Turn of the Tide (37 page)

‘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, like 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.’