‘Come in then.’
He was finishing his piece as Munro slid onto the bench beside him and reached for the ale. ‘How’s Archie?’
‘Fine, so far as I ken. I don’t see that much of him. He mostly shadows William and they havn’t been around much of late. Though . . .’ he grinned, ‘Archie seems a mite more reluctant to be away than before. He and Sybilla Boyd . . .’
‘There is an understanding?’ Kate turned from looking out the window to where Robbie’s small head bobbed as he cast and re-cast his line.
‘Not an understanding exactly, but I ken he has an interest and the talk is that she shares it.’
‘Pity mother didn’t see it.’
Kate half-turned. ‘She’ll know.’
The lad scrabbled inside his jerkin and produced a letter. Munro, narrowing his eyes against the light, took it across to the window and leaned on the sill. Kate saw the pucker between his brows disappear, his voice unexpectedly light.
‘D’you fancy accompanying me to Greenock?’
‘Greenock?’
‘To the Shaws. Jean Cunninghame, Elizabeth’s mother, is dead.’
Kate heard the pleasure in his tone, frowned.
‘Glencairn has seen fit to suggest that we represent him at the funeral.’
‘Why?’
He shrugged. ‘For his own convenience, no doubt. He’s at court and I imagine doesn’t wish to be dragged away to satisfy the courtesies.’
‘But why us?’
‘Our acquaintance with Elizabeth, which he thinks but scratched, yet enough to pass muster.’
She rubbed at her arms. ‘What about William?’
‘If you were Glencairn, would you send William into Braidstane’s company? It suits him to make use of us.’ He turned to the lad. ‘You may say that we will go.’
Afterwards, when the boy rounded the hill and disappeared from sight, Munro resumed, ‘It suits us also. I know it isn’t quite the same as a visit to Braidstane, but you will have a chance to renew your acquaintance with Elizabeth.’
‘And at Glencairn’s behest.’
‘And at Glencairn’s behest. A visit will be the easier another time, our better acquaintance set at Glencairn’s door. Even William couldn’t fault it.’
Kate slid her arm around his waist. ‘I’d like fine to go. It will be good to see Elizabeth again. Was her mother old?’
‘I’ve no idea . . . though, as John Shaw is ages with Hugh, she can’t have been young. Things are well sorted here. We don’t need to rush back. The funeral past,’ he touched his lips to her hair, ‘there may be time to make the detour to Braidstane if you’ve a mind.’
Chapter Nine
They sat on long benches brought from the castle especially for the occasion. Munro, seated beside Kate, noted that Elizabeth curved into herself, shivering despite the blanket wrapped tight around her knees. On one side of her, James Shaw, grown small and bowed, a tremor noticeable beneath his right eye. Beside him John, on the other side Hugh. Behind them, the remainder of the congregation packed close, standing hunched against the draughts that slid through the narrow window slits and crawled across the damp stone flags, snaking around ankles and funnelling indiscriminately through torn petticoat and fine chemise alike. The weather, fair for so long, had turned as those who came to pay their respects to Jean Shaw flowed in a steady stream up the terraced slopes of the town. What had begun as a weak drizzle, gaining in intensity, so that none escaped a wetting on their way to the church.
In front of the Munros the rain marked time, plopping into a wooden pail through a hole in the roof. The rhythmic dripping was a counterpoint to the drone of the minister who mumbled his way almost by rote through a homily on the life of Jean Shaw, as if his thoughts ran less on what he said than on the dinner that was to follow. No doubt it was hard to preach a good sermon with dampness seeping upwards through robes that absorbed the moisture like a sponge. Munro could see a thin trickle of water funnelling along the wall bracket of the candle sconce behind him and landing on the back of his neck – if this looby is the best that the new religion can muster small wonder that the church leaks parishioners in equal measure with the rain. At Renfrew it had been altogether different: the preacher, in his raising of Mary heavenwards, giving a tantalising glimpse of a gate swinging wide and of Mary, welcomed by a clutch of laughing children, chief among them Anna, her hair like flame.
‘In the Name of the Father . . .’
The family rose, the movement rippling through the church, the crowd pressing back against the walls as the trestles under the coffin were removed and those who had been chosen took the first lift. Elizabeth swayed towards Hugh, who supported her as the coffin passed.
The procession moved slowly towards the rear of the church. James Shaw walked steadily behind the minister, placing his feet carefully one in front of the other, as if on some invisible line, his hands purple with the cold, his eyes fixed on some far-off place. Elizabeth, with Hugh and John on either side of her followed, then the rest of the girls. Christian held tight to Gillis, though whether for her own sake or the child’s, Munro wasn’t sure.
They clustered round the grave, dark-cloaked, silent, while the rain dripped from sleeves and shoulders to collect in puddles around their feet. It ran in rivulets down the spade cuts and pooled in the base of the deep hole that lay, like an open mouth, waiting to swallow the coffin that rested these few last minutes on the edge of their lives. Munro stood slightly behind Kate as Hugh took his place at the grave foot, sharing in the straining against the cords, the rocking of the coffin as they fed it into the ground. Elizabeth also took her turn in the tossing of earth, her hand steady, belying her pain. Later he would hear her say that she remembered little of those last rites, save the raindrops hanging on spikes of holly and the petals of winter jasmine washed across the coffin lid.
The hall was bursting with people. Kate was with Christian, helping with the management of the food, and Munro, happy to remain in the background, stationed himself by the window furthest from the door. This was no simple family affair though Munro, seeing Elizabeth pinned against the fireplace, enduring the conversation of a spare man with grey hair like soiled string, perceived that she was less than comfortable with a wake on this scale. Her gaze was now fixed on the man who forced her attention, now scanning the room to see how the remainder of her family fared. John was moving through the press, stopping every few minutes to clasp a hand, bending his head to catch a murmured word. Kate, who had slotted into the company at Greenock as if into an old shoe, together with Christian bustled about the long table that stretched down the centre of the room, removing empty platters, rearranging dishes and chivvying the servants, so that the supply of food flowed steadily from the kitchens below.
A strange thing, Munro thought, to measure grief by the quality of beef.
The voice of the man who had captured Elizabeth surfaced in a sudden lull. ‘It was a trying time, but dear Margaret . . .’
Munro saw Elizabeth nod absently, as the high-pitched voice faded into fragments of other voices, subdued at first, then louder, as ale flowed and tongues were loosened. It was the first brewing and plentiful and he thought it likely that there would be more than one to suffer for it on the morrow. From the far end of the hall laughter burst out and was as quickly stilled.
A log exploded behind Elizabeth: a brief glitter of ruby embers crumbling to dust. The scent of wood smoke curling out from the hearth mingled with sweetmeats and roast goose, syllabub and hot punch. Kate passed close to Elizabeth carrying a tray of spiced muffins, and Munro, seeing Elizabeth flinch as if the hot tang hit her face like a blow, thought that perhaps they too had burnt cinnamon in the bedchamber to stave off infection, but with as little effect.
He caught a glimpse of Christian, her head bent close to James Shaw, suddenly dive to get a grip of Gillis who had sidled to one end of the table and was systematically picking the fruit out of slabs of plum cake, leaving them lying full of holes, li
ke wedges of Dutch cheese. A vision of Anna speared him, and he turned his head, searching for distraction.
There was a stir of people over by the west wall. Patrick Maxwell, whose appearance at the funeral was unexpected, despite that he was a near neighbour, was making for Hugh, who stared out through the narrow window slit into the gathering darkness. Munro, remembering the exchange at the King’s Wark, noticed Elizabeth renew her efforts to escape the man who deeved her – had there been any truth in William’s insinuations at Leith? He would have thought not, but why then her obvious concern? He caught Kate’s eye and jerked his head in Elizabeth’s direction. She glanced across, abandoned the tray she carried and headed towards the fireplace. He saw her touch Elizabeth’s arm and say something, so that the man bowed and stepped back, letting her pass.
Elizabeth, battling her way through the crush towards Hugh, was stopped every few feet by those who wished to express their sympathy, her progress slow. To those unaware of any deeper concerns, the mixture of anxiety and abstraction in her face could be interpreted as a measure of the shock of her bereavement; but Munro, recognizing that it increased the closer Maxwell got to Hugh, was again reminded of the earlier confrontation at Leith. And whatever the rights and wrongs of it, determined to help it be avoided if he could.
He moved to intercept Maxwell, but was beaten to it by a tall, languid man of about Hugh’s age, who Munro knew, though by name only, as the son of a minister in Ayr. His long face made longer by a neat, pointed beard, he leant backwards against the wall so that the light from the candle in the sconce above his head cast his shadow, stick-thin, across those nearest to him. A gap opened in the crowd that thronged the table and Munro, slipping into it, came close enough to make out snippets of their conversation, as the noise level dipped and flowed.
‘. . . A common enough trouble and for any age. Hassilhead has buried his second wife and still no heir to show for it . . . Shaw at least has a goodly family to his credit.’
There was a malicious quality to Maxwell’s reply. ‘Though most are girls. Fine in their own way no doubt.’ He indicated Hugh, now also within earshot, ‘The pattern may be set to repeat . . .’
Hamilton also glanced towards Hugh. ‘Soldier he may be, but it doesn’t guarantee prowess in other directions.’
Maxwell’s back was to the room and as Hugh came closer he seemed to raise his voice deliberately.
‘But one bairn in four years. Maybe Braidstane isn’t up to the job, or not often.’
Hamilton glanced around, clearly uneasy, and no wonder, for it made little sense to look for trouble and ill-mannered in this circumstance.
‘Have a care, Maxwell, they say he carries grudges . . .’
Maxwell laughed, ‘As others carry love tokens: close to his heart.’
Heads were beginning to turn, conversations to falter, so that Maxwell’s voice carried as he continued, still with his back to Hugh, as if unaware of his presence, ‘It won’t be Elizbeth’s blame . . . I know that well.’
From the side Munro could see that Maxwell was well aware that he had the attention of most of the room and chose his words with care.
‘She visited whiles . . .’ A pause. ‘The price of her company five merks . . .’ Another pause, longer this time, his words dropping like stones into the silence, ‘A bargain, as I recollect.’
Hugh spun Maxwell round, his voice dangerously quiet. ‘You insult my wife.’
Too late Elizabeth reached them, stretched out to touch Hugh’s arm, as Maxwell, shifting his focus, said,
‘You have my condolences, Elizabeth.’ He looked back at Hugh. ‘As from an old friend who didn’t think it right to stay away.’
Her face flamed. Christian, trapped by the stairwell, also stood as if frozen, Munro catching the glance that flashed between them.
Once more Elizabeth sought to restrain Hugh, but he shook her off, gripped Maxwell’s shoulder.
‘You insult my wife.’
Maxwell twisted out of his grip and smiled at Elizabeth, as if he played a high trump in a game of Gleek. Glancing towards the window behind him, he bowed, ‘Good-day, Elizabeth, this isn’t the time to trouble you for a bed.’
As he made to leave, Hugh moved to stop him, and Munro, sensing that they had reached danger point, thrust himself between them, opening up a space for Maxwell to pass, the remaining guests peeling a path before him to the door.
There was a moment of silence before a dozen conversations broke out at once, voices forced and unnaturally loud.
Hugh thrust his way through the clusters of people, head down, oblivious to those who stretched out a hand to him in the passing, his jaw set firm. He made for the turnpike, his footsteps echoing up the narrow spiral towards the wall walk. Elizabeth followed. Munro, behind her, halted at the top of the stair. Shreds of grey light, remnants of the dull day, dissected the heavy clouds that hung black against the sky. A sliver of moon showed briefly before being swallowed again. In the semi-dusk Elizabeth slithered on the damp slabs.
Hugh swung round, ‘Is there to be no peace . . . ?
She reached for him.
‘Did you ‘visit’ Newark?’ His emphasis sliced the silence.
Elizabeth’s ‘Yes, but . . .’ was almost inaudible.
Hugh gave her no chance to continue, pushing past her and disappearing down the stair.
Elizabeth was gripping the parapet as if without it she would fall, or perhaps as if she wished to, her gaze fixed on the ground far below.
Munro took a step towards her, hesitated – I should get Kate.
In the event it was Christian who, responding to Munro’s fear, left the servants to see to the company and flew with him to the battlements, to find Elizabeth picking at the lichen with her nails as if she thought to scour the wall clean. Again Munro halted at the doorway, as if on guard.
Elizabeth said, ‘He asked had I been to Newark.’
‘But did you not tell him I was with you?’
‘I saw his face . . . I saw what he thought.’
‘You must speak to him, how can he know the truth else?’ There was urgency in Christian’s voice. ‘You didn’t hear all that was said, and he doesn’t know Maxwell and hasn’t a reason to think him a liar.’
‘He knows me.’ Elizabeth stared down at the dark line of trees that marked the edge of the slope leading to the town. ‘Should that not be enough?’
‘It will be enough.’ Christian slipped an arm around her waist. ‘Maybe it is best to let be for tonight. Things aye look different when the sun is shining. When he has space to consider. . .’ She steered Elizabeth towards the doorway, Munro melting into the shadows.
It was past midnight, the company long gone, when Hugh re-entered the castle by the postern gate and climbed to the hall. A single candle guttered in a sconce by the hearth, solidified wax hanging from the iron bracket in a ragged fringe. As it burnt lower, it smoked and flared, casting shadows that alternately leapt and shrivelled across the floor. He flung himself onto the oak settle and stretched out his legs to the embers that still glowed in the hearth.
Munro, folded into the window reveal, his right leg dead underneath him, resisted the impulse to move. It had been his own suggestion to wait for Hugh’s return, the thought of speaking reason easier in contemplation than in fact. He watched Hugh pick at the mud on his boots, dropping flakes into the ash so that it puffed up in tiny grey clouds. Hugh struck his fist against the lintel, punctuating the blows with a reprise of Maxwell’s words, ‘. . . she visited whiles . . . the price of her company . . . a bargain, as I recollect.’
The candle flame dipped, then sputtered and died, leaving Hugh shadowed against the hearth, his face red in the last light of the fire. He stirred the stumps of logs with the toe of his boot and they flared, sending shards of light across the remnants of the supper before subsiding again into a sullen glow. Munro swung his legs to the floor as Hugh scavenged a goose wing, peeling away the skin and with it the rim of congealed grease. His fingers, sm
eared with fat, slipped as he tried to lift a half-full jug of flat ale. It slid from his hand and fell to the floor with a crash, spilling most of the contents.
Munro picked up the jug, replaced it on the table. He appeared relaxed, as if he came to pass the time of day, as if it wasn’t the middle of the night, as if everything was normal. ‘It wasn’t as he said . . .’
‘No? Why then Elizabeth’s admission?’
‘To being there, nothing more.’
‘And you would know?’
‘Christian knows. Elizabeth knows.’
‘Knows . . . or is known?’ The cruelty of it seemed to wind Hugh even as he said it.
Munro, as if what he said was commonplace, unworthy of emotion, kept his voice calm. ‘She had a reason to call . . .’
Hugh gave a sharp laugh. ‘I’m sure.’ Pain raw and unshuttered in his eyes, he gripped the edge of the table and thrust upwards sending everything cascading onto the floor in a jumble of bones and grease, ale and wine; the mess and the smell like a tavern after a brawl. ‘It’s well known Maxwell is a murderer, fornication is hardly beyond him.’ He made for the door, kicking at the three-quarters stripped carcase of a chicken that caught on his foot. ‘It’s best I go. There is nothing for me here.’
And Munro, his own demons re-awakened, made no further move to stop him.
He woke early, sounds from the hall merging into his dreams.
Kate was already awake. ‘There’s more of a racket than I would have expected from the wee bit mess left last night, but we should at least help with the clearance.’
He threw back the covers and swinging his legs over the edge of the bed thrust a foot into his stocking. There was a loud scrape and a heavy thud from the hall below. ‘It wasn’t a wee bit mess when Hugh was done.’
‘What of Elizabeth?’
‘She wasn’t there and I was glad of it, for I don’t like to think what he might have done or said if she had been.’
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