‘Now there’s a blissin’,’ called out one of the soldiers. ‘A perfect wummin …’
The laughter allowed Hal to scurry into the hall again, but Kirkpatrick saw Fitzwalter staring past him and, when Hal arrived back at the table, knew the knight had been marking the return.
‘So Tam was busy digging out the cess this day when the Earl’s daughter passed, walking eechsie-ochsie with her wee pet dug, which was a four-legged clevery and seemed to ken what his mistress wanted without her speakin’.
‘So Tam began to talk to the dog: “I heard that you are very smart and I want advice from you. We were three travellers – a carver, a tailor and me, who journeyed on as yin. At camp that night, the carver took first watch and, because he had not much to do, he took a piece of wood and made a nice wee girl of it.
‘“Then he woke the tailor. The tailor saw the wooden girl and took scissors, needle and thread and began to sew a dress, which he put it on the girl. Then it was my turn to watch – and I taught her to speak, so that she came into life. In the morning, when they woke up, everybody wanted to have the girl. The carver said: ‘I made her.’ The tailor said: ‘I dressed her.’ I also wanted to have the girl. Tell me, wee smart dug, who should have the girl?” And Tam waited, cocking his head as if expecting a real reply from the wee dug.’
There was silence in the hall as everyone mulled the problem; Kirkpatrick could hear Hal’s ragged breathing, glanced quickly down to see him nurse his shoulder and did not like what that revealed or the unease it crawled into him.
‘Well?’ demanded the young Ross truculently and Kirkpatrick was jerked back to the moment.
‘Well,’ he declared, spreading his hands, ‘of course the wee dug did not speak – but the Earl’s daughter did. “Who else than you should have her?” she says, tart as you please. “What is a carver’s wooden girl? What is tailor’s dress without speech? You gave her the best gift – life and speech – so you should have the girl.”’
There was laughter at that, for they all knew Tam the gongfermor had won.
‘That put fox in the henhoose,’ Kirkpatrick declared, sweating now. ‘“So you have decided for yourself,” Tam said to the Earl’s daughter. “I gave you speech and life, so you should be mine.” Needless to say, the Earl had other ideas about his precious quine getting married on to a shit-covered chiel. He offered another good reward, but Tam had Reason in him, telling him that an earl’s word was law in his own domain and if the Earl wanted people to behave according to law, he must behave in that way too. The Earl must give up his daughter.’
‘This will not turn out well,’ the friar mourned and folk shushed him. Kirkpatrick acknowledged the priest with a wave.
‘You are right,’ he said, ‘for the Earl announced that Tam would lose his head for his impudence and the poor boy was bound and led to the block. The best axeman turned up and spat on his palms, then raised his weapon high.’
Kirkpatrick paused for the effect and had gratifying silence.
‘Fortune stepped in. “Get well out of him,” Fortune declares to Reason. “See what a pass ye have brought the lad to.” So Fortune got in the boy, the axe swung – and the shaft snapped. Before he could fetch another weapon, the daughter had prevailed on her da to relent, that she would marry the lad.
‘So there was a grand wedding,’ Kirkpatrick declared with a flourish, ‘to which all were invited, Reason included, and most came. But seeing he would meet Fortune, he ran away – and, since that time, when Reason meets Fortune, Reason stands aside so Fortune can pass.’
There was applause and laughter; with an airy wave, Fitzwalter had the steward deliver meat to the two packmen and the hall washed with new chatter and arguments over Fortune and Reason.
‘What was all that?’ Hal hissed, head down as if concentrating on his trencher.
‘Smoke and mirrors,’ Kirkpatrick answered grimly. ‘I hope it was worth the work – did you find anything?’
Hal was suddenly ravenous, turned his black, greased, beaming face on Kirkpatrick as he reached for bread and meat.
‘I ken where your named kinsman is,’ he said between mouthfuls. ‘So there she will be also.’
Kirkpatrick nodded, chewing and thinking of the fulfilment of his mission to his king – and the revenge he would take at the same time.
He thought of the ring, the one he had taken from Creishie Marthe at Methven, the one she had cut from the hand of a throat-slit man-at-arms.
The ring now snugged up in a purse under his armpit. Such a wee bauble, he marvelled, to bring such ruin to lives.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Closeburn Castle, Annandale
Later that night …