Chapter 7
Elspet Balfour
THE THREE RIDERS PICK THEIR way over uneven, rocky ground, heading towards a clear stream winding through a gulley. It’s treacherous terrain: thick yellow gorse bushes, bright in the afternoon sun, obscure awkward crevices in the rock, hiding tortuous roots and pitfalls.
One horse slides on a loose stone; the animals are tired. There’s a moment where the animal starts to fall but then rights itself with the guidance of a soothing hand on its neck. Elspet strokes the beast gently. ‘Steady . . . steady, my beauty.’
The afternoon is warm and she’s sweating under her rough dress of homespun Orkneyjar wadmell.
She admires the beauty of the gowns Margaret and Beatrix wear – the embroidery and shining embellishments – but doesn’t envy them the extra encumbrance in this heat.
Beatrix wears black damask with embroidered sleeves, her emerald conspicuous on the chain at her throat.
She gives an impatient sigh as she dismounts to lead her horse over the rocks.
Moving with the exuberance of a child, Beatrix hurries towards the stream.
‘Be careful,’ Margaret calls from Elspet’s side.
But Beatrix pays Margaret no heed. It’s been a monotonous day in the saddle, travelling non-stop, without time to rest or stretch their limbs.
As she nears the water, Beatrix loses her footing and stumbles over a rock, crying out in pain. Margaret sighs in frustration. ‘Oh, for goodness’ sake.’
Elspet dismounts. Her legs wobble and she steadies herself against the flank of the horse; walking feels unfamiliar. It’s been three days since they left Orkneyjar, two since the boat dropped them off at the small port outside Durness.
Since their guides left them at Loch Naver, they’ve been relying on Beatrix’s knowledge of the Sutherland landscape and navigating by the sun to keep them travelling in a south-easterly direction.
They’ve stopped only for the minimum of time to stretch their muscles or close their eyes for long enough to stave off fatigue.
Margaret and Beatrix are clearly unused to fending for themselves and travelling in this way, and Elspet can’t help but be impressed by their determination.
‘It hurts.’ Beatrix points to her ankle. ‘Stupid of me.’
Elspet leads her horse over. Margaret approaches too, shaking her head in disapproval. ‘The last thing we need is injuries. Why can’t you be more careful?’
Elspet kneels. ‘Show me.’
The young Ruthven girl lifts her skirts and gingerly removes her boot to reveal the ankle, reddened and swelling. Elspet touches it lightly to assess the damage, feeling the skin – its heat and the inflammation, the shape of the bones beneath. Beatrix supresses a gasp of pain.
‘Don’t worry, it’s not broken. It looks like a sprain.’
‘Can you heal it?’ Margaret asks awkwardly. ‘We must continue our journey.’
‘What this needs is rest,’ Elspet says, ‘but I’ll do what I can.’
She thinks for a moment, holding the swollen ankle gently in her hands, then reaches for the cloth satchel at her hip. ‘I have some sea mayweed and a thread for weesting.’
Beatrix looks up with interest. ‘What’s weesting?’
‘A simple charm.’ Elspet retrieves a handful of yellow and white flowers on long pale green stems from her pack. Rummaging again, she finds a fabric square and a length of thread.
She carefully makes her way down to the stream, where the rocks give way to a wide bank of smooth, round pebbles, and soaks the fabric square in the spring water before placing the flowers within. Returning to Beatrix, she gently applies the poultice to her ankle.
Beatrix winces but holds it in place as Elspet pulls out the thread. Beatrix watches fascinated as, slowly and carefully, Elspet ties nine knots in the thread and recites the weesting charm.
‘Oor Saviour rade, his fore-foot slade; Our Saviour lichtit down sinew to sinew, vein to vein, joint to joint, and bane to bane, mend thoo in God’s name!’ With the final knot, she fixes the thread around Beatrix’s wrist.
Margaret looks on, her brow furrowed. But Beatrix fingers the thread with a smile. ‘How marvellous. Do you know, I think my ankle feels better already.’
Margaret clears her throat and looks around. ‘We shouldn’t stop for long. We still can’t be sure we’re not being pursued. Let’s have a drink and a moment’s rest, then we’ll be on our way.’
Elspet nods. Much as her body aches and her mind craves sleep, they must keep moving.
She hopes every mile they travel is taking her away from Patie’s men and to greater safety.
Or why has she travelled so far from her children?
An image of Broden’s and Gillie’s bonnie faces rises in her mind, and she pushes it away – not now.
Elspet and Margaret help Beatrix to her feet and help her sit on a wide flat stone next to the water.
The horses drink from the clear stream and Elspet kneels next to them, cupping water in her hands and taking deep refreshing gulps before refilling her skin.
Beatrix leans forward from her rock and drinks with abandon, spraying water all over herself.
Margaret uses her cupped hands as delicately as if she were sitting at a table with the Queen.
As the cool water of the stream flows through her fingers, Elspet enjoys the moment of stillness.
Scotland, known simply as South to the folk of Orkneyjar, is not a place she ever thought she’d visit.
But now she’s here, she’s curious. The lift above them is shallower and the air stiller; the wind a gentle movement rather than a caal force against her skin.
The land smells of grasses instead of the ubiquitous salt of Orkneyjar – she’s further from the sea than she’s ever been.
But although the terrain is different from the wide undulating islands of her home, there is a spae to this land all the same, a spirit and a meaning, but it’s one she doesn’t ken. Not yet. That leaves her disconcerted and eager to learn.
‘How much further to Dunrobin Castle?’ Margaret smooths down her hair and the creases in her skirts as she speaks, for all the good it will do. She looks like she’s been herding sheep. Her hair escapes in tufts from her coif and her sleeves are speckled with mud.
Their gowns may be fine, but after three days of travel and sleeping outdoors, Margaret and Beatrix are even more dishevelled than they were when they arrived at her hoose.
Beatrix is even more unkempt: her blonde hair is uncovered and so wild it’s matted in places. The emerald at her throat is incongruous against her muddied clothes as she surveys the landscape.
‘I think this stream must be one that feeds Loch Shin,’ Beatrix says, ‘which means we’re in Sutherland, on Gordon land. It’s not far now – less than two days’ ride.’
Elspet feels a surge of relief that they haven’t strayed too far from their planned route.
‘Are you sure this stop in Sutherland is a wise idea?’ Margaret asks. ‘We can’t be sure the countess will help us.’
Beatrix shrugs. ‘What choice do we have? We can’t very well take Mistress Balfour to court without some preparation.’ She glances at Elspet. ‘I don’t mean . . .’
‘Oh, I’m not offended,’ Elspet says quickly. ‘I know I’m not ready to travel to court yet.’
Not that she feels ready to travel to Dunrobin Castle yet either, but it’s probably better not to mention this.
Margaret frowns. ‘The Queen has not sanctioned sharing the truth of our mission with anyone. She doesn’t even know Lady Jean Gordon, Beatrix. You were careful not to put too much detail in the letter to her, weren’t you?’
‘Lady Jean is loyal to my mother, I know that much,’ Beatrix says. ‘And my mother is loyal to the Queen – she is a lady-in-waiting just like us, after all.’
‘The Queen is very careful about who she trusts with what information, and which of her ladies she selected for this task,’ Margaret insists. ‘You know that.’
Beatrix shrugs once more. ‘Mistress Balfour must become a credible lady-in-waiting – so we’ll need Jean’s help. We’ll have to tell them more than we did in our letter. And quite frankly, we’re trying to fool the King of Scotland and she is one of the few people who won’t be intimidated by that.’
‘We are not trying to fool the King of Scotland,’ Margaret hisses. ‘You must never say that. We’re simply helping the Queen acquire a new lady-in-waiting with the skills she needs in her present condition.’
Beatrix laughs lightly. ‘Very well, Margaret. All will be well – everyone will be distracted by the wolf hunts.’
‘Wolf hunts?’ Elspet asks.
‘You don’t have wolves in Orkney, do you?
’ Beatrix says. ‘The Highlands are overrun with them – landowners hold hunts every year to keep their numbers under control.’ She leans forward, a mischievous twinkle in her eye that reminds Elspet of Gillie.
‘Do you know, there are some in these parts who believe the Devil himself may take the form of a wolf at will?’
Margaret scoffs. ‘I hardly think that is helpful.’
Elspet has caught and killed animals before, but for food, never for sport or because they’re believed to be a menace.
She knows of this popular pastime among the rich – the Earl of Orkney hunts the wild boar of the islands – but she can’t imagine herself participating.
This is unfamiliar territory. ‘Will I have to hunt wolves to pass as a noblewoman?’
‘You don’t have to hit anything if that’s what you mean,’ Beatrix says. ‘Plenty of the people who come along are a hopeless shot. Besides, Lady Jean can kill enough beasts for all of us.’
Plenty of people? What is she getting herself into? She avoids crowds at the best of times, let alone among folk she doesn’t know and with whom she must hide her true self.
Margaret remains unconvinced. ‘Well, at least I’ll sleep in a bed soon,’ she says, with a sigh.
Beatrix smiles. ‘Lady Jean’s hospitality is legendary. You will be afforded every comfort at Dunrobin.’
Elspet looks around. Ahead of them, a rough path continues up and away from the stream, the land rising into rocky crags that hang like a curtain of grey sprinkled with what look like the greensilver leaves of moorek.
She wants to investigate the plants; she’ll need to restock her pack at some point and she doesn’t ken if the fauna here in Scotland will provide the same riches she finds foraging in Orkneyjar.
For all the hurrying and fear in the last three days’ journey, she’s had to restrain herself from stopping to investigate the local plant life.
Beatrix bends to carefully remove the poultice on her ankle and she stretches out her bare feet to soak them in the stream.
‘How does it feel?’ Elspet asks. The skin under the poultice looks less swollen and the cool water of the stream will help to ease the sprain further.
‘Better already, thank you, Mistress Balfour.’ Beatrix wiggles her toes in the water.
Even with her injury, she’s visibly relaxed today now they have reached country she’s familiar with. But Margaret remains alert. ‘Beatrix, if you feel better then could you put your boots back on? We mustn’t let our guard down.’
Beatrix looks about to argue but then nods and begins to dress. ‘You’re right, of course. But I don’t think we need to worry about the Earl of Orkney’s men, Margaret. We’ve seen no sign of them since we left the islands.’
Elspet frowns at this. It’s foolish to believe yourself safe from the Earl of Orkney’s grasp once he’s set his sights on you. She shivers at the thought his men might be chasing them out here. There are many hiding places in this country, and they could be anywhere.
But they would not need to hide, would they? Elspet and her companions are three women alone in a vast land, powerless to fight armed musketeers like the men who serve the Earl.
‘Don’t be so sure.’ Elspet tries to keep her voice even. ‘His pride will be wounded by our escape. We must never underestimate him.’
Beatrix hurriedly ties her bootlaces, and Elspet and Margaret support her to remount the horse before they do the same and urge the animals onwards. Beatrix rides well despite her injured ankle.
Elspet allows the vastness of this land to comfort her. Even if the Earl’s men are in pursuit, they can’t be familiar with the terrain and shouldn’t be able to find them. Her shoulders relax as she guides her horse up the rocky path that leads towards Dunrobin Castle.