Turn of the Tide by Margaret Skea

thought on them
.
    His own breath fully recovered, Munro was glad to see that the newcomer also peched, and was therefore disposed to be generous. ‘It’s a step. I was a mite out of breath
myself.’
    The other man laughed. ‘Wings are better than legs for such a hill as this.’ He looked back towards the valley floor, ‘I fancied the fresher air, and it didn’t look such
a climb.’ He massaged the backs of his calves; ‘I near broke my neck over that bird.’
    ‘It were well flushed, and would have made a fine breakfast, had I expected it.’ Munro held out his hand. ‘We haven’t met, though I believe I saw you yesterday. Are you
with the Montgomeries?’
    ‘You could say that.’ A flash of even, white teeth. ‘Patrick Montgomerie, brother to Hugh of Braidstane and therefore part of that pretty play of James’. And
you?’
    ‘Munro.’ He hesitated, ‘Of the Cunninghame connection.’
    Patrick scraped at a patch of lichen with his boot, ‘We can’t always choose our families.’
    A momentary silence, Munro’s smothered thought – if he knew the whole of it. . . .
    Patrick said,
‘
Do you join us for the chase?’
    ‘Aye, though I’m not sure my horse will stay the pace.’
    ‘We have something in common then.’ Again the flash of teeth. ‘I would wish that I could have brought a horse from my regiment. They’re aye well bred and handle
fine.’
    ‘A cavalry officer?’ Munro felt a stab of envy.
    ‘And would wish myself back where I belong, though . . .’ Patrick’s gaze switched to the opposite hill and the castle that topped it. ‘. . . With horses and with women I
am most at home . . . and there are one or two women of the court I wouldn’t mind handling.’
    Munro laughed and they made down the hill together, parting companionably enough at the bottom where Munro’s horse waited, cropping at the damp grass.
    ‘You needn’t wait for me,’ Patrick waved vaguely southwards. ‘I came from the Cambuskenneth side. I have a wee step yet to retrieve my horse. We may each be cosy with
others the morrow, but it doesn’t mean we can’t think on friendship thereafter.’

Chapter Twelve
    On Thursday Hugh woke again to the sound of dogs fighting in the street below and to the calling of a pedlar, the accent so thick that he couldn’t make out what was sold.
He moved to the window and tried with his sleeve to clear the glass, but succeeded only in smearing it further. Putting his shoulder to the frame and ignoring the splintering, he thrust his head
out. The overhang of the upper storey impeded his view of the street, and whoever was making the racket was clearly tucked well in towards the wall, but as he breathed in he caught the yeasty tang
of fresh bread. The light filtering into the room around his head roused Patrick, who stretched and yawned and swung his legs onto the floor.
    Hugh said, ‘There’s a right good nip to the air, but little wind. We shall have a good run today, if so be that the quarry prove easy to flush.’
    Behind him, Patrick relieved himself into the pot in the corner then turned his attention to the basin and ewer.
    ‘Our good landlady is generous with water, I doubt a sparrow could make much of a job in this.’
    ‘Have it all and welcome. I’ve no wish to wait around till the bread that has just been delivered be spoken for. I hold no great hopes of our host taking account of our needs if we
don’t present ourselves promptly.’
    Patrick lifted his face from the basin and shook his head like a terrier, droplets flying. The sun, filtering through the open window, made a nimbus of the water that shone on his hair.
    ‘St Paul himself wouldn’t recognize you this morning, angel that you appear.’ Hugh sidestepped the snap of the towel and headed for the stair, Patrick scrabbling for his
doublet and tucking in his shirt-tails as he followed. The bread was surprisingly good, even without butter and Hugh bought a second farl to carry with him. After a