Summer of Love (34 page)

    
Andrew wanted to protest, but the magistrate raised his voice. "Mr.
Campbell, I will order to have the horse in question sequestered until the
stable master of Sir Hugh has had the opportunity to verify whether it
belongs to his lordship. In the meantime, you will remain in custody.
Constable, convey the prisoner to the tolbooth to have him locked up
securely!"

    
"But your Honor, I am innocent. I did not steal that horse."

    
The magistrate rose, ignoring his plea, and slowly retreated from the
room by the same door he had entered. The clerk closed the book in
which he had been writing during the interrogation, collected the other
one from the magistrate’s desk, and followed him from the room.
Andrew remained standing in front of the desk, dumbfounded at the turn
of events. Everything seemed to be stacked against him. At every step,
the interrogation had dragged him deeper into trouble. And the provost
clearly didn’t believe him. In fact, Andrew had the distinct impression
that the man had made up his mind about his guilt the moment he had
heard the name Campbell. What irony to be accused of belonging to the
notorious MacGregors of Balquhidder, when he and Helen had just been
running away from their cousins! The constable’s hand on his arm and
firm order to follow him pressed home the precariousness of his
situation.

14

Helen watched Andrew leave the entrance hall with the constable. Every
cell in her body cried out to rush after him. With difficulties she
restrained herself and went slowly outside to see him disappear where
High Street turned slightly to the right. She was alone! Knew nobody in
this town. What was she going to do now? Rising panic gripped her.
What if they throw Andrew in jail? What if her father tracks her down
while he’s kept there? What if he never comes out again? Don’t they
hang horse thieves? It took all her willpower not to run after him.
Dismayed she looked at the bouquet of white flowers in her left hand and
tears blurred her vision. Then she heard again his voice: "Helen,
remember, you’re a MacGregor!" She took a deep breath. Her man had
reminded her of the pride of her clan! She must not panic now. She owed
it to him. Resolutely, she pushed her chin forward and reentered the inn.

    
She was hardly through the door, when the innkeeper rushed to her and
exclaimed: "My dear lady, your continued presence will harm the
reputation of this God-fearing establishment. You must leave right
away."

    
Helen’s first reaction was to tell him in no uncertain terms that she
wasn’t going to do anything of the sort, that her husband would be
cleared promptly of any wrongdoing. But she also instantly realized that
in all likelihood the horse had been stolen by the MacGregors of
Balquhidder, and therefore Andrew would be kept in jail as the prime
suspect, unless he could prove his innocence. And her cousins would
deny selling it to him. The curse of the MacGregors catching up with her!

    
Her thoughts turned to what she must do now. Wouldn’t it be better to
find a less conspicuous inn where she could more easily hide with the
horses? The innkeeper would have to attest that he ordered her to leave.
And, without the evidence, wouldn’t they have to let Andrew go, and
then they could flee? Maybe she should even try to get rid of the stallion.
If she could replace it with another black horse, Andrew would be in the
clear. Scheming like this, she changed her mind and meekly acquiesced
to the innkeeper’s demand, asking him how much they owed and settling
the account.

    
Less than half an hour later she rode the brown mare out of the inn’s
yard, the black stallion in tow. At first she was at a loss of where to go.
Almost without thinking she guided the horse down High Street where
Andrew had gone with the constable. But soon her scheming resumed.
She must find a place, somewhere out of the way.

    
A quarter mile down the road, she entered Bun’s Wynd. What if
Andrew isn’t imprisoned and comes back and she’s gone? How were
they going to find each other again? On impulse, she turned around,
retracing her steps. Maybe she should secretly watch the inn until
evening. But where could she leave the horses? Then she remembered
passing a cobbler at the beginning of Bun’s Wynd. She could ask him to
repair the mare’s saddle while she waited. Then it wouldn’t be suspicious
if she stuck around. In the meantime she could keep an eye on the inn.
Suddenly, she was glad of Andrew’s foresight to give her most of his
cash. It made things easier not to also have to worry about money.

    
She begged, and the cobbler relented, promising to have the saddle
fixed by six o’clock. He agreed to keep both horses in his backyard,
while she went shopping down High Street.

    
Wrapping herself in Andrew’s riding coat, with a big kerchief hiding
her hair and much of her face, she walked up and down High Street,
keeping an eye on the inn. Time seemed to crawl. Occasionally, a bout
of panic threatened to take hold of her again, but she fought it bravely.
From the little bit she had seen of the city earlier that day, she recalled
boats plying up and down the River Clyde to the south of Saltmarket
Street. So somewhere there must be a river port with inns for sailors
where she could hide if Andrew didn’t return by six o’clock.

    
The bell of the nearby church steeple struck five times. She had just
started going up High Street again, when she briefly looked over her
shoulder and saw the constable, accompanied by two other policemen
briskly march up the street. Sudden fright almost paralyzed her, but she
tried to reassure herself that he would hardly recognize her. She ducked
into a narrow alley between two houses, waited for them to pass, and
then followed at a distance.

    
The constable entered the inn and came out again after a few minutes,
the innkeeper closely behind him. The latter pointed down High Street.
For an instant, Helen feared that he was pointing her out to the constable.
The two talked for a short while, upon which the constable saluted stiffly
and left hurriedly. They had come to fetch the stallion. So Andrew had
been locked up in the tolbooth, was her devastating conclusion. Although
she had expected this, now that it was a certainty, she felt suddenly weak
and weepy. They will now also be on the lookout for her and the horse.
With that her resolve hardened again.

    
She quickly returned to the cobbler, whose apprentice was just
saddling the mare. After thanking and paying him, she skirted the city’s
periphery by various detours until she got to the Clyde. About a quarter
mile upriver she saw a number of small vessels berthed along the river
and a row of large, stark, and almost windowless buildings about fifty to
a hundred feet back from the water. These must be warehouses. So this
was the port.

    
Near the primitive wharf, she asked a little boy where she could find
an inn and accepted his offer to guide her. Pointing to a two-storey
building behind the warehouses, the boy said: "Lady, that’s her down
there."

    
The White Heron might once have lived up to its name. Now its
outside walls were blackened from coal smoke, the name on its shield
hardly legible. But what raised her apprehension even more was the
crowd of men loitering in front of the inn, a few in sailors’ uniforms,
others in soiled, shabby workmen’s clothing, some with rips or holes at
the elbows and knees. Periodically one or several entered the inn or came
out swaggering, not too steady on their feet. Whenever the door opened,
loud singing and bawling poured into the street.

    
"Boy, is there no back entrance?"

    
"Yes, lady, you have to go around these houses there." The boy
pointed to an alley a few feet back.

    
"Can you guide me? I’ll give you a penny."

    
"Sure, lady," he said with a broad grin.

    
He led her through a close, no more than six feet wide, between two
adjoining rows of tenement houses perpendicular to the street, so typical
of Glasgow’s compact building layout. The stink from the garbage and
human excrement was overwhelming. Helen had second thoughts. She
would have liked to turn around, except that the alley was too narrow for
that. She had no choice but to follow the boy. At its end they came to an
open space. The boy ran to a wooden gate, opened it, and shouted:
"Lady, come in quick!"

    
Helen rode her mare into a small, neat courtyard, enclosed by a high
wooden fence. Along its northern wall was a carefully tended flower bed,
full of yellows, pinks, and blues, bathed in the last rays of the sun. The
contrast with the dreary alley was so stark that Helen’s mouth remained
wide open—it was like a little corner of paradise in a mud of hell.

    
"Lady, will you give me my penny now?"

    
Dismounting, Helen couldn’t help laughing. She got several coins
from her skirt pocket and gave the boy two pennies. He bowed deeply
and exclaimed: "Thank you, lady, if you ever need help, just ask for
Owen, and I’ll be at your service."

    
She smiled and answered: "I will."

    
The boy skipped playfully through the gate and closed it from outside.
Enchanted, Helen went over to the flowers, kneeling down beside a small
rose bush that was covered with dainty, pink blooms. She smelled their
delicate aroma.

    
"They smell nice, don’t they? … What can I do for you, lass?"

    
Startled, Helen turned at the sound of a deep woman’s voice.

The speaker, a plump woman in her late forties or early fifties, stood in
the doorway of what must be the kitchen, her hands on her broad hips,
beaming at her.

    
"Yes, madam. I need lodging." The woman’s booming laughter
drowned out her last words.

    
"Madam, ha ha. Just call me Rose; that’s what they call me here on
account of my flowers. So you need a room to stay… um, but pardon me
asking, but why here of all places. This is a sailors’ place. No self-respecting lady’d ever set foot within half a mile unless she’s trying to
make some easy money … or running away from the law. Which is it,
lass?"

    
Helen couldn’t help taking an instant liking to this boisterous woman
with the laughing, kind eyes, and a soft heart for flowers. The open
directness of her question deserved a straight answer. "Yes, Rose. It’s the
latter."

    
"What kind of trouble, lass?"

    
Helen explained what happened.

    
"You’re safe here. We can easily hide that beautiful horse of yours.
Your trouble is to keep the sailors away from your bed. They’re a wild
bunch and think a young thing like you only ventures into these parts for
one thing."

    
Helen felt her cheeks getting hot.

    
"So, don’t you show your pretty face in the tavern. You eat with me in
the kitchen. In fact, there’s a spare room next to mine. You sleep there."

    
"Oh, Rose, I thank you. I must admit, when I saw the crowd in front
of the inn, I got scared and wanted to turn."

    
"How did you find the back entrance? … Ah, it must have been Owen.
He’s a good lad, that one. Too bad he has to grow up in this hell hole,"
she muttered, more to herself than to Helen.

    
She showed Helen to a room and quickly excused herself that she had
to look after her regular patrons. The room was tiny. Helen opened its
small window that looked directly onto the flower bed. Then she went
outside again to look after the horses. She reminded herself to ask Rose
for hay and oats. For a while, she lingered around the flowers, touching
one, smelling another, delighted by this unexpected treasure. And then
it hit her again. Andrew was in jail. On her wedding day. It was as if
somebody didn’t want their marriage to become reality. She stared at the
flowers. Suddenly they had lost their charm.

    
Later on, sitting at the window, she felt the need to think of what to
she should do. Making plans would calm her anxiety, would give her a
sense of purpose, a feeling of gaining control over her life. Andrew had
instructed her to get a solicitor tomorrow if he didn’t return. But
tomorrow was Sunday, and she doubted that he would be released then.
Didn’t it need the signature of a magistrate to free him, and they would
observe the Sabbath even more religiously to set a God-fearing example
for lesser people? Nor would the offices of Jarvis and Sons reopen until
Monday. So that had to wait. In the meantime she might as well
reconnoiter the city, find out where the offices of that firm and the
tolbooth were.