She insisted on sitting up in the boat, on keeping watch, although we had told her there was no need to. ‘You will not watch properly,’ she said. ‘You will not see what I see.’ Her hair blew wild in the wind, and her eyes looked far into something that I knew in truth I could not see. She might have been a daughter of the legends of another age, fleeing from powers that had come to call her back to them.
Andrew watched her. ‘She loved me, Alexander. Like fire. Like a storm.’
‘She loves you still.’
‘I have lost her once already, to the English, to her own pride. But she can no longer hide from her roots: the Irish blood is too strong in her. Cormac knows this, and I think he knows her. He has bided his time, and waited, and I will lose her now to him.’
‘I have watched her with you, Andrew, and I have seen her with Cormac: she still loves you.’
‘I could only keep her while she is broken, and I will not do that.’ I did not argue with him, for he knew my cousin better than I did, and I knew him: he would not see atrophy that which he loved. And if Cormac’s rising did not fail then perhaps Deirdre would find her place in Ireland after all, the place that Andrew knew he could never give her.
We had kept close to the shore most of the way, but when the mist lifted, and Andrew pointed landwards, I thought we must have drifted across the narrows to the southern tip of Scotland. Only yards from the shore was a castle, a Scots castle, like so many I had spent time in as the friend of Archibald Hay.
It rose perhaps five storeys, looking directly across the sea to the land where it had its roots. The roof was steep, and turreted windows at the corners gave views to the west and the east, from where trouble or assistance might be expected to come. A high outer wall reached almost to the sea, where a small river met the shore. Loopholes in the walls allowed for musketry. Everything was clean and new, and it took me home, to the castles of Mar, like a miniature, a fragment of Castle Fraser, or Craigievar.
Before we had pulled the boat up on to the sand, a musket was sticking through a loophole in the castle wall, and a voice challenging us to state our business.
‘Tell Sir James it is Andrew Boyd. Tell him I bring news of Madeira, and seek shelter from rebels against the king.’
That was it, no explanation of who ‘Andrew Boyd’ might be, a direct appeal, with some shadow of a familiarity, to the master himself. Before I could ask what nonsense he spoke of ‘Madeira’, the musket had been lowered, and the huge oak gate in the outer wall was opening in before us. Andrew called for assistance for the women, and soon four men were hastening down the sand and helping them from the boat, as I was thrust by my companion towards the castle and told to get myself within its walls. A carving in the stone over the entrance portal showed its master’s initials and crest, along with those of his wife, Isabella Brisbane, with a date of 1625, the legend proclaiming God’s Providence to be his inheritance. ‘And mine also,’ I thought.
An attempt had been made, when we entered, to take Macha down to the kitchens with the servants, but Deirdre’s eyes had flashed fire: ‘She is my brother’s wife.’ And from that moment, there was no further suggestion that Macha should be handled as a servant.
It was evident, from the manner of their greeting, that Andrew Boyd and Sir James Shaw were not strangers. ‘I am sorry to see you injured, Boyd, but glad that you have gained safe to my house. You do credit to your master, and,’ his eyes drifted to me, ‘to his grandson. But perhaps you, sir,’ and now he was addressing me, ‘would be more comfortable in some fresh clothing.’
The fine garments I had been provided with for my night with Roisin at Dun-a-Mallaght had not fared well since I had left that cursed place. I opened my mouth to protest that Andrew was in greater need of attention than I was, but was silenced by a look from my companion that brooked no argument, so I went reluctantly with the two guards whom Shaw deemed it necessary to attend to my dressing. Only then did it occur to me that my host believed me to be Sean.
Less than an hour later, after some vigorous scrubbing in a tub set out by the stream that ran through the inner courtyard, and arrayed in the serviceable clothing of a Scots servant, I was brought once more to the great hall, where a welcome fire burned. Shaw and Andrew had been deep in conference as I’d entered, but lifted their heads from some papers as soon as they heard me. A momentary hesitation in Andrew’s eyes was quickly replaced by relief, and Shaw, distrust now gone, strode towards me, his hand outstretched.
‘Mr Seaton. You must forgive the coolness in my manner earlier. You are so much like your cousin that although I had heard him reported dead, the sight of you made me think the reports mistaken. Be welcome to my house as a fellow countryman and one of my own faith.’
I took his hand gladly as Andrew took up the explanation. ‘Sir James was an associate of your grandfather’s. He is a staunch supporter of the king, and of the Protestant faith. I have apprised him of your true identity, and of what has brought you to Ireland.’
‘Damnable superstition,’ the older Scot interceded, ‘but you do honour to your family in coming to their aid. It is the tragedy of some that they will not be helped.’ I did not ask him what he meant, but visions of my grandmother passed through my mind. ‘And you have garnered little thanks and much hardship for your troubles, I hear. But no matter, that will be put to rights. First though, you will rest and sup here, now, before we come to business.’ He banged a great gong by the fireplace and within moments, a light quick step was on the stairs. Glad of the fire, I attended only to it until the girl’s voice made me turn around and look towards the doorway where she stood.
‘You wish something from the kitchens, sir?’
‘I wish my wife. Where the Devil is she? Our visitors are half-starved.’
‘She is with the ladies yet. I will go and fetch her.’ I looked to Andrew in astonishment; I knew beyond a doubt that it was Margaret, the girl from the poor roadside inn, daughter to a widowed mother and sister to a murdered brother.
Andrew registered the cause of my surprise and his face broke into a broad smile. ‘Yes, it is Margaret. You recall when we last saw her, she asked if I could do anything to help her find some position of service, that she might be a charge on her mother no longer, and might perhaps earn something to help her with? I wrote a testimonial for her and she took herself to Carrickfergus to find work. That very day.’
‘And indeed, it was our good fortune that she did. My wife had gone in despair to the town, thinking a trustworthy girl was not to be had in the country. Young Margaret is quick, and careful, and minds her tongue. My wife is much easier in her own house to have such a girl by her.’
In a country where I had known only bad news, and worse, this was something truly to be welcomed, and for the first time in many days I felt a gladness in my heart.
Margaret soon returned, begging Sir James’s pardon, but Lady Isabella was much preoccupied with seeing to the comfort of the ladies, and might she be of service instead?
He ordered her to have sent up whatever food the kitchens might have ready. In no time, a hearty quantity of food had made its way from the kitchens to the hall. I could see Andrew took genuine pleasure to see Margaret in her new situation, and I hoped something might come of it, when the time was right. That time, I knew, would be a while off yet, because he would never abandon Deirdre or thoughts of her until she was ready to abandon him. Margaret mastered her emotions well, and I doubt her new employers could have guessed at any feeling between the pair, but she could not mask them so well that I, who knew already, could not see what her feelings for him still were.