a damned nuisance having crowds of people and tents over on the meadow facing his house and spoiling his view every year, but it was only for a short time and it brought in money; nearly ten thousand was expected this year if the fine weather held. During the French Wars, takings at the Fair had dropped but now peace had come again and commerce was thriving. It was worth putting up with a few days’ inconvenience for ten thousand pounds. James Fox rubbed his hands and turned back into the room, planning how to spend the revenue – on some good bloodstock, clutch of fighting cocks and a stock of claret for the cellar he thought.
When he was dressed and breakfasted he went down to where young Playfair was still staring along the river towards the town of Lauriston. Soft curls of pale greyish-blue woodsmoke were rising from its chimneys, showing that preparations were being made for the cooking of many breakfasts there.
‘Good morning, your Grace. I’ve been thinking that your new house should look towards the south,’ said Playfair in an eager voice. He was a keen-faced young fellow in his early twenties, so keen that even at this time of day he carried a large roll of drawings in his hand.
‘Damned right. I don’t want to see their chimneys. I’d move the whole town out of sight if I could. One of my ancestors shifted a village out of the park, but it’d be more difficult to move a town!’ The Duke gave a short bark of a laugh when he spoke but his expression remained heavy and unattractive. His mouth was tiny and red, pursed as if he was perpetually displeased while his skin was sallow and his body, though tall, was ponderous and ill-proportioned with a broad chest, a protruding belly and awkward legs. To Playfair his manner was discourteous and disdainful, as it always was with anyone he considered his social inferior – which was almost everyone else on the earth.
The architect however was unabashed. I’ve made some drawings for the new façade…’ he said, unrolling the top sheet of plans and laying them down on a stone balustrade at the end of a grass-grown terrace where they fluttered slightly in a mild breeze coming up from the river on the valley floor.
‘Let’s see.’ The Duke snatched a sheet and studied it for a long time while the other man anxiously watched his face. If the plan for rebuilding Sloebank came to fruition, it would be William Playfair’s first major architectural commission, and a ducal client would make his future secure.
When the verdict was delivered it was not unfavourable. ‘It’ll do, I suppose. At least it looks more like a proper castle than the place does now, but it ought to be bigger. Give it another two wings, one on each side, and put more of those little turret things along the top. I like them.’
Playfair looked doubtful. ‘Don’t you think more turrets might be a little excessive?’ he asked.
‘Nonsense – what do you mean? Nothing’s excessive for a Duke.’
‘Of course not, but the cost of two more wings will be very high.’
Playfair was having a sore task in being paid for the plans he had already prepared. Sometimes he wondered if all his work would earn him as much as a penny piece in the end. Yet he laboured on because the honour of building a new castle, especially one in such a wonderful setting, could only be good for his reputation and would bring in shoals of other clients not so sticky about paying.
‘You chaps are always on about money,’ said the Duke testily, ‘but don’t worry. I’ve had a windfall. Look in at the factor’s office on your way out and he’ll let you have something on account. Then get to work and build me the biggest and best castle in the country. I want more windows, more turrets, more salons, more marble, more plasterwork and more carving than anywhere else. I want a place that’ll be the wonder of everyone who sees it. Go to it, Playfair! That place over there isn’t good enough for me now.’ He waved a hand back at the old house, a grey-coloured, four-square Georgian mansion which, albeit only seventy years old, had been allowed to become delapidated and streaked with damp slime that stained the pillars of the front entrance like wreaths of falling seaweed. ‘It’s too damned plain,’ announced the Duke, surveying his ancestral home.
Playfair made noises of agreement but he could not honestly condemn outright the work of the man who had designed it and was regarded as the master of Scottish architecture. He had to say, ‘It has a good line, though, sir. William Adam knew his business.’
The Duke was not so discriminating. ‘It’s too ordinary. Everybody has a place like it. Adam built half the big houses in Scotland and they all look the same to me. Even Rutherford, that merchant down in the town, has a finer place than I do now. It’s not right. It’s time I had a proper castle. You’re lucky to get this commission, Playfair.’
The young man agreed. ‘I know that, your Grace. Don’t worry, I’ll build you a house fit for Oberon.’
The Duke looked quizzically at him but eventually decided the fellow was harmless and stumped off indoors leaving Playfair alone gazing down the slope of hill towards the River Tweed. His heart was singing with delight at the opportunity that had been given to him. What a magnificent site for a house! He would build it on the level part of the breast of a hill and surround it at the back with a park full of fine trees, but there must be nothing in front to hide his façade which would be viewed best from the other side of the river. He closed his eyes and imagined it – the lines of windows, surmounted by fairy turrets, extended wings, pillars and porticos, shaded walks and stately rooms.
He stared across the Tweed to a long rolling meadow dotted with fine trees and noticed what a fine view would obtain from the salon windows. On the horizon before him rose a spectacular mound topped by the crumbling ruins of an ancient fortification which he knew to be the castle of Roxburgh. It stared down over meadows and the river. No finer setting could be imagined for his projected mansion for it had everything the romantic imagination required – rural peace, trees, water, grazing cows, romantic ruins and mystery. Nothing he’d seen on his travels through France or Italy could match it. He rubbed his hands together, knowing that his name would be famous forever if he succeeded in building the residence to harmonize with this lovely setting.
As he gazed over the lawns to the river, Playfair suddenly noticed with disquiet the huge pile of planks. He panicked – Surely there were no plans to build anything there? This threat of disruption to his idyllic setting upset him, and he turned on his heel to hurry off towards the kitchens where he had made friends who provided him with all the gossip from the Duke’s household. He quickly found the butler and pointed down towards the meadow as he asked urgently, ‘What’s going on over there? Surely they’re not building something, are they? They can’t. It’ll spoil the view from the new house that I’m planning.’
The butler laughed. ‘Ock, dinna fash yersel’, Mester Playfair. It’s only the bridge for the Fair. It’s held over there in that field every year and carpenters from the town build a bridge across. Folk from the town pay a penny to cross it – it’s a short cut.’
Playfair asked anxiously, ‘Do they take it down again when the Fair’s finished?’
The answer was a nod. ‘Of course they do.’
‘I’m surprised the Duke allows it. It’s facing his house and it spoils the view,’ said the architect fussily.
The servant pulled a face. ‘No Duke’ll ever stop the Fair and couldn’t even if he wanted to, because it’s been going on far longer than the Foxes have been around. It’s been over there since before the time of the monks. That big field used to be a town: the King had a palace in it and hundreds of folk lived there.’
Playfair walked to the kitchen door and stared across the river to the empty meadow that stretched for about a quarter of a mile along the river bank. It was fairly flat for most of its length except for one bit of sharply rising ground topped by a cluster of trees at the far end. The young architect had a lively imagination and the notion of a vanished town lying beneath the green turf intrigued him. His eyes were
full of interest as he turned back and exclaimed, ‘What happened to the town? Was it the one that a former Duke had moved away?’
The butler shrugged. ‘No, that was later. Roxburgh was abandoned and everything fell doon. Only the castle’s left and it’s falling down too, but the Fair’s still going on in the same place.’
‘When does it start? How long does it last?’ Playfair had intended to return to Edinburgh soon but the idea of visiting such an ancient event took his fancy.
The butler told him, ‘It aye starts on the first Monday of August – that’s next Monday. In my father’s time it used to last for eight days but now it’s only about two. Folk start moving on by Tuesday. Even the gypsies don’t hang about either because the townspeople don’t like them.’
The mention of gypsies intrigued the young romantic from the city. He raised his eyebrows and asked, ‘Do many gypsies come?’
‘In their hundreds,’ was the none too enthusiastic reply. ‘They flood in from far and near, the thieving buggers. We’ve to lock up everything that’s movable, even the buckets. They bring some fine horses, though. Folk come to the Fair specially to buy horses from them.’
‘I could do with a new horse,’ mused Playfair, remembering the Duke’s promise to give him money on account. ‘I think I’ll stay in Lauriston a little longer and visit the Fair.’
* * *
The rising excitement in the town was palpable as Playfair walked along Roxburgh Street on his way back to his lodgings in the Cross Keys Inn overlooking the square. An unusually large amount of traffic was wending its way down the road beside him – carts loaded high with sacks and bundles; carriages with ladies and gentlemen riding inside them; dust-stained travellers walking with the stride of people accustomed to covering long distances. Many of them were pedlars who carried tall staves in their hands and bore oddly shaped bundles on their backs. All this, Playfair realised, was the first eddies of the tide of humanity that would flood into town for the Fair.
The inn was packed when he walked in and the din was deafening. All the local gossips knew who he was and had long ago found out what he was doing in Lauriston. One or two looked knowing when they saw him and an old man called Cunningham raised a hand in greeting and called out, ‘How’s the Duke taking to getting married, then?’
Playfair rustled the banknotes in his pocket and grinned. ‘I didn’t know he was getting married but he’s in good mood right enough. Who’s the bride?’
The men around him all spoke at once. ‘It’s Canny Rutherford’s lassie!’ Cunningham leaned over to say in confidential tone, ‘I grew up wi’ Canny. Didnae have anything in his belly in those days, as shilpit as a gutted herring and white-faced as a bogle. You’d never think he’d grow into the big braw-looking man he is the day and you’d never dream his daughter would be marrying a Duke. It just goes to show it’s a funny old world, doesn’t it?’
Playfair was interested, for he wondered what sort of woman would become the mistress of the fine mansion he planned to build on the top of the hill. He hoped she would be a woman of discrimination for it would be hard to create a palace and have to walk away from it, knowing that the people who lived there were not able to appreciate what he had done. ‘What’s the girl like?’ he asked, and a positive burst of comments surrounded him but the one he first heard was a hoarse whisper at his ear, ‘She’s bleck.’
‘What?’ The surprise made him choke on his beer.
The answer was repeated more loudly. ‘She’s bleck, she’s a blackamoor. Her mother was a native of some place or other. It’s costing her father a pretty penny to get the Duke to marry her.’
Playfair’s face took on a dazzled look for he was a romantic young man and the idea of a poor man’s black daughter catching the eye of a Duke thrilled him. His vision of the right house for such a girl became even more magical.
As he sat listening to the bar-room gossip, more and more people were arriving in town, drawn there by the lure of St James’ Fair. Every road that led to Lauriston would be busier than usual over the next few days, with people coming down from Edinburgh, up from the port of Berwick and from Peebles and over the ridge of the Cheviots from England.
One of the busiest roads wended its tortuous way from Carlisle, through Longtown and Langholm to Hawick and Selkirk and then on to Kelso. It was a favourite route for people with big waggons and heavy loads because it had a good solid surface except in the wettest weather and, because it was busy, there was less chance of being robbed in the wilder places like the narrow defile called Mosspaul.
At the Lang Toon, as Langholm was called, a cavalcade of carts had spent Wednesday night under a grove of trees by the riverside. This was the travelling freak show – Archer’s Marvels Renowned Throughout Europe and the World, its placards announced. Some of the carts had slogans painted on their sides. The World’s Smallest Married Couple said one; Long Tom – A Genuine Giant proclaimed another. There was also a bearded lady, three pig-faced women who did a dance for the customers, a display of stuffed two-headed calves and chickens with four legs, and Battling Billy – The Strongest Man in the World.
All these attractions were housed in a selection of vehicles, some of them solidly roofed, half-moon shaped structures like real houses on wheels while the others were only carts with shaky canvas tents built on their platforms. The conveyance that carried the pig-faced women had bars on its windows and so did the one that proclaimed itself the home of Battling Billy.
By mid-morning on Thursday, 30 July, all the carts were being packed up for another day’s journeying and Jem Archer, the man in charge of the cavalcade, was bustling about making sure that everything was firmly tied down and ready for departure.
Jem was a tall, portly man of fifty-odd whose once tightly muscled body was beginning to run to fat. At first glance he looked formidable because of his size and by the fact that his tanned face was disfigured by a badly broken nose, but the wrinkles that marked his eyes and mouth were the signs of habitual smiling and his tough appearance was only a cover for his true gentleness. When he smiled, good nature and affability radiated from him. Yet people on the road knew that Jem was no simpleton or soft touch and treated him with great respect, for he had been one of the most famous bare-knuckle boxers of his generation and was still handy with his fists when the occasion demanded.
‘Come on, stow those tents! Come on, get your bairns aboard! Come on, get the horses harnessed if you don’t want to be left behind. We’ve a long way to go today,’ he was calling out as he toured his little encampment.
‘What’s the hurry? The Fair’s not till Monday,’ protested a scolding voice. The objector scuttled like a crab from behind a green-painted cart and scowled at Jem. She was a tiny woman, a little over three feet tall, with uncombed hair and a face like an evil gnome.
He folded his arms and stared down at her in a tolerant way as he said, ‘Come on Meg, get aboard. Alice wants to be there early.’
‘Alice! Of course it has to be the precious Alice. So that’s why we’re being hurried along the roads. I might have guessed. What’s wrong with taking our time like we usually do? We could set the show up here in Langholm tonight and make a bit of money if it wasn’t for your fancy Alice,’ spat the dwarf.
Jem said gently, ‘If you want to stay in Langholm you’re welcome, Meg, but we’re moving on and if you’re coming with us you’d better get your pony harnessed.’
The dwarf knew she was beaten and lurched off muttering. Soon Jem saw her and her equally tiny husband lifting their baby in its cocoon of blankets onto their cart. As he knew they would, they had decided to come along.
At last he was ready to line up his cavalcade. When the horses’ heads were all turned towards the road and he was satisfied that nobody had been left behind, he walked to the front of the line where his own caravan waited with two big bay horses between its shafts. It was the biggest caravan of all, dome-roofed and dark glossy green in colour with a wreath of brightly coloured flowers painted aroun
d the door. On the driving seat sat his Alice. He was smiling fondly as he walked towards her. ‘Ready then, Alice? Everything stowed away?’ he asked. She nodded and smiled back at him. Alice was a tall, slim woman with an unmistakable air of refinement and elegance although her blue dress was only made of cheap cotton and on her head was a countrywoman’s yellow straw bonnet. There were scarlet poppies wreathed around its shallow brim in the artistic way that only Alice could achieve. Jem had watched her picking the flowers that morning along the burnside.
‘Everything’s ready and I’ve seen to Billy. He’s asleep – I gave him a draught. Long Tom’s driving his cart,’ she told him in an educated voice that was a marked contrast to Jem’s own Cockney accent. He climbed on to the pole-shaft of the caravan, picked up the reins of his horses and settled himself happily beside his woman but Alice’s face wore a troubled look as she turned towards him and said, ‘Poor Billy. He didn’t want to take the draught today. He’s been funny since we started coming north and very bad since Carlisle. Do you think he knows he’s in his native country?’
Jem shrugged. ‘Who can tell? Maybe he smells the land or something. People can, you know. Some folk have a strong sense of place.’
Alice nodded and said, ‘I know. I’m feeling a little strange myself. It’s like rising excitement in a way so I can understand why Billy’s on edge. I know you don’t usually come so far north, Jem. It’s good of you to travel so far for my sake.’
He smiled, showing broken teeth. ‘I’d do anything for you, Alice. You’ve only to ask.’
She smiled too and leaned back against the wooden wall, raising her face to the sun. His eyes as he looked at her were yearning. Jem was not sure of Alice and was always afraid that one day she might leave him.
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