Turn of the Tide

by Skea, Margaret

  He stumbled on an exposed root, dropping to one knee and William, pressing the advantage, jabbed at his neck, puncturing the skin below the jaw. Recovering, Munro sidestepped and twisted behind William, who spun, his sword raised. He drove downward in a high backhand strike, but Munro intercepted the cut with the flat of his own sword, knocking away the blade. One moment Munro’s back was to the shore, the next he faced it, each glimpse of the marker posts renewing his energy. Sweat trickled into the corner of his eye, soaked his shirt, threatened his grip. William too was glistening, his hair plastered to his forehead, his breathing shallow. Munro shook his head, blinked, moisture flying from him. Over William’s shoulder he could see a tunnel of gorse, leading to an outcrop of rock that jutted knee-high over the rim of the cove.

  He pressed forward again with three sharp thrusts, forcing William back into the narrow gap between the gorse. The bushes pressed in on them, reducing their swing, giving Munro, shorter than William and therefore with the shorter sword, an edge. Tired though his muscles were, he increased the pace, changing from deep slicing swings to sharp diagonal strikes, gaining ground with every step. He gauged the distance to the rock: five, perhaps six steps. He took advantage of a gap in the gorse on his right, the extra space enabling him to increase his swing, slashing downwards, catching William on the side of the knee, but leaving his own left exposed. William lunged at him, his blade slicing down Munro’s arm, peeling back his doublet and shirt, opening a gash from elbow to wrist. Munro felt the hot sting of blood and flung himself forward, his sword arm straight and taut, the blade slightly elevated, so that the tip caught William’s face, raking across his cheekbone.

  Forced backwards, William was funneled towards the outcrop of rock, and as Munro continued to press, he stumbled against it, his legs buckling. Off-balance their blades met and held, but Munro, with the advantage of solid footing, used his body weight to topple William over the rock. As he sprawled on the ground, his dirk spinning away, Munro leapt the rock and stamped on his wrist, releasing the sword, which catapulted over the lip of the cove onto the sands below. Beyond William the bay stretched to the horizon, the dark outline of the island and the tower that crested it rising from the sand. Munro had a vision of he tide sweeping in, enclosing the island, engulfing the sand . . . the posts . . . Archie and Sybilla. He raised his sword, the point poised above William’s throat – an eye for an eye. As he thrust, enjoying the terror in William’s face, at the last second he flicked his wrist, to plunge the sword deep into the soft ground inches from William’s ear.

  A movement at the periphery of his vision, a voice, stirring the silence.

  ‘A wise choice, if unpalatable.’

  ‘John. How long have you been here?’

  ‘Long enough.’

  ‘He murdered them.’

  ‘I know. I saw the posts.’

  ‘He deserved to die. While we fought . . . one good strike . . . I would have done it gladly . . .’ Munro took a deep breath. ‘But standing over him, unarmed . . . I thought of Kate . . .’

  John’s voice was deliberately harsh, ‘Two dead for spite, or ten in reprisal. Our hands aren’t exactly clean.’

  Behind Munro William was on his feet, Munro’s sword in his hand, swinging it waist high. John shouted a warning and leapt at him, his hands clenched together, smashing his wrists against the flat of the blade below the hilt, knocking it upwards and to the right, so that instead of taking Munro in the chest it clipped his shoulder. Before William had time to recover, John rushed him again, this time swinging linked arms at his throat, jerking him backwards, following through by flinging himself against him. The momentum brought them both crashing to the ground, William’s head cracking against a boulder as he fell.

  John pressed two fingers against William’s neck then stood up. ‘You nearly got your wish, but not quite.’

  Munro had his hand clamped on his shoulder, blood oozing between the fingers.

  ‘Let me have a look.’ John jerked his head at William. ‘I imagine we’ll have a moment or five before he troubles us again. That was a gey hard crack.’ There was satisfaction in his voice. He helped Munro out of his doublet, pulled aside the shirt. ‘You’ll live. A superficial cut only.’ Bending over William, he tore strips from the tail of his shirt. ‘Once I have it bound, make for home.’

  ‘The posts?’

  ‘I’ll see to them. The less who know the whole of it . . .’ John waved down Munro’s protest, ‘. . . it will be safer for all.’

  ‘And the Maxwells?’

  ‘They may guess, but they won’t ask what I don’t volunteer.’ He gave a final tug to the knot in the binding on Munro’s shoulder. ‘It may not be the easiest ride home, but if I were you, I wouldn’t linger.’

  ‘Glencairn?’ Munro was still calculating the dangers.

  ‘He’ll know, likely without the telling. If not . . . whatever I say abroad, it will be the truth I tell at home.’

  ‘You know this is the end of the road.’ Munro’s voice was devoid of intonation. ‘Glencairn’s follower I was born, but I won’t die William’s.’

  John looked down at William, still out cold at his feet. ‘It is a dangerous road you choose. You have a wife and bairns to think on. William isn’t worth their loss.’

  ‘Do you think I don’t know that? But if I let this pass I have lost them anyway, for that Kate would not look me in the face again. I will go home and take my chance.’

  John glanced around. ‘Where’s your horse?’

  ‘In the woods.’

  ‘I’ll see you to her then, you’ll need help to mount.’

  Having reclaimed Sweet Briar, Munro followed the Urr Water northwards, stopping only briefly to refill his water skin and to buy a couple of bannocks and a draught of ewe’s milk from a shepherd, whose eyes slid to Munro’s left arm, held stiffly by his side, then as quickly away again. Occupied with churning the possible routes home, weighing them up, arguing his way through to a decision, he didn’t hear the approaching hoofbeats until the rider was almost on him. Too late to avoid the potential danger, he instinctively wheeled Sweet Briar sideways.

  ‘You didn’t linger.’ John’s horse was lathered with sweat. ‘I was hard pressed to catch up with you, and indeed thought I’d called the route wrong, until I squeezed word of your passing from the shepherd a while back.’

  For a moment the thought swelled in Munro that William hadn’t regained consciousness after all.

  As if he read his mind, John said, ‘I saw to William and to the posts and am come now to give you warning.’

  Munro felt an increased throbbing in his arm, matched by a pulsing pain across his forehead.

  ‘Humiliation is a bitter draught and William won’t let it lie.’ There was a weariness in John’s voice. ‘We rest tonight at Orchardton, but tomorrow we ride for Kilmaurs and from his talk, Broomelaw won’t be far behind. I can hold him a day or two, no more. It will be best if we don’t find you or yours when we are come.’ He chewed his lip, ‘It is the season for reiving . . . and William has never been one to object if others do his dirty work.’

  A long look passed between them, then Munro reached out to clasp John’s hand.

  ‘You’d best go back before your absence is noted, but I won’t forget who and what I owe.’

  Chapter Thirteen

  It was gone midnight on the second day when Munro reached the loch below Broomelaw. Above him, the tower was silhouetted against the skyline, the angle of gable and roof clearly defined. He picked his way up the slope in the moonlight, thinking of Kate and the bairns, of what he must and mustn’t say. A few sheep, their lambs curled into their sides, stirred as he passed, their lifted faces expressionless. From the byre came the soft shuffle of cattle and far up on the hill an owl called.

  He went first to the stable to rouse the boy, then to Agnes, who, as neat asleep as awake, lay stiff as an effigy. Munro shook her, one hand over her mouth, stifling her protests.

  ‘There is no time for e
xplanation. Gather anything of value and what clothes you may, but only what one horse can carry.

  Kate turned over as he entered their chamber, pulled herself up against the pillows, her hair tumbling over her shift, her eyes only partly open. She said, ‘I didn’t expect you so soon.’ There was a welcoming lilt in her voice and a smile spreading across her face that faded as he sat on the edge of the bed and gripped her arms. She tensed as if she knew what was to come.

  ‘You have to leave. Now. Archie and Sybilla . . .’

  ‘No!’

  ‘Yes’ He forced himself to keep looking at her, his voice cracking. ‘They drowned, Kate, with me watching and not able to save them, and all William’s doing.’

  ‘And we are threatened?’

  ‘Yes.’ One-handed, he pulled her against him, felt her stiffness melt while he told her the whole, talking into her hair, the taste of rosewater catching at the back of his throat. And when he had done, he caught hold of her hand and brought it up to his mouth, kissing each finger in turn, as if he could imprint the touch of her on his lips. ‘Go with Agnes and the bairns to Braidstane, but by the south road, not by Kilmaurs. You won’t be looked for there. Elizabeth will see you right.’

  She stretched back to look at him, her hand straying to his cheek. ‘And you?’

  ‘I have something I must do.’

  Her eyes were luminous, glossed with unshed tears.

  He trailed his hand along her collarbone towards the hollow at the base of her throat. ‘I made you a promise, Kate. But this . . .’

  She reached up to twist her fingers in the hair that clung on his collar, damp with sweat. ‘You have kept it.’ Then she took his face in both hands and pulled it down to hers. As their lips touched, he fastened on her hungrily, all thought of time spiralling away. Kate broke first, swinging her legs over the edge of the bed, scrambling for clothes.

  A different urgency returned, he ran for the stair. ‘I’ll rouse the bairns.’

  Fifteen minutes later they clustered in the barmkin: Agnes with Ellie strapped in a basket in front of her, Maggie behind Kate. Robbie, puffed with pride, was mounted, not on his own Sheltie but on a larger pony, the leading rein of the packhorse held tight in his left hand.

  Munro took hold of Robbie’s saddle, noting how he held his back as if attached to a pole, though his hands gripped the reins as if a lifeline. ‘You are the man of the party, Robbie, I depend on you.’

  He ducked his head in a semblance of a bow then spoilt the effect somewhat by grabbing Munro’s hand. ‘You won’t be long behind us?’

  Munro nodded his head – it isn’t as much a lie as if I said it out. He touched each of the other children in turn, first twisting a wisp of Ellie’s hair around his finger, then tilting Maggie’s head upwards, forcing a wink. ‘Pay heed to your mother now.’ He had reached Kate, capturing her hand, intertwining her fingers one last time. Their eyes met and held, and his pressure increased. ‘Promise me, Kate,’ he chose his words carefully, mindful of Agnes, of the bairns, ‘That you won’t believe all that you hear.’

  She looked down at him as if she saw into his soul. ‘You know where to find us. I’ll be waiting.’

  And then they were gone, cantering down the valley in the moonlight, the jingle of tackle and the rhythm of hoofbeats loud in the darkness.

  Munro turned to the boy. ‘We may not have much time. Once we are done here, drive the stock to Glasgow and get for it what you can. The money . . .’ he considered, ‘. . . take it to Leith. Look for a Norwegian ship: the master Sigurd Ivarsen; he will know what to do with it, and with you.’

  The boy opened his mouth as if to question, his brow puckered.

  ‘Reivers, lad, that is what this must look like, or we are none of us safe. Fetch yourself a spade, we have work to do.’

  Munro ran down the hill to the boggy hollow below the sheep pen, the boy trailing behind him. He started on the first mound but, as his spade began to bite, hesitated, Anna’s face floating before him, mischievous, smiling. The boy was hanging back, his eyes wide. Munro leant his forehead against the spade – I can’t touch Anna. He turned to hack at the turf of the second mound and as the boy still didn’t move said, for himself also, ‘The dead can’t harm us; the living will.’

  They worked fast, methodically stripping back the turfs, lifting the soil, revealing the oak kist. A moment’s hesitation, then, forcing the corner of the spade into the narrow gap between side and lid, Munro pressed his weight downwards on the handle, straining against the nails until the lid lifted, exposing three swaddled bodies, differing only in length. His touch gentle, he peeled back the waxed cloth wound about the head of the smallest corpse. Skin, dark as newly tanned leather, stretched taut over the skull, remnants of hair still clinging to the scalp. The boy retched.

  Munro kept his voice controlled, matter of fact. ‘They are but dressed bones. My three sisters, taken with the same infection in a ween of days.’ He strove for conviction. ‘They can hardly mind.’ He gestured to the largest of the mounds. ‘You take that one: my father is long dead and likewise won’t have reason to care. But don’t lift him by yourself,’ Munro’s mouth contorted into a travesty of a smile. ‘He won’t be of use if he falls apart.’

  The newest mound lay at the bottom of the slope, covered in moss, the spade cutting easily into the damp soil. At five feet, Munro altered the angle, afraid to dig too deeply, a tightness in his chest. He felt the resistance of the wood before he saw it and dropped down into the hole scraping the remaining soil away, using his dirk to prise up the lid.

  The boy was standing by the edge of the grave, looking everywhere but at the shrouded body.

  Munro glanced up at him. He cleared his throat. ‘Fetch the cart. We don’t want more than one journey.’

  Munro carried his mother’s body in first, unwrapping her gently and laying her in the bed that Kate had so lately vacated, spreading out the nightgown she had been buried in. He stretched his father out beside her, draping one of his own gowns across him, pulling up the sheet to cover them both. He left the candle flickering in the sconce, a kind of recompense for the sacrilege of what he did. The bairns’ bodies he placed, likewise covered, in the three cots in the chamber above the solar, opening the casement behind them to create a draw.

  The boy was huddled tight on Munro’s tail as if he feared to be left alone in this company.

  Munro, noting his tremor and hoping that he would be equal to the job said, ‘I’ll finish off here. You away and round up the stock; it’s as well that you aren’t near when the fires are lit. There will be enough of a job to drive them without spooking them first. And take Sweet Briar and tether her by the sheep pen.’ He shook the boy. ‘You carry dangerous knowledge lad. See that you keep it to yourself.’ And as an afterthought, the words unfamiliar on his tongue, ‘God be with you.’

  Alone, Munro worked fast despite his useless hand, raiding the storeroom for fish oil to pour over the rugs and the bed in his chamber, repeating the process in the bairns’ room also. The rushes from the kitchen he spread on the floor of the hall, distributing lumps of lard evenly among them. The remaining oil he poured on the furniture and the window seats, taking especial care to saturate the cushions – if the ruse is to have any chance of success the fire must needs be fierce. He cast a final glance around the room, blood pounding behind his eyes as they came to rest on Ellie’s walker, half-hidden in the corner.

  Mentally he checked and re-checked: the stabling and the byre, they would likely burn merrily without help, but lard scattered wouldn’t harm. A thought, ice-cold – the main door. He plunged down the stairwell and took an axe to it, splintering the sturdy planking as if it was tinder, trying not to think of the care he had taken in the making of it. All the years, the work, to come to this.

  For a moment only, he reached up to rest his hand against the stone lintel feeling the impress of the carved initials under his palm. There was no other way. He returned to the hall to toss lighted rags dipped in oil th
rough the doorway, retreating from the heat and the flames that flared behind him, and from the smoke that spiralled down the stair in his wake, stinging his nostrils, acrid on his tongue.

  At the entrance he pulled the heavy yett into place, jamming it shut with an iron bar. The straw heaped in the passageway behind it ignited with a roar, the flames fanned by the wind, tongues of fire licking at the doorframe. He lit the last of the rags as he ran towards the jumble of outbuildings, lobbing one onto the thatch, one through each open door, retreating as the flames took.

  On the horizon, dawn was seeping into the sky, crimson and white.

  One job remained.

  He plunged down to the hollow to back-fill the graves, smooth the mounds, trample down the turfs. He raced to Sweet Briar, who pawed at the ground, her head up and back, eyes rolling, straining to break free of her tether. He caught at the bridle and pulled her face into his chest, stroking her neck, mumuring into her ear, taking the time to calm her before swinging into the saddle.

  Behind him a crash, as part of the chimney toppled inwards, the flames reaching for the sky. Another explosion, sparks flying. Curls of smoke rising from the gorse, first one, then another and another, then a wall of fire sweeping across the hillside, leaving in its wake a tangle of blackened stems, like wraiths, etched against the dawn sky. He turned to take one last look at Broomelaw as the flakes of ash sifted downwards, settling on him like rain. In the flicker of the flames, faces: Anna, Archie, Sybilla . . . the Montgomerie lad.

  Voices on the wind: John, by the shore at Rough, ‘Our hands aren’t exactly clean.’ Lady Margaret Langshaw, ‘I am a Cunninghame, God help me.’

  He drew a deep breath – a Cunninghame no longer, one thing remained: that Kate and the bairns be safe. Today or tomorrow, William would come . . . and John. He could trust John. And Kate had said that she would wait. He wondered what like it would be in Norway and if Sigurd was indeed docked at Leith, as his normal pattern would suppose.