Turn of the Tide (29 page)

‘Should I send you home? It wouldn’t please Agnes.’

She let the cloth slip, the colours rippling through her fingers, and lifted her eyes. ‘No. They’re pretty to see but I won’t grieve for the lack of them, or . . . only a
little.’

Reaching the stalls that sold more mundane offerings, she by-passed the plain linens and white-bleached cambrics, but halted again to finger the woollens. She dismissed the coarse heavyweights,
but hesitated over a fine weave, the colour of standing corn. Behind her a yawn, quickly stifled.

Taking the edge of the cloth in both hands, she pulled at the bale unravelling enough that she could rub it between her fingers. It was fine and soft, without even the hint of scratching.
‘D’you think this would suit your mother?’

‘Belly wool, the best. Soft enough for a babe.’ Kate smiled at the young stallholder. ‘It’s for a grand-dame I thought it.’

The girl changed her pitch. ‘Warmer than some twice the weight.’ Her voice was eager, ‘And home-spun and dyed and woven. I don’t sell foreign stuff.’

Kate ran the cloth through her fingers again. ‘It would be a fitting thank you for the gown,’ she said, as much to herself as to Munro, who stood behind her, shielding her from the
jostling and pushing of the crowds. ‘D’you think?’ At the last, when it was paid for and roughly wrapped and they had turned away, Kate glanced back to see the girl, who had
protested, mouth drooping, that she didn’t make so much as a bawbee on the sale, dance a little jig on the cobbles.

‘Did I pay too much?’

‘You did fine and the price fair to all, I reckon, though,’ he squeezed her waist, ‘I’m not an expert on cloth.’ He shifted the parcel more comfortably under his
arm. ‘Have you seen enough?’

‘For the now, perhaps.’ An expression of dismay, quickly masked, flitted across his face and she laughed up at him, tucking her arm through his. ‘I may not be here again and
wish to make the most of it. There are the jewellers and the haberdashers and . . .’

‘And fleshers and brewers and bakers . . .’

As if she took him serious, she continued, ‘Those too, and souters and baxters . . .’

‘There are sights other than shops.’ He had fallen into the trap she set for him, but tried to recover some ground. ‘And we will have time for a few.’

‘Four days,’ she said, ‘. . . time for them all.’

The first cannon shot came as Kate placed the cloth for her mother in law in the chest in their bedchamber, so that she dropped the lid with a bang. Munro was lounging on the
settle in the main room and she flew through to him, her eyes shining.

‘They must have arrived.’ She was running a brush through her hair, smoothing it into a coil, replacing her cap. ‘Come on!’ She pulled at him and he allowed himself to be
dragged to his feet.

The sound of cannon fire was all around them now, coming from the castle as well as the port, the smoke that accompanied each bang hanging in a pall above the battlements. The High Street
seethed with people, as if the whole of Scotland packed Edinburgh to welcome their new Queen. Caught in the surge, they were swept up the hill towards the castle. Munro fought to keep a grip of
Kate and tried to work his way across the heave of bodies towards the Grassmarket, intending to skirt round and tunnel their way down to the Cowgate and thence to Holyrood.

Someone dunted him sharply from behind knocking him into a fat burgess who glowered and trod heavily on Munro’s foot. He had a face as round as a neep and a similar colour: purple
mottling, as of an over-indulgence of claret, spreading across his cheeks and bleeding into a jawline as pale as a babe’s. A scuffle and a shout and one moment Kate was clinging tight to his
side, the next her arm was wrenched from his, and she was carried to the left, her capped head now sucked towards him, now away. Each movement increased the distance between them, the surge of
people carrying her like a piece of flotsam tossed on the tide. He fought to follow in her wake, pushing and jostling, struggling to keep sight of her. In front of him a woman swayed, then
crumpled. Instinctively, he put out his arm and caught her, the dead weight making him stagger. He was holding her up and elbowing people sideways, all the while bawling for space and air. A young
lad took her other arm and between them they propelled her towards the edge of the street and stumbled against a doorway, hammering for entrance.

‘You’ll not get any joy there.’ The voice behind him was matter of fact. ‘If you had a lucken-booth and your stock your only capital, would you open your door in this
rabble?’

Munro stopped pounding. Something registered in the voice, but not enough to distract him from the problem in hand.

‘If you’d any wit, it would be a close you’d make for, not a shop.’ The voice was still behind him, still detached, still niggling for recognition, as the woman stirred.
Munro spoke without turning. ‘And you could help by making a bit of a clearance.’

‘I could.’ The man was already herding those who pressed in on them away from the walls. ‘There’s an entry about ten yards to the left that will take us out of the
flow.’

Once into the entry, Munro and his fellow helper paused for breath. Ahead of them, through another archway, steps led downwards. The stranger now leading the way, had all but disappeared in the
shadows of the close. Munro heard the footsteps stop, the voice floating up.

‘If it’s air she’s after, don’t stop there.’

The woman stirred again, this time opening her eyes. She tried to detach herself from their grasp, but Munro held on and spoke softly to her as he would to a horse. ‘Rest easy, we mean you
no harm. You had a faint and we have brought you from the crush.’ He and the lad, who had likewise grasped her as she fell, continued downwards, half-supporting, half carrying her and she
made no further resistence. The steps led under a third archway and into a small cobbled courtyard, lines strung across it, stone troughs set around the walls, the sting of ammonia indicating that
it was a bleaching yard.

‘Not the most savoury of airs, I admit, but space to sit at least.’ Munro helped the woman to a seat on the edge of one of the troughs.

‘You’ll not be needing me now,’ and the lad bowed to the woman then dashed back along the close to resume in the festivities.

The man who had led them to safety lounged against the wall, grinning.

‘Patrick!’ Munro, peered into the shadows, ‘I thought I knew the voice but believed you were still in France?’

‘Clearly not.’ Patrick’s grin widened. ‘It suited me to take some leave . . .’

Mentally colouring what Patrick had left unsaid, Munro heard nothing more until the mention of Elizabeth.

‘Elizabeth? She’s here?’

‘She wouldn’t stay away, with Hugh likely to be stuck until the coronation is past. They have a daughter and Elizabeth wished that I bring her and the babe both that she may meet her
father.’

The woman was slowly rising, dusting down the apron that covered most of the front of her gown. She touched her head and finding she still had her hat, ran her fingers around the brim, in an
attempt to improve its shape. ‘You have my thanks, sir, but I must go. I have family but we were separated . . .’

‘Dear God . . . Kate.’

The woman looked up at him questioningly.

‘I also am separated . . .’ He bowed, ‘I trust you find your family.’

‘And you.’ She bobbed a curtesy and hurried away.

Patrick took hold of his arm. ‘Your wife was with you in the press?’

‘Yes . . . no . . . we had been separated minutes before. I was trying to make for her when the woman collapsed. God knows where she’ll be now.’

‘We’ll find her.’ All the fun had gone from Patrick’s voice. ‘What direction was she taken?’

‘Towards the castle.’ They were taking the steps two at a time, their conversation breathy and disjointed. ‘We thought to make our way to the park, and were trying to cross
towards the Grassmarket. Kate will be fair sore if she misses anything.’

‘As to that, she needn’t worry. The King and Queen don’t come from Leith today and I can promise her a grand spot when they do.’

‘If we find her.’

Patrick gripped his shoulder, ‘When we find her.’

The crowds were beginning to thin, ebbing away with the rumour that the King and Queen bided at Leith while preparations were made for a fitting entrance. The main flow was down
towards the Canongate and Munro hesitated, unsure of which way to go. Though there were fewer people and therefore less chance that Kate be injured by the crush, he was aware of a new mood of
truculence, borne out of the general disappointment, and his worry remained.

‘Perhaps we should separate.’

‘You make for the castle then and I’ll plough my way to the Grassmarket. If I have no joy there, I’ll head for the Tolbooth.’

‘We need a meeting point. Do you know Merlyon’s Wynd?’

‘Above the Grassmarket?’

‘Aye. We have lodgings there. On the third floor.’ Munro was already turning away.

‘I’ll make for that then.’

Munro was dodging and ducking through the knots of people. Twice, against the tide, he made his way to the castle entrance, the first time turning immediately and tacking back down again,
criss-crossing the spur, his anxiety growing as each sweep proved futile. The second time he penetrated through the long passageway under the portcullis, to wash up onto the cobbles at the foot of
the Lang Stair. He looked up towards the watch-tower at the end of the Forewall Battery and though he thought it unlikely that Kate would have been swept so far, he was unwilling to discount
anything and so made for the main castle courtyard. Out of breath by the time he’d climbed the seventy or so steps, he emerged through the archway into the sunlight.

No sign of Kate.

He halted, bent double, his hands on his knees, his breathing jagged, resting his backside against the outcrop of rock that thrust through the cobbles directly in front of the entrance. Then he
straightened and clattered back down the steps, heading for the wall overlooking the town. Directly below him the High Street stretched, people still milling but no longer packed tight. He could
see shutters being removed, doors propped open, stall canopies fluttering in the wind as poles were straightened and stallholders re-established their pitch – she can’t be lying hurt
and I haven’t found her. Perhaps Patrick . . . or maybe she’s made it back to the lodgings
.

They were welcome thoughts buoying Munro as he headed down through the Landmarket for the third time. Nevertheless, he remained on the lookout and drew a few angry looks and rude gestures from
those who took exception to his staring as he passed. He turned into Merlyon’s Wynd, and fairly flew up the stair. The door was pulled open from the inside and Kate was there, laughing and
crying all at once.

‘Kate! I feared . . .’

‘You feared?’ Her voice rose half an octave. ‘I couldn’t keep my feet on the ground, and breathing wasn’t exactly easy. I didn’t think it altogether
impossible that I might die in the crush and not see the Queen at all.’

‘And me?’ His hands cupped her face, his eyes dark.

‘And you.’ It was barely a whisper, her lips close to his, their breath mingling. ‘And you.’