Turn of the Tide (8 page)

They followed him across the inner close to a low doorway set in the corner, where he clattered up a flight of stairs and along a narrow passageway, Hugh and Patrick hard on his heels, and slid
to a stop outside a small, iron-studded door. It was obvious from the way that he grabbed the coin offered, stuffing it into his jerkin without troubling to test it with his teeth, that if he
didn’t hurry, he was like to get into trouble from some other source. He had disappeared around a corner in the corridor before Hugh had lifted his arm to knock on Alexander’s door.

He was seated in an alcove, light spilling into the room from the window in front of him and Hugh, looking out through the narrow embrasure, noted the inconvenience, should one wish to make a
speedy escape from the castle. Forbye the bars set firm into the stone, the wall and the cliff below it plunged, he guessed, at least a hundred feet into the valley below.

‘I have no need of any route other than the stairs Hugh. It is . . .’ Alexander placed a slight but deliberate stress on the word, ‘. . . but
one
advantage of my
trade.’

‘There are others?’ The retort was out before Hugh thought, but Alexander didn’t rise to it.

‘Oh yes,’ and then, with a smile that failed to reach his eyes, ‘There are more ways than one to catch a fox, nephew, and you would do well to remember it.’

‘My apologies, uncle. I didn’t come to disparage, only that. . .’

‘Nor have I a wish to quarrel with you, Hugh, but do not think I feel the pain of your parents’ deaths the less, because I do not broadcast it.’ There was an odd note in
Alexander’s voice. ‘Your mother . . . we were fond . . . but she didn’t fancy a life at court . . . and perhaps she was right. She went to bide awhile at Giffen and Adam found her
there. And she came to love him and he her. And there is much to be said for that, however short their time was cut. If you are as fortunate. . .’

Hugh studied a mark on his doublet, but aware of the light pressure on his arm felt obliged to look up.

‘. . . You will be fortunate, indeed.’ There was a slight involuntary tremor under Alexander’s eye. ‘There are worse ways to die . . . and living a widow one of
them.’

Heat coursed through Hugh. Despite that he had begun to make his own plans, or perhaps because of them, all the while since his mother’s death it had been as if he had lain under a fallen
tree, his movements constricted by the weight of the trunk. Now, with this new perspective that Alexander provided, he found the weight lifting, the anger that had been smouldering in him dying
away. In its place a more kindly understanding of his parents; and with it, respect and fondness for this uncle who, laying aside his own pain, would put himself out to further Hugh’s cause.
For the first time in the whole exchange, he looked Alexander full in the eye.

‘I am grateful, uncle – perhaps it is the soldier in me that doesn’t see what a poet may discern.’ He struggled to find words that would express what he felt without
sounding maudlin and was relieved when Alexander interrupted.

‘Let’s not dwell on what is past. You have your sword, I have verse.’ His smile extended a little, ‘And for what it’s worth, I am at your disposal. I imagine you
have some little favour to ask?’ A chill crept back into his voice. ‘A word in your ear – favours come easier salted with respect.’

Hugh dipped his head, acknowledging the rebuke. ‘I see you were at work. We didn’t mean to disturb – only that we would wish to appear presentable to the King, and thought to
take advantage of your lodging, our own proving less than adequate.’ He was scratching at his leg.

Alexander’s face now showed genuine amusement. ‘You came to Stirling without a potion for flea bites? Surely you left Braidstane in a hurry. It’s not like Grizel to let you
away unprepared. Here . . .’ He moved to a chest at the other side of the room and rummaged through it, emerging with a small bottle that he lobbed at Hugh, before gesturing towards a table
with a basin and ewer, ready filled. ‘Be my guests, though I’m afraid the water is cold. It is rather too pricey to expect service of real quality two storeys up. And supposing I did
pay for hot water, it would likely be cold by the time it arrived. It’s easier, and better, to save the silver.’

He produced a towel and tossed it to Patrick, who held it while Hugh splashed water over his face and neck, and ran his damp fingers through his hair.

Patrick said, ‘At the risk of being cried for a lassie, there’s a comb in my baggage that might serve you well.’

‘There is nothing amiss with my hair that a few minutes in the air won’t sort.’ Hugh turned for support to Alexander, who said, with a twitch of his lips that might be
construed as a smile,

‘A wee pickle of a straighten wouldn’t go amiss. You aren’t in the barracks now and do not go before James as a soldier. You may despise the Cunninghame’s presentation,
but believe me, a little effort in that direction may serve you well.’

Hugh found the comb and attacked his hair, so that he looked, for once, more the laird than the mercenary. Alexander was leaning over the table, scribbling a last few words, scoring out here,
adjusting there. Hugh paced up and down the small chamber, and unconsciously undid any good that he had done to his hair by running his fingers through it again. Patrick, having smoothed his
natural curls into submission with a practised hand, tossed the comb back towards him, and in a reflex action, Hugh caught it, but looked at it in surprise.

Patrick forestalled him. ‘Do it again and this time put your hat on before you wreak havoc. Thank God for a windless day – there is a chance you may pass muster, supposing we do not
wait long on the King.’

Alexander turned from the table, his arms full of papers. Hugh expected another lecture: on the value of swallowing pride, of taking a little care to his position as the new laird of Braidstane,
of the responsibilities which made conforming to expectations no longer an option, but an obligation. He was steeling himself to respond and so was caught off guard by Alexander’s
question,

‘How do you for horses?’

‘Fair enough, I suppose.’

‘Have they stamina, and a fair turn of speed?’

‘In an ordinary way, yes, though not in the hunting league.’

‘It isn’t yet arranged but, if you were to invite the King to take the chase. . . .’

Hugh shook his head. ‘That isn’t an expense I thought to make, especially as we are not on home territory and it wouldn’t just be James but half the court that
followed.’

Alexander waved his sheaf of papers and said, ‘There are those who would wish to join our poetry circle. I do not think it impossible that I could arrange some accommodation. Do you take
care of the swearing of friendship with Glencairn, and issue an invitation to all to join with you on Thursday: as our guests. Do not say where exactly. James enjoys a mystery.’

‘There isn’t a fear that you can’t make good the invitation?’

Alexander’s voice was cheerful. ‘A gamble maybe.’

Patrick made as if to speak.

‘Rest easy. It is but a small risk. And the better the chase, the higher your stock will rise. Glencairn will be fair scunnered for not thinking of it.’

From the relish in Alexander’s voice, Hugh accepted fully, for the first time, that his uncle matched his own dislike of the Cunninghames. ‘My thanks, uncle and . . .’ he
tapped the page in Alexander’s hand, ‘. . . with luck we may catch more than a fox or two, if things fall out well.’

There was the sound of running footsteps in the passageway outside.

Alexander turned, ‘I’d better be away. The King set us a task yesterday, and I mustn’t be behind with my response. Don’t wait long to follow, but don’t be over
hasty either. James will wish to hear our verses first before he turns to your cause.’ From the doorway, he finished, ‘We need but half an hour for our mutual congratulations and if you
are to hand then, my softenings may have made James disposed to look kindly on you. I trust,’ Hugh heard the hint of steel in his voice, ‘you won’t disappoint me, or we shall all
suffer for it.’

Hugh acknowledged both the advice and the warning. ‘I shall play the game, uncle, have no fear. You shall find me almost a poet in my swearing. God knows I have practised enough, that I
might not retch at the sound of my own voice.’

The Great Hall at Stirling, where James had chosen that the Montgomeries and Cunninghames should publicly swear to end their family quarrels, was full to bursting. Hugh followed
Patrick in, squeezing through to join Robert Montgomerie, positioned near the front of the hall. The King sat on the dais surrounded by his poetry circle. Others hovered close, betraying by the
stiffness of their posture a mixture of nerves and expectation, their desire to catch a glance, an invitation to join the favoured few. Members of the council clustered in the large bay window
area, among them Secretary of Scotland, Maitland, clutching a roll of parchment that he tap-tapped against his leg, perhaps indicating a suppressed frustration that James put poetry before the
affairs of state. The man who currently was entertaining James with a poem that praised the King’s prowess on the hunting field, Hugh recognized as ‘Old Scott’ – who in
Mary’s day had written ‘Welcome illustrat Lady and our Queen’. – How easy it is for a poet, Hugh thought – change a word here, alter another there, and old allegiances
as easily replaced
.
That he would shortly be up there with them, posturing and pretending a friendship that he intended to keep only for so long as was necessary, did not make him any more
sympathetic to the ploys of others. As he despised what he was about to do, so he despised the manner in which others also prostituted themselves before James.

Patrick leant sideways and spoke softly in his ear. ‘Have a care, Hugh. Your thoughts are as plain as the red in your hair: a child could read them, and the King, for all he hasn’t
reached his full majority, is no child. Nor Glencairn either, and as for William, he may play the fop, but it won’t have addled his brain. . . . And if you don’t let go of my arm, I
shall bear the mark for months to come.’

Unclenching his hand, Hugh released Patrick, who bent his arm sideways until the elbow joint cracked, flexing his fingers. ‘Better mine than Cunninghame’s, I do suppose. I
shan’t need a fighting arm for the present – or not I trust, till I am back in France.’

There was a stir around James. Hugh saw that Old Scott had finished his piece and was moving back to let another of the group take his place.

Patrick whistled under his breath. ‘Perhaps there is something in this poetry game. I hadn’t thought to see a lady among the company, and pretty at that. I must ask Alexander . .
.’

‘We aren’t here to play, Patrick. Nor will we stay long.’

‘Oh I don’t need long,’ Patrick grinned, showing even, white teeth, ‘I never need long – indeed I tire easily, and must perforce rest between bouts.’

‘This lady keeps dangerous company; little use my taking care of appearance, if you will cause an affront to one of James’ inner circle.’ Aware that his grip was again over
hard, Hugh relaxed and made a conscious effort to sound casual, ‘A poet might have higher expectations than even you can meet. This is not Leyden. Nor do we wish to close doors that may be to
our advantage. Offence here would be inconvenient, at the very least.’

Patrick half-turned, so that the tall, thin man nearest to them, who showed his restiveness in the way he alternately swivelled the cairngorm ring on his left hand and picked at imaginary specks
of fluff on his clothes, might not pick up his words. ‘I have no intention of causing offence, but a little pleasant conversation in the right direction may open doors to us, not close them.
Have you ever known me to sail so close to the wind that I am over-turned?’ Despite himself, Hugh grinned at him. It was true that he hadn’t yet met a lady who remembered an encounter
with Patrick with anything other than pleasure, though there were many who wished that they might have held onto him a little longer.

At the other side of the hall Glencairn moved through the throng, William on his tail, halting, at just such a distance to indicate availability, yet deference to the moment of the King’s
choosing. Robert Montgomerie also stepped forward, bringing himself into James’ sightline, but not close enough to Glencairn for discomfort. Hugh and Patrick edged towards him. Hugh saw
William glance in their direction and then turn to make some comment to the man who stood behind him. If he had any doubt that it was in disparagement, the way in which the other man looked around
as if to see if the remark had been overheard, would have confirmed it. He noted the man’s bearing – light build, about his own age, plainly dressed – and thought him an
altogether unlikely companion to William, who wore for the occasion a wide ruff and a tall-crowned hat of striped green velvet, which sat on his head like a stalk of butterbur. It was trimmed by a
large brooch, aglitter with pearls, ostentatious, even by William’s standards.

Patrick murmured, ‘We are very much the country cousins here. Take care to make capital of the invitation to hunt, for we won’t impress else.’