Turn of the Tide (23 page)

‘It isn’t so much the birth that vexes, but the thought that the bairn may be half-grown before he sees his father.’

Grizel pounced on the ‘he’. ‘Have you been dangling a ring over your belly? And it swung for you?’

‘He or she then. I haven’t tried any of Ishbel’s tricks, though I wouldn’t like to swear that she hasn’t done it herself and me asleep.’

The idea of plump Ishbel creeping about in the night to test the superstition made them both smile and when, moments later, the door opened to admit Ishbel herself, to burst out laughing.

She said tartly, ‘It’s well you’ve time to sit and laugh. There’s some of us have more than enough work to do and little help to do it.’

‘I felt the need of a wee bit rest. Grizel but kept me company and sought to drive away my doldrums over Hugh’s absence with the thought that he’d likely be troublesome at the
birth if he was here.’

‘Men are aye troublesome.’ A spinster who had no wish to be anything else, Ishbel didn’t think much of men’s abilities in any sphere, far less one clearly women’s
work. She moved to the hearth and was clicking her teeth as she swept back the ashes that had spilled out onto the stone flags, and poked vigorously at the smouldering logs, daring them to refuse
to blaze. Her reward a few small flickers of flame which she fed from the box of kindling.

‘Well seen I came when I did, else the fire would have been far gone and the pair of you half-starved. But I didn’t trail up here to sort the fire, which you could have dealt with
yourselves,’ she creaked to her feet. ‘Rather, to cry you a visitor.’

Grizel rose. ‘Where is he then?’

‘I saw him into the hall.’

It was clear from Ishbel’s voice that it wasn’t someone she welcomed.

‘Who is it?’

‘A wee foreign mannie, who can barely talk, or not so I can understand. From Norway, he says.’

‘Word from Hugh. And it barely a month since he went away.’ Heedless of the thread still twisted around her finger, Elizabeth flew for the stair.

‘Though why Braidstane would send a queer foreign body I don’t know.’

‘Because those who are with him are to swell the King’s company. We mustn’t show ourselves ungrateful, nor our hospitality poor.’

‘Hospitality is all fine,’ Ishbel grumbled at Grizel’s retreating back, ‘but I don’t trust foreigners and that’s the truth.’

‘Wee’ was hardly the word Grizel would have used to describe the man they found waiting for them in the hall. He was standing by the north window, his hands resting on the sill, his
fingers drumming in time to the rain, his back bent like a bow because of the height of him. At the sound of their footsteps, he turned and crossed to meet them, water dripping from his hair.

‘Mistress Montgomerie.’ His voice, despite Ishbel’s claim, was accented just enough for the sound of it to be a pleasant novelty. He smiled, showing even, white teeth that
suggested a younger man than the rest of his face, lined and comfortable like old leather, implied.

Elizabeth curtsied awkwardly, one hand on her stomach.

‘I trust I do not intrude. Braidstane mentioned your condition, but not that you were so near your time.’

‘News is aye welcome – doubly so the nearer my time comes.’

She stepped back and he turned to Grizel, his grip on her hand firm. She felt a constriction in her throat and said the first thing that came into her head.

‘Have you ridden from Leith? And in this weather?’

‘As to the weather, there is nothing that Scotland can throw at me that Norway cannot better.’ Again the smile, wider this time, ‘and skin doesn’t hold the
rain.’

She coloured under his scrutiny, but irritated at her own weakness, refused to drop her gaze. ‘We can’t keep you standing here and no fire lit. You’ll be hungered, I’m
sure.’ And to Ishbel, who hovered in the background, ‘Set supper in the solar.’ She had a suspicion he laughed at her, ‘I’ll cry you to a chamber.’

‘A towel is all I need. Lest I drip on you further.’

Her suspicion hardened to a certainty.

Ishbel was still hovering. ‘It’s a mite early for supper and nothing cooked besides.’

Grizel spoke sharply. ‘There’s broth and cold beef and cheese – it will be fine, I’m sure.’

Elizabeth said, ‘You have the advantage of us. We don’t wish to keep you a stranger.’

He bowed again. ‘I am remiss. Sigurd Ivarson, master of the
Svanen
, lately blown from Norway.’

Hovering on the edge of unaccountable irritation, Grizel said, ‘We don’t always live by the clock. Nor does Ishbel rule us, however she may like to think.’

The rain, which had diminished as they stood, came on again, pelting the windows. Elizabeth shivered and Grizel, her irritation melting into concern, said, ‘It’s freezing here and no
wonder. You away to the solar and see to the fire, else we’ll suffer another of Ishbel’s lectures. I’ll fetch a towel for our guest.’ She moved towards the door and gestured
to Sigurd to accompany her, yet kept her distance as if she feared contamination.

Elizabeth had the table cleared and platters set before Grizel returned to the solar, her face slightly flushed, her breathing shallow as if she had been running. When Ishbel appeared, puffing
from the stairs, with a tray well laden, Grizel moved to relieve her of it, smiling. ‘You’ve enough here for a ween of visitors.’

‘I don’t want any foreigner thinking we can’t keep a good table, forbye he looks as though he can put away plenty.’ It was clear she was part way to a thaw.
‘He’s a well-made man and seeming friendly.’

Grizel was arranging and re-arranging the table.

Elizabeth set three chairs. ‘I trust he isn’t so famished that he can’t answer questions while he eats. I am fair desperate to hear how Hugh does.’

‘And I to tell,’ Sigurd filled the doorway, his tousled head bent, his now dry hair curling light blonde. He spoke to Elizabeth, but his eyes rested on Grizel. ‘It is a
commission that has brought an unexpected pleasure.’ She found herself flushing again and to cover the confusion he awoke in her, busied herself with the food.

‘Well, then.’ Elizabeth waved him to the head of the table, the chair creaking as he sat down.

Grizel, who had regained some of her usual composure, responded to the expression on his face. ‘You needn’t fret. It has held heavier, though . . .’ her natural mischief
returned, ‘. . . maybe not by much. We needn’t be formal.’ She indicated the food. ‘Easier and best if you help yourself, and don’t be afraid to eat plenty, for we
aren’t used with those who pick.’

‘I see you have the measure of me. And I had thought to maintain a polite pretence.’ The look of comic regret on his face made them both laugh.

‘The broth will be cold if we don’t start, and we daren’t ask Ishbel to heat it again.’ Grizel slid the platter of bread towards him and he sniffed at it
appreciatively.

‘I haven’t had fresh bread since we left Oslo and, though we made a swift crossing, it is the homely things you miss.’

With the reference to Oslo, Grizel took pity on Elizabeth.

‘What news of the King’s fleet? Did they all make it safe?’

‘Indeed, for the winds were favourable, and I believe the crossing took but six days, though winter or summer the North Channel is rough and I daresay there were some who felt the worse
for it. Not Braidstane though. I suspect he relished the journey. He came onto land looking as fresh as if he had just left home, apart from the tang of salt on him. He was on the ship berthed next
to mine.’

Elizabeth made a fair job of concealing her impatience as he worried at a gap between his back teeth with his tongue.

‘I intended to sail on the evening tide and took the opportunity to extend the normal courtesies of one master to another, and thus gain first hand knowledge of sea conditions. But your
King wasn’t for wasting time in courtesies. They were no sooner tied up than he was off the ship, his entourage scrabbling behind him. It caused a flurry at the dock, for there were no horses
to hand and he wasn’t best pleased at the lack. It was as they waited that I met with your husband.’ He reached forward and cut a wedge from the block of cheese and another slice of
bread. ‘Scots bread is always good and this better than most. I have a mind to steal your baker.’

‘That,’ Elizabeth said, ‘won’t be so easy, for it’s Grizel who does the baking here.’

He pulled down the corners of his mouth. ‘It would have been a fine thought at sea, that I came home to such.’

Grizel bent her head to hide the treacherous colour in her cheeks, glad of Elizabeth’s interruption.

‘And Hugh?’

‘He took the chance, seeing that the
Svanen
was fully loaded and ready to slip anchor with the tide, to ask where I was headed. Hearing it was Leith, he commissioned me to send a
message of his safe arrival. He said it wouldn’t be hard to find someone glad of such a job.’

‘Harder than you thought then, seeing as you are come yourself?’ Mindful of the distance, Grizel added, ‘We are grateful.’

‘It is I who is grateful.’ Sigurd leaned on the chair, tilting it back onto two legs so that it groaned under the strain. ‘We took a scrape on some rocks rounding the north
coast of Denmark. Nothing major and it could have waited our return, but as we shipped some water, I decided it was best to have the repair done. Waiting is tedious, so I took it upon myself to
bring his news in person. And am glad of the welcome I received. At least . . .’

Grizel, seeing once again the hint of laughter in his eyes, leapt to fill the pause. ‘Ishbel may not be over friendly at the first, but now that she knows you are indeed come from Hugh,
she won’t hold back.’ She rose to clear the table. ‘Indeed you may wish at the end that she did, for she can be gey familiar and aye speaks her mind.’

As if on cue, Ishbel opened the door. ‘And why not?’ Grizel paused in the act of lifting a platter, her cuff riding up her outstretched arm, exposing her wrist, and turned, would
have answered, but Ishbel gave her no chance to interrupt.

‘It’s no use in saying what you don’t mean. A spade is a spade and shouldn’t be called a shovel.’ As Grizel continued to clear the table her hand brushed against
Sigurd’s, the momentary contact sharp as a bee sting.

‘You were hungry, right enough.’ Ishbel looked at the almost empty plates. ‘You can’t do better than good Scottish fare.’

‘Indeed no.’ Sigurd’s reply was the essence of polite. ‘And the cheese had a fine bite to it.’

‘From our own sheep and matured these three months past.’

‘And well worth the wait.’

It was obvious that the compliment pleased Ishbel, her acceptance of him complete as she waved away his offer of help with the tray saying instead, ‘If you want to be useful, you can see
to the fire. I haven’t the time for everything, and it wouldn’t be the first time today I found it near out.’

They settled for the evening: Grizel on the bench by the hearth, Elizabeth lying on the settle, and Sigurd stretched out on the warm flags, resting his back against the
chimneybreast; raking intermittently at the logs each time the flames threatened to subside. Candles flickered in the wall-sconces casting alternate strips of light and shade, broken by the
occasional bright flare. Grizel, seeing Elizabeth’s eyelids begin to droop, felt a tightness in her chest. To cover it she said,

‘Did Hugh say aught of the King’s plans?’

‘We had little time, otherwise he would no doubt have written a note to you himself. Your king isn’t the most patient of men and though the light was already beginning to fail, and
they were to travel but a short distance before halting for the night, he brooked no delay. Whether for sentiment or not I cannot judge, but their chosen lodging was to be the same that kept his
princess on her first night. The wedding, I believe, is to take place in Oslo.’ He forestalled the inevitable question, ‘A journey of some two weeks or more; then some will make for the
Danish court to winter there. Your husband said to tell you he would write when he could.’

Elizabeth pressed her fist into the gap between her ribs as if trying to find extra room to breathe. ‘It’s not the writing that will likely be the problem, but the bringing of the
letter.’

‘True. This will certainly be my last voyage before the spring.’ Sigurd’s eyes were fixed on Grizel, regret in his voice.

Sure that they must be able to hear her heart hammering, she looked towards the tapestry on the gable wall moving in the draught from the window. It was one that Elizabeth had brought from
Greenock: in the foreground, a merchant ship running under full sail, waves boiling about its keel, heading for a distant estuary and calm water. In the background a storm built, ragged black
clouds threatening to overtake them. For the first time she saw it as a race that the sailors mightn’t have won. She cast about for a happier thought.

‘The talk is that James’ princess is bonny?’

‘So she is. Golden-haired and lissom, but young yet and sturdy and may run to a stouter figure in good time.’

‘Sturdy,’ said Elizabeth, ‘is a fine thing. There have been gey too many weak bodies married into Scots royalty. Infant kings and rule by nobles the result. And factions and
fighting and no-one safe, whether earl or laird.’