‘That’s over, then. It’ll no be the same in Glenbuckie without her.’
‘I suppose Mòr will take her place,’ said Alys deliberately.
‘It will hardly be Caterin,’ said the other woman. Alys nodded. The whole of Balquhidder was buzzing with the news the ubiquitous Sìne had brought her mistress yesterday, of how, while the young Drummonds were down at the Eagleis Beag in the twilight, watching the deathbed with the rest of Sir Duncan’s parish, a tall, broad-shouldered stranger had walked into Dalriach, summoned Caterin from her house out into the yard, and spoken to her sternly. Curiously, nobody had got a close sight of the man, and there were many different versions of what he had said, overheard from one corner or another. Caterin herself was no help; she had not uttered a word since, and seemed unable to make any sound at all except, so Sìne reported, a wordless singing of one of the hymns to St Angus.
‘I’d best visit her, I suppose,’ continued Lady Stewart. ‘What is it, Murdo?’
Murdo Dubh replaced his feathered bonnet in order to take it off to them both.
‘The Drummonds are wondering,’ he said obliquely, ‘if Mistress Alys could be sparing them a little longer of her time. In the kirk, if you would be able.’
She looked at him, and then eastward, to where the road out of the glen lifted to the Beannachd Angus stone. Three horsemen — only three? — had halted by the stone. She glanced at Lady Stewart, who nodded slightly.
‘I’d be honoured,’ she said. Who were the riders? she wondered as she picked her way past the open grave. Who was missing? One of them had not uncovered his head, surely that one was Gil?
The interior of the kirk was dark after the sunshine, and full of Drummond men standing about awkwardly in silence. She followed Murdo in, and Andrew’s harsh voice said, ‘I thought this was a family matter.’
‘Mistress Alys is a good friend to the family,’ said Patrick, which did not strike Alys as an adequate answer. Andrew appeared to think the same way, for he snorted and flung away into the chancel where he began extinguishing candles.
‘I wished her here,’ said Davie. Behind Alys the door was still swinging ponderously shut. The daylight flickered as if a branch stirred across the opening. ‘I have a thing to say to you all,’ he went on, swallowing hard.
‘I am thinking we mostly know it,’ said Patrick after a moment.
‘What, that I’m not — ’
‘I never thought it,’ said the brother-in-law, ‘nor herself neither.’
‘That you are not our brother David.’ Alys’s eyes were becoming used to the gloom, and she saw the glance Patrick cast at Andrew, who was still moving about in the chancel.
‘David is my father,’ said Davie.
‘We thought that must be it. Is he well?’
‘He has the joint-ill, but otherwise he’s well. He sends you his greetings.’
The conversation seemed quite unreal. Alys stood watching, gauging the reactions of the men present. Patrick was solemn; Jamie was still stiff and embarrassed; Murdo was puzzled. Davie was braced like a crossbow.
‘Why?’ asked Patrick.
‘Why did I deceive you?’ There was a break in the voice, as if Davie would weep on little more provocation. ‘I never planned to, I swear it. But the cailleach took me for — and then how could I — ’
‘Och, no, that’s a wee thing,’ said Patrick. ‘It gave her such pleasure to think you had come home, it’s easy enough forgiven. But why did you come?’
‘My father dreamed,’ Davie swallowed. ‘He dreamed of the house in flames. Three times he dreamed it, and he was wishing to come home and — and warn you all, or see what had come to you — but he had so much to do, and he — he sent me instead.’
‘But then the — the Good Folk set fire to the Tigh-an-Teine,’ said Jamie slowly, ‘only because you were here.’
There was a long, long pause. Then Davie Drummond slowly tipped his head back and howled, one deafening syllable of denial. Alys jumped forward and seized him by the arms, and Murdo Dubh grabbed his shoulders.
‘No! It canny be!’ he wailed, struggling with them.
Alys tightened her grip, breast to breast, and said, ‘Davie! All falls out as God wills! The guilt is not yours, it’s — ’ She checked, swallowed her words and concentrated on holding Davie. After a moment he was still, head bent, saying:
‘And she was so good to me, so loving, and first I deceived her and then I slew her — ’
‘No,’ said Andrew. ‘You caused someone else to do something that led to her death.’
‘I betrayed her.’
‘She named you as one of her bairns, as she lay dying,’ said Alys. ‘And your father as well,’ she realized.
‘David.’ Andrew stepped forward, reached past Alys, tilted Davie’s head up to look in his eyes. ‘Even Judas will find forgiveness. The guilt is not yours.’
Alys looked over Davie’s shoulder towards the door. Gil was standing there, as she had been certain. Their eyes met, and he nodded. He had seen the parallel.
‘Judas is not in it,’ said Murdo Dubh, letting go his grasp of Davie’s shoulders. Davie immediately gave at the knees and slid downwards through Alys’s grasp, to collapse in heartbroken sobs on the earthen floor.
‘I killed her. It’s my fault!’
‘Come, come, laddie,’ said Patrick stiffly, beginning to be embarrassed. ‘There is none of us is blaming you for it, and no need to be carrying on like this at the age you are.’
He paused, and his brother said in his harsh voice, ‘We don’t know what age he is, Patrick, but I agree he is too old for weeping like a lassie. Get up, David.’
‘Davie.’ Alys knelt beside the sobbing figure. ‘Davie, there is still something you have to tell us, isn’t there?’
‘Is he not telling us enough?’ asked Murdo Dubh. In the corner of her eye Alys was aware that Andrew had lit the candles in the chancel again. No, surely Andrew was standing beside Patrick? She moved so that the light fell on Davie Drummond’s face. Beside Patrick, Jamie Beag had stepped back, turning away from the group as if he knew what would come next.
‘Davie?’ she prompted. The sobs ceased, briefly, and then completely. Davie looked at her warily in the light.
‘What do I have to tell you?’
She sat back on her heels, still holding one wet hand.
‘What is Davie short for?’
There was another long pause.
‘Surely,’ said Murdo, ‘it’s only short for David?’ Alys shook her head. ‘Though he ought to have been called James like his grandfather,’ Murdo added with disapproval.
‘Should you, Davie?’ Alys rubbed her thumb gently on the back of the hand she held. ‘Should you have been called for your grandfather?’
Davie used the other wrist to scrub at wet eyes, and whispered, ‘No.’
‘Don’t be daft, laddie,’ said Patrick. ‘Who else should you ha been called for? If not your grandfather, then your father, that’s proper enough.’
Davie laughed unsteadily.
‘No, uncle. I was called for my mother.’
‘For your mother?’ repeated Andrew incredulously. ‘Your mother?’ And then, with sudden comprehension, ‘What was her name, then? Was she Dymphna?’
‘Nearly.’ Davie sat back, still gripping Alys’s hand. ‘She was from Ireland, she had the Irish form of the name. Demhna. I was aye called Davie — Devi — to make a difference.’
‘Devna,’ repeated Andrew.
And no wonder, thought Alys, you could swear your name was Davie Drummond. She glanced over to the door, and saw that Gil was still watching, as fascinated by the scene as she was herself.
‘Demhna,’ said Patrick slowly, and unbelted his great plaid. He shook it out, and held it to his niece. ‘Cover yourself, lassie,’ he said gently. ‘I can see that you would travel safer dressed as a laddie, but it’s not decent now.’
There was a movement in the chancel, and Robert Montgomery came slowly forward into the nave, as if pulled, with the candle-snuffer still in his hand. He stopped on the edge of the group, staring at the kneeling figure in its midst.