NINE

1588

The ship was a single-masted birlinn or galley, built of oak, Mateo judged, although he had seen nothing quite like it before, and wasn’t entirely sure that he trusted it to take them safely to another country, no matter how close that country might seem. It looked like a vessel from another age to his eyes. But what choice did they have? The galley was small and turned out to be highly manoeuvrable, with oars as well as sails. Her captain, Alistair McAllister, spoke Gaelic to his crew, but summoned enough of the Scots tongue, with even the odd Spanish word picked up from God knows what encounter, for the benefit of his passengers. He answered Mateo’s questions about the vessel, how she was rigged, how she sailed, and this proved reassuring, not least in that Mateo found he could understand him and make himself understood in return. It seemed that McAllister was a competent seaman with a healthy respect for the waters between Ireland and Scotland. Moreover, his crew obeyed him instantly and without demur, which spoke well of his seamanship and his authority.

‘Few people on the island of Garbh speak anything but Gaelic,’ he warned Mateo, ‘although Ruaridh McNeill, the laird, can converse easily enough in Scots. His sons and daughters too. The laird’s wife, Bláithín McGugan, came from the isle of Islay, but she died some years ago. There’s a grown-up, unmarried daughter living at home, and another much younger daughter, Ishbel. It was her birth that caused the death of her mother.’

‘And the whole island is his?’

‘Aye. He’s their chief. There’s an older son, Kenneth, away in St Andrews for his education.’ McAllister said this with a slight sneer. ‘And another son, Malcolm. He’s been fostered with the chief of Clan Darroch, on Jura.’

‘Fostered?’

‘Aye. It’s the custom of this country. To send a son into the household of another man. McNeill has never seen fit to marry again, although it was expected. Most men do. Women too for that matter, if they’re widowed. But the elder of the two daughters is of an age where she can run the household well enough, and until she finds herself a husband, perhaps McNeill has seen no need to encumber himself with a wife. Ruaridh is one of those men who ca canny!’

‘Excuse me?’ Mateo didn’t understand.

McAllister frowned. ‘He trims his sails to the prevailing winds.’ He gestured at the rigging.

‘Ah. I see,’ said Mateo, thinking that this was something he and his shipmates had certainly not done.

‘He’s a wise man. And of course he’s not without resources, having many men at his beck and call, tacksmen and tenants, and enough cattle with decent grazing so that they needn’t go hungry.’

All of this McAllister ventured in the course of the voyage, but as they came closer to the island, he fell silent and seemed anxious only to be rid of his illicit cargo. They approached the island from the south-west but it was clear that they were heading for the more sheltered east coast of Eilean Garbh, where what McAllister called the ‘big house’ was situated.

‘Achadh nam Blàth is its name,’ he told them. ‘There are other good houses on the island, especially to the south, but none to match this one. It means field of flooers in the Scots tongue. But you will see few signs of any blooms there today.’

Mateo had seen no flowers as they approached the island, although some small trees – most of them leafless now – seemed to be grouped around the house, sheltering it as far as possible from the prevailing winds. Perhaps there had been a deliberate planting. A naked hillock rose above the building to the south with a ragged, wind-ravaged copse atop, but he could not name the trees. On either side of the house, the land – what he could see of it through the encroaching mist – rose and fell, long and hilly, like some mysterious hump-backed animal. He could just make out low houses with thatched roofs, crouched in the shelter of the hills, with a drift of smoke hanging over them and over the big house too. So there might be fires and warmth. He had a sudden sharp pang of sadness that threatened to unman him. He was sick for his home. Longed to be elsewhere, where the sun shone, and the flowers bloomed all year round. What were they doing here? Why had they ever come? He gave himself a shake. This would not do. He and his ability to barter, to persuade, might be all that stood between a humiliating death for himself and Paco. And having come so far, he had best do whatever he could to save them.

‘What do you think will happen?’ asked Paco, at his elbow. ‘It doesn’t look like a very hospitable place, cousin.’

‘No. It does not. But it’s our best hope of escape. And the house seems civilized enough. Or so the captain seems to think.’

‘Do you have the letter from the priest? Do you have it safe, Mateo?’

Mateo reached inside his jerkin, not for the first time. The gold was all gone. The fee had been paid before they left. McAllister had insisted on it. While they were lying low in the galley, Father Brendan had come to the harbour bringing a hastily written note on a scrap of thin paper, harvested from the beginning or end of a book. This must have been a great sacrifice, since books were just as scarce as paper in these parts. The priest had sealed it with wax and a signet bearing a crude image of the Blessed Virgin Mary. They would just have to trust to his good will as far as the contents of the note were concerned.

‘This is by way of introduction and a brief explanation,’ Father Brendan had said when he handed them the note. ‘I am not at all certain that McNeill has any skill at reading and writing. So many of these island chieftains see fit to employ a scribe to write for them. But I’m told that the elder of the two lassies may have learned her letters from her mother before she died, so perhaps she fulfils that role. You must just trust to luck. I’ll pray for you.’

‘I have the letter, safe and sound,’ he said to Francisco.

‘You don’t think he has betrayed us, do you?’

‘No.’ But Mateo spoke with a confidence he did not quite feel. ‘No, I think he’s a good man. Although whether his letter will make any difference, I can’t say. He spoke nothing but the truth. We have no resources except our own wits. We must trust to luck, and hope that his prayers are answered.’

*

Some little while later, that is precisely what they were doing: trusting to luck and the prayers of an Irish priest. Their unexpected arrival had been noted and almost immediately, a party of burly islandmen, bristling with weapons, came hurrying down to the shore to greet them. They were wrapped in woollen plaids, their dun and grey blending with the landscape. McAllister had given him the right word for the garment that seemed to serve as a cloak, body covering and blanket all in one. For a brief moment, Mateo thought that they were about to be slain, as their companions had been slain on sight, in the west of Ireland. He saw Francisco’s face grow even paler if that were possible and found himself reaching for his dagger. But the men only surrounded them and by brusque gestures and a certain amount of jostling, encouraged them to walk towards the house. The Spaniards were in no position to object. The men were not gentle and their speed was too much for the ailing younger lad, who stumbled and fell. One of the men picked him up by the scruff of the neck, none too gently.

‘We’ll hae tae oxter him!’ he said, cryptically, and when Mateo only spread his hands and shrugged, he summoned the assistance of a colleague and, with hands under his elbows, more or less carried him, his feet dragging along the ground. It was humiliating, thought Mateo, but there was no other way his cousin could have finished the journey and he himself was too weak to help.

The contrast between the chilly exterior of the house and the extreme warmth of the interior was marked. A blast of welcome heat came from an enormous fire of peat and spitting, blue-flamed driftwood at one end of a great hall. There were cooking pots and from one of them a savoury smell filtered into the room. The fireplace housed various cooking implements, including a flat black pan, from which an elderly woman was carefully removing cakes with a wooden paddle. The scent of toasted oatmeal was added to whatever was emanating from the pot. In an instant, the sickness evaporated and Mateo realised that he was ravenously hungry.

The sudden access of heat made their heads spin, and Francisco clutched at his arm to steady himself. A tall man with long red hair, shot through with grey, rose to his feet from a heavily carved chair beside the fire and stared at them with mingled hostility and curiosity. He was dressed in a short saffron-dyed linen shirt (why are they so fond of this colour? Mateo thought) with a short jacket over it, woollen trews and hose.

‘Well, well, well. This is a rare occurrence on Eilean Garbh,’ he said in Scots, with a peculiarly mirthless grin, like an animal showing its teeth in threat. ‘What brings two such ragged strangers, interlowpers, unbidden and uninvited to my island?’

Noting the stress on the word ‘my’, Mateo managed to summon a bow and brought Francisco with him, only because he was holding him so close. It struck him that he didn’t know the customs of this country at all. Any gesture they made might be open to misinterpretation.

‘Sir, I’m happy to meet you. Am I right in thinking that you are Ruaridh McNeill, Chief of Garbh?’

‘You have the advantage of me. You know my name. I don’t ken yours.’

‘We’re cousins: Mateo and Francisco de Tegueste of the town of San Cristobal de la Laguna, on the island of Tenerife.’

‘Which is?’

‘Far south of here. A great distance. Some call them the Fortunate Isles.’

‘Do they indeed? Why so? They don’t seem to have been very fortunate for you, lad.’

‘The sun shines there all year round. There are flowers and many fruits.’ He stopped. ‘But you’re right. We should not have left. We had a long voyage and many adventures along the way.’

‘I imagine so. A long voyage and a very foolish misadventure, from what I hear. And what brings you to my island?’ His lips twisted in a grimace. ‘But I ken fine what brings you here.’

‘Sir, we have a letter. May I?’ He gestured to the breast of his jerkin, afraid that the man would think he had a weapon concealed there. Which he did. But he would rather not think of using it.

‘A letter?’ McNeill held out a big, gnarled hand, impatiently. ‘Let me see.’

Mateo handed the precious missive over. ‘There was a priest. Father Brendan. He helped us. Found us passage to your island with a man called McAllister.’

‘Alistair? Aye. I saw his galley. He deposited you upon my shore and hightailed it out of here as fast as his oarsmen could carry him. I ken Alistair McAllister well enough. He wouldn’t do you a bad turn, although I’d wager he charged you dear for whatever favour he was persuaded to do for you.’

‘We paid him the whole of what we still had in our possession, sir. But we were desperate. And it means we must throw ourselves on your mercy.’

McNeill took the letter, broke the seal, unfolded it and gazed at it in silence for a moment or two. Then he raised his voice.

‘Lilias!’ he shouted. ‘Where are you, lass? I need you.’

He turned his attention back to the pair, and quite suddenly pulled an oak bench across from its place beside the fire. The bench was heavy, but he shifted it as easily as if it had been made of straw.

‘Here,’ he said. ‘Your friend seems on the point of fainting clean away like a lassie. Sit yourself down lad, before you fall down.’

Mateo deposited Francisco on the bench and pushed his head forward. His cousin sank forward, his head on his knees. ‘Thank you, sir. I’m afraid he’s at the very end of his strength. And we’ve eaten very little for weeks. Months even.’

‘That we may be able to remedy in due course. But don’t thank me just yet, son. I haven’t made up my mind what to do with you.’

‘Father?’

Mateo turned around at the sound. It was the woman they had seen earlier, as they approached the bay below the house. Divested of her wrap, she was revealed to be a tall girl, of perhaps eighteen summers, dressed in a simple worsted gown, kilted up to reveal a golden petticoat – the saffron colour again – beneath. There was some lace at her throat, and she wore a necklace of small freshwater pearls. All of this, perhaps, was in token of her status in this community. The red hair that he had seen blowing in the wind, longer and more vivid than her father’s, but familial hair all the same, had been tamed and was pulled back, quite severely, into a long plait. He had never seen hair quite this colour before, and had to stop himself from gazing at it in wonder. A pair of slender, long-nosed dogs, sleek as grey and white seals, sloped into the room behind her, setting up a great barking and growling when they saw the two strangers.

‘Hush, Bran, Finn!’ she said sharply. ‘No use in raising the alarm now, when you were sleeping soundly earlier!’

The dogs slunk off to sit by the fire, eyeing the incomers over their shoulders from time to time and curling their lips to show their contempt.

Wordlessly, McNeill handed her the letter. She took it, glanced across at the men, smiled faintly at them, and began to read.

‘You don’t know what the priest wrote?’ McNeill asked.

Mateo shook his head. ‘No, sir. The letter was sealed. But he was kind to us. Kinder than he needed to be and at some risk to his own safety, I fear. I hope he is not betrayed.’

‘Aye. There are some who are fearless in fulfilment of their own Christian vows. Not many, these days, I’ll allow, but a few. You were lucky to meet him. And what’s your story? How came you to be wandering the Irish coast in search of deliverance? And speaking in the English tongue, as well.’

‘I was taught by a tutor, an exile. From an English monastery. My father believed in learning.’ And fighting, he thought. His father had believed in fighting. Manly virtues. There had been nothing indulgent or kindly about him. As he saw it, mind and body alike must be disciplined.

‘Aye. And so do I believe in learning, having suffered from the lack of it all my life. I will make sure my sons are not so deficient. Although I would have them learn the arts of war as well. The times are very uncertain.’

‘We came with an unwise expedition. You’re right. Most of our ship-board friends, our fellow countrymen, are drowned or slain. I’m sure you have had news of it by now.’

‘We have. And are in two minds about it: whether we approve or not. My main concern, however, is that I should bring no trouble to this island, which is my own, its people in my care. Do you bring trouble in your wake, Mateo de Tegueste?’

‘I hope not. It’s not my intention. There are just two of us, and few people who know we’re here. Only the priest. And beyond him, McAllister and his crew.’

‘Aye, well, they are men who would keep a secret for a thousand years, so we need have no fear of them whispering tales into hostile ears.’

He glanced at the young woman again. ‘This is my daughter. She also has more learning than her father. Tell me, Lilias, what does the letter say? Does it confirm their story?’

‘Aye it does. It’s very brief, father. The priest says he writes in haste. He has taken pity on them and found them passage to a safer country.’ She scanned the note, frowning a little. ‘He isn’t certain why, only that they don’t seem to be of evil intent’ – here she glanced at them – ‘and it seems the Christian thing to do. He asks that we shelter them for a time, and make enquiries as to how they might be returned home for they have...’ She hesitated, gazed at the letter again, colouring slightly. ‘He says they have suffered much.’

Her skin was so pale as to seem translucent, with a dusting of freckles, as though some friendly saint had scattered gold there. That’s what he found himself thinking. But she would never be able to hide her emotions, never dissemble, colouring easily and often.

McNeill gazed at them in silence for a moment. Mateo could hear the big piece of driftwood in the fireplace crackling and sparking and settling into its enormous bed of ash. The woman who was tending to the cooking went about her business quietly, humming under her breath. Outside it was almost dark and a wind was rising, wailing about the roofs of the old building and moaning in the chimney, sending little gusts of peat smoke back into the room. He thought how terrible it would be to be cast out again, into the chilly night. They might as well be dead. Francisco would be dead, in no time at all.

McNeill seemed to have made up his mind. ‘Well, the former I can do. I can give you shelter, if you’re prepared to work for your keep. All stray dogs who take shelter here must do some work, even Bran and Finn here, although they are remiss at times.’

The two dogs raised their heads simultaneously and wagged their tails, obligingly.

‘As for the latter, the enquiries as to how you might win home again, I am not entirely sure about that. Sirs, I would much rather keep your presence here a secret until I find out what way the wind is blowing. This is a woefully divided country. But those who unlawfully kill a lawful queen cannot expect very much in the way of regard or respect from the professed subjects of that queen, can they?’

In the gathering gloom, Mateo saw a sudden flash of anger on the man’s countenance, but it was as quickly veiled. He knew that it was not directed at himself, or his cousin, and was glad of it. He thought about the Scottish queen, the news of her execution at the behest of her English cousin. Perhaps the priest had been right. Perhaps they might be safer here than anywhere else in these islands.

Francisco raised his head. He spoke to his cousin in Spanish. ‘Tell him we’ll do anything we can, anything they wish, if only they’ll give us food and shelter for a while. I would dearly love to be able to stop running for a while, Mateo.’

McNeill looked enquiringly at Mateo. ‘What does he say?’

‘My cousin has little English and is not at all well. Misery and sickness have robbed him of his courage, as such things are wont to do. I think they have made a coward of him. Of us both, perhaps.’

To his surprise, Lilias interposed. ‘Gentleness is not the same as cowardice. And sickness can turn the bravest of us into mere bairns.’

Her father did not reprove her for the interruption, but only smiled at her. ‘My daughter is a soft-hearted creature. But so was her mother and I can’t complain about that, having so much regard for her.’

‘Francisco says that we will do whatever we can in exchange for food and shelter. And he’s right. We will. For as long as you see fit to keep us here.’

‘My daughter is also right about your cousin. He seems very sick. There’s little strength in him that I can see. He’s weaker than my wee Ishbel.’

‘But there’s strength in me, sir. I can work for two. Until he feels well enough.’

‘Well, well, we’ll see.’ McNeill raised his voice slightly. ‘We need some light!’ he said and an elderly man immediately hurried up to light several candles secured about the room from a taper thrust into the fire. ‘For now,’ he continued, ‘I think you must wash, and Beathag here,’ he gestured at the woman who had been cooking flat cakes and tending to the cooking pots, ‘Beathag will find you some clothes. What you are wearing must be exceedingly verminous and your garments are certainly filthy. Even for one like myself who is not just so particular about a wee bit of mud as some in this household.’ Here he glanced across at his daughter again, a smile playing about his lips.

It was true. The heat was drying their rags and the smells emanating from them were not pleasant. Mateo thought he had grown used to the stench of unwashed garments and bloodied, fouled bodies, but this was beyond all endurance. He was ashamed.

‘These garments must be destroyed,’ added McNeill. ‘Once you are in a more respectable condition for a siobhalt – a civilized – house, we can think about food. And find somewhere for you to sleep.’

Lilias spoke to Beathag in her own tongue. The older woman regarded the pair of them with deep suspicion in her dark eyes, but at the behest of her mistress, came over to them and motioned to them to follow her to a door at the tower end of the great hall.

Lilias smiled at them. It made Mateo realise how seldom he had seen the kindly smile of a woman directed at himself over these past months. Not since they had sailed from home and his aunt had embraced him and bidden him and Francisco farewell. His own mother was long dead. Usually, his father frowned on these displays of affection, but even he had been caught up in the emotion of the moment. Mateo had an almost overwhelming sense of sorrow, a great desire to be comforted. He was too exhausted, too miserable to feel anything for the young woman but a vague thankfulness that she seemed to be regarding them with sympathy rather than the all-pervasive fear, suspicion and hatred that had been their lot over the past months. For the present, that was enough.

‘Go with Beathag,’ she said. ‘She’ll show you where you can wash. And she’ll find clean clothes for you. But – you have no possessions with you? Nothing at all?’

Impulsively, Mateo reached inside his clothing. ‘May I?’ he said, still afraid of giving offence. When McNeill nodded, he pulled out his treasured dagger, reversed it and handed it to the chieftain, with another little bow. ‘This is our only weapon, sir. I wish to hide nothing from you, so perhaps I could leave it in your safekeeping until I have need of it again.’

McNeill took the dagger and examined it. He raised his eyebrows. ‘Small but beautifully made. Then perhaps you are men of some consequence after all, and not the thieves and vagabonds your appearance would suggest. But I’ve long learned not to judge men by their outward appearance. Thank you for your confidence in me. You’ll find it is not misplaced.’

As they were following Beathag, there was a scurrying of feet and a little girl with the same vivid red hair as Lilias and her father came running into the room. She halted at the sight of the Spaniards.

‘Oh!’ she exclaimed, nonplussed. ‘These are the men we saw on the shore, Lilias. You said they would be coming here and I didn’t believe you. I thought they were beggars and might pass us by or go to Beathag for food. Who are they? I don’t like strangers!’

‘They are visitors, not strangers, Ishbel,’ said Lilias.

She held out her hand and the child ran over and took it, swinging from her arm. Mateo thought she must be seven or eight years old. His sister had a little girl of about the same age. This must be the last child, the daughter whose birth had, as McAllister reported, ‘caused the death of her mother’.

‘They have come a long way and suffered a great deal on the journey,’ continued the older girl, ‘so we must make them welcome. Isn’t that our custom, Ishbel? Isn’t that what I have always taught you, and what our mother taught me before you were born?’

McNeill looked indulgently at his two daughters. ‘Soft,’ he said, in the Scots tongue. ‘Soft, daft lassies. My wife, Bláithín, was a great one for welcoming the stranger to our shores, if any ever ventured so far.’

‘She was,’ said Lilias.

‘Me – I’m not so certain about this, but I make up my own mind. There are times when such generosity is folly. Not everyone sets foot on my island without malice in their hearts so you’ll forgive me if I’m cautious. But my Bláithín was right in this, at least. It is our custom not to turn the stranger in dire need away from our door, and it is also our custom not to do violence to any who come in peace, once we have offered hospitality. So you need have no fears, sirs, as long as you do not abuse that hospitality. Eat with us, and then sleep without fear of betrayal.