Turn of the Tide

by Skea, Margaret

  Chapter Seven

  The lunch with the Cunninghames was all that Kate expected it to be: long and tedious. The conversation, if so it could be called, a recital of Glencairn’s frustrations: his inability to get the King’s ear, his concern that Maitland, newly created earl, rode high, his annoyance that in the Queen’s procession his place would be twelfth to Robert Montgomerie’s eleventh.

  She was seated between Munro and John Cunninghame, concentrating on matching her expressions to the mood of the moment, careful to hide her increasing irritation at Glencairn’s self-indulgent grumblings and William’s petty complaints. In this she did better than Munro, on more than one occasion having cause to lean heavily on his foot. She suspected that John was aware of her efforts and approved them, a feeling confirmed when he handed her to a seat in a window alcove.

  ‘Your husband is fortunate indeed: a wife who watches his well-being.’ Then, as Glencairn approached, an abrupt change, ‘I have contracted Mistress Munro to join us on Wednesday and have assured her that the position we have gained from which to watch the entry will be second to none.’

  He had left her no room to manoeuvre, but recognizing the underlying goodwill, she expressed her pleasure and excitement at the prospect of seeing the new Queen, which was the truth; and her thanks that they be included in the Cunninghame party, which was not.

  Maxwell joined them and William, who until then had confined himself to minor gripes: the weakness of the ale, the discomfort of the beds, the inadequacies of the servants; turned to an airing of greater grievances: chief among them Braidstane’s standing.

  ‘I was well placed yesterday to get the King’s ear until Braidstane appeared with some message from London: trumped up and exaggerated, no doubt, yet James listens to him as if it came from Cecil himself. Who is this brother George anyway?’

  ‘Dean of Norwich, and with higher prospects.’ Glencairn descended into sarcasm. ‘But no doubt your offer of a hunt will weigh more heavily with James than a few meagre rumours from the English court.’

  William flushed.

  ‘I grant you one advantage over Braidstane. You get drunk quicker and more often, a condition in courtiers that James has apparently become used to at the Danish court and may prize.’

  The tension palpable, Kate studied the floor, searching for some excuse to leave.

  At her shoulder, John. ‘I believe you make for Broomelaw on Thursday?’

  ‘Yes, though I wish we could stay longer . . .’

  ‘You have gifts bought?’

  ‘Not yet for the bairns.’ With a rush of gratitude for the thought, she said, ‘I planned this afternoon . . .’

  ‘No doubt we can excuse you then.’

  Glencairn half turned as John spoke. ‘Indeed. I leave early on Wednesday to join the procession at Leith. But John will see to you.’ Then, a final barb, ‘Or William, if he is capable.’

  Music came first. A cacophony of sound: lutes and tambors, pipes and drums, viols and flutes and whistles; as the good citizens of Edinburgh lined the route from Leith and played, skillfully or otherwise, but with undoubted enthusiasm. The whole, however discordant, somehow glorious. And suddenly it no longer mattered to Kate that she was sandwiched with the Cunninghames just inside the main entrance to the palace of Holyrood. That in the wait she had been forced to bear with William’s intermittent gaze stripping her as efficiently as if he dissolved her clothes in vitriol. That she had endured for two hours or more the barbed comments that sparked between William and Maxwell as they dissected the reputations, the character, the appearance of those, noble or otherwise, who surrounded them. Or that she held fast to Munro’s arm, not for her own safety, but so that she could exert whatever warning pressure was neccessary to keep his reactions to the conversation within bounds.

  Caught up in the excitement, she forgot her disappointment that they didn’t spend this day with the Montgomeries, whom she had glimpsed by the inner yett. Her senses re-tuned, she revelled in the heat and the crush and the colour; in the flapping of tapestries hanging from balconies and forestairs; the fluttering of flags and pennants; the brilliance of the liveries and coats of arms. The swell of sounds: tune piled on tune, instrument on instrument, singing and cheers that rose and fell in waves; from which she tried to unpick individual melodies. And failing, gave up the unequal struggle, abandoning herself to the growing frenzy as the procession neared.

  There was a shift in atmosphere: whispers become a murmur, the murmur an anticipation that rose to a roar with the first sight of the Whifflers: bright in cloth of silver and white taffeta, strewn with gold chains. They criss-crossed the roadway, white staffs flashing, laying about them with cheerful good humour to clear any who threatened to encroach upon the path.

  Behind them, the nobles: Danish and Scottish side by side. In satin and velvet, in cloth of gold, in burgundy and blue, vermillion and yellow and the deepest of blacks. Pleated and ruffed and feathered and plumed, ablaze with jewels. At the front the Danish envoys and the earls attached to them. Then others of the nobles in order of precedence. Beside her a stiffening as Robert Montgomerie appeared: young, handsome, assured. His doublet was of deep blue slashed with silver, his matching short cape fashionably slung from one shoulder, silver buttons trimming his tall-crowned hat and winking on his shoes. To his left, Glencairn, in gold and bronze, a match for his chestnut stallion, its Arab blood evident in the high stepping gait, the arrrogance of the long nose.

  The cheering rose to a crescendo. And with the cheers, a collective indrawing of breath as the Queen’s coach came into view, flanked on one side by James and the Duke of Lennox and on the other by the Earl of Bothwell and Lord John Hamilton. Knowing what to expect from Sigurd’s description, Kate was nevertheless unprepared for the magnificance of the reality: the eight perfectly matched white horses coroneted with plumes of peacock feathers, twisted cords of purple woven into their manes and tails. The silver coach, its bodywork dazzling, so that it almost hurt to look at it. The velvet upholstery: a fitting contrast to Anne, pale as an Ice Queen in white bliant, her corn-coloured hair piled on her forehead like curls of spun gold.

  ‘No wonder she wished to bring her own coach.’ Kate’s fingers tightened on Munro’s arm, as the coach and outriders approached. ‘Bonny indeed and regal with it, for all she’s young.’

  The lines of loyal subjects bent in a sweeping wave of curtsey and bow. Kate sank in her turn, and rising had time to note the brilliance of the Queen’s retinue. A brilliance that, to judge by William’s quickened interest, he also noted.

  The foremost riders had reached the inner yett and were dismounting, peeling off to each side to form a guard of honour. The coach drew to a halt, James reaching up to hand the Queen down. Kate, craning her neck, saw that Patrick and Hugh were stationed behind Robert Montgomerie, Elizabeth and the babe at Hugh’s side. The King and Queen paused in their slow passageway through the ranks of nobles, James bending his head towards Robert. He edged sideways allowing Hugh and Elizabeth to step forward. Hugh’s bow was timed to a nicety, Elizabeth’s curtesy deep and fluid despite the child on her arm, so that Kate dipped her head to hide her involuntary smile.

  ‘Practice made perfect, I’d say.’ Munro’s comment, intended as a whisper for Kate, fell in a lull in the surrounding chatter, so that his voice carried.

  ‘No doubt needed.’ William was acidic.

  Kate, lit by a spark of irritation, said, ‘Her mother is a Cunninghame, I believe?’

  ‘Some distant connection.’

  It should have been a warning, but Kate, her normal good sense stifled by William’s repressed scorn, her mounting dislike fed by the two days spent in his company, directed attention back to the Montgomeries. The Queen had reached out to the babe and was stroking the soft down on her head, while James turned to Hugh. It was impossible to hear what was said, but the intention was clear. A soft flush of colour flooded Elizabeth’s cheeks and she made another, deeper curtesy, while Hugh, bowing also, seemed to b
e expressing gratitude.

  ‘Oh look!’ Kate encompassed William and Maxwell in her gaze. ‘I do believe the Montgomeries are invited into the palace. They must be high in favour.’

  She was aware of Munro’s tension, of Maxwell focusing on straightening his cuff; of William his colour rising, as if under the skin he fizzed like a firework about to explode. The impulse to goad him strengthened. She stood on tiptoe as if to inform her stream of commentary. ‘They’re moving into the close . . . the nobles following . . . and Glencairn . . . just to the rear of Robert Montgomerie . . .’

  John was by her side hissing at her, ‘This is madness . . .’

  She threw him off, past caring, past all rational thought. The pent-up pain of the last months; the surge of frustration she felt at the Cunninghame connection; the blame for Anna’s death, which, though not openly acknowledged, she laid at William’s door, coalesced into a recklessness that consumed her. She kept her eyes fixed on the entrance to the pend, her voice brittle.

  ‘Do you suppose we could pass into the courtyard? There may be more to see yet. I know we can’t go into the palace. Braidstane is fortunate in his Lord.’

  John turned to William, put out a restraining hand, ‘James’ favour is a dangerous and volatile commodity. I for one . . .’

  ‘I for one . . .’ William’s mimicry was perfect, ‘. . . am not going to stay here to watch a scrag end of a bonnet laird trail after James’ favour like a mongrel wriggling on his belly hoping for a bone.’ He turned the full force of his contempt on Kate. ‘You, of course, may do as you please.’

  There was a moment when she thought that she had provoked an all-out brawl, as Munro launched himself at William. John leapt between them, shoving Munro towards Maxwell who grasped his arms, pinioning them behind his back, his grip tightening the more Munro struggled for release. William had drawn his dirk.

  John grabbed William’s wrist, twisted it, ‘A brawl now is madness that we none of us can afford. Fight where and when you please, but not here. Your father . . .’ a space had opened, a ring of spectators forming around them and John increased the pressure on William’s wrist, ‘Put the dirk away, you may not approve our lodgings, but they are better than a cell.’

  Maxwell released Munro, motioned to William as they both thrust their way through the crush, ‘the show is over, no doubt we can find more congenial company elsewhere.’

  Kate, her temper subsiding, reached out in apology to John. In his gaze she saw anger, shot through with understanding.

  ‘Drunk as William undoubtedly will be tonight, he may not remember how you baited him. You may hope so.’ He turned to Munro. ‘Go home.’ Then, with a brutality she thought deliberate, said, ‘You had a loss. Well. In that you are not alone. Be thankful for what you have.’ His glance shifted to William’s retreating back. ‘And for what you have not.’

  Chapter Eight

  Summer slipped past Broomelaw like a stream dividing around a boulder, casting scarcely a ripple. The quiet monotone of the days seemed to Kate like a plain worked border, highlighting the rich tapestry of their time in Edinburgh. The new memories: vibrant, cherished, became a counterpoint to the old: enriching them, removing their sting.

  Mary had been right. Anna, locked in the grave at the foot of the slope below the sheep pens, her face lost these months past, had come back to them. And though often she came in sharp shafts of remembrance, the pain and sadness undiminished, she came also in laughter and in sudden, unexpected spurts of joy. Her name began to come naturally to their lips again, her presence, though incomplete, easier to bear than the months of absence had been.

  Remembered laughter in the Canongate garden slid Kate effortlessly to Anna, mischief dancing in her, looping a cord round Agnes’ boot buttons as she dozed, giggling helplessly at her efforts to stand. The Montgomerie bairns guddling for trout parr at St Margaret’s loch blurred into the twins at their own loch: trapping speckled smoults in a muslin net filched from the pantry; Robbie outraged when Anna, taking pity, trudged back to release them again. The gorse in full bloom in the Holyrood Park became the gorse on the hillside above the tower, Anna gathering handfuls of petals to, as she called it, ‘scatter the sun’.

  As for the memory of the moment when she had crossed swords with William, though she was not particularly proud of her part in it, she knew that faced with the same situation, she would likely react the same way again. Folly it may have been, but whatever it had released, in her and in Munro, their marriage was the stronger for it. And for that she had no regrets.

  They visited Mary Munro every week, each time finding her a little more failed. She lay propped in the tall bed facing the window, so that she could see the birds that wheeled and swooped in the clear summer sky. Sometimes, as they sat, she would slip into sleep, her breathing laboured, and they would tiptoe away, glad to escape from the air thick with spice. Once or twice she made an extra effort, asking after each of the children in turn. But when they suggested bringing them, she refused.

  ‘I am an old dry stick with a skin that is three sizes too large, but that isn’t how I wish to be remembered. You may look back to better days, but the bairns . . . the last picture is the one they will keep.’

  Munro had been for bringing them anyway, but Kate overuled him.

  ‘Dignity is all she has left and we mustn’t take it away.’

  At the beginning of August Munro sent for Archie. They took it in turns to sit with her, moistening her lips with sips of a potion made from willow bark. She took four days to die, but peacefully and without pain. Towards the end, her breathing was grumbling and irregular so that they thought she left them a hundred times, but at the very last she opened her eyes and looked past them towards the clouds that hung in white puffs against a cobalt sky. She lifted her arms, her face radiant, and said, distinct and clear, ‘Ah, sweet Jesus’ as her head dropped into the pillows, her breathing fading to a whisper.

  Then silence.

  Kate was the first to move, folding Mary’s hands across her chest, her eyes pricking. ‘It is a goodly passing and one that I would wish for.’

  They buried her among the cluster of graves in the hollow below Broomelaw, alongside her husband and the bairns she’d lost in infancy; her grave a fresh mound to overlay the newness that had been Anna’s, the mason who had worked on the roof tiles returning to place her name on the rough hewn stone.

  By September they had found a new equiblibrium. With Anna gone, nothing could ever be quite as it was and the smallest and most unexpected things still produced the sharpest pain. Yet the bond of family was stronger, perhaps because it was incomplete. And Kate, who had for a time indulged in Maggie traits rigorously disciplined in Anna, regained a true perspective.

  A letter came from Braidstane, with an invitation for the whole family, and Kate was of a mind to go, but Munro was reluctant. It was as if coming back to Broomelaw, the grip of the Cunninghames tightened, so that closer connection with the Montgomeries held more danger than he was prepared to chance. Not that he said they wouldn’t go, but each week there was a new reason why it wasn’t convenient. Repairs to the stabling, the building of new cattle pens in preparation for the winter, the draining of an area of ground to allow for the enlargement of the warren: all impossible to counter, so that she was forced to bide her time.

  The weather held right through to the second cutting of hay, the whole family growing brown as gypsies. Robbie spent hours at the lochside, fishing still his passion, though, had supper been dependent on his catch, they would have gone hungry. Ellie grew plump and contented, crawling about on the grassy slopes at Kate’s feet while she filled basketfuls of brambles to turn into pies and preserves. Maggie had taken a fascination to anything that moved and was never happier than when she found some new creature to cherish, usually by imprisoning it in a jar, tightly stoppered, and feeding it on grasses and odd scraps until it died.

  Kate was picking her way downhill, careful that she didn’t drop either Ellie or the b
asket which swung from her other arm, when she saw a rider outlined against the horizon. He was jogging along without any sense of haste and she judged that she would beat him to the tower and so didn’t trouble to hurry. Munro, straddling the roof of the byre tying in new thatch, waved before continuing, content to leave her to greet their guest.

  Maggie was crouched by the barmkin wall, poking intently into a crevice, with a bodkin from Kate’s work basket, trying to prise out the slaters that hid there. She had made a little pen of twigs for her captives and had provided in it both food, in the form of a docken leaf, and the shelter of two small stones. One slater lay motionless in the centre; another scuttled under the stones. Maggie gave a triumphant whoop and rocked back, a third slater held fast between her thumb and forefinger, its legs waving.

  Kate knelt down beside her. ‘You haven’t killed that one then?’

  Maggie’s face was serious. ‘I didn’t think to kill any.’

  ‘Here.’ Kate popped a bramble into Maggie’s mouth. ‘We have a visitor. Maybe you should free them the now.’ She forestalled Maggie’s protest. ‘You wouldn’t want your beasties to be trod on. You can aye catch them tomorrow.’ She held out another bramble and Maggie allowed herself to be distracted. Kate was still kneeling on the cobbles when the lad ducked under the archway. She rose, brushing her skirt.

  ‘I have a message, from Glencairn.’

  She felt the accustomed chill, but summoned a smile, gesturing towards the byre. ‘My husband will be up shortly. You’ll stay to sup?’

  ‘A bite only. I must be back tonight.’ As if to reassure her, he said, ‘Wi’ Glencairn the answer is aye wanted yesterday, as ye’ll ken.’