Turn of the Tide (14 page)

‘Still with us?’ William glanced at Munro’s horse. ‘By her looks, maybe not for long.’ They were rounding the edge of the wood and Fintrie Castle was in view, her
towers topping the rise, the sun catching on the newly glazed casements.

‘I’ve ridden better but . . .’ Munro looked ahead to James and Hugh, ‘. . . I’m not in competition.’

The hunt party gathered themselves in the courtyard, horses and riders alike refreshed by their halt. Munro saw that Hugh waited a little to the side, his horse more restive
than had appeared earlier. Patrick was working his way round towards him and under the pretence of settling his own horse Munro too circled the group, to finish within earshot of the Montgomeries
if he strained.

Hugh’s good humour was evident. ‘The woods, I trust, will serve as well as the hospitality. I hadn’t guessed a poet could be so useful an ally.’

‘Nor I, but,’ Munro saw Patrick glance around as if to check that none who mattered were listening and so bent his head as Patrick continued, ‘I wouldn’t grin so widely,
Hugh. You look as if the day is already yours and the hunt not yet begun.’

Hugh looked down at the dust his horse scuffed up.

Patrick continued, ‘William isn’t so stupid as his interest in clothes might indicate and if I were you I wouldn’t wish to risk the end game. Our cousin has played James well,
and you are set fair to reel him in, so be it you don’t jerk the line.’

James spurred his horse, gesturing for all to follow and they funnelled through the gateway and down towards the beckoning woods. Munro in the rear saw that William, caught unawares by the speed
of James’ departure, was seeking to move up through the pack, but was blocked by Patrick, seemingly oblivious to the rider behind him. Munro was surprised to see that Hugh didn’t press
forward, but allowed himself to jog along halfway back. It was an interesting, if unexpected, ploy – he doesn’t wish to push his horse, fearing that it won’t last the course?
Perhaps, though it looks eager enough. Munro flicked his gaze to Alexander and back again. – So that was the game. How long till William realises? I won’t be the one to tell him,
tempting though it is.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Patrick fan out to the left, William surging forwards to take his place. Others blocked his passage now and Munro saw him jab with his boot at a grey with
white fetlocks. It started sideways and William raised his hand in apology to its rider as he kicked his horse past. The pace in front was quickening, the hounds along with the foremost riders
already swallowed by the trees. Hugh’s horse sprang forward, a loud blast of the horn alerting them to the flushing of fresh quarry. Alexander, checking his mount, allowed Hugh to slip
through the gap, so that he came up on James’ left in time to match the King’s surge.

James acknowledged Hugh’s presence with a sharp glance, somewhat moderated by his warm tone, ‘Ha! Braidstane.’

Munro admired Hugh’s timing, but seeing William’s ill-disguised scowl, kept his face blank and dropped back. All around was the baying of hounds and the sound of horses crashing
through the undergrowth. He listened to the crack of fallen branches, the squelch of hooves sucked into boggy ground, the soft whinnying as they wove in and out of the trees. The pack was now
together, now apart, each rider straining to follow as closely as possible the trail led by the hounds. He caught glimpses of Hugh: near enough to James to give the appearance of competition, yet
without passing him. Now a little behind, now level, occasionally moving either to the right or the left, but always when they came together contriving to be just a fraction in James’ wake.
The first run was fast, taking little over ten minutes for the hounds to bring their quarry to ground. It was a young roe deer, which stood quivering in a small clearing, surrounded by dogs held in
check by the master. When Munro broke from the cover of the trees he was in time to see James drawing a bow and despatching it with an arrow through the heart, before dropping from his horse to
rest his boot on the deer’s flank and pull the arrow free. Blood spurted and James turned towards Hugh, grasping his bridle with a bloodied hand, ‘Well, well, Braidstane, a goodly start
to the day.’

The hounds had barely begun to nose in the dense undergrowth before they were away again, flooding out of the clearing in the direction they had come, the sound of the horn re-echoing through
the woods. James flung himself back into the saddle and wheeled round, so that the riders who had bunched up behind him had to pull their horses aside to let him through. In the ruck one
unfortunate courtier pressed too close and was rewarded with a glower and an oath that his apology did nothing to deflect. Hugh was boxed in and unable to take up his previous position, but Munro
saw by his smirk that he took some small comfort from the fact that it was a Cunninghame who had so annoyed James. A smirk that quickly changed to a frown as William cut in as James passed, daring
others to intervene. He matched James’ pace as they flowed across the open ground following a four-year-old buck. And so it was William who, when the buck suddenly turned back on himself and
shot off sharply to the left, was best placed to head him off, running him towards James, presenting the opportunity for a clean kill.

Thus it was throughout the early part of the afternoon: now Hugh, now William, who shadowed the King, each taking opportunity when it came to make a kill, but contriving to leave the choicest
prey for James to bring down.

Munro found Patrick beside him.

‘Honours even, I’d say.’

Munro ran the reins down his horse’s neck, skiting off streaks of white lather. ‘Fortunate that Braidstane has a fresh mount, else William would have it.’

‘You must admit it was neat.’

‘Indeed. And you, I see, have recovered sight and hearing, both of which seemed lacking earlier.’

‘Oh, my ears aye block in certain kinds of company. It’s a shocking inconvenience, I know.’

‘One that sits easy on you.’

They had fallen back, the main pack now some distance ahead.

Patrick sobered. ‘We should rejoin the pack. There are those who wouldn’t appreciate us keeping company.’

‘Aye, though I don’t know if I can make up the ground.’ Munro patted the horse’s head, as if to show him he bore him no ill will. ‘Speed doesn’t seem to be
his strongest suit.’

Late in the afternoon the wind, until then scarcely a breeze, picked up and veered to the north, clouds boiling on the horizon. As most of the earlier runs had been flushed on
the northern side of the woods, the master pulled the hounds around to work from the southern edge, so that they remained downwind of any quarry. Munro, his horse clearly flagging, found himself
equally envious of Hugh and William, both matching the pace easily. Seeing Alexander also trailing made him wish that he could have found so convenient a change of mount and set him thinking on the
character of a man whose family so readily put themselves out to serve his interests. Watching James become more and more animated as the tally of kills increased, Munro suspicioned that despite
William’s efforts, the day would be the Montgomeries’.

The party was thinning. Some of the riders, finding their horses grown sluggish, were forced to head back to Fintrie. Munro, aware that his mount hadn’t much more to give, weighed up the
danger of remaining and perhaps ending the day on foot, against his desire to watch the contest between William and Hugh played out to the end. And chose to stay. Ahead of him, the horn sounded
again, and he saw James swing away to the right. Hugh was neck and neck with him, William caught unawares by the sudden turn. They disappeared into the trees and Munro turned to follow, contenting
himself with a gentle canter. It was the longest run of the day, ending in the bringing down of a fine stag with grey-streaked fur and eight-pointed antlers.

Munro made the clearing just as the sky directly above began to darken. He halted at the edge of the trees and steadied his horse against the sudden flash of light that speared into the ground
ahead of him. Automatically, he counted the seconds before the rumble of thunder – three miles: time to get back to the safety of Fintrie before the brunt of the storm and likely enough
leeway to ensure that the kill was also safely transported.

Hugh glanced upwards as the first heavy spots of rain splashed onto the ground and gestured Patrick forward. ‘Stay with the stag until it be prepared.’ Then to James, ‘If it
please you, sire, we should perhaps make for the castle and shelter. We have done justice to these woods. And though, no doubt, there is more to be had,’ he waved his arm at the pewter sky,
‘It would be a pity to catch a fever in the taking.’

James was standing over the stag admiring the antlers, no doubt imagining them mounted on the wall of his bedchamber, or fashioned into a fine set of cutlery. Just as he seemed about to
over-rule Hugh, the rain came down in earnest, a curtain blotting out the surrounding woods.

James scratched at his groin, a smile creeping over his face, ‘It hasn’t been a bad day at all. And yon fellow,’ indicating the stag, now being trussed ready to be dragged
away, ‘is a fitting end to it.’

The hall at Fintrie, though roomy enough in normal circumstances, was strained to bursting with the hunt party. Munro squeezed onto a bench beside William, who shifted along a
fraction commenting, ‘Your horse wasn’t up to much. Did you see any of the kills?’

Munro ignored the mockery. ‘I didn’t have the advantage of your mount.’ Then thoughtlessly, ‘Though Braidstane’s seemed to match.’ And remembered, too late,
both the boast he had made to Glencairn about the hiring of the horses and that William was likely still unaware of Alexander’s ruse.

‘And whose blame is that? If I recollect aright, our horses were to be the best . . .’ William’s gaze shifted to the top of the table, his eyes darting between Alexander and
Hugh.

Munro kicked at the rushes under his foot – why could I not keep my mouth shut? The trick may have been Braidstane’s but the fault’ll be mine.

William smashed his fist on the table, sending a tankard spinning.

John Cunninghame glared at him ‘It would be ill done, nephew, to raise a rumpus in this company, and foolish besides.’

‘Well seen the Montgomeries had to resort to a cheap trick. We would have bested them else.’

It was so close an echo of what Munro had said to Patrick, though not the sentiment intended, that he flushed, but William was oblivious to all feelings but his own.

‘See to it they do not beat us that way again.’

Oh, aye, Munro thought, it’s that easy.

John’s lips barely moved, his words coming out as a hiss, ‘Keep your voice down, William. We don’t wish to draw attention.’

Servants began to place steaming platters on the tables and James, his eyes glistening, broke a momentary hush in the general hubbub. ‘We are grateful for your hospitality Mistress Graham.
Montgomerie is fortunate in his friends.’

William dug the point of his dirk into the table, so that John, his eyes fixed on James, reached across and gripped his wrist. Munro saw the colour bleed out of William’s hand until he was
forced to release the dirk, John sliding it into his own doublet, saying,