She wanted to smile back, to surrender her last reserves. But remembrance of their Cunninghame connection held her back. She ducked her head, fingered the pearls at her waist, ‘I’m not used with wine.’
Elizabeth and Grizel spoke at once, broke off and started again, still together, and collapsed laughing, so that the rest laughed with them. Talk turned to the preparations for the Queen’s entrance and the best location from which to view it.
‘Is it really not to be till Wednesday?’ Kate asked.
‘Afraid so,’ Patrick turned to Munro. ‘But you’ll stay?’
He rubbed at his nose. ‘It’s stretching things. We were to leave on Monday, expecting that James wouldn’t wish to bide at Leith more than a night.’
‘And so it was intended, but for the small matter of the work not yet finished at Holyrood.’
‘Elizabeth cut in. ‘Oh but you must stay. Forbye that it will only happen the once and will be worth the wait, we are only begun to get acquaint.’
‘We have the bairns to think of and as for Agnes, the four days we settled on may already feel like four weeks for her.’
Kate heard the uncertainty in Munro’s voice and against her better judgement added her protest. ‘Agnes isn’t over soft and won’t be put upon.’ She bit her lip. ‘It’s what we came for.’
The weather held fair and despite Kate’s lingering resistance, the Munros spent little time in their own lodgings, pressed into the greater comfort to be had with the Montgomeries. Hugh and Robert took themselves to Leith each morning to wait on the King, so that Patrick and Munro had four ladies to look to besides the bairns. Sigurd, his interest in Grizel clear to all, was, though he also lodged with the Montgomeries, forced to spend most of the following days by the docks, his time divided between his private business and the careful unloading of the Queen’s carriage and the paraphernalia that accompanied it.
The garden, pleasant enough for sitting, was a mite small to contain the Montgomerie children and so they spent most of each of the next two afternoons in the Holyrood Park. The first day, the children clamoured to brave the breeze and walk the length of the crag. Jean, unable to relax, chivvied them away from the edge, lest it crumble under their feet and they be plunged headlong into the park below. The second day, they set out to climb to the top of Arthur’s seat.
They entered the park by the Abbey church, and took a path that curved in a gradual incline towards St Margaret’s Loch. There they dallied, the adults watching the sunlight dappling the water and the occasional soft plop as a fish broke the surface for air; the boys amusing themselves by guddling with sticks at the water’s edge, disturbing the speckled trout parr that lurked between the pebbles. The elder Montgomerie boy lay flat on his front dabbling with both hands, his padded trunk hose ballooned against his back, his legs stretched out behind him like thin brown sticks. Though he managed to hold his hands far enough down and still so that the tiny fish flashed backwards and forwards over his palm, each time he tried to scoop them up they darted an escape through his fingers.
Kate, seeing his growing frustration, glanced at Munro, who nodded upwards.
‘If we wish to reach the top today, we should perhaps move.’
They carried on through a small glen, the children’s voices echoing as they chased among the trees, emerging into the sunlight at the head of the corrie. Ahead of them, the hill rose steeply.
Patrick gestured to the left. ‘There is an easier route with a fine view I believe, of Dunsapie Loch on the way.’
‘Can we not go straight?’ The boys clung on Patrick.
He looked enquiringly at Munro. ‘Why do we not give the bairns a scramble and the ladies can take the more gradual way?’
‘It seems you haven’t much choice.’ Kate jerked her head towards the boys already clambering over the rough ground. Jean frowned as if she thought to call them back, but Patrick smiled reassurance.
‘We’ll see they come to no harm.’
The path that the ladies took was well trodden, the ground so dry their shoes scuffed up dust. There was only room for two to walk abreast, so Grizel moved ahead with Jean, Kate and Elizabeth dawdling behind.
Elizabeth linked Kate. ‘You will stay for the entry?’
‘Nothing has been said and if we were to go home as planned it would be tomorrow . . .’ Kate pulled a stem of grass and stroked its bearded head across her cheek. ‘I don’t even know if we can keep our lodgings.’
‘You needn’t worry over that. We have plenty of space, and can easy accommodate you.’
The sun slid behind a cloud and Kate, thinking of the Cunninghames, shivered. ‘What of Jean?’
‘Ardrossan is a bleak place and over large and with no-one of her own age, a mite isolated. Hugh reported her as a mouse, but here she has come out of herself and will, I think, miss the company when she goes home. They say the dowager Lady Eglintoun has never recovered from the business after Annock.’
Kate shivered again.
‘You aren’t cold?’
She shook her head, threw the grass aside, looked down at her feet. ‘Perhaps we should go home. . .’ The moment’s silence seemed to stretch far into a future that she had, against her will, begun to wish for.
‘Your man isn’t the only Cunninghame connection here.’ Elizabeth’s pressure on Kate’s arm was firm.
She looked up, startled.
‘My mother is a Cunninghame. We feared . . .’ Kate felt the hesitation, ‘. . . that it might count against me with Hugh. But it didn’t, or not in the end.’ Jean and Grizel had disappeared round a turn in the path, the low murmur of their voices fading.
Elizabeth turned to face Kate, gripping both her wrists. ‘So you see, there isn’t a reason why we can’t be friends.’
‘Munro . . .’ Kate began, and stopped, the words stuck in her throat.
‘What hasn’t been said is easy forgot.’ Elizabeth’s voice was soft, but with a strength in it that brooked no refusal. ‘The past is gone. Leave it there. We are none of us fit to cast the first stone.’ She linked again and pulled Kate forward. ‘We don’t want them to think us pauchled and not able to climb a wee bit hill. Can you run?’
Chapter Five
At Kilmaurs, Glencairn circled his horse: a chestnut stallion with a white flash on his forehead and a wicked glint in his eye. John Cunninghame was also mounted: on a bay that had a sweet mouth and the manners to match, and so stood still, snorting gently. A stable boy held the head of a third horse that moved restively on the damp cobbles.
Archie appeared at the door.
‘Where’s William? Tell him he’s ready now or we leave without him.’ Glencairn was nursing his impatience. ‘The King has been two days in Leith already and there are those who will no doubt make much of our delay.’
John said, ‘He may not have eyes for much other than the Queen. Rumour has it that she’s prettier than her portrait and pregnant forbye.’
‘James aye notes those who have obeyed his summons speedily and those who haven’t and it won’t be counted to our credit that we had the ill luck of a messenger whose horse took lame.’ Glencairn snapped his reins, causing all three horses to start.
Archie poked his head into the kitchen. ‘Anyone seen William? Glencairn is gey impatient.’
The steward, occupied in decanting ale, barely lifted his head. ‘Try his bed. He hasn’t eaten, that I do know and last night . . . let’s just say it was gone three in the morning when he knocked me up to let him in.’ He bent to replace the bung in the barrel. ‘I wouldn’t be the one wishing to wake him.’
‘You’re not between a rock and a hard place.’
William’s eyes were bloodshot. ‘What d’you want?’
‘Your father is waiting. Already saddled. And threatening to leave without you.’
‘Is that so? You can tell my father I’ll be with him presently.’ And when Archie didn’t make a move, sneered, ‘I do believe you’re feart.’ He gestured into the room. ‘Take my stuff with you
, to look as if I follow.’
Archie picked up the saddlebag.
‘I have a goodbye or two to make first. My mother and . . .’ there was malice in his smile, ‘. . . that fine lass you brought me from Renfrew.’
Archie plunged back down the stair, gripping the rope handrail so tight that it burned his palm, William’s voice taunting him,
‘A fine lass indeed.’
The Cunninghames departed, Archie returned to the kitchen, to find Sybilla sitting by the fireplace, her fingers curved around a bowl, blowing on the curl of steam that rose from a milk and honey posset. He dropped down beside her unsure of whether to question her or not.
‘They’re away then?’ There was more of grey and less of blue in Sybilla’s eyes than usual.
‘Aye, and maybe a bit of peace for those of us who are left.’
‘Your usual complaint is that you don’t get to accompany them. Do you not wish it this time?’
Archie pushed his hair upwards, so that from the side he resembled a collapsing stook. ‘I’ve had my fill of William the now. Respite will be welcome’
He saw the renewed stillness in her face.
‘It would have been fine to see the new Queen.’ She blew on the posset, making ripples.
‘Did Lady Glencairn not plan to go?’
Sybilla ran her finger around the edge of the bowl, picking up a smear of froth. ‘She did. And take the bairns, but when Glencairn insisted that William attend him . . .’ She lifted the bowl to her mouth, her eyes sombre. ‘The babe has a cough right enough, but I don’t think it much and wouldn’t have held her back if there were not other reasons for her change of mind. It is her greatest sadness that her eldest son is hard to like, but so she finds him. And I imagine the harder to bear for that there is no rhyme nor reason to his churlishness, no childhood ill to blame. Born under a black moon he may have been, but such superstitions give her no comfort, rather the reverse. Suffer him at home she must, but she does not choose to suffer him abroad.’
‘And you?’
‘You know I haven’t the choice, one way or the other. So little use in wishing. And besides,’ she was scrubbing with her thumb at the hollow at the base of her throat, ‘With Glencairn and William away, we will all have some peace.’
A bell jangled above and she leapt up.
‘Sybilla?’
‘Don’t fret, Archie. I don’t regret coming, not yet, and if ever I do, I will go home again . . . sooner than be sent.’
The Cunninghames made fair time, the wind behind them and the going firm enough for ease of travel but not so hard as to trouble the horses. They came to Edinburgh’s West Port at dusk. The town, with its roofs and spires and the castle crouched on the hill, was silhouetted against the skyline on their left, the long crag and Arthur’s seat brooding on the right. Glencairn slowed his horse to a walk as they approached the gateway.
He turned to John, riding abreast of him. ‘We have lodgings on the High Street, and should be well placed.’
‘And well looked after also?’ William, keen as he was to be here and in the thick of it, was interested in more than position.
‘There is a cook and an ostler,’ John permitted himself a smile. ‘Old biddies, I believe, but fit enough for our needs.’
William scowled.
‘Also a lad, for the fetching and carrying. We aren’t at home and can’t expect more.’
As they progressed through the Canongate, past fine houses with lights beginning to show, an occasional face peered out, drawn by the noise of the horses. Snatches of conversation, music, laughter, spilled from open windows. Raised voices, the angry bang of a casement, the rattle of loose glass.
Glencairn slowed. ‘I had thought to seek lodging here, and bring some of our own household, but without wife and brood to accompany me, there seemed little point.’
A couple emerged from an arched entry to the left. They were looking back, calling their farewells, so that their faces were hidden, but something in the man’s voice was familiar.
William pulled to an abrupt halt. ‘Munro. We had not looked to find you here.’
Munro bowed. ‘I thought to bring my wife . . .’ He presented Kate, ‘. . . to see the Queen’s entry.’
‘Mistress Munro’ Glencairn ducked his head, his tone neither friendly nor unfriendly, with just a hint of patronage.
‘A pity you did not share your intention.’ William’s gaze travelled over Kate, from the tip of the feather on her bonnet to the points of her shoes. ‘We could have shared accomodation also.’
John slid from his horse and bowed over Kate’s hand. ‘Your husband is fortunate, I see.’
‘Who were you visiting?’ Glencairn was looking behind them, through the archway to the garden beyond.
Munro breathed in. ‘The Montgomeries.’
‘We were separated,’ Kate’s voice was combative, ‘In the press the day before yesterday. One of the Montgomeries, a cavalry officer in France I believe, helped in the search for me. We but came to give our thanks, as a matter of courtesy.’ She met Glencairn’s eyes, her own steady.
‘Do you have far to walk?’ John gestured to the darkening clouds. ‘Dusk is a chancy time to be abroad, especially,’ he smiled at Kate, ‘for a lady.’
‘Merlyon’s Wynd – not far, but it’s a mite later than we intended and we’d appreciate company if . . .’ Munro deferred to Glencairn, ‘. . . you aren’t pressed for time.’
They moved through the Netherbow and onto the High Street, keeping to the centre of the road, Glencairn and William still mounted, John walking by Munro and Kate’s side, leading his horse. Every few yards the entrance to another close; dark and echoing. A smile played about John’s mouth as William’s horse skittered with each slam of a door or sneck of shutters.
A man tumbled out of a low entry and staggered across the street in front of them. He was wearing calf-length boots well worn at the heel and a thigh-length belted tunic, a satchel hanging from his shoulder. His mud-coloured hair, straggling from beneath the flat brim of his hat, hung round his face in limp shanks, like unwashed wool. Roughly hacked tails of string dangled from the stick under his arm, as if a brace of rabbit or pheasant had hung there, though the coarse leather purse on his belt was clearly empty.
Almost running into William the man lost his footing, and swinging out an arm to keep from sprawling, thwacked William’s horse with the stick. It reared, neck stretched, haunches bunched, front hooves flailing. Munro jumped forward to grasp a hold of the bridle, pulling on it firmly. He was all but swinging from the harness, one foot well clear of the ground, his repeated ‘Whoa, whoa, whoa’, soft as the cooing of a wood-pigeon. John had pulled Kate towards the opposite side of the street, tugging his horse round to form a protective barrier. Munro brought the horse to a trembling halt hard against a jutting forestair, the man who had caused the bother bolting, swallowed up in the shadows of a close leading downwards in the direction of the Nor’ Loch.
William, his face purple, growled, ‘Drunk, no doubt, on the proceeds of his catch.’
There was a hint of amusement in John’s voice. ‘It’s as well he didn’t bring you down.’
‘It’s as well he isn’t still here.’
‘You have our thanks, Munro. It is a valuable horse and one I wouldn’t have wished to see injured.’ Glencairn looked pointedly at William who added a grudging,
‘Thank you, but I could have held him.’
Glencairn gestured towards the top of the stair, ‘If you’ll just take a rap at that door, William, I believe it is our lodging.’
Munro took Kate’s arm. ‘We’ve a step further and should go before we risk being locked out.’
John shot an enquiry at Glencairn. ‘I could see them safe?’
Glencairn nodded but said, his tone proprietary, ‘Wait on us in the morning, at ten.’
William bowed, his words carrying an undertone of insolence that Kate struggled to ignore, ‘I look forward to it.’
Munro
bowed and Kate curtseyed and they escaped, John at their side.
Out of earshot, John said, ‘You like to live dangerously.’ His gaze passed over Munro to rest on Kate. ‘I would wish to have a wife who sprang so quickly to my defence and with likely so little regard to strict veracity.’
She flushed. ‘Patrick did search for me.’
‘Oh, I’m sure.’ Above them a window opened. John, recognizing the thin screech of wood against wood, shoved them under the overhang, just as a pail of kitchen slops, greasy and rancid, splattered into the gutter.
‘I didn’t realise it was so late.’ Munro looked up where the first stars hung, silver pin heads against the dark velvet of the sky.
Kate looked puzzled.
John gave the explanation. ‘Pails cannot be emptied before half past nine at night. When all good folks should be safely indoors.’
‘As we will be shortly.’ Munro’s smile faded. ‘It was ill-luck to run into Glencairn where we did.’
‘It was ill-judged rather to be there at all.’ John was no longer smiling. ‘Sworn friends we may be with the Montgomeries the now, but we have over long been sworn enemies, and while Glencairn may wish to keep the peace for precedence sake, William isn’t so pragmatic.’
Kate was fidgeting with the cuff of her sleeve. ‘We are all here to greet the new Queen, why can it not be a joyful thing.’
‘We are here . . .’ John said, ‘. . . at least Glencairn and, I dare say Robert Montgomerie also, like all the nobility, are here to make political capital. The new Queen is but a bauble to be suitably admired, the festivities an opportunity to play for James’ favour.’
They had reached the entrance to Merlyon’s Wynd.
Munro hesitated, ‘Will you come in? We can give you a drink if nothing else. We supped with the Montgomeries.’
John shook his head. ‘Glencairn will expect me and will likely wait supper, if only because it will irritate William. I shouldn’t be long.’ He turned away, said, as an afterthought, ‘Is Braidstane with them?’
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