Fate and Fortune Read online

  On the third day, which was Saturday, they came at last to Inverkeithing, and from there to North Ferrie, where Hew hoped to make their crossing in the narrow part. There was no jetty as such, but in one or two places rough wooden planks were set into the mud, as precipitous launching pads into the water. All were deserted but one, where a solitary boatman lowered sacks of grain into a coble moored below.

  ‘How long till the next ferry boat sails?’ inquired Hew.

  At first, the boatman seemed not to have heard. But presently he looked up from his work and scratched his head, considering Hew’s question as a rare and deep imponderable. Finally he found his answer. ‘Other morn, I doubt.’

  ‘The day after tomorrow?’ Hew interpreted, incredulously. He looked across the water, where the tail end of the ferry drifted, barely half a mile out from the shore. ‘Surely, it will sail again today.’

  ‘Aye, mebbe,’ said the boatman, in tones thick with misgiving and doubt, ‘But the schippar had a mind to keep her at the south side, for calfatting, for she was letting in a deal of wattir, he did say.’

  ‘She’s taking in water?’ Hew glanced again at the departing ferry, with a feeling of alarm.

  The boatman bared a toothless grin. ‘She aye taks on some wattir, no enough to sink her. But the morn’s morn being the Sabbath, schippar thought it would be well enough to hae her caulked the day. He didna think her fit to mak another trip.’

  ‘Is there no other ferry boat?’ Hew asked, perplexed.

  ‘Oh aye, there’s another, richt enough, doon wattir here,’ the man said reassuringly.

  ‘Then surely, that will sail?’

  ‘But the crew, you ken, are on the other side.’ The boatman gazed across the estuary and screwed up his eyes to follow the trail of the boat. ‘Or will be soon enough, if she can hold.’

  ‘But this is madness! Why did the crew not take the other boat, and leave that one here to be caulked?’ exclaimed Hew.

  The boatman stared at him, as though affronted by the question. Finally he answered. ‘In truth sir, tis the best boat they have taken. The other has a wee bit damage to the hull. A hole, ye might best call it.’

  ‘Dear God,’ Hew muttered to himself. He was not the best of sailors, at the best of times.

  ‘The ferry inn is clean,’ the man said helpfully. ‘Though, if you are in a hurry I could take you across myself.’

  Hew looked with renewed hope at the man’s boat. Though small, it looked at least seaworthy, a flat-bottomed coble unlikely to capsize.

  ‘If you don’t mind to stop off at Inchgarvie on the way,’ the boatman qualified. ‘These sacks of flour are for the garrison there. It will not take a moment to offload them. You need not land. In truth,’ the boatman smiled his toothless smile again, ‘I think you would not wish to land. But, sir, I will take you and your horse across to the south side for twelve shillings.’

  ‘Twelve shillings?’ Hew shook his head. ‘That is extortion. I will pay you five.’ It was far more than the ferry fare.

  The boatman shrugged and began to untie his craft. ‘That is the price,’ he said simply. ‘You are a rich man, and I am a poor one. You would have the whole boat to yourself. You bid me go out of my way, the wind is wild today, and I can feel the coming of a storm. I will not cross for less.’

  ‘Aye, very well,’ Hew sighed. It was petty, after all, to quibble over cost; no doubt the poor wretch had little enough. And it would cost him two nights’ lodging at the inn, for himself and Dun Scottis, and the unremitting dullness of an Inverkeithing Sabbath, if he chose to stay and wait upon the ferry. The horse was still fresh, and could easily complete the ten or so miles from the south side to the capital before the close of day. Twelve shillings would purchase two days’ grace, and an entertaining sermon in the great kirk of St Giles. Besides, he took the boatman’s point about the weather; the disappearing ferry boat began to dip and lurch amid the rising waves.

  ‘Very well, twelve shillings,’ he agreed.

  ‘Up front.’ The man looked on cannily as Hew took out his purse. ‘Have you a merk, sir? If you had I merk, then I might spare your change.’

  ‘I have twelve shillings,’ Hew answered firmly, counting them out. ‘How do I board my horse?’

  The boatman pursed his lips. ‘Is he skeich?’

  ‘Not in general.’ Hew eyed Dun Scottis uneasily. ‘In general, he is stubborn, dull, and constant. I only knew him once to rear, and that was when a friend of mine put spurs to him. He did not take it kindly.’

  The boatman chuckled. ‘Well, no spurs. With horses, it is the loading and the landing of them gives the trouble; that is not so much trouble, for if they are skeich, and jump into the water, the waters there are shallow, and they will not upset the boat. In truth, on the south side it were better to urge him out of the coble and into the shallows, that he may swim in while we find our landing place. In general, once the animal is on the boat, he will be calm. I only once did see a horse was feart of crossing wattir, that a witch had put a spell on him.’

  Fervently, Hew prayed Dun Scottis would not prove such a horse.

  ‘Well, sir, ye maun dismount him, and tak off his saddle and bags, and place them at this end with the sacks of grain, then lead him down the plank where he must jump a little; that’s the tricky part, then hold him steady at the head and talk to him, aye, soothe him, he will know your voice. For safeness, pray take off your sword, and lay it flat upon the bottom of the boat. Have no fear of pirates, sir; these waters are well guarded by the garrison.’

  Dun Scottis made the leap into the boat with little more than a stumble, and soon stood steady at its broadest point, where Hew stood beside him, holding his reins. The boatman faced them at the narrow end – ‘I will sit, sir, and row, the better to balance,’ – and pushed off from the shore.

  Facing back towards North Ferrie, Hew did not see the direction of travel, and as they pulled out of the shallows and the boat began to sway he felt a little queasy. The man remarked impassively. ‘Aye, tis turning rough.’

  The wind brought with it sheets of rain, and in its shower they soon were soaked, the dull sky ever darkening. Dun Scottis smelled damp, like autumn moulds. Restlessly, he snorted and shuffled his feet. It was cold on the water, made colder by the penetrating wind and dampness of the drizzle and the spray.

  ‘Not far to Inchgarvie, sir,’ the boatman said reassuringly. ‘A dreich enough place, even when the sun shines.’

  Hew turned his head, searching for the narrow strip of land, and found the ghostly outline of its fortress, barely visible behind the driving rain. Far across the other side, flickering and pale, he saw the beacons lit to help the boatmen make their passage. Not for the first time, he wondered what mysterious watchman kept them from the rocks.

  ‘The poor wretches there will be glad of the rain,’ remarked the boatman.

  ‘Why?’ wondered Hew.

  ‘No fresh water, sir. There are barrels shipped in for the soldiers, and they have their brewery there, but for the prisoners on the island there is nothing fit to drink, save what gathers in the rain vats or the rock pools. Tis not a place a man would want to be stranded.’

  ‘It must be bleak indeed, to be so close to the land, and yet so far from it.’

  ‘Aye. We will drop off the grain at the landing place. The soldiers will wade out to meet the boat. For that, I do thank God. I do not care to land. They say there is a most prodigious kind of rat that’s native to the island, that chews its way through iron, and gnaws the prisoners’ faces as they sleep; and all have lost their noses,’ the man said seriously.

  Hew laughed at this. ‘An old wives’ tale, I doubt.’

  ‘Perhaps. Though old wives tales are apt to have a grain of truth in them,’ the boatman replied, with unexpected shrewdness. ‘There is upon the island too an ancient leper house, where they put the sick in times of plague. Tis likely the tale comes from that.’

  ‘Aye, likely,’ Hew agreed. He shivered. ‘Is there far to go
? I do not like the colour of the sky.’

  ‘No more do I. It is not far, sir, to Inchgarvie. Here is the landing place. And here’s the constable himself.’

  The soldiers waded through the water to the little boat, and took the grain ashore, balancing the sacks upon their shoulders, to the keeper of the castle who kept watch upon the tower, the scarlet of his coat a poppy head against the drizzle darkness of the sky. Hew could not conceive of a more bleak and dreary place. His business concluded, the boatman struck out again and turned the boat eastwards clear of the rocks.

  In the darkness and the rain, Hew had lost his bearings. Presently, though, he glimpsed the faint light of the beacons far receding straight ahead. ‘Surely,’ he said suddenly, ‘we’re heading north?’

  ‘Aye, sir, back to land.’

  ‘There must be some mistake. I paid you for the passage to the south side.’

  Slyly, the boatman shook his head. ‘Tis as I did explain to you; I had business at Inchgarvie. The business fulfilled, I return home again.’

  ‘This is trickery!’ exclaimed Hew. ‘You understood full well, the bargain was that you would take me to the south side.’

  The boatman looked pained. ‘Aye, mebbe,’ he conceded. ‘But the weather has turned. And it were not worth my while, to continue to the south side now, but for a mere twelve shillings, for like as not I would find myself stranded there until the other morn, with such a loss of business that would not repay my time. I have a family to support, sir, and I must consider them.’

  ‘How much?’ Hew demanded shortly, understanding he had been trumped.

  ‘Thirteen shillings, sir. Let’s say, a merk,’ the man said quickly. ‘Up front.’

  ‘Turn the boat around. I will pay it at the other side,’ Hew said curtly.

  ‘Pardon me, how do I know it, sir?’

  ‘How do I know you will take me to the other side, and not turn back half way, or maroon me on Inchgarvie?’ Hew retorted.

  The boatman laughed. ‘A bleak enough fate. I would not do that, sir. I am an honest man, in truth, and yet a man has to live. You have money. I have a boat. Surely, we can come to an arrangement.’

  ‘You are an honest rogue. And that you are a poor one I sincerely doubt,’ Hew said severely.

  ‘Very well. Show me the merk, and you shall have the keeping of it till we reach the other side,’ the man said generously. ‘I trust you, as a gentleman. Besides, I have your sword and saddle bag,’ he added pointedly.

  Hew swore softly, dropped the rein and reached into his pocket for his purse. This lurching movement proved a mistake. Dun Scottis, his ears set back against the wind and his dank coat sleek and swollen with the rain, had grown impatient with the motion of the boat. He had not liked the rising menace in the boatman’s voice, nor the muted anger he could sense in Hew’s. As Hew released the reins, he took his chance and bolted, caring little for the boundaries that distinguished boat and waves, and leaping full into the darkness that gave way to water he undid them all, unbalancing the boat. As the rushing waters hit, Hew heard the boatman curse, before his own breath gasping drowned all other sound.

  The stuffing in his trunk hose brought a certain buoyancy, and as Hew floated with the tide he had time to catch his breath and consider his predicament. He did not see the boat, or the horse, or the boatman, and no answer came to his cries. At first he kept his head, and reasonably afloat. But as his clothes became sodden the padding grew swollen and heavy, in danger of dragging him down. In panic, he struck out. Floundering beneath the surface of the waves, he found himself caught in the path of a fierce and churning engine, coursing through the water like a mill. And there, gripped in a relentless chug and grinding, his eyes and lungs began to bulge and stream. When he could fight no more, the force of a great blow dislodged him from the depths and sent him spinning back against the upper flank of the machine. Grasping wildly, his fingers found their purchase, and entwined him clear of the strange winding gear that churned the estuary below. And gradually, as he regained his breath and made sense of his surroundings, his sobbing gasps kept pace with a strange pneumatic snorting, and he understood at last that he was clinging to the damp mane of the horse. Dun Scottis rolled forward through the great expanse of tide, steadfast and relentless as a man of war. Hew tightened his grip on the mane, twisting his wrists as well as he could into the rope of the halter, and allowed himself to trail, floating alongside the horse, out of the treacherous churn of its hooves. Beyond his own hands tangled in the rope, and the dark forbidding outline of the water, he saw nothing. He heard nothing but the slow mechanic rasping of the horse. And gradually he found he lost all feeling in his hands, and the hot seat of pain in his thigh, where Dun Scottis had kicked him, dulled to an ominous thud. The rush of water in his ears drowned out the steady wheezing of the horse, he felt his fingers lose their grip and the lapping waters slacken, slipping into blackness as his eyes began to close.

  The Kindness of Strangers

  Hew dreamt that he had come to rest upon a drying green. Waking, he saw lines of washing hanging slack and swollen in the breathless air. The place where he had landed was sooty and enclosed, heavy with the scent of ash and fire. He lay close to the hearth on blankets and straw. He was dressed in a plain woollen shirt, in place of his fine suit of clothes, and his wrists were bound in cloth, through which a little blood began to seep. Though he felt stiff and raw, he found no broken bones. His limbs were scratched and ribboned with a score of tiny cuts, and a dull throb in his thigh disclosed a mass of livid bruising, searing to the touch. The hoofmark of Dun Scottis, clean as though the hot iron of the blacksmith had impressed it there, explained the pain.

  As he struggled to stand up, he heard a faint scuffle and squeal, and found himself watched by a clutch of small girls wearing ribands of plum-coloured silk. Before he could speak, they had scattered and fled. Hew was left alone in the strangest house that he had ever seen. Cups and bowls and spoons were roughly carved from driftwood, and an ancient, splintered sea chest opened like a flower, or like the sun-bleached skeleton of some enormous fish, stripped of all its flesh. Fragments of bone were scattered on shelves, with bright polished pebbles and pieces of pot. The rafters were strung with old rope, tackle and gear swung rusting on hooks, and propped above the chimney grate, Hew could see a masthead, holding up the washing lines recovered from his dreams. Like a ship-wrecked sailor fallen into faerie land, he felt part of the seawrack that made up this little house.

  ‘The bairns cried ye were waking. Mind, you’re unco shakit on your feet.’

  He jumped at the sound of the voice. An old woman stood in the doorway, gazing at him curiously. ‘I brought you bread,’ she offered. ‘For you have eaten nothing for the past twa days. You must be famished. I will heat some broth.’

  She placed the bread upon the board and moved quickly to the fire, where she ladled thick grey slurry from a bowl into a pot. She was small and lithe and nimble; not so old, perhaps, but weathered like the fisher wives. Her eyes were bright and sharp beneath her plaid.

  ‘Faerie magic,’ murmured Hew.

  ‘What was that?’ She turned to stare at him. ‘You have had a wee dunt to the heid,’ she concluded kindly.

  Hew felt exposed and naked in his borrowed shirt. Sensing his discomfort, the gude wife broke into a smile. ‘You’re nothing that I have not seen. Though you may be a gentleman, we’re a’ the same uncled.’

  ‘Madam, where am I?’ he asked her, bewildered.

  ‘Madam? Ah, what dainty manners!’ the gude wife replied. ‘I never was called that before. Tis plain you have forgot your place. Do you ken your name?’

  ‘Aye, for sure, it’s Hew Cullan,’ Hew whispered. ‘The ferry was closed for repair.’

  ‘Is that what he telt ye? The limmar!’ she tutted. ‘Yon Guthrie is a rogue and no mistake. I am Jonet Bell, an’ my man is Sandy Matheson the ferryman. That quent horse of yourn harled you here across the wattir. That’s a brave wee hobin that you have there. My
man it was that found ye lying traikit on the rocks.’

  Hew struggled to make sense of this. ‘Is this Queensferrie?’ he hazarded.

  ‘North Ferrie. Aye, ye are back where ye began. Come lad, sit ye down, you’re greener than a herring gill.’

  Hew sat down unsteadily upon his makeshift bed. ‘What happened to Guthrie? Did he drown?’ If the boatman had drowned, then it was because of Dun Scottis. Hew closed his eyes. However construed, that was his fault.

  But Jonet snorted. ‘Drooned? Not he! The devil guards his ain. I heard he fetched up by Inchgarvie, clinging to his wreck, and the souldiers waded in to pull him out. The ferrymen will let him stew awhile afore they fetch him hame. Here now, there’s a cup of pottage will see you right. There’s nothing in your belly but Forth mud.’

  She ladled barley broth into a bowl. It tasted hot and wet, and little more, but Hew drank it gratefully.

  ‘Mistress, I do thank you, and give thanks to God that he lives still. For if my horse – what happened to my horse?’ He felt a sudden rush of grief, for the foolish, faithless friend that had been Dun Scottis, lying at the bottom of the Forth.

  ‘Your horse is well. He landed in less traikit than yersel; though he were fair forfochten, he came nimmill as a kitling,’ Jonet answered cryptically, from which Hew understood, your horse is well.

  ‘He is stabled at the inn at Inverkeithing,’ she went on, ‘where the innkeeper thoct, if ye did not recover, fit to buy him back, he’d earn his keep. He dealt you quite a kick forby, that has left his hoofprint on your hough.’

  ‘That I had remarked upon,’ Hew grimaced.

  ‘According to my man, yon would ha broke your leg, but for they stuffit brekis.’