THE CHAINS OF FATE an utterly compelling and romantic historical saga (The Heron Quartet Book 2), page 13
When I slowed down to a walk, a stitch stabbing my side, there was no sound of pursuit, and then it was that my cheated body began to regret most bitterly what I had rejected. Dully I buttoned up my abused doublet, exhausted by the wildly swinging emotions that had gripped me within the last hour or so, and reminded myself that I must not weep. I would tell Grainne, but no one else: and I did not think that anyone would guess what had happened.
The fire was almost dead. Heaped around it were several slumbering, snoring shepherds and their womenfolk. A uisquebaugh flask was being passed around those still sober enough to tilt it to their mouths. Archie was singing blearily to himself, rocking tipsily backwards and forwards as he sat by the dull peats, and a sleepy-looking Hobbie was holding the Catholm party’s horses on the edge of the firelight. Grainne was already mounted and looking around anxiously, her slumbering son a small fire-headed bundle in her arms, but it was Malise who saw me first, and came running clumsily toward me, all but falling flat on his face as he reached me, though he was stone cold sober. ‘Thomazine! We were worrit about you. What have you done to yoursel’?’
In the firelight I saw, looking down, the full state of my dishevelment, though fortunately I had managed to button up my doublet successfully in the dark. ‘Oh,’ I said casually, ‘I fell over and ripped my sleeve. It’s only the seam gone, it’ll mend easy. Oh, Malise, did you see the lights? Weren’t they wonderful?’
They had indeed seen the lights, and the discussion that followed served well to divert attention from what I had been doing out in the dark on the moor. It had not been, I gathered, a particularly dazzling display and Malise took it quite for granted. I could see, however, that Grainne had been as spellbound as I. ‘And Jasper was mightily impressed,’ she added, as we said our farewells and moved away down the hill toward Catholm, safety and sleep. ‘Dancing Lights, he called them, which is a very good way of describing them.’ She looked down at her son’s face, unconscious and abandoned to sleep, still with greasy marks round his mouth. ‘It doesn’t seem so long since he was a little imp just starting to walk, and now he’s almost too heavy for me to hold like this: my arm’s aching.’
‘I’ll take him,’ said Malise, guiding Tanaquill close, while Sim brought up his flaming pitch-soaked torch to give the necessary light. Grainne looked at him with a suspicion of laughter in the corners of her mouth and said, ‘How can I be sure you won’t drop him?’
‘I willna do that,’ said Malise, with mock indignation. ‘Clumsy I may be, but I’m no’ daft. Now give yon great lump over here.’
Jasper hardly stirred as he was transferred awkwardly from his mother’s arms to those of Malise, and I was deeply envious of such easy oblivion. A huge restlessness was upon me, longing, regret and anger all feverish in my mind, and I was wishing most bitterly that I had succumbed to the sweet drunken touch of Francis’s hands. I might be lying beside him now in the dark cool grass between the ancient stones …
But I was not, and it did no good to be thinking of it. Malise had dropped behind a little, but not far enough to be out of earshot, and Sim, his torch sending our fantastic shadows dancing behind us like the black counterparts of the Northern Lights, was only just in front.
We passed within twenty yards of the circle, but there were only the usual number of stones, and no additional amorphous shape standing between them; and I wondered with a pang of remorse and fear if Francis might not even now be lying there, stunned by my too-well-aimed stone. But I could not check that he was not without revealing what had passed between us, not only to Malise and Grainne but also to the dour, disapproving Sim. Besides, he was eminently capable of looking after himself, and I did not, I thought, encouraging myself into righteous anger, feel his behaviour unworthy of an uncomfortable night on the hillside. It was warm and unlikely to rain, and he would not come to harm, unless Lord Soulis saw him for a kindred spirit and laid his ghostly fingers on him: and I had no faith in the shade of the Wicked Lord. No, I decided, Francis Heron was probably at this moment sleeping it off in his bed at Catholm, if in his state he had got that far, and deserved no further consideration.
But he was not at Catholm. We walked wearily into the parlour to find Sandy, who had waited up for us to lock the door after, nodding over a tankard of cold mulled ale. ‘You’re later than I’d thought. Did you have a good look o’ the Lights? We didna see much of them at a’, down here i’ the valley.’ He walked over to the door, adding ‘Ony more o’ you to come?’
‘We don’t know,’ said Grainne, ‘Gib and Francis seem to have made their own arrangements — unless they came back before us, of course.’
‘No, lass, they havena come back, neither o’ them, and I for one can guess why,’ said Malise’s father, turning the huge key and sliding the bolts. ‘Well, I’ll bid ye all good night, and make for my own bed. There’s a poker hotting i’ the fire there, and ale i’ the kitchen if you wish for a night-cap, but I’m sae weary I couldna lift it out o’ the flames. Good night to you!’ And with a friendly, sleepy grin, he lit his candle and shambled off to bed.
I waited until Grainne and I were alone in our chambers, with the ale steaming gently in the hearth and Jasper asleep in a tumble of limbs and sheepskin, and then told her of all that had happened that night. As I spoke, bitter regret washed over me again, threatening to drown me, and I paced restlessly up and down the boards of the chamber. ‘Oh, Grainne, did I do right? Will it make any difference? I wanted him so badly, and yet I couldn’t, not like that, it wouldn’t have been right and when it was over I’m sure it would only have confirmed what he thought of me — that I’m a whore. If I’m going to fling myself into adultery then I don’t want it to be a squalid one-night affair with a drunken lover who might just as well have had any woman. I want it to be special … and yet,’ I added miserably, my eyes on her understanding face, ‘I do wish most desperately that I hadn’t been so scrupulous!’
‘I don’t blame you,’ said Grainne, ‘and yet I’m sure you did right. He has so obviously convinced himself that you’re no better than a strumpet, giving yourself carte blanche to any man who takes your fancy, that refusing him tonight may, in the sober light of day, give him pause to think.’
‘I hope so,’ I said, ‘and I pray to God I didn’t do lasting damage with that stone.’
‘If it let some sense into his head,’ Grainne remarked drily, ‘then I shouldn’t waste your worry.’
But my restlessness continued all night. I tossed and turned in my lonely bed, and the dreams that seemed to invade even my wakefulness were all the same, shameful sensual images of Francis and myself, over and over again, that left me weak and shaking and drained with helpless longing, unassuaged and tormenting. At first light I rose with a pounding headache, heavy-eyed and exhausted, dressed in my abused riding-habit and tiptoed downstairs. I felt in desperate need to do something, to submerge myself in activity: and if I should chance to ride up to the Stones, that would not occasion comment.
I had a bannock and a mug of ale from Janet, who was already up and shovelling hot ashes into the oven in preparation for the day’s baking, and then let myself out into the barmkin. There was no sign of life here, except for the fowls gathered round the door in hopes of their morning ration of kitchen scraps. I waded through them and went into the stables.
There was little light, but I could see with a quick glance that neither Gib’s mount nor Hobgoblin were there. I walked to The Thunderflash, who looked at me hopefully and nuzzled my sleeve, knowing that I usually brought him some delicacy before a ride. I held out my hand with a broken piece of oatcake on it, and the grey whiskery nose dropped into my palm and neatly slobbered the bannock up, crumbs and all. I rubbed his ears, aware that he was sidling closer and closer — The Thunderflash liked to lean against people, having, for a horse, a pronounced sense of humour — and then I heard a whine. Startled, I looked round and saw Drake, standing a respectful distance from the grey’s hind feet, gazing at me with woebegone, appealing dark eyes. Then he whined again, trotted towards the end of the stable, back again, and barked gently. So plainly did he want me to go with him that I gave The Thunderflash a last pat, told him I would be back shortly with his tack, and walked over to Drake. ‘Hallo, old boy, what do you want, eh? How did you get in here?’ And then I stopped abruptly, for of course Drake had been with Francis last night, and he was unlikely to have got into the stables by himself.
I followed the old dog down the aisle between the horses to the pile of fresh straw and bracken and broom heaped at the far end for their bedding. Sprawled untidily over it, face down and almost anonymous in the gloom, was a dark shape that could only be Francis. My heart thumping, I knelt beside him and took one slack wrist in my hands. It was some time before I could distinguish the slow steady beat under my fingers, and then I broke out into a cold sweat with relief. Drake whined anxiously and thrust his cold wet nose under the tangled pale hair. He was rewarded by a muffled and fortunately unintelligible expletive. Slowly and painfully, Francis rolled over and sat up, one hand clasped to his head and the other trying to fend off his dog, who was attempting kindly to wash any exposed part of his beloved master within his reach. ‘For Christ’s sake, you bloody dog, get off!’
I obligingly dragged Drake out of the way and made him sit. It was only then that Francis became aware of my presence, and it was obvious from his grey pinched face and set mouth that he was in no state to be circumspect. ‘Oh God, not you again.’
‘I didn’t mean to find you,’ I said. ‘But Drake pretty well dragged me here. I was going for a ride.’ I added ingenuously, ‘Does your head hurt?’
‘It feels,’ said Francis concisely, ‘as if at any moment it will split asunder. Did you have to defend your virtue with such vigour?’
‘I’ll wager,’ I said, dodging the question, ‘that even if I’d never flung that stone, you’d still have the headache.’
‘Take that prim puritan disapproving look off your face, it ill becomes you. You’ve seen me the worse for drink before, haven’t you?’
‘No,’ I said bluntly, ‘not like that. And I don’t like it.’
‘If I drink myself to death it won’t be on your account, I promise you.’
‘Oh?’ I said nastily. ‘On whose? That inviting little Armstrong slut? Why don’t you go back to her and get her to minister to your honourable wound — and your other needs?’
‘I’ll go to Hell my own way if I want to, with no interference from you,’ said Francis through shut teeth. ‘Now just go away, will you, and leave me in peace; you’ve got a voice like a scolding old corbie … Oh God, woman, will you go away?’
I went, stamping childishly on the stones and slamming the door, with the vengeful thought that if it made his headache worse, I did not care. And at least it seemed I had not done lasting harm …
That afternoon, two men rode into the barmkin on tired, ill-groomed horses that, like the Thunderflash, looked deceptively quiet and rustic. Both quite young, one was broad, athletic and unimaginative-looking and walked with a limp, the other a slender youth with a shy, girlish yet determined face, and they asked to see Malise but did not give their names.
When I saw the speed with which their horses were whisked out of sight, and the strangers themselves led hastily into the house by their host, I was suspicious; and more so when the afternoon grew late and they and Malise, and probably Francis as well, had been closeted in the tower for upwards of three hours. I wondered who the men were, and my forebodings were confirmed when Elizabeth Graham, cornered in the barmkin where we could not possibly be overheard, said, ‘They are kin to Montrose. The big lame one is Will Rollo, whose brother married his sister, and the other is the Earl of Airlie’s eldest son, and Jamie Graham’s cousin. What they do here I know not, save that it very likely means our two friends will go a-wandering again.’ She eyed me speculatively. ‘Have you, as they say in these parts, dinged some sense into Francis Heron’s obstinate skull yet?’
‘Well, we can argue now without actually drawing blood, metaphorically or literally,’ I said, thinking of the conversation, if it could be dignified by such a name, that had taken place that morning. ‘But further than that I cannot say … Why did those men have to come now?’
‘Perhaps they are scouting for Montrose,’ Grainne suggested, appearing at our sides. ‘Doubtless he still dreams of invasion, but unless he comes with a huge army he will never cross the Border. Perhaps they are canvassing support.’
‘He’ll get little from the Grahams of Catholm,’ said Great-Aunt briskly, ‘and none at all from the Grahams of Netherby, or the Elliots of Redheugh and Stobs, and Buccleugh and Roxburgh and Traquair are time-servers and sail-trimmers to a man, and who in these times can blame them? King Campbell and King Covenant rule all Scotland, and if Jamie Graham thinks he can overthrow them he’s a bigger fool than Francis.’
Ogilvy and Rollo left that evening. The following morning, still none the wiser as to the purpose of their visit, I came down, earlier than my custom, for the usual informal kitchen breakfast, to find Malise and Francis making ready to travel. My heart sank as I watched their preparations, saw two uncouth, unkempt shaggy garrons waiting outside, and knew they went a-spying again. I caught Malise’s eye, and he said ruefully, ‘Dinna worry yoursel’, we willna be long gone. Tell Grainne no’ to fret, and tell Jasper I’ll expect to find him jumping the head dyke when I come back.’
‘If,’ I said. ‘Malise … Francis … be careful?’
‘Nae doubt o’ that,’ said Malise, buckling up his pack. ‘There’s nae room for the careless in this game. Are you ready, Francis?’
‘I’m ready,’ said the man, God help me, whom I loved. For a moment his eyes met mine and then looked away: as if he were bidding me farewell, I thought on a moment of panic. ‘And wishing to go now, while it’s still early.’
‘Go where?’ Grizel Graham swept into the parlour, as stiff and stark and brittle as a dry stick, her eyes hard. ‘Where are ye going this time, eh?’ She planted her thin upright figure in front of her younger son, whom I had never heard her address by his name in all the three months I had been at Catholm. Malise looked down at her from his big clumsy height and said, ‘That’s nae concern o’ yours, mother.’
‘Spying for that excommunicate hell-spawned Montrose, I dinna doot,’ said Grizel, her voice hissing just above a whisper. ‘You’ll end in Hell, and through the Maiden’s embrace like as not, and I’ll no’ regret it for you’re nae true son o’ mine!’
‘But you willna betray us,’ said Malise gently, and it was not a question nor a pleading, but a statement of fact. Grizel seemed to shrink, the light of battle left her stony, blue-grey fanatic’s eyes, and she said slowly, with an anguish I had never heard in her before, ‘No, I willna betray you … I’m your mother yet, dear though it costs me … Why canna you leave him and come to God?’
‘Because Montrose is my friend, and because your God isna mine, nor will ever be,’ said Malise. ‘Goodbye, mother. We willna be long gone. Goodbye, Thomazine. Are you coming, Francis?’
‘Yes,’ said my cousin, and for a moment he looked at me. ‘Goodbye, Thomazine. Look after Drake for me, will you? He’s shut in my chamber and doubtless bursting to be out.’ And he swept me one of his old mocking bows, and was gone.
Well, at least he had said goodbye. It was yet another tiny morsel of hope to cling to in the dreary weeks of anxiety that stretched bleakly ahead: although I did not know which was worse, the strain of waiting emptily for news, or the profligate exhausting emotions that buffeted me whenever Francis and I were in the same house.
*
All through the next two weeks in the heat of late July and early August, broken by the booming thunder that rolled round the hills and valleys as if invisible giants were playing skittles in the heavens, we waited for news of them. None did we have, though tidings from the outside world became suddenly interesting, full of fearful forebodings. The Irish army, on whom the King and Montrose alike had placed their hopes of invasion, and which had seemed as illusory as a marsh-light dancing over the mosses to lure men to their deaths, had actually landed in the west of Scotland, and was said to be marching inland, burning and ravaging as it came. Now, surely, Montrose must act, or he was nothing but a sham.
Yet the Border was guarded, watched, patrolled; no army could break through.
On the seventh of August, far away in Oxford, my son Kit was a year old. A year ago, I had had my first and last sight of Montrose, and I wondered if I would ever see him again. Despite Malise’s evident admiration for the man, I hoped that his invasion plans would come to nothing; for if they did not, Malise and Francis were bound to go with him, and such a crack-brained scheme was certain to fail. Or so Great-Aunt seemed to think, and I had great respect for her judgement. I knew why Malise would follow Montrose, but as usual Francis’s motives were obscure. What had happened, I wondered bleakly, to the advanced, not to say revolutionary, ideals which he had professed before the war, and subjugated for my sake? They had been incompatible enough with fighting for the King in England; here in Scotland, where the Kirk had done so much to bring education and enlightenment to the people, it seemed strange to find him on the opposing side. Then I bethought me of the true character of that Kirk, its repressive, joyless interfering nature, so utterly alien to all that I knew Francis to be, and realized that, in Scotland at least, he would be fighting on the right side. I wondered what Montrose made of him, and he of Montrose … Strange how once, years ago, I would not even have had to ask it of him, and now any conversation beyond a wary, guarded exchange of words was impossible.
He came back with Malise a week after Kit’s birthday, and it was quite apparent that neither of them were going to be forthcoming; although Malise walked now with a new air of confidence, even a man-of-the-world swagger to match Gib’s (had he not knocked over a tankard of ale or cracked his elbow on the doorpost). And to those who knew him as well as I, Francis’s face was a careful noncommittal mask to hide the fire beneath.
