Hugh dipped his head, acknowledging the rebuke. ‘I see you were at work. We didn’t mean to disturb – only that we would wish to appear presentable to the King, and thought to take advantage of your lodging, our own proving less than adequate.’ He was scratching at his leg.
Alexander’s face now showed genuine amusement. ‘You came to Stirling without a potion for flea bites? Surely you left Braidstane in a hurry. It’s not like Grizel to let you away unprepared. Here . . .’ He moved to a chest at the other side of the room and rummaged through it, emerging with a small bottle that he lobbed at Hugh, before gesturing towards a table with a basin and ewer, ready filled. ‘Be my guests, though I’m afraid the water is cold. It is rather too pricey to expect service of real quality two storeys up. And supposing I did pay for hot water, it would likely be cold by the time it arrived. It’s easier, and better, to save the silver.’
He produced a towel and tossed it to Patrick, who held it while Hugh splashed water over his face and neck, and ran his damp fingers through his hair.
Patrick said, ‘At the risk of being cried for a lassie, there’s a comb in my baggage that might serve you well.’
‘There is nothing amiss with my hair that a few minutes in the air won’t sort.’ Hugh turned for support to Alexander, who said, with a twitch of his lips that might be construed as a smile,
‘A wee pickle of a straighten wouldn’t go amiss. You aren’t in the barracks now and do not go before James as a soldier. You may despise the Cunninghame’s presentation, but believe me, a little effort in that direction may serve you well.’
Hugh found the comb and attacked his hair, so that he looked, for once, more the laird than the mercenary. Alexander was leaning over the table, scribbling a last few words, scoring out here, adjusting there. Hugh paced up and down the small chamber, and unconsciously undid any good that he had done to his hair by running his fingers through it again. Patrick, having smoothed his natural curls into submission with a practised hand, tossed the comb back towards him, and in a reflex action, Hugh caught it, but looked at it in surprise.
Patrick forestalled him. ‘Do it again and this time put your hat on before you wreak havoc. Thank God for a windless day – there is a chance you may pass muster, supposing we do not wait long on the King.’
Alexander turned from the table, his arms full of papers. Hugh expected another lecture: on the value of swallowing pride, of taking a little care to his position as the new laird of Braidstane, of the responsibilities which made conforming to expectations no longer an option, but an obligation. He was steeling himself to respond and so was caught off guard by Alexander’s question,
‘How do you for horses?’
‘Fair enough, I suppose.’
‘Have they stamina, and a fair turn of speed?’
‘In an ordinary way, yes, though not in the hunting league.’
‘It isn’t yet arranged but, if you were to invite the King to take the chase. . . .’
Hugh shook his head. ‘That isn’t an expense I thought to make, especially as we are not on home territory and it wouldn’t just be James but half the court that followed.’
Alexander waved his sheaf of papers and said, ‘There are those who would wish to join our poetry circle. I do not think it impossible that I could arrange some accommodation. Do you take care of the swearing of friendship with Glencairn, and issue an invitation to all to join with you on Thursday: as our guests. Do not say where exactly. James enjoys a mystery.’
‘There isn’t a fear that you can’t make good the invitation?’
Alexander’s voice was cheerful. ‘A gamble maybe.’
Patrick made as if to speak.
‘Rest easy. It is but a small risk. And the better the chase, the higher your stock will rise. Glencairn will be fair scunnered for not thinking of it.’
From the relish in Alexander’s voice, Hugh accepted fully, for the first time, that his uncle matched his own dislike of the Cunninghames. ‘My thanks, uncle and . . .’ he tapped the page in Alexander’s hand, ‘. . . with luck we may catch more than a fox or two, if things fall out well.’
There was the sound of running footsteps in the passageway outside.
Alexander turned, ‘I’d better be away. The King set us a task yesterday, and I mustn’t be behind with my response. Don’t wait long to follow, but don’t be over hasty either. James will wish to hear our verses first before he turns to your cause.’ From the doorway, he finished, ‘We need but half an hour for our mutual congratulations and if you are to hand then, my softenings may have made James disposed to look kindly on you. I trust,’ Hugh heard the hint of steel in his voice, ‘you won’t disappoint me, or we shall all suffer for it.’
Hugh acknowledged both the advice and the warning. ‘I shall play the game, uncle, have no fear. You shall find me almost a poet in my swearing. God knows I have practised enough, that I might not retch at the sound of my own voice.’
The Great Hall at Stirling, where James had chosen that the Montgomeries and Cunninghames should publicly swear to end their family quarrels, was full to bursting. Hugh followed Patrick in, squeezing through to join Robert Montgomerie, positioned near the front of the hall. The King sat on the dais surrounded by his poetry circle. Others hovered close, betraying by the stiffness of their posture a mixture of nerves and expectation, their desire to catch a glance, an invitation to join the favoured few. Members of the council clustered in the large bay window area, among them Secretary of Scotland, Maitland, clutching a roll of parchment that he tap-tapped against his leg, perhaps indicating a suppressed frustration that James put poetry before the affairs of state. The man who currently was entertaining James with a poem that praised the King’s prowess on the hunting field, Hugh recognized as ‘Old Scott’ – who in Mary’s day had written ‘Welcome illustrat Lady and our Queen’. – How easy it is for a poet, Hugh thought – change a word here, alter another there, and old allegiances as easily replaced. That he would shortly be up there with them, posturing and pretending a friendship that he intended to keep only for so long as was necessary, did not make him any more sympathetic to the ploys of others. As he despised what he was about to do, so he despised the manner in which others also prostituted themselves before James.
Patrick leant sideways and spoke softly in his ear. ‘Have a care, Hugh. Your thoughts are as plain as the red in your hair: a child could read them, and the King, for all he hasn’t reached his full majority, is no child. Nor Glencairn either, and as for William, he may play the fop, but it won’t have addled his brain. . . . And if you don’t let go of my arm, I shall bear the mark for months to come.’
Unclenching his hand, Hugh released Patrick, who bent his arm sideways until the elbow joint cracked, flexing his fingers. ‘Better mine than Cunninghame’s, I do suppose. I shan’t need a fighting arm for the present – or not I trust, till I am back in France.’
There was a stir around James. Hugh saw that Old Scott had finished his piece and was moving back to let another of the group take his place.
Patrick whistled under his breath. ‘Perhaps there is something in this poetry game. I hadn’t thought to see a lady among the company, and pretty at that. I must ask Alexander . . .’
‘We aren’t here to play, Patrick. Nor will we stay long.’
‘Oh I don’t need long,’ Patrick grinned, showing even, white teeth, ‘I never need long – indeed I tire easily, and must perforce rest between bouts.’
‘This lady keeps dangerous company; little use my taking care of appearance, if you will cause an affront to one of James’ inner circle.’ Aware that his grip was again over hard, Hugh relaxed and made a conscious effort to sound casual, ‘A poet might have higher expectations than even you can meet. This is not Leyden. Nor do we wish to close doors that may be to our advantage. Offence here would be inconvenient, at the very least.’
Patrick half-turned, so that the tall, thin man nearest to them, who showed his restiveness in the way he alternately
swivelled the cairngorm ring on his left hand and picked at imaginary specks of fluff on his clothes, might not pick up his words. ‘I have no intention of causing offence, but a little pleasant conversation in the right direction may open doors to us, not close them. Have you ever known me to sail so close to the wind that I am over-turned?’ Despite himself, Hugh grinned at him. It was true that he hadn’t yet met a lady who remembered an encounter with Patrick with anything other than pleasure, though there were many who wished that they might have held onto him a little longer.
At the other side of the hall Glencairn moved through the throng, William on his tail, halting, at just such a distance to indicate availability, yet deference to the moment of the King’s choosing. Robert Montgomerie also stepped forward, bringing himself into James’ sightline, but not close enough to Glencairn for discomfort. Hugh and Patrick edged towards him. Hugh saw William glance in their direction and then turn to make some comment to the man who stood behind him. If he had any doubt that it was in disparagement, the way in which the other man looked around as if to see if the remark had been overheard, would have confirmed it. He noted the man’s bearing – light build, about his own age, plainly dressed – and thought him an altogether unlikely companion to William, who wore for the occasion a wide ruff and a tall-crowned hat of striped green velvet, which sat on his head like a stalk of butterbur. It was trimmed by a large brooch, aglitter with pearls, ostentatious, even by William’s standards.
Patrick murmured, ‘We are very much the country cousins here. Take care to make capital of the invitation to hunt, for we won’t impress else.’
‘I have no wish,’ Hugh was equally quiet, ‘to make the kind of impression that William aims for, supposing I had the money to waste.’ He nodded in the direction of the man behind William: ‘Who’s that, d’you know? I shouldn’t have thought him William’s type.’
‘No idea, but I agree, he doesn’t look altogether comfortable in the company he keeps.’
Hugh said casually, ‘I think that I begin to like him. If you wish to open a door or two on my behalf, make some discreet enquiries as to his identity and the reason he finds himself in Cunninghame’s company.’
Chapter Eight
At Broomelaw, the weather turned. Kate didn’t normally mind the rain, if so be it was the soft westerly rain that carried the salt tang of seaweed along with the flocks of gulls blown inward like a tide. Munro thought the gulls a curse, with their raucous cries, their scavenging, and the mess that followed them everywhere. Kate preferred to think of their grace as they wheeled and circled and lit on the barmkin wall as lightly as if they weighed but a few ounces rather than the pound and three-quarters of a full-grown bird. There was something oddly attractive to her in the way they fought fiercely over the scraps she scattered for them. Though she had to admit, to herself, if not to anyone else, that their skitters didn’t improve the quality of the patch of grass surrounding the tower, but rather, the opposite.
Coarse though it was, it struggled to survive the tramping of boots and of the horses that, however much she remonstrated, seemed to find their way onto it, whenever there was an arrival or a leaving. She had tried once roping off an area to preserve as a garden – on the west side where it would catch the evening sun – but had given up in disgust when Munro leapt the rope to head for the outside cludgie, refusing to take the longer route by the path, succeeding in making, instead of a general scrubbiness, a defined track. If she couldn’t get her husband to comply, then small chance servants or anyone else paying attention to her wishes. But lately, the Cunninghame calls increasingly taking Munro away, she had replaced her ropes and had watched with pleasure the fresh green shoots that spring brought. And so, although the present rain was not a soft mizzle, but pelted down, pooling in every dip and hollow around the base of the tower, Kate sat in the solar and thought of the benefit to her grass that, once the fierceness of its onslaught had diminished, it would afford.
The wind was another matter altogether. When she took herself out to check on the suckling cows, their calves but a few days old, she found that she could hardly stand against the gusts that came, not from the friendly west, but whipping over the hills to the north. They tore down the valley; bending the tall pines before them, so that fresh growth that should have tipped the bough ends bright green, fell instead amidst the dusty tan of last year’s needle fall.
It made her think of Munro and of the distance between them. Anger remained, the smouldering remnants of a fire, tamped down by the uncomfortable recognition that it had been his desire to protect her and the bairns that had driven him to his part in the business at Annock. And the equally uncomfortable thought, that she had not been so tested.
She spent an uneasy week, largely confined to the house, while the shutters rattled continually and draughts funnelled under the doors. The wind blew down the chimneys, so that the fires burned fitfully and her eyes stung with the smoke that billowed in bursts from the hearth. It was difficult to wait, with no word, no idea if he could manage to avoid trouble, no knowledge of how long he would remain at the court. What made the wait all the harder was the knowledge that attendance on the King was fraught with hidden dangers as well as potential rewards. Munro had the benefit of James in some five years, and though capable of trading quotations in Latin if he chose, he placed little value on book learning, considering education best kept for bairns, or for the latter years when physique was failing. And fine for him.
The old envy stirred in Kate: that boys, aye grumbling, were shipped off to college as a matter of course, while she, though taught her letters, remained at home to gain other, more practical, accomplishments. Devouring the few books and pamphlets that had come her way, she had rolled around her head the names of authors that her brother had groaned over, the shape and sound of them: Horace and Bude, Froissart, Ascham, Ronsard, sharp with elicit pleasure, like the bite of early brambles on her tongue. She had imagined losing herself in a maze of books, the air heady with poetry, thick with prose. The King, they said, had a library of some six hundred volumes; classic and modern, in a host of languages and on every imaginable theme. She thought on them now, envy became an ache. Some she knew would fascinate: herbals and the like, the text and illustrations both. Others she likely wouldn’t care for: on war or sport or the responsibilities and privileges of kingship. Yet all these and more fed James’ mind and framed his thinking and set him as far apart from Munro and his ilk as sun from moon. And therein lay the danger. Her husband was no player. If James’ attention should light on him. . .
Anna burst into the solar, Robbie chasing her, grasping for the ribbon that flew loose at her waist.
‘Whoa.’ Kate spread her arms and the twins skidded to a halt. She gathered them against her and breathing in their warm scent, the hard knot that had lain beneath her breastbone since Annock, began at last to dissolve. A minor laird Munro had been born and a minor laird she prayed he might remain. And she his wife.
Chapter Nine
Sunlight from the tall alcove windows spread across the dais of Stirling’s Great Hall and spilled onto the floor below, raising the temperature in the already airless chamber well beyond comfort. Munro, watching as William stepped into the pool of light, was glad on two counts not to follow. There was a shift in the group around the King, the poets moving back, others surging forwards, jockeying for position, hoping to catch James’ eye. Maitland, clearly losing patience, stepped in, blocking other hopefuls.
James took the proffered parchment and laid it on the table in front of him. He beckoned to Robert Montgomerie and Glencairn. Robert stepped sideways and ushering forward the men directly behind him, presented them to James.
‘Braidstane, sire, and his younger brother Patrick, recently come from France . . .’ he cast a glance towards Glencairn, ‘. . . to sort their father’s affairs.’
Munro ran a hand round the back of his neck.
James acknowledged Braidstane. ‘Indeed, it is no doubt a comfort to have ki
n about you.’ He switched his attention back to Glencairn. ‘There have been over many funerals of late, and it isn’t to our pleasing.’ He scratched at his leg, so that Munro, speculating on the beasties that likely shared the King’s chambers, much like his own, found his mind drifting to the cleaner accommodation to be had at home. James’ raised voice brought him back with a jolt.
‘It isn’t altogether regarding the past that we have bidden your attendance, but rather that you and those with whom you have had differences . . .’ he was focusing on Glencairn, ‘. . . may comport yourselves to our pleasing in the future.’
Glencairn’s back was stiff, clearly steeling himself to play the charade out.
‘It is our wish that you shall solemnly affirm, before God and this company as witnesses, to abjure any violence between you, your families or followers from this time forth.’ James gestured to the parchment that Maitland had unrolled, his voice round and full-bellied as the best French brandy. ‘Yet words are easy spoken and as easily forgot. I have had Maitland prepare Letters of Affirmation. A signature can hardly be denied.’
Glencairn dipped the quill in the inkpot and signed with a flourish, Robert Montgomerie following with a touch more deliberation. James waved them back and gestured to William and to Hugh to take their place, his eyes widening as William bowed over the table, the brooch and the pearls that shone in it close to his hand. The man in front of Munro shifted, craning his neck to get a better view and Munro was forced to move likewise. From his new vantage point, it was clear that Glencairn too was eyeing the brooch, his expression grim. William stepped to the side allowing Hugh to take his place, then all waited as James signed, the scratch of the quill magnified in the long hall. He raised his eyes, a small smile hovering round his mouth, reached out to William and beckoned again to Glencairn.
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