Turn of the Tide (38 page)

The candle flame dipped, then sputtered and died, leaving Hugh shadowed against the hearth, his face red in the last light of the fire. He stirred the stumps of logs with the toe of his boot and
they flared, sending shards of light across the remnants of the supper before subsiding again into a sullen glow. Munro swung his legs to the floor as Hugh scavenged a goose wing, peeling away the
skin and with it the rim of congealed grease. His fingers, smeared with fat, slipped as he tried to lift a half-full jug of flat ale. It slid from his hand and fell to the floor with a crash,
spilling most of the contents.

Munro picked up the jug, replaced it on the table. He appeared relaxed, as if he came to pass the time of day, as if it wasn’t the middle of the night, as if everything was normal.
‘It wasn’t as he said . . .’

‘No? Why then Elizabeth’s admission?’

‘To being there, nothing more.’

‘And you would know?’

‘Christian knows. Elizabeth knows.’

‘Knows . . . or is known?’ The cruelty of it seemed to wind Hugh even as he said it.

Munro, as if what he said was commonplace, unworthy of emotion, kept his voice calm. ‘She had a reason to call . . .’

Hugh gave a sharp laugh. ‘I’m sure.’ Pain raw and unshuttered in his eyes, he gripped the edge of the table and thrust upwards sending everything cascading onto the floor in a
jumble of bones and grease, ale and wine; the mess and the smell like a tavern after a brawl. ‘It’s well known Maxwell is a murderer, fornication is hardly beyond him.’ He made
for the door, kicking at the three-quarters stripped carcase of a chicken that caught on his foot. ‘It’s best I go. There is nothing for me here.’

And Munro, his own demons re-awakened, made no further move to stop him.

He woke early, sounds from the hall merging into his dreams.

Kate was already awake. ‘There’s more of a racket than I would have expected from the wee bit mess left last night, but we should at least help with the clearance.’

He threw back the covers and swinging his legs over the edge of the bed thrust a foot into his stocking. There was a loud scrape and a heavy thud from the hall below. ‘It wasn’t a
wee bit mess when Hugh was done.’

‘What of Elizabeth?’

‘She wasn’t there and I was glad of it, for I don’t like to think what he might have done or said if she had been.’

‘Where is he now?’

‘God knows. He stormed out and I judged it best to let him go.’

Grizel and Christian were wrestling with the table when they entered the hall.

‘Let me.’ Munro hefted the table, swinging it round one end at a time until it rested against the wall.

Grizel began to sweep at the rushes with sharp, staccato strokes.

Munro turned to Christian. ‘Where’s John?’

‘Looking for Hugh. With Elizabeth.’

‘Should I go?’

She considered. ‘No. If we can get here to rights before they come in, it will be more than helpful.’

With all of them working, it took barely ten minutes to clear the debris and for Munro to reposition the table in the centre of the room.

Gillis burst through the door, unable to conceal her excitement. ‘Hugh’s gone. Star isn’t in the stable and Hamish says. . .’

‘Wheest, Gillis.’ John shook his head as he followed her in.

Elizabeth, coming in behind them said, ‘It’s true. Hamish heard the sound of hooves on the cobbles and saw Hugh ride out . . .’

‘Perhaps he’s gone to Braidstane.’ Christian had moved to stand beside Elizabeth.

Munro edged towards the door and motioned to Kate to follow. Reaching the stable he said, ‘Hugh won’t have gone home. It’s Maxwell’s blame and Maxwell he will follow.

‘To tackle Maxwell,’ her eyes were fixed on his, ‘is to tackle William. Is that wise?’

‘Wise? No. For Hugh or anyone else. But I cannot stand aside.’ He was saddling Sweet Briar, tightening the girth, slipping the bridle over her head. ‘There is more at stake
here than Elizabeth’s reputation, important as that may be. If this was to lead to another Annock . . .’ Kate sagged against him, her legs buckling and he pulled her into his chest,
resting his chin on her hair. ‘If I can halt that . . .’

‘And if you cannot?’

He gripped her more tightly, ‘We have twice come close to losing all that matters . . . and this feud the root of it. I owe it to you . . . to the bairns, at least to try.’ His hand
slid to her face, his thumb smearing a tear across her cheek. ‘Sometime there has to be an end . . . wait here for me . . . or go to Braidstane. Tell Elizabeth . . . tell her that I have gone
to make them see sense.’

She dipped her head against him, her voice muffled. ‘Pray God you can.’

He tilted her face upwards, sought for words of reassurance, ‘Neither Glencairn nor Montgomerie would thank them for any trouble, and Hugh has worked gey hard with James to lose it all
now. They must see sense.’

He skewed through the gateway at Newark and brought Sweet Briar to a quivering halt. A lad was disappearing into the stabling leading a bay that Munro, with a leap of gratitiude
for Sweet Briar’s speed, recognized as Hugh’s.

Walking the mare across to the stable, he ran his hand down her neck. ‘Well done lass, well done.’ And to the lad who reappeared in the doorway, ‘I don’t know how long
I’ll be, but look to her well for she’s been hard pushed and deserves of the best.’

The main door to the castle stood open, thrust back against the yett and he took the wooden stairs at a run, recognizing danger in the voices that spilled out.

‘This is intolerable. You burst into my home and threaten my person. . .’

‘You insulted my wife.’

‘I said but the truth, unpalatable though it may be . . .’

There was a crash and splinters of glass from a window showered Munro. He leapt the last two steps and slid to a halt in the entrance of the hall. Maxwell was beside the broken window, his back
against the wall, Hugh’s fist, blood oozing from the knuckles, inches from his face.

‘Are you mad?’ Munro sprang at Hugh, grabbing his arm, but Hugh shook him off as a bull mastiff might a terrier pup, sending him careering into a wooden chest, so that he tipped
backwards over the domed lid, cracking his head on the floor.

He scrambled to his feet. ‘Dear God, Hugh . . .’

Maxwell had ducked under Hugh’s arm and was making for the door.

Hugh dodged past him and slammed it shut, ramming the bolts home. He stood against it, snarling at Munro. ‘This isn’t your fight and I would throw you out, but that I don’t
want this weasel to have any chance of running for help.’ He rubbed his hand down the side of his jerkin, leaving a sticky trail of blood. ‘We have unfinished business here and
I’ll thank you not to interfere.’ He had drawn his sword and was advancing, spinning his wrist, feinting and thrusting, slicing the air in front of Maxwell’s face. ‘Not so
cocky now, eh, Maxwell?’

Maxwell dived sideways and grabbed an iron candle sconce, using the splayed feet as a guard.

‘Or is it that you are brave with women only?’ Hugh was driving Maxwell back, his eyes glittering.

There was a sound of running footsteps on the stair, and a hammering at the door.

Maxwell jerked his head towards the noise. ‘You won’t get away with this. And who will look to dear Elizabeth then?’

Munro edged round – Hugh’s the more dangerous, if I can but disarm him . . . dear God, but they are fools both.

Hugh half-turned, and Maxwell, taking advantage of his momentary distraction slashed at him with the sconce, the blunt end of one of the feet raking across Hugh’s cheekbone. Hugh pivoted
with a roar, his sword swinging in earnest and as Maxwell tried to sidestep, his foot caught on the edge of the hearth and he fell heavily, the sconce skidding from his hand.

It was the opportunity Munro needed, and he leapt between them, flinging up his arm to protect his face, the tip of Hugh’s sword slicing through his sleeve. Behind him Maxwell was
scrambling to his feet, reaching for the sconce. Munro kicked it away, and grasping Maxwell’s wrist, thrust him back against the wall and held him there. Hugh had lowered his sword and was
staring, bemused at the blood running down Munro’s hand. Munro glared at him.

‘Kill me and Maxwell both and you may have another Annock on your hands.’ Then to Maxwell, ‘Did you bed Elizabeth?’

Hugh lunged.

Ignoring him, Munro continued to press. ‘Did she even offer?’

The hammering on the door had been replaced by a scraping.

Maxwell tried to bluster, ‘I never claimed . . .’

‘No?’ Munro cut him off. Then you have no grounds for your claim of knowledge of her.’ The scraping had become a sawing. ‘An apology would be wise.’

‘An apology is nothing.’ Hugh made to by-pass Munro, but was once again blocked,

‘Drop your sword, Hugh! You are in Cunninghame territory. Eglinton won’t thank you to open old wounds and as for James – you have spent four years courting him, what good will
it do you or Elizabeth if you lose it all now?’ He tightened his grip on Maxwell’s wrist, drawing him forward. The sawing had been replaced by the sound of a hammer and chisel.
‘You’d be advised to make your apology quick if you wish to save your door.’

Maxwell was sullen. ‘Elizabeth but came to make a collection for the poor. I cannot fault her virtue.’

Munro released Maxwell. ‘Hugh?’

With a roar, Hugh raised his sword and thrust, Munro too late to stop him, Maxwell pressing himself back against the wall. Hugh waited until the last possible second, then pivoted, forcing the
sword tip deep into the table top, releasing the hilt as if it burned. ‘Let me out of here.’

Maxwell darted to the door, pulled back the bolts, pretended normality, ‘Good-day, Braidstane.’

As Hugh shoved his way through the servants clustered at the head of the stair, Maxwell stepped into the doorway behind him, blocking Munro’s passage.

‘I take it Glencairn knows where your friendship lies? Or is championing the Montgomeries a new pastime?’ The bravado was back. ‘Rest assured, Munro, William will hear of this
. . .’

Munro clenched his fists, dearly wishing to feel his knuckles crunch into Maxwell’s face, but thought of Kate and the bairns restrained him. Better that he catch up with Hugh and make sure
that he returned to Greenock, which, if they hurried they could make by dinner-time. Wresting the sword from the table, he thrust Maxwell aside. ‘Dear God, Maxwell, but you are a
fool.’

Kate knew as soon as she saw Munro’s face that though he had brought Hugh safe home, it wasn’t the time to be sociable, and so saved him the trouble of making an
excuse. She kept her voice light, as if it had been the plan all along, ‘If we leave shortly, can we make Broomelaw by dinnertime?’

He shot her a glance of thanks. ‘Firefly won’t have a problem and half an hour of respite will, I think, be enough for Sweet Briar.’

‘You’ll take a bite before you go then?’ Elizabeth followed their lead. ‘There are plenty pickings from yesterday and they won’t take long to set.’

It was an unfortunate choice of words and Kate, seeing Hugh tense, excused herself. ‘I have a few things to pack.’

In the chamber above the hall, Kate fingered the burgundy gown laid out to air. She could hear voices from below, but couldn’t make out anything that was said, only that it was no more
than a word or two each, first Elizabeth, then Munro, then Hugh’s deeper rumble. She was kneeling on the floor folding the gown when Elizabeth came in, shutting the door behind her.