Cunningham 06 - Stolen Voice

  May the blessing of Angus, of Mary mild and Michael

  be upon all who read this book

  Contents

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Map

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Author’s note

  Also by Pat McIntosh

  Copyright

  Chapter One

  ‘And you are telling me,’ said Gil Cunningham, ‘that this David Drummond vanished away forty year since, and is now returned seemingly not a day older?’

  ‘That’s about the sum of it,’ agreed Sir William Stewart. He cut a substantial portion off the haunch of venison on the platter before him, looked round the supper table, and conveyed the slice to his own pewter trencher. Satisfied that all four present were served, he addressed himself to his supper.

  ‘Not quite,’ qualified his lady. She accepted the sauce dish from Gil’s wife Alys and went on, ‘It was thirty year, for one thing, not forty, and for another I’d aye heard he was eleven or twelve when he vanished, and he’s at least sixteen now by the look of him.’

  ‘It still seems very strange,’ said Alys, ‘but this is a country where strange things happen, I think.’

  She turned to the window, and Sir William’s steward, bare-legged and bearded and swathed in a vast checked plaid, looked enquiringly at her from where he stood by the sideboard. She shook her head and smiled, looking beyond him at the distant view of loch and mountains, woods and farmland, and the long narrow glen of Balquhidder.

  They were in the solar on an upper floor of the impressive fortified house of Stronvar, on the shores of Loch Voil. It was a pleasant, comfortable room, furnished in the modern style with light linen hangings and pale carved oak, the open windows bringing in evening air and late sunshine. A pot of herbs smouldered on the sill. Beside Gil’s feet, Socrates the wolfhound sprawled full length, snoring faintly.

  ‘It’s more than strange,’ said Gil, ‘it’s unbelievable. What do you think, sir?’

  ‘I don’t credit it either,’ Sir William assured him, and bit a lump off the piece of meat impaled on his knife. Bailie of Balquhidder and second cousin to the young King James, he was a stout, long-nosed man, with the dark red Stewart hair now turning grey and thinning somewhat, and even here in this remote place he was clad in taffeta and velvet to receive guests. His big-boned Campbell wife was equally finely dressed; Gil found himself comparing her unfavourably with his own slender, elegant Alys, glowing opposite him in dark blue silk faced with apricot, her rope of pearls pinned to the bodice with the sapphire jewel he had given her on her birthday, her honey-coloured hair hidden under black velvet. He and Alys had arrived at Stronvar that afternoon, after two days’ journey from Glasgow, and had been made lavishly welcome, but he was still not completely certain why they were here.

  He ate for a while in silence, while Sir William expounded on the other unlikely things which were claimed for the neighbourhood, until Marion Campbell, Lady Stewart said, ‘Aye, very true, Will, but the lad is there at Dalriach, there’s no getting round it.’

  ‘You have seen him, then, madam?’ said Alys.

  ‘I have,’ agreed their hostess. ‘They hold the tack direct from us, so I rode up the glen to Dalriach a month ago as soon as the word reached me, to congratulate Mistress Drummond.’ Gil appreciated this turn of phrase. ‘The lad is certainly a Drummond, you’ve only to look at him, and the old woman claims she knew him for her son as soon as he came over the hill.’

  ‘It sounds like one of my nurse’s tales,’ said Gil. ‘How old is Mistress Drummond? Is her eyesight that good?’

  ‘Oh, a good age. Near seventy, I’d think. Caterin Campbell, poor woman, that’s wedded to her son Patrick, tells me she has eyes like a hawk at a distance, can tell you how many stooks of barley are on the top rig, but can scarce see to eat her dinner.’ Lady Stewart mopped green sauce with a piece of wheaten bannock. ‘So young Davie is welcomed home and established in the midst of the township, and if you set him in a row with the other youngsters – they’ll be his nephew and nieces, I suppose – there’s not a hair of difference between them all, except the changeling.’

  Changeling? thought Gil. What does she mean?

  ‘What about the rest of the family?’ Alys asked. ‘Patrick must be his brother. What do he and his wife think? Are they pleased to see him returned?’

  Gil shot her a quick look, but her face was as innocent as her voice. Lady Stewart shook her head.

  ‘No knowing,’ she said. ‘They would never say to me, of course, if the old woman went against them.’

  ‘And does he himself claim to be David Drummond?’ Gil asked, staying with the point. ‘Where has he been these thirty years, if so?’

  ‘I got no word wi him on his own. Aye, take it, Murdo, it will do another meal.’ Lady Stewart leaned back to allow her steward to lift away the platter of meat. ‘He said almost nothing in front of the old lady, I would say out of shyness rather than anything else, and she gave me a great rigmarole about the sidhean on their land, and how the ones who dwell there were envious of the boy’s voice. He was a singer at the Cathedral down in Dunblane when he vanished, you ken.’

  ‘Sheean?’ Gil picked out the unfamiliar word.

  ‘Sidhean,’ she repeated. ‘It’s an Ersche word. It means a hill where the Good Neighbours dwell. The Fair Folk – the People of Peace,’ she amplified. ‘The one on Dalriach land, away at the head of Glen Buckie, is a great fearsome stony mound wi tall pine trees growing over it.’ Gil recalled more of his nurse’s tales, and nodded, getting a glimpse as he did so of the steward Murdo crossing himself and mouthing something.

  ‘So we’re to believe young Drummond has been all this time in this sheean?’ he asked.

  ‘So it seems. Murdo? What do they say in the glen?’

  ‘Indeed,’ agreed Murdo solemnly. ‘That is what they are saying. He has been thirty years under the earth, and the time passing as if it was no more than a day or two.’

  ‘Then how’s he got six years older, then, Murdo?’ demanded his master. ‘Tell me that?’

  ‘I would not be knowing,’ said Murdo, offended. ‘I have not the learning Sir William has.’

  ‘When did he vanish?’ Gil asked. ‘How long ago was it?’

  ‘It would be the year of the long drought,’ supplied Murdo, ‘just before St Angus’ fair.’

  ‘Long afore my time. Sixty-three, according to old Sir Duncan,’ said Sir William. Gil raised his eyebrows, and the other man gestured at the window with his knife. ‘Priest yonder in the Kirkton. He’s been priest here man and boy since James Fiery-Face’s day and longer. They say he recalls the eclipse in thirty-three, though I’m no certain he was here then.’

  ‘Poor old soul,’ said Lady Stewart thoughtfully. ‘Robert gives me a sad report of him.’

  ‘Aye, well,’ said her lord. ‘He may not be able to tell his hat from a jordan but he minds the history of the place like no other.’

  ‘He’s getting childish,’ Lady Stewart explained to Alys. ‘His clerk’s near as old as he is, but we’ve got a laddie to look after him, this past year. It’s made quite a difference.’ She wrinkled her nose. ‘The kirk smells better, for one thing. But the old man is sinking now, just this last week or two. He may not have much longer, so Robert says.’

  Alys tut-tutted in sympat
hy, and Gil said, pursuing his own train of thought:

  ‘So the boy’s been gone thirty years, as you said, madam. How did he disappear?’

  ‘Set out from the house after a few days’ leave of absence,’ offered Sir William, ‘to walk back to Dunblane, and never was seen again.’

  ‘It’s a long walk for a boy that age,’ observed Gil. ‘Was he alone? Was it winter?’

  ‘No, no, St Angus’ fair’s in August. Next week, indeed. He was to meet a friend in Strathyre, another singer, but he never came to the tryst.’

  ‘He was sought by all the paths out of Glenbuckie,’ said Murdo, setting clean small glasses on the table. ‘My own father was among those that would be searching. But by then it was over a month since he had left his home, the time it took to be knowing he was not at Dunblane nor at Dalriach neither. You would be grieved to see how my mother wept when he was not to be found. They were thinking he must have fallen into a drowning pool or the like, for all Euan nan Tobar said he had seen him lifted up and borne off, but now it seems they were wrong and Euan was right.’

  ‘Did you know him, Murdo?’ asked Lady Stewart. He straightened up and looked at her, dignified in his velvet doublet and colourful plaid.

  ‘I did. We were playing at the shinty together.’

  ‘Have you spoken to him,’ said Gil carefully, ‘since he came back?’

  ‘I have,’ said Murdo. ‘I was getting a word with him only on Sunday there, when all of Dalriach was coming down to the kirk, except for Mistress Campbell who could not be leaving the changeling.’ There it is again, thought Gil. Are they serious?

  ‘Did he mind you?’ asked Sir William abruptly.

  ‘Oh, he did.’ Murdo laid a dish of what looked like cream before his mistress, and a jug by Sir William’s hand. ‘I had to tell him who I was, but then I was a beardless laddie when he saw me last, Sir William would be thinking, and it was him recalled what we were doing at that time.’

  ‘And what was that?’ asked Sir William. Murdo looked sideways at him, and he snorted. ‘Some mischief, I suppose. Who else would have known of it?’

  ‘Just the two of us,’ averred Murdo. ‘And maybe the two MacLarens from Auchtoo,’ he added thoughtfully, ‘and Angus MacGregor at the Kirkton that were there with us.’

  ‘Small proof in that, then,’ said Sir William irritably, ‘if half the glen was in it.’

  Alys, seeing how Sir William’s colour rose, turned to Murdo and said what sounded to Gil like, ‘Jay sho, lair toll?’ Both Lady Stewart and her servant looked sharply at her.

  ‘Cranachan, it is, mistress,’ said Murdo, distracted. ‘Cream, and burnt oatmeal, and new raspberries that Seonaid gathered this day morn. And there is the good Malvoisie to go with it.’

  ‘Ha ma,’ she said, smiling. The hint of an answering smile twitched at his beard and Lady Stewart, lifting the chased silver serving-spoon, said:

  ‘You never said you spoke Gaelic, my dear. As well as French and Scots?’

  ‘Murdo, man,’ said Sir William, recovering his countenance, ‘see us anither glass. You’d best ha some of this Malvoisie, and tak a seat and tell us what you know of the matter.’

  To Gil’s amusement, the steward accepted the glass of wine with alacrity, but had to be persuaded to sit down in the presence of his lord. At length, formal and upright on a stool by the sideboard, he sipped the golden wine and reluctantly answered questions.

  It began, naturally, with a genealogy. Old Mistress Drummond, ‘that is Bessie MacLaren,’ amplified Murdo, ‘a MacLaren of Auchtoo she is,’ and her late husband James Drummond, had had four sons and one daughter who was married to Angus MacLaren and dwelling away along the glen – here Sir William cut off the steward’s intention to detail all their offspring – and one son was now working the farm.

  ‘Aye, and a good farmer he is,’ confirmed Sir William. ‘Mind you, it’s sound land up Glenbuckie, but Patrick Drummond makes the most o’t, him and his nephew. They pay a good tack, in cheese and flax and two kids every spring.’

  ‘And the cloth,’ said Lady Stewart. ‘The daughters-in-law,’ she explained. ‘Caterin spins and dyes, she has the best dye-pot in Balquhidder, and Mòr weaves. Lovely stuff they turn out, them and their lassies.’

  ‘I thought you said there were four sons,’ said Gil. ‘This Patrick, and the one that disappeared and has turned up again – what happened to the other two?’

  ‘There was James,’ agreed Murdo, counting on his fingers, ‘and Patrick, and Andrew, and Davie. James is dead ten year since, and left Patrick with all the work of the farm, seeing the bairns were young, and Andrew is away at Dunblane.’

  ‘Canon in residence,’ said Lady Stewart. ‘He’s sub-Treasurer, doing well.’

  Gil glanced at her and nodded.

  ‘What does he make of it?’ he asked. ‘I’d ha thought a churchman would have strong views on the matter.’

  ‘Och, I could not be saying,’ said Murdo.

  ‘Patrick could do with another pair of hands about the farm,’ said Sir William, ‘and he and Jamie Beag can as well share the tack with one more. But what Andrew makes of it there’s no knowing, seeing he’s not shown face yet. Carry on, Murdo, man.’

  The steward set his empty glass on the sideboard.

  ‘They are saying along the glen that old James Drummond must have offended the Good Neighbours in some way,’ he paused to cross himself, muttering something in Ersche, ‘for though the farm is doing well the family has no fortune.’

  ‘They’ve no worse fortune than any other in Balquhidder!’ expostulated Sir William. Murdo shook his head.

  ‘Sir William would be knowing better than I,’ he said, sounding unconvinced. ‘Davie vanished away, and then his father, James Mor Drummond, was dead in a night, in his full strength, after a day at the reaping, and then Patrick’s first son James Breac was taken of a fever. And after that James, that would be Mistress Drummond’s eldest son, fell in the stackyard, and was taken up for dead, and buried a week after and left three bairns –’

  ‘I mind that,’ said Sir William, ‘it was a year or two after we came here. Murdo, you ken as well as I do, in thirty years on a farm, these things happen! No need to talk of offending the – the Good Neighbours. You’d as well say they had a dislike of the name James Drummond!’

  ‘It could be so,’ agreed Murdo politely. ‘It could be so, indeed, but it would not be the only name they were disliking, for they stole away John the other son of Patrick Drummond and left a changeling.’

  ‘You mentioned that before,’ said Gil. ‘What makes you say he’s a changeling?’

  ‘It’s a terrible thing,’ said Lady Stewart. ‘He’s eight, of an age wi my own John. He was the bonniest bairn, bright and forward and talking already at two year old, I mind it well, and then he was changed to this shrivelled creature they have wi them now, willny walk, screaming all the time and eating enough for four.’

  Gil thought of the sturdy eight-year-old Stewart who had brought them the welcoming cup of mead, handing the beakers with a solemn greeting in Ersche. It must be painful to compare the two children, particularly for the Drummonds.

  ‘The bairn was sick,’ pronounced Sir William. ‘They sicken like flies at that age. That’s all it was.’

  ‘Caterin his mother,’ said Murdo solemnly, ‘that is the wife of Patrick Drummond, was leaving him asleep in his cradle, and she was outside, no further than the spinning wheel at the end of the house, working away, when there was a – a whirl of wind, oiteag sluaigh, travelling on the tall grass stems, went by the house door. And the bairn burst out in screaming, from his cradle where he was, and would never be stopped since that time.’

  ‘Caterin should have thrown her shoe at them,’ said Lady Stewart, and the steward nodded agreement.

  ‘Aye, well,’ said Sir William. ‘We get a lot of these whirlwinds in the summer,’ he informed Gil. ‘You’ll be out in the open, not a puff of air stirring, and all of a sudden here’s this eddy crossing in fron
t of you, lifting the straws and the dust. The Ersche says it’s a party o the Good Folk on the way past.’

  ‘Indeed I think there are many of the Good People dwelling in these parts,’ said Alys seriously. Gil met her gaze across the table, startled, and she smiled quickly at him.

  ‘Get on wi your tale, Murdo, man,’ commanded Sir William.

  ‘There is little more to tell, Sir William kens. Thirty year ago, that was the year of the great drought, like I was saying, Davie and Andrew was away singers at Dunblane, for they were singing like linties the both of them. Davie came home to Dalriach at Lammastide, and he went away scarce a week later before St Angus’ fair, though his mother wished him to be staying to sing at the great service in the kirk here. He was going away up the glen by the track that goes over into Strathyre, and past the sidhean, and was never seen more in this world for thirty years, until a month since he came walking down the glen and his mother spied him coming a great way off and knew him for her son.’

  ‘It’s quite a surprise, your wife speaking Ersche,’ said Sir William.

  ‘She’s a surprising creature,’ said Gil. ‘A periwinkle of prowess.’

  ‘Aye, and a bonnie one.’ Sir William, ignoring the quotation, strolled along his gravel path towards the last of the sunshine. Gil followed, Socrates at his knee. ‘How long since you were wed? Eight month? Aye, too soon, too soon. I don’t wonder you wanted her wi you.’

  Gil repressed comment, and looked about him in the evening light. They were in the garden, a hard-won patch of small flower beds defined by low aromatic hedges, with a sturdy fence round it against the goats. Below them lay the house of Stronvar, from where Sir William was expected to keep order and the law of Scotland in a sprawling, unruly stretch of the Highlands. Below it again hills and sky were reflected in Loch Voil as in a mirror, and across the narrow water smoke rose from the group of houses around the little kirk, the great bare rock above them catching fire from the westering sun. Apart from the clouds of biting insects, kept at bay by the herbs burning pungently in a little pot which Lady Stewart had given them, it was very pleasant out here, but Gil thought he could imagine it in winter. He had never expected to feel so much of a foreigner in his own country.