FIFTEEN

1588

Mateo recovered his physical strength quite quickly. He was, however, beset by persistent nightmares and an occasional sense of disorientation. Sometimes he would wake up in the night with a feeling of panic, an apprehension of danger so intense that he would sit bolt upright, staring into the grey light of early morning, filtering into the room from the single high window, his heart pounding. Once or twice it happened in the dead of night, and the suffocating darkness made it much worse. At such times, he would find it hard even to catch his breath, his whole chest feeling tight and constricted, his head buzzing with a peculiar sound, like insects dancing in there. He would have a dreadful sense of unreality, as though the whole world had changed, magically, becoming altered in some terrible and threatening way. Then his eyes would find the glowing remnants of the fire, banked up with ashes to keep it smouldering for morning, and gradually the feelings would subside.

The first time this happened, he realised at last that in his panic, he had filled his chest with air and was holding his breath, rigid with fright. He managed to persuade himself to force the air out and, slowly but surely, the feelings subsided and he became properly aware of his surroundings, leaving only a sort of general anxiety, with very little obvious cause. The house was quiet enough at night, with only distant snoring from the other inhabitants, the bark and whine of a dog, and the occasional footstep as somebody passed by to relieve himself. He was aware too that a couple of men always stayed on watch in the great hall, taking it in turns to sleep, making sure that the big fire was stoked and the house was safe from unwanted intrusion, although such things were rare in this enclosed world of the island.

Mateo had been a vigorous man and his strength returned with good food, activity and a certain amount of personal security. He was aware that the people living and working in and around the house were deeply suspicious of both of them, but they obeyed McNeill unquestioningly. It was their custom and their habit and though they might occasionally look askance at the Spaniards, or make remarks in their own tongue that he knew were less than complimentary, they would not translate any of that suspicion into physical abuse. Not yet, anyway. McNeill had spoken. They dared not go against his wishes.

Francisco took longer to recover. During the weeks following their arrival on the island, he became very ill. Beathag came to their small chamber, felt his forehead and said that, although her inclination was to give him one of the higher rooms with more light and air, he had better stay where he was. If it was some sort of contagion he should be kept well away from the rest of the household. He burned like a torch in the night, and Mateo, sleeping beside him, would have to move away from him as his poor body radiated heat. He feared greatly for his cousin, believed that one morning he might wake to find that Francisco had not survived the night. But the lad lingered on.

One day, not long after their arrival, Lilias came to their room with Beathag. The women consulted together about the young man’s condition and then left for a while. When the two of them came back, some time later, it was with a little three-footed pipkin of some fragrant liquid and a stone jug of plain water.

Mateo sniffed at the medicine. ‘I didn’t know physic could be so palatable!’ he said. It had a faint scent of honey, along with green and growing things. A grassy scent with something of springtime in it.

Beathag glanced at Lilias, expecting her to explain. Her own Scots, although growing in confidence, was still hesitant.

‘It’s made with water from a holy well called Tobar Moire, Mary’s well, on the other side of the island,’ said Lilias. ‘I suppose you might call it a spring. It is something of a catholicon for all diseases, or so the people here believe, and we always keep some in the house. It’s fresh and cool and none takes ill from drinking it. But all the water here is good.’

‘How do you make the physic?’ he asked.

‘Beathag makes a tincture from the blessed thistle. And a few other herbs for good measure. Self-heal, marigolds. And honey, of course.’

‘I didn’t know you had the knowledge of such things.’

‘Oh we are not quite savages! We cultivate a small physic garden among the kale, in the shelter of the wall beyond the tower. Not everything will grow here, but some things will. It may do your friend good, if you can encourage him to drink. And...’ she glanced sidelong at Mateo, ‘it might do you some good as well. At least it will do no harm.’

‘But I’m not ill.’

‘No. But Beathag tells me your spirit is troubled and your sleep likewise, and we must not neglect you in trying to treat your friend.’

Mateo had another shameful desire to weep. He had been beset by these sensations too often of late. Her sympathy struck him to the heart. And for a foreigner, and an enemy at that. He could feel the constriction in his throat, and tears forming behind his eyes. It would be terrible to weep in the presence of these two women. He clenched his fists, trying to banish the misery that had descended on him like clouds on Meall Each.

To his surprise, Lilias reached out and caught hold of his hand. Her fingers were cool and dry.

‘Sir – there’s no shame in sorrow. You’ve seen unimaginable horrors. You and your cousin both. You must take time. This is a peaceful place, for now.’

‘So it seems.’

‘It hasn’t always been, for sure. There have been turbulent times for us, many of them. And it will not always be peaceful. Who knows what the future may bring? Those who can foresee such things have no great comfort to give. These are troubled times as you well know, and there are troubles to come. We are small people, caught up in the grand dreams of others. But for the present, my father takes good care of all who rely on him. You have washed up on a tranquil shore. Let it soothe you for now. Be like the lilies of the field. Be like my namesake, in the words of yours.’

‘Mine?’

‘Mateo. Mata in my tongue. Matthew in the Scots tongue, I think. Or Matha, sometimes.’

He found himself eager for her fingers to remain on his, and he clung to her, briefly. She smiled and her smile lit up the gloomy room.

‘Be not careful for your life, what ye shall eat or what ye shall drink, nor yet for your body, what raiment ye shall wear.’ She quoted the words almost merrily as though they were deeply ingrained in her. As though they were favourites with her. ‘Behold the fowls of the air; for they sow not, neither reap, nor yet carry into the barns and yet your heavenly father feedeth them. Are ye not better than they?’

She paused, retrieved her hand suddenly as though reminded of the unsuitability of the contact by Beathag’s frown, even though the older woman had understood only some of the conversation.

‘Beathag,’ she turned to her companion, full of mischief. ‘I’m quoting Matthew’s own gospel. These are my verses. My mother always said so, at any rate. I still have the holy book she brought with her. She taught me my letters from it, and taught me to read in the English tongue at the same time.’

‘Aye,’ said Beathag, dourly in her own language. ‘Quoting the New Testament and holding hands with a foreigner!’

Lilias laughed even more, but keeping her hands neatly folded, resumed her instruction.

‘And why care ye then for raiment? Behold the lilies of the field how they grow. They labour not, neither spin. And yet for all that, I say unto you, that even Solomon in all his royalty was not arrayed like unto one of these.’

Confused as much by his own feelings as by the words, Mateo bowed to her. ‘My lady, your name is fitting for I think even Solomon was not as wise as Lilias.’

‘How charming you are! And you must know how seldom I ever receive fine compliments even here in my father’s house. It is not the habit of our people. But we must leave you to tend to your friend.’ She was suddenly serious. ‘Make him drink the physic if you can. He has such a fever, but if it will only break, he may survive. Beathag has brought clean linen and more of this blessed water. Bathe his forehead, his arms, his feet even in the plain water and all may yet be well.’

The room seemed cooler and sweeter when she left. It was as though for a brief moment her presence had illuminated and freshened it. He could and did follow her instructions, bathing his cousin’s poor attenuated body, and encouraging him to drink, wetting his lips with the physic constantly when it seemed that he could not swallow.

Whether it was the physic itself, the water from the holy well, Mateo’s constant ministrations or Francisco’s own spirit rejecting an early death, he couldn’t say. But the young man recovered. One night the fever left him. The bedcovers were wringing wet and Mateo feared that the end had come, but in the morning, Francisco sat up, weak as a kitten, but cool, wide awake and able to eat a piece of oat bread and drink a cup of Beathag’s heather ale. When he slept again, it was peacefully, his breathing gentle, and Mateo was able to leave him alone and report on the improvement to those responsible for the physic.