There was a silence in the circle, though outside it there was noise. Away down the infield, where the hens had fled from the frantic scenes in the yard, the Dalriach cockerel suddenly lifted up his morning voice. The old woman said something in Ersche, smiled gently at Patrick, at Davie and then looked beyond them, sudden delight in her face. Alys looked up, but saw only the hills black against the first light of dawn.
‘Och, Seumas mo chridh!’ said Mistress Drummond clearly, and did not speak again.
After a moment Patrick reached out and closed his mother’s eyes. His daughter and nieces began a heartbroken wailing. And then, to Alys’s amazement, Patrick too began to sing, another painful, ancient melody. This time Caterin joined in, and those around them took up the song, and still singing turned back to the urgent work, handing buckets and tugging at the burning thatch. Flames still leapt and crackled, but they did not reach so high into the tower of smoke, and the broadcast blossoms of fire on Patrick’s house had withered under the drenching from the bucket chain. The song rose solemnly above the noise, a weary lament punctuated by the hissing and splashing of water in the flames, and the cries of the animals. Alys watched and listened, the hair standing up on the back of her neck, and beside the dead woman Davie knelt, his face buried in his hands.
The burning thatch fell in with a crash. Sparks and flying scraps of bracken rose up, drifting on the light wind, but the other houses were safe, and the stackyard was upwind of the flames. The song ended, and Patrick touched Davie’s shoulder.
‘There is work to do, brother,’ he said in Scots. ‘The House of Fire is burning.’
‘I ken that,’ said Davie, raising his head. ‘That was why I cam home.’
Patrick hardly seemed to hear the words. He bent to gather up one end of the plaid on which his mother lay.
‘Come,’ he said, ‘we will take her indoors, out of harm’s way.’
Chapter Nine
‘I’d ha thought, Maister Gil,’ said Tam, spurring his horse alongside his master’s, ‘you’d want to bide at Perth while they called the quest on the man you found, same as you aye do at Glasgow. Will they not need you to swear to the facts?’
‘I’ve no remit in Perth,’ Gil said, without looking round. The desperate feeling was much less now than when it had woken him before dawn, but he was still pulled onward, away from Perth, on towards Balquhidder, as if by a strong cord. ‘I gave the Bishop my report last night, he can order the quest and hear the facts from those that were there. I’ll go back when I get the chance.’
‘So what’s this about?’ demanded Tam. ‘Is it something up wi the mistress?’
‘I must get back to Balquhidder.’ He could not put the feeling into speech. He had found himself, in the dead of night, suddenly awake from a dream full of flames, his throat tight with the utter conviction that Alys needed him, that he must go to her. He had prayed for her safety, though it helped him little, and wrestled with the feeling till the first grey light of morning, then rose and dressed, and as soon as the household began to stir he had found Wat the steward, sent his apologies to the Bishop, ordered his men roused and the horses made ready. They had been on the road before sunrise, had changed horses and seized a bite eaten standing at Crieff, and were already nearing St Fillan’s Kirk at the foot of Loch Earn. It was not fast enough for Gil, still silently petitioning St Giles for Alys’s protection, but he accepted the need for care on the rough roads. If they lamed a horse it would slow them down still more.
‘Aye, but is it the mistress? Or is it about that fellow that’s been in Elfland?’
He opened his mouth to speak, hesitated, then admitted, ‘I think it’s your mistress. I think she needs me.’
‘Right,’ said Tam, with a flat acceptance which both reassured and chilled. ‘Will you and me ride on, maister, and let Ned and Donal follow wi the baggage?’
‘Best we stick thegither,’ said Ned from behind them. ‘These hills is full of Murrays and Drummonds, and worse. Were you not seeing thon burned farmhouse a mile or two back? That was young Murray of Trewin’s work, just a month since.’
‘So what’s worse than a Drummond or a Murray?’ demanded Tam sceptically.
‘A MacGregor,’ said Ned succinctly. ‘They’ll slay their granny for a hen’s egg.’
‘Ride on,’ said Gil impatiently, ‘and stop the chatter. I want to get to Stronvar.’
It was nearly two hours longer before they reached the mouth of the glen, where the view of Loch Voil opened out and the smoke of the Kirkton and of Stronvar and the other settlements rose blue in the warm air. As they neared the stone that marked St Angus’ entry to the glen, Gil became aware that there were riders ahead of them on the track, a party larger than their own to judge by the freshly trampled grasses at the side of the way.
‘Aye, they came up Strathyre,’ agreed Ned when he commented. ‘I think they’re peaceful, they’ve a couple baggage-mules wi them, I saw the traces back down the road a bit. Likely they’re bound for Stronvar, if it’s no Andrew Drummond come home to see what’s what at last.’
Despite their haste the two Stronvar men insisted on halting by the stone, to uncover their heads and recite the saint’s blessing. Gil, staring round while he waited, saw nothing to suggest any reason for anxiety, nothing untoward. The glen lay quiet under a smiling sky, birds sang in the bushes, sheep called on the slopes. A goat bleated indignantly somewhere nearby. The barley straw was drying in its stooks, the oats were not quite ripe, a handful of women turned the hay down by the river, their work-song drifting on the light wind. He was still uneasy, but the fear, the feeling that Alys needed his help, had dwindled and faded.
The party of horsemen had halted near the bridge. There were five or six riders on better horses than the hardy stout beasts Sir William kept at Stronvar, a pair of sumpter-mules, and in the midst of the group Canon Andrew Drummond, as Ned had surmised, seated on a pretty bay gelding and glowering under his broad-brimmed straw hat at Robert Montgomery.
‘I’ll not be thwarted by an ignorant clerk!’ the churchman was saying in his harsh voice as Gil approached. ‘I’m a Drummond of Dalriach and Canon of — ’
‘I ken fine who you are, sir,’ said Robert, only the sudden high colour on his cheekbones betraying his anger at this description. ‘But I tell you, if the Holy Father himsel came from Rome, he wouldny lodge his retinue wi Sir Duncan. My master is dying,’ he emphasized, ‘and I’ll not have him disturbed.’
‘Sir Duncan’s like to live for ever,’ said Drummond scornfully. ‘Stop your nonsense and take my men wi you as I bid you.’ He looked round and stared as Gil and his escort came down to the bridge. ‘Oh, it’s you,’ he said after a moment. ‘What’s your name again, Cunningham is it? What are you doing here? I thought you were in Perth.’
‘Staying at Stronvar,’ said Gil unhelpfully, nodding to Robert. ‘What brings you here, Canon Drummond? Is aught amiss at Dalriach?’ And if you knew I was in Perth, he thought, how did you not know Sir Duncan is dying?
‘You ken well things are amiss,’ retorted Drummond. ‘I’ve come — I’ve come to see what’s all this nonsense about my brother David come home.’
Gil opened his mouth to speak, but was interrupted as, with a rattle of hooves, a riderless pony scurried towards them, down the slope from the Kirkton. Several of the horses stamped uneasily; Gil’s mount pricked its ears and snorted at the sight, and he tightened his grip on the reins. The row of haymakers paused to stare at the beast.
‘That’s our Bawsie!’ exclaimed Ned. ‘Donal, catch him!’
Donal heeled his pony towards the runaway, but it jinked sideways, ears flat, stirrups flying, avoided the grasping hands of several of Drummond’s followers, and got past them all, making for the bridge. Several of the standing horses tossed heads and shifted uneasily, eager to run with it.