‘No, no. She lived another twenty year,’ said Mally
‘Five-and-twenty,’ corrected Isa, ‘for she was buried the year after my George. But she was never no more use to her man, she tellt me that herself once. Troubled her the rest of her life, that did. She would aye see blood, ye ken,’ she confided in a whisper.
‘She’d the lassie, mind you,’ said Mally. ‘When her boys was near grown. Fifteen, the oldest one was, and Marion turned up here on a visit at her mammy’s yett wi’ a lassie bairn in her plaid.’
‘Aye,’ said Isa drily. Alys looked quickly at her, and met the sharp dark eyes under the folded linen headdress.
‘Had she an easier time with the lassie?’ she asked.
‘I never heard,’ said Mally regretfully. ‘Her mammy said it wasny long, the bairn slipped out like a calf, but I never got to ask her myself.’
‘I did,’ said Isa, and looked surprised at her own words. ‘She said the same to me. You mind, her mammy was bad at the time wi’ that spring cough that was in the town, and her at the Pow Burn, that was a great friend of Marion’s mammy, was away and no help to be got there, so I went in to see to the house for her and get her man’s supper, and there was Marion sitting wi’ the bairn, and a lassie from Dalserf wi’ her to nurse it. Easy time or no, she’d nothing to nurse it wi’ herself. No milk. The bairn must ha’ been four week old by then, old enough to ha’ lost the look of its daddy that they all have when they’re newborn. No great look of Marion it had neither,’ she added. ‘Strange, how it happens.’
Mally shook her head, tut-tutting in sympathy.
‘What help could the Pow Burn folk have been?’ Alys asked. ‘Surely you’d never burn coal with a cough in the house, the smoke makes a bad chest worse.’
‘Oh, aye,’ agreed Mally ‘Coals is the worst thing there is for a bad chest. You can’t beat a good mustard plaister, I always say.’
‘No, it was that Mistress Weir,’ said Isa. Both women crossed themselves. ‘She was awful handy wi’ a pill or a bottle at the time, if you went up the Pow Burn to ask, but she was away, you ken.’
‘Now is that no a strange thing,’ said Mally, sucking her teeth.
‘What?’ demanded Isa.
‘The bairn we’re speaking of — Marion Lockhart’s lassie — that’s Mistress Weir’s good-daughter now. No the one that does the healing, the other one, Mistress Brownlie.’
‘Oh, aye,’ said Isa. ‘I ken that. For her new man, him that’s missing, was asking me the exact same questions, just after Candlemas.’
‘Do you tell me!’ exclaimed Alys, in genuine astonishment. ‘Now if I’d realized, I could have asked about her mother when I saw her yesterday, and saved myself the walk into Carluke. But then I’d never have met either of you ladies,’ she said gracefully, and they nodded and smiled, much gratified.
‘Nor you’d no ha’ seen St Andrew’s kirk,’ added Mally, ‘and that’s worth a longer walk than here to Belstane.’
‘Was there aught else you wanted to learn, lassie?’ asked Isa.
Alys met her sharp gaze again.
‘Mistress Lockhart’s sons might recall my friend,’ she said. ‘Where did you say they are now? I think neither of them has their father’s land?’
‘Aye, that’s right,’ agreed Mally, ‘for they were both wedded and away to their own place long afore Will Brownlie died. Barely saw his lassie wedded, he did, but at least he lasted so long, thanks be to Our Lady.’
‘I’d ha’ looked for him to last a while longer,’ said Isa. ‘Fine upstanding man he was. But there you are, you never can tell when you’ll meet your end, and at least he made a good death, so I heard.’ She crossed herself, and her friend nodded and did likewise. ‘Where did Marion’s boys go, Mally? There’s one of them in Draffan, is there no?’
‘Draffan,’ agreed Mally. ‘That would be Tammas, I’d say. And Hob’s in …’ She paused, and sucked her teeth again. ‘Is it Canderside? Both of them went into Lesmahagow,’ she explained to Alys, who understood her to mean the next parish.
‘Too far for me,’ she said.
‘Depends on why you’re wanting to go there,’ said Isa acutely.
Lady Cunningham was in the stable-yard, seated on the mounting-block watching a young horse being led round, oblivious to the light drizzle which had started. She was booted and spurred, clad in a muddy riding-dress and crowned by a battered felt hat shaped like a sugar-loaf, and drew the eye as she always did.
‘Trot him out, Dod,’ she said, and turned her head as Alys came in at the gate. The young maidservant bobbed nervously to her mistress, then hurried by and into the house. ‘There you are, my dear. You’ve missed Gil.’ She turned back to scrutinize the horse’s action. ‘Aye, he’s still going a wee thing short on that leg, isn’t he? Another hot soak, Henry, I think. Now let me see the piebald.’
‘I have missed Gil?’ said Alys. ‘I thought he had gone out with the colliers, before I left. And he has not taken Socrates,’ she added, as the wolfhound commanded her attention from the end of the cart-shed with one deep imperious remark. ‘Why is he chained up?’
‘The brute’s to get washed,’ said Henry resignedly from his post at Lady Cunningham’s elbow. ‘A bath.’
‘A bath? Has he rolled in something?’
‘Gil came back,’ said his mother, ‘lifted a clean shirt and a bannock, and left again half an hour since for Linlithgow or somewhere of the sort, saying he might not be back tonight. He’s not alone, he took that fool Patey with him.’
‘Oh,’ said Alys blankly, over the sudden lurching feeling in her stomach.
‘I have a kiss for you,’ continued Lady Cunningham. ‘I will say, it’s a long time since he kissed me like that. He’ll be back the morn’s night, I should think. Then maybe Patey can get on with his work here.’
He would not wish to delay by waiting for me, thought Alys. How far is it to Linlithgow? Can he be there in daylight?
‘And the dog?’ she said, to distract herself. Socrates sat down as she spoke and scratched vigorously at his ribs with a narrow grey hind foot.
‘That’s why the bath,’ said Henry. ‘Maister Gil said he’s been after a strange bitch up at Forth, and likely picked up all sorts off her. I’d as soon wait till he gets back, but I suppose it had best be done the day.’
Alys looked at the dog again. He grinned at her and thumped his tail; there was a self-satisfied air about him which it occurred to her she had seen on his master at times.
‘I can help,’ she said. ‘He will mind me. What do you put in the wash for fleas or lice?’
The piebald clopped out across the yard as Henry began to enumerate the herbs he preferred for the purpose. Lady Cunningham rose and went forward to feel the horse’s legs. The animal tossed his head, taking the groom by surprise, and she seized the halter-rope with calming words as hoofbeats sounded outside the high gate, one horse, approaching fast. Henry moved quickly to the gate, peered through the judas-hole, and visibly relaxed.
‘It’s young Douglas,’ he said, swinging one heavy leaf wide as Michael slowed to a halt and dismounted before the gateway. ‘We never looked for you till this evening, Maister Michael. Was it himself you wanted, or her ladyship?’
‘Is Maister Cunningham here?’ demanded Michael, leading his horse into the yard. Finding first Alys and then his godmother present, he stopped, stammering a greeting, and bowed to both.
‘My son has gone to Linlithgow,’ said Lady Cunningham, still by the piebald’s side.
‘Linlithgow?’ repeated Michael incredulously. ‘Why? I–I mean, I thought we were looking for the man Murray.’
‘I think this is about Murray,’ said Alys. ‘The sister of the two sinkers had heard they had gone there. I suppose he got confirmation of that at Forth, and he has followed them.’
‘Aye, but,’ said Michael, replacing his hat, ‘Murray never got as far as Forth. That’s what I’ve learned this morning. The trail’s crossed — our man never got beyond Lanark.’
‘I thought you said he had collected the money further on,’ Alys said.