The Posy Ring

Mateo looked at Francisco. “I have the letter safe and sound.” “You don’t think he has betrayed us, do you?” “No.” But Mateo spoke with a confidence he did not quite feel. “No, I think he’s a good man. Although whether his letter will make any difference, I can’t say. He spoke nothing but the truth. We have no resources except our own wits. We must trust to luck, and hope that his prayers are answered.”

Some little while later, that is precisely what they were doing: trusting to luck and the prayers of an Irish priest. Their unexpected arrival had been noted and almost immediately, a party of burly islandmen, bristling with weapons, came hurrying down to the shore to greet them.

They were wrapped in woollen plaids, their dun and grey blending with the landscape. Mcallister had given him the right word for the garment that seemed to serve as a cloak, body covering and blanket all in one. For a brief moment, Mateo thought that they were about to be slain, as their companions had been slain on sight, in the west of Ireland.

Humiliating

He saw Francisco’s face grow even paler if that were possible and found himself reaching for his dagger. But the men only surrounded them and by brusque gestures and a bit of jostling, encouraged them to walk towards the house. The Spaniards were in no position to object. The men were not gentle and their speed was too much for the ailing younger lad, who stumbled and fell. One of the men picked him up by the scruff of the neck.

“We’ll hae tae oxter him!” he said, cryptically, and when Mateo only spread his hands and shrugged, he summoned the assistance of a colleague and, with hands under his elbows, more or less carried him, his feet dragging along the ground. It was humiliating, thought Mateo, but there was no other way his cousin could have finished the journey and he was too weak to help.

The contrast between the chilly exterior of the house and the extreme warmth of the interior was marked. A blast of welcome heat came from an enormous fire of peat and spitting, blue-flamed driftwood at one end of a great hall. There were cooking pots and from one of them a savoury smell filtered into the room. The fireplace housed various cooking implements, including a flat black pan, from which an elderly woman was carefully removing cakes with a wooden paddle. The scent of toasted oatmeal was added to whatever was emanating from the pot. In an instant, the sickness evaporated and Mateo realised that he was ravenously hungry.

The sudden access of heat made their heads spin, and Francisco clutched at his arm to steady himself. A tall man with long red hair, shot through with grey, rose to his feet from a heavily carved chair beside the fire and stared at them with mingled hostility and curiosity. He was dressed in a short saffron-dyed linen shirt (why are they so fond of this colour? Mateo thought) with a jacket over it, woollen trews and hose.

Mirthless grin

“Well, well, well. This is a rare occurrence on Eilean Garbh,” he said in Scots, with a peculiarly mirthless grin, like an animal showing its teeth in threat. “What brings two such ragged strangers, interlowpers, unbidden and uninvited to my island?”

Noting the stress on the word “my”, Mateo managed to summon a bow and brought Francisco with him, only because he was holding him so close. It struck him that he didn’t know the customs of this country at all. Any gesture they made might be open to misinterpretation.

“Sir, I’m happy to meet you. Am I right in thinking that you are Ruaridh Mcneill, Chief of Garbh?”

“You have the advantage of me. You know my name. I don’t ken yours.”

“We’re cousins: Mateo and Francisco de Tegueste of the town of San Cristobal de la Laguna, on the island of Tenerife.” “Which is?”

“Far south of here. A great distance. Some call them the Fortunate Isles.”

“Do they indeed? They don’t seem to have been very fortunate for you, lad.”

“The sun shines there all year round. There are flowers and many fruits.” He stopped. “But you’re right. We should not have left. We had a long voyage and many adventures along the way.”

“I imagine so. A long voyage and a very foolish misadventure, from what I hear. And what brings you to my island?” His lips twisted what brings

The letter

in a grimace. you here.”

More on Monday.

“But

I ken fine

“Sir, we have a letter. May I?” He gestured to the breast of his jerkin, afraid that the man would think he had a weapon concealed there. Which he did. But he would rather not think of using it.

“A letter?” Mcneill held out a big, gnarled hand, impatiently. “Let me see.”

Mateo handed the precious missive over. “There was a priest. Father Brendan. He helped us. Found us passage to your island with a man called Mcallister.”

“Alistair? Aye. I saw his galley. He deposited you upon my shore and hightailed it out of here as fast as his oarsmen could carry him. I ken Alistair Mcallister well enough. He wouldn’t do you a bad turn, although I’d wager he charged you dear for whatever favour he was persuaded to do for you.”

“We paid him the whole of what we still had in our possession, sir. But we were desperate. And it means we must throw ourselves on your mercy.”

Mcneill took the letter, broke the seal, unfolded it and gazed at it in silence for a moment or two. Then he raised his voice.

“Lilias!” he shouted. “Where are you, lass? I need you.”

He turned his attention back to the pair, and quite suddenly pulled an oak bench across from its place beside the fire. The bench was heavy, but he shifted it as easily as if it had been made of straw.

“Here,” he said. “Your friend seems on the point of fainting clean away like a lassie. Sit yourself down lad.”

Mateo deposited Francisco on the bench and pushed his head forward. His cousin sank forward, his head on his knees. “Thank you, sir. I’m afraid he’s at the very end of his strength. And we’ve eaten very little for weeks. Months even.”

“That we may be able to remedy. But don’t thank me just yet, son. I haven’t made up my mind what to do with you.”

The men surrounded them and by brusque gestures and a bit of jostling, encouraged them to walk towards the house

The Posy Ring, first in the series The Annals of Flowerfield, is written by Catherine Czerkawska and published by Saraband. It is priced at £8.99.