Turn of the Tide by Margaret Skea Read Free Book Online Page A

comply with the
King’s wishes the longer he delayed. When they breasted a hill and came upon Greenock spread out beneath them, he halted, his hands gripping the reins as if he struggled to hold a runaway
horse. Looking west, he indicated the castle perched high above the town.
    ‘We wait the night here.’
    As they rode through the gateway, he straightened, mindful of eyes that might be watching their arrival. Of John Shaw’s welcome he was assured, their friendship of such a standing that
long absences did not detract, but as for his sister Elizabeth, though if John was to be believed then she also thought fondly of him.
    At the rear of their small party one of the men queried, ‘He has forgot the Cunninghame connection then? Or is it that he can forgive a woman anything?’ He was swiftly silenced by
Patrick’s glare.
    As they swung down from their horses, the door opened and John Shaw himself appeared, with two of his sisters. They lined up, a formal greeting belied by the laughter which accompanied it.
Six-year-old Gillis was the first to break rank, running to Hugh’s horse and stretching a finger to scoop a gob of the white lather that streaked its flanks, popping it into her mouth.
    ‘Oh Gillis!’ Christian, by Hugh’s reckoning now seventeen and comely, gathered up the child, shaking her gently, pulling her finger from her mouth.
    ‘Salty,’ Gillis said, wrinkling her nose.
    John tousled Gillis’ hair. ‘It won’t kill her.’
    Christian’s frown slid into a smile and Hugh was reminded of that other arrival, more than six years ago, when he had stopped by on his way home from college in Glasgow. Then it had been
she who had swung on John’s arm and plagued him for the presents that were promised. Noting the pallor of her cheeks and belatedly remembering the reference in John’s letter to an
illness that had taken them all in turn, he said, ‘I heard you were not well, I trust you are much recovered.’
    ‘Yes, thank you, I’m bravely now. But Elizabeth . . .’
    John cut in quickly, ‘Elizabeth was the last to succumb. She nursed us all and seemed hearty enough till a few days ago, when a fever took her. Slight,’ he said, as he saw
Hugh’s face. ‘She is abed, but a precaution only. In fact she didn’t wish it, but Christian insisted, and, as you will remember, it is not politic to disoblige any of my
sisters.’
    ‘She will come down?’ Hugh tried and failed to sound casual, afraid that this visit might be, if not altogether a wasted effort, somewhat of a disappointment.
    ‘I’m sure she will once she knows you are here. But come, I mustn’t fail in our hospitality, or I’ll be soundly bated for it.’
    There was no need to change from their travelling clothes, for the weather had been favourable: a pale spring sunshine, with enough air about to make the journey comfortable; the ground
under-foot firm and dry so that they had no tell-tale mud-spattering to show the distance they had travelled. Nevertheless, Hugh spent some little time in the chamber that had been allotted to him,
damping down his hair and brushing his doublet and hose with his hands to remove any trace of dust that might cling to them.
    John lounged in the doorway. ‘I hadn’t thought to find you quite so changed.’ His tone was mocking, but mild. ‘You used to scoff at such care.’ He drew Hugh towards
the door. ‘It’s an offence easily forgiven, by the ladies at least. Mind, I don’t think Elizabeth would care if you arrived covered in glaur, so long as you are come at
all.’ He sobered, ‘We had a fear, my mother especially, that her name would play against us. Cunninghame she may have been once, but she has long been a Shaw, and we none of us desert
our friends.’
    Hugh stiffened.
    As if unaware of any awkwardness, John continued, ‘But I counted, if not on your good sense, at least on your need for a good dinner.’ He parried the playful cuff that Hugh directed
at his head, and ducked