‘Bannock and beef and something to keep out the cold,’ said she. ‘Ye’ll have no time for inn meals on your way.’
The lantern light and the first paling of the wild morning splashed together on her face, showing it white and wisht, and her eyes big and aching in the whiteness of it; and I knew in that moment, as I had never quite known before, how much my lady meant to her. ‘I’ll bring him back before the wind changes,’ I said, just for her hearing, and headed for the courtyard and the gate arch. Andy clattered beside me.
The wind was still blowing in long squally gusts, and the rain chill and driving, more like a November dawn than an August one, as we came down into Dundee town; and the waking candles were still blinking in the upper windows of the tall houses as we clattered through the steep streets, making for the quaysides and the ferry. The Tay is a mile wide at Dundee and all travellers to the South start out that way; but the ferryman was not best pleased to be called out so early and on such a morning, and emerged shaking his head as though he had a bee in his bonnet, and cursing. And when he recognised Andy, his temper did not sweeten, for there was always, by long and sacred tradition, something of a feud between Dundee town and its Constable. But the sight of a couple of silver pieces glinting in the light of the lantern above his door put him in a better frame of mind. And when I had dismounted and turned Folly over to Andy to take back, he led the way down to where his boat was beached; and between us we ran her down into the water and climbed aboard.
‘Can ye row?’ said he, unshipping the oars.
‘I never have,’ I said, ‘but I’ll try.’ Anything for speed.
He shook his head, ‘Nay, ye’d be more trouble than ye’re worth.’ And he began to swing to the oars.
By God’s fortune the tide was at slack water, and so we were able to get across straight from bank to bank. But even so it seemed a weary while before I was scrambling out on the southern shore.
I paid the man off, and headed for the cluster of cottages about the stables where the rich folk of Dundee kept a few horses for the first stage of any southern journey. The place was up and busy, as well it might be; the Dudhope stable had been starting the day an hour and more ago; and the sight of Claverhouse’s silver phoenix badge in my bonnet soon produced a horse, and I was away for Edinburgh.
The wind and rain were in my face as I rode hard along the track that follows the southern skirts of the Ochills, and I drove my chin further into the neck folds of my plaid, and settled down into the saddle, the morning coming up grey and sullen out of the Tay estuary behind me.
At Kilmany I changed horses, leaving word with the posting people to have two horses ready for the return journey around tomorrow’s noon. That was a wild and maybe over-hopeful guess, but I reckoned it was better they should be on the outlook for us too early than too late. And when I was on my way again, I bethought me of Darklis’s wallet, and got it out and ate as I rode, hungrily for I had had no breakfast, but glad when it was done, for I had no pleasure in the food save for the staying of the hunger pangs in my belly.
It was still but ten or so in the morning when I clattered into the stable-yard of the inn at Ferny. At first itseemed that there was no one about save a marigold-coloured cat sitting on the mounting block, who glared at me with a malevolent eye. But my shouts brought forth an ancient hostler, who, since there did indeed seem to be no one else, must take my tired horse before he brought out a fresh one. I mind the peaceful dream in which he moved, like someone moving under water, irked me past all bearing.
‘I’ve no’ got all day!’ I burst out. ‘I should be halfway to Gateside by now – I must be in Inverkeithing before the Forth ferry closes for the night!’ And then as he showed no sigh of speeding up, ‘Here, man,
The lantern light and the first paling of the wild morning splashed together on her face, showing it white and wisht, and her eyes big and aching in the whiteness of it; and I knew in that moment, as I had never quite known before, how much my lady meant to her. ‘I’ll bring him back before the wind changes,’ I said, just for her hearing, and headed for the courtyard and the gate arch. Andy clattered beside me.
The wind was still blowing in long squally gusts, and the rain chill and driving, more like a November dawn than an August one, as we came down into Dundee town; and the waking candles were still blinking in the upper windows of the tall houses as we clattered through the steep streets, making for the quaysides and the ferry. The Tay is a mile wide at Dundee and all travellers to the South start out that way; but the ferryman was not best pleased to be called out so early and on such a morning, and emerged shaking his head as though he had a bee in his bonnet, and cursing. And when he recognised Andy, his temper did not sweeten, for there was always, by long and sacred tradition, something of a feud between Dundee town and its Constable. But the sight of a couple of silver pieces glinting in the light of the lantern above his door put him in a better frame of mind. And when I had dismounted and turned Folly over to Andy to take back, he led the way down to where his boat was beached; and between us we ran her down into the water and climbed aboard.
‘Can ye row?’ said he, unshipping the oars.
‘I never have,’ I said, ‘but I’ll try.’ Anything for speed.
He shook his head, ‘Nay, ye’d be more trouble than ye’re worth.’ And he began to swing to the oars.
By God’s fortune the tide was at slack water, and so we were able to get across straight from bank to bank. But even so it seemed a weary while before I was scrambling out on the southern shore.
I paid the man off, and headed for the cluster of cottages about the stables where the rich folk of Dundee kept a few horses for the first stage of any southern journey. The place was up and busy, as well it might be; the Dudhope stable had been starting the day an hour and more ago; and the sight of Claverhouse’s silver phoenix badge in my bonnet soon produced a horse, and I was away for Edinburgh.
The wind and rain were in my face as I rode hard along the track that follows the southern skirts of the Ochills, and I drove my chin further into the neck folds of my plaid, and settled down into the saddle, the morning coming up grey and sullen out of the Tay estuary behind me.
At Kilmany I changed horses, leaving word with the posting people to have two horses ready for the return journey around tomorrow’s noon. That was a wild and maybe over-hopeful guess, but I reckoned it was better they should be on the outlook for us too early than too late. And when I was on my way again, I bethought me of Darklis’s wallet, and got it out and ate as I rode, hungrily for I had had no breakfast, but glad when it was done, for I had no pleasure in the food save for the staying of the hunger pangs in my belly.
It was still but ten or so in the morning when I clattered into the stable-yard of the inn at Ferny. At first itseemed that there was no one about save a marigold-coloured cat sitting on the mounting block, who glared at me with a malevolent eye. But my shouts brought forth an ancient hostler, who, since there did indeed seem to be no one else, must take my tired horse before he brought out a fresh one. I mind the peaceful dream in which he moved, like someone moving under water, irked me past all bearing.
‘I’ve no’ got all day!’ I burst out. ‘I should be halfway to Gateside by now – I must be in Inverkeithing before the Forth ferry closes for the night!’ And then as he showed no sigh of speeding up, ‘Here, man,
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