Turn of the Tide (44 page)

“Is resting, as is the bairn, and you,’ William ran his tongue across his upper lip, ‘were sent to enjoy the sunshine. And I,’ his tongue completed the circle,
‘have come to see that you do.’

‘Let me go!’ She tugged at her skirt but he settled his feet more firmly on it, his grip on her face tightening.

‘I do but wish to give you the thanks you deserve.’

‘I have been thanked.’

He raised her hand and her sleeve fell back revealing her narrow wrist, the white flesh above. Releasing her chin he bent his head towards her palm, but she clenched it tight. He smiled, his
eyes like glass, his tongue teasing at his teeth. Thought, feisty indeed. She stared at him unflinching and he returned her gaze.

‘Good, very good, but don’t think you’ll best me.’ He bent his head and drew a spiral on her wrist with his tongue, tasting salt and oil of roses and the faint sheen of
sweat, each widening circle bringing him ever closer to the soft hollow of her elbow, his breath quickening. She was holding herself very still. ‘Soon,’ he said, ‘Soon you will be
begging me . . .’

She thrust sideways, and down, throwing him momentarily off balance, and ducked away from his grip, dropping to the ground, scrabbling backwards, gathering herself to run; but he was too quick
for her.

He hauled her up, seizing her elbows and, kicking aside the bench, pressed her into the angle of the wall, placing his hands flat against the stone on either side of her.

‘You cannot think to leave now, when things are getting interesting.’ He leaned into her, moulding the folds of her skirt to her legs, feeling the length, the warmth of them. Her
shoulders were hunched, a coil of hair hanging like a tassel down the side of her head. He slid one hand from the wall, his fingertips exploring the pale skin of her neck and throat, the line of
her shoulder blade. Grasping the length of loosened hair, he stroked it across his face. Felt her tremor as he slid the hair under her chin, jerking it sideways and up as if tightening a knot,
pulling her head back. His mouth fastened on hers. She fought to keep her lips closed but he forced his tongue between them, worrying at her clenched teeth, his kiss insistent and bruising, while
with his free hand he worked at the bodice of her dress.

In one swift move she opened her teeth to let his tongue slide between them, then bit down hard, at the same time kneeing him in the groin, so that he reeled backwards with the twin pains, blood
in his mouth. As he reached for her again, she gathered up her skirts and fled.

She was in the small chamber she shared with two of the other servants when the youngest maid came to cry her to the hall. Her hand at her mouth, she stared at Sybillia’s
neck, at the skin scrubbed red, the crumpled dress discarded on the bed and the scissors that Sybilla was using to chop at the shank of hair she clutched in her hand.

‘Ye’re wanted below’ Then, in a whisper, ‘What are ye doing to yer hair?’

“Who wants me?’ Sybilla continued her assault on the hair. With a final clip she swung round, the scissors flashing, the jagged remnant of hair sticking out from the side of her head
like frayed rope. The maid was on one foot, as if poised for flight. Sybilla repeated the question more gently, ‘Who wants me?’

‘Glencairn.’ Curiousity replaced the maid’s fear. ‘What for did ye do that?’

“It’s nothing.’ Sybilla licked her fingers and plastered down the uneven strands. Replacing her coif, she rummaged in the trunk under the window, emerging with the striped
damask dress that Lady Glencairn had given her only this morning. An understanding between them that it would be more than suitable for a wedding. She shook out the copper folds and wriggled into
it.

Archie and Glencairn were standing on one side of the hearth as Sybilla entered. William, who was by the window, neither turned nor acknowledged her. Lady Glencairn flashed a look at
William’s stiff back, then at Sybilla, radiating defiance. Her voice was light, her words deliberately inconsequential.

‘I knew it was the colour for you more than me. Is this a dress rehearsal?’

Glencairn was hearty. ‘I hear we are to have a wedding and another Cunninghame stronghold. Dunisle, did you say Archie, on the Solway? I have long wished to consolidate our links with the
Maxwells in those parts.’

‘Aye. It’s in a sorry state, but my brother . . .’

Sybilla intercepted the prompting glance that Lady Glencairn shot at her husband.

‘You cannot have too many hands for work such as that. When the lambing is over there will be help and to spare here also.’

Lady Glencairn continued to stare.

‘And I daresay some materials can be found. It is but small thanks for the life of the bairn.’

Sybilla felt her tension draining as she moved towards Archie.

William had turned, ‘Why not Rough? It’s closer to Orchardton than Dunisle and though smaller, is a finer tower in better fettle and so will be less effort to right, less
expense.’

Sybilla, searching for understanding and finding none, gnawed at her lip. Glencairn narrowed his eyes, stared at the square of window behind William, who continued, yawning as if it was but a
passing thought,

‘The island it sits on is well placed to guard the firth and is easy reached, on horseback and on foot, though only at low tide.’

‘Rough Island . . . hmm . . .’ Glencairn nodded to Archie. When the lambing is past, I’d like fine for you to take a look at the tower on Rough.

Munro picked his way through the narrow defile, following the course of a burn, the hills rising steeply on either side. He was thankful, not only that the weather held, but
that this chilly section of his journey would soon be past. The ride down the eastern side of Loch Ken had been pleasant enough, the sun turning the water into a mirror, on which the untidy outline
of the farther shore rode like a series of ships at anchor, tall pines the masts. Points curved out from the near side also, like hooks, enclosing bays fringed with shingle. He had counted eight
islands in the lower loch, though some had been little more than a bare outcrop breaking the surface of the water. On one of those, he saw a heron, statue-still, his grey wings folded back, his
white neck and head stretched upwards, the black crest a feathered quill behind him. Munro stopped and drinking deeply from the water bag at his side, looked back. From this angle he saw the yellow
dagger-bill and the streaks of black trailing down to the soft underbelly. There was a flash as its head arrowed into the water, emerging with a fish, the scales iridescent. Deftly the heron turned
and swallowed it in one swift movement, before freezing once more.

At the foot of the loch he followed the Dee southwards, then struck east towards Carlingwark, where he stopped for a bite to sup, and hay and respite for Sweet Briar also. It was there they gave
warning of this narrow valley where the sun never penetrated and the silence oppressed.

‘A two-mile stretch, dreich as winter whatever the season, and like to spook you and horse both, but once through, strike directly south and you will need but half an hour to the
firth.’

They were now, he guessed, perhaps half-way, caught in the clamp of the hillside, the stream-bed providing the only possible passage. High above him on each side, where the ground met the sky,
the remains of ancient forts, far enough apart to be outside arrow range, rendering them safe from each other at least. He thought on Broomelaw, likewise poised against the horizon and also built
more for protection than for comfort, and of Archie’s revised plans, made at Glencairn’s behest, to repair the tower on Rough Island rather than that of Dunisle. He patted Sweet Briar.
‘However old these ruins, lass, folk haven’t made much progress.’

The valley walls beside him began to recede, to tilt, the bare stone softened by creeping vegetation and then he was in the open, the burn swinging away to his right, the sun full on his face,
his tension eased. Ahead of him the ground sprung, moss-green, tufted with spikes of bog cotton, the stream became a river, flowing in wide meandering loops towards the distant sea.

Munro reined in Sweet Briar where the river met the shore. The bay was scooped from the surrounding land, broken in two by a promontory jutting out into the sands. It was, he estimated, perhaps
a mile across the sands to where Rough Island stood sentinel. He narrowed his eyes, shading them with his hand against the sun. Beyond the island the expanse of sea was a silver glint on the
horizon, the tide far out. And curving from behind the wooded promontory on his left, a single line of posts swung out to touch the island’s edge.

On his right, topping a small rise, Orchardton Tower. Wondering in passing what like the hospitality of these Maxwells would be, he looked up at the sun: several hours yet till supper, ample
time to reconnoitre. He encouraged Sweet Briar into a trot. As they crossed the rough grass, the ground soft, he remembered the last injunction given him as he left Carlingwark to make for
Orchardton and the coast.

‘Don’t try to make straight for Rough Island without checking the tide poles, for the Solway is gey treacherous and there are aye folk who take a risk and pay the penalty.’ And
as an afterthought, ‘And don’t be fool enough to make your own way. The marker posts are there for a reason, for the sands likewise aren’t kind.’

He threaded through the trees that hugged the landward end of the point, following a rutted track. Through the mass of foliage a small hill protruded, a bony knuckle on the finger of land. He
was half-way along when the trees gave way to open ground: rocky outcrops punctuated by pockets of grass and clumps of stunted gorse, straggled with bramble. From this vantage point Munro again saw
the line of posts marching across the sands and beside them two slow-moving specks.

‘No doubt it was the linking of arms they wanted, and that can’t be done on horseback. But it’ll give us a chance to catch up with them.’

Sweet Briar’s ears pricked.

The track skirted an area of swamp and dropped down to a sheltered cove that signalled the start of the waymarked crossing. Sweet Briar halted, nickering to the two horses that cropped the tough
grass, their reins looped around a stump of gorse.

‘No time to be social the now, lass. We have a tower to see.’

A slithering behind him and the rattle of shingle. The man sliding down from the lip of the cove was squat, bow-chested and with the distinctive square face and jutting forehead of a man with
less than average capabilities. His agitation was clear in the fluttering of his hands and in the way he choked on a rush of half sounds, his repeated ‘Na, na’ all that Munro could
decipher.

He acknowledged the man and gestured towards the sands. ‘My brother and his betrothed. I go to meet them, to visit the island.’ As he began to swing Sweet Briar round the man grabbed
hold of the bridle, his jabbering more intense, his head shaking.

‘Not the horse?’

‘Na, na.’

Munro dismounted, tossing Sweet Briar’s reins to snag on the overhanging gorse. ‘It seems you are to get a rest after all.’ And to the man, ‘Thank you, I’ll have to
walk then.’ He took a step forward but the man leapt at him again, hanging on his arm, his mouth working, the sounds more strangled than before. He was trying to pull Munro towards a large
clump of gorse, his feet scrabbling on the shingle.

With a shrug, Munro allowed himself to be led. ‘You have something to show me? All right; then I must go.’

The man dropped to his knees and tugged at the twisted stems, a bundle of dead twigs coming away in his hands. He drew aside the living branches. Munro bent down beside him and stared into the
gap. It took him barely a moment to register the significance of the bundle of marker posts, their bottom ten inches or so smeared with sand. They were undamaged, the paint rings which served to
indicate tide levels unmistakeable, so that Munro knew of a certainty that their removal had been deliberate, the murderous intention clear – dear God . . . He plunged back down the slope,
grabbing Sweet Briar’s reins and swinging up into the saddle, shaking off the man who still clung to him.

At his urging Sweet Briar pounded along the waymarked track, damp sand flying with every hoofbeat. Munro’s eyes were fixed on Archie and Sybilla and on the line of silver sweeping towards
them. They halted, hesitated, began to run.

Munro was pushing Sweet Briar to the limit, screaming at Archie and Sybilla and he saw them turn at his call, as if uncertain which way to go. And in that instant he saw them fall, stumble to
their feet, fall again under the weight of water. Twice more he saw their heads rise like seals, then nothing, bar the quiet blue of the tide, swallowing the posts one by one. He pressed Sweet
Briar onwards, fixing the point of their disappearance in his mind, until the water swirled around her fetlocks, inched up the cannon bone, reached her knee. She faltered. For a moment he
considered keeping going, however futile, but the suck of the tide increased and he felt the sand underneath begin to shift. An image of Kate and the bairns, and then it was his own race back to
the shore, Sweet Briar infected with his fear, with the storm gathering in his chest.