Chapter 2

Chapter II.

The officious but not quite stately wood panelling in the Sheriff’s office was familiar to Barclay, it was his own work. The sun had long gone down and the windows were now sheets of jet. He stood uneasily, thinking about the unworked timber in his shop, as he waited to be gestured to a seat. Henderson had already helped himself to one and was lighting his pipe. Neither men spoke, waiting for Sheriff Muir to finish assaying both Barclay’s and Henderson’s account which he had insisted on receiving in writing. Must be a quiet week for the lawyers, thought Barclay. Without looking up from the papers, the Sheriff commenced speaking.

“Mr Barclay. So … he just appeared in your doorway, hm?”

“Oh, ah, aye your honour.”

“And you struck him.”

“Aye your honour.”

“Because he approached you, holding what you percieved to be a blade.”

“Indeed.”

“Indeed.” He looked up at Barclay, his scintillating and accusing eyes set in a crumpled face like highly-polished buckles on a carelessly discarded satchel.

“Mr Barclay.”

“Aye, your honour.”

“Sit. You stand there like a brick wall in a shirt. I prefer the view of my door.”

Barclay sat as the Sheriff addressed Henderson.

“Ephraim, you’ve been in the wars, if the state of your waistcoat is anything to go by.”

“I should say so, Robert. The bloody great halfwit launched me with one hand. Jail him and leave him there!”

“Calm yourself. And might I remind you that within these walls my name is either ‘Sheriff Muir’ or ‘Your Honour’. Now, rest assured, everyone will get their just deserts, to coin a phrase. It seems to me we are dealing with a simpleton who has gone somewhat feral for want of a role model.”

Henderson snorted derisively.

Barclay coughed.

“Mr Barclay?”

“Aye, um, there is also the matter of his fit and the words he spoke during the episode.”

“Not really my area, is it? I suspect we need to employ either a clergyman or a surgeon for that. Exorcise him or trepan him. Possibly both. Either way it doesn’t affect his legal status.”

“And what is his legal status?” interjected Henderson.

Sheriff Muir leaned back in his seat and pointed those bright eyes to the ceiling. “He’s a vagrant, to be sure. He has no visible means of support. He is most likely your thief, although the evidence is circumstantial.”

“Circumstantial?” blustered Henderson.

“Aye, circumstantial, Ephraim. No-one has seen him steal, have they? He entered an open doorway into Mr Barclay’s workshop, no crime in that. He may or may not have threatened Mr Barclay, either way, when Barclay saw the knife he was entitled to defend himself. You, on the other hand, attacked him without provocation.”

“Without pr…”

“Mr Henderson, calm yourself, you’ve gone quite red. You’ll do yourself an injury, you know.”

“Oh, that reminds me, Mr Henderson,” interjected Barclay as he handed over the small blade. “Here is your fruit knife - the one you were mourning the loss of earlier.”

“Right. Well … thank you, Barclay.” Henderson avoided eye contact as he took the knife and awkwardly looked for somewhere to put it. He eventually laid it on the arm of his chair and puffed agitatedly at his pipe. Within a few puffs Henderson’s expression changed with a new realisation. “A-ha!”

“A-ha? What is on your mind now, Ephraim?” The Sheriff had been watching the merchant’s face, waiting for this dawning.

“Evidence!”

“Really?” asked the Sheriff, in mock incredulity.

Henderson grabbed the knife and shook it first at the Sheriff then Barclay then back at the Sheriff.

“That … that beast took my knife. Had it in his hand during the fight with Barclay. And you say ‘circumstantial’!”

Ephraim. Dear fellow. Of course, you are right. But a court case would prove costly and wasteful. If we have the culprit then we should see no more thievery. If we do not, it will most likely continue.

“Now, I propose that this … ‘Jordy’ … be taken in by someone charitable and with the means to socialise him and turn him to some use. His form seems, from what I saw of it when I passed the jail earlier, to be robust in the extreme. He would make a very serviceable labourer I think, a lifter and layer of great prowess, given the proper guidance.” This statement was delivered with a chromed glance shuttling between the tradesman and the merchant.

“Well, good luck with him, Barclay.” Henderson rose and made to leave. Barclay raised a finger and opened his mouth to speak but the Sheriff got there first.

“Mr Barclay surely cannot be expected to shoulder this Christian burden alone.” It was much more than a suggestion. “A good neighbour and pillar of the community would stand with him in this enterprise, would he not? Eye of a needle and all that. Eh, Ephraim?”

“This is going to prove expensive,” said Henderson.

“For a man of your ample means … a little.” Sheriff Muir afforded himself the tiniest of smirks at his friend’s discomfiture. Barclay, seeing this, felt a little relief but his over-riding thought was what on earth is my wife going to say?

Henderson was still facing the door and wanting desperately to leave. The sides of his wig dangled like the ears of a forlorn hound as he examined the floor round his feet and gently shook his head.

“I cannot pay him.” Henderson returned to his seat.

“Of course not. Not straight away. Firstly you are going to educate him and show him the ways of the civilised world. Don’t worry, I will assist in my way. Once we have a measure of his capabilities and faculties we can make a place for him in our community. Or perhaps he will make such progress that he is able to seek his own destiny.”

“Your honour,” interjected Barclay, “where will Jordy stay? My cottage is barely big enough for me and my family. And my workshop is only one room full of tools and materials.”

“And he is not setting foot in my house. He’d wreck the place. He'd make off with my silver!”

“Ephraim, he is not going to live in your house or Mr Barclay’s cottage. There are plenty of nooks and crannies at the castle that can be made comfortable and civilised for our new acquaintance. I suspect he has one already furnished to a degree if the inventory of missing items is anything to go by.”

“Very well, your honour,” yielded Henderson, “we will give ‘Jordy’ the benefit of our Christian charity and do as you suggest. But I put this to you. Itinerants and vagrants pass through here quite often. The ships bring all manner of weird characters and we shun them and they move on. Why are we doing this, other than for the good of our immortal souls?”

“Firstly, because he is one of us, Ephraim. He is from here and, up to now, he has not had the benefit of being part of our community. Secondly, he is a MacSuail. Potentially, he has noble blood and I’m sure you have no wish to see his line descend any further into penury and ignorance. ”

Jordy sat on the straw-filled sack in the corner of the cell he’d been asked to go into by Barclay. He liked Barclay, despite the bang on the head. As well as the ham, Barclay had given him bread and cheese to eat in the cell while he waited for him and the others to return.

Sheriff Muir appeared through the bars of the cell door, holding something in his left hand, covered by a cloth. Jordy stood up and backed away to the far corner of the cell.

“Don’t panic, my boy. We’re friends, you and I. Or, at least, I hope we will be.”

“Eh?”

“May I come in?” Muir pushed the unlocked door and entered the cell. Jordy dropped his eyes to the floor in trepidation. “My name is Sheriff Muir. Mr Barclay and Mr Henderson have told me all about their adventures with you today.”

“I never…”

“Oh, don’t look so worried. Everything’s fine,” cooed Muir, waving his free hand emolliently. “You are not a prisoner here, you are my guest. At least for tonight. I hear you have an impressive appetite. Would you like a small bite to eat?” Muir lifted the cloth to reveal a plate on which was a large slice of meat pie.

“Eh … aye.”

Muir offered the plate and Jordy swiftly grabbed it and started to devour the treat, fearing it would be taken off him again.

“I’d like to talk to you, Jordy…”

Maggie Barclay sat by the remains of the fire in her small cottage, watching the dying embers turn from glowing red to grey and white. She knew Iain was working late tonight, but surely not this late, she thought. The distant harbour clock chimed eleven o’clock. She heard footsteps. She knew those footsteps well. They were Iain’s and she could almost tell his mood from them. They sounded … slow, heavy, almost apologetic. The expression on his face as he came in backed this up.

Barclay approached his wife, stroked her braided light brown hair, kissed her head and slumped in the chair opposite her.

“You look like you could use a cup of tea,” said Maggie Barclay.

“Use one? I could murder one.” Barclay rubbed his face.

“Here you go.” Maggie passed a cup to her husband and poured the tea. “Rough day? Another run-in with Henderson?”

“Not exactly. I’ve been at the offices of the Sheriff. I caught the mystery thief.”

“Oh, but that’s excellent news! Well done,” she beamed. “So why is this a bad thing?”

“The thief is a man called Jordy.” Barclay stared into his tea, exhausted. “Turns out he’s probably one of the MacSuails and he’s been living in and around the castle all his life and no-one in the village knew a thing about it. He seems to be, in the words of Sheriff Muir, ‘a simpleton who has gone feral and needs a role model.’ Muir wants me and Henderson to take him on. Educate him and make him, well, employable, I suppose.”

“Well, that is the Christian thing to do … he’s not staying here, is he?” she said, suddenly straightening up in her seat.

“No, love, no, that’s all taken care of. He’s staying where he is, we’ll just make sure his surroundings are a bit more civilised.”

“So what’s Mr Henderson’s role in this? And how are you supposed to get any work done, running around after an idiot?”

“I’ll find out tomorrow. It’s clear Henderson wants little to do with this and I don’t know if Sheriff Muir will involve himself anymore. Although … there’s something else.” Barclay’s brows knitted and furrowed as he spoke. Maggie leaned forward.

“What is it, love?”

“After our wee altercation and Henderson had put his tuppence-worth in, Jordy collapsed and had a fit. He spoke some strange words. They made no sense. I jotted them down, here.” He handed his wife a scrap of paper with his own messy handwriting on it.

 “This is jibberish. I can’t see any meaning in it.” Maggie read the words swiftly and handed the scrap back to her husband.

“Well, that’s partly the point. He doesn’t speak like this normally, there’s a good deal more to Jordy than I first thought. I suspect Sheriff Muir thinks so too, but he didn’t let on directly, he only gave very solid, respectable reasons why we should help the poor wretch. The other thing is this last phrase, the rising sun will die in the west.”

“Well, the sun sets in the west, so I suppose it makes sense.”

“No, it’s not that. The job I’m doing at the moment. It’s fittings for a vessel coming from Amsterdam. It’s called the Rising Sun.”

“Iain Barclay,” said Maggie as she leaned across. She took her husband’s hand and looked deep into his eyes and through a teasing smile said, “have you been breathing varnish fumes? Look, you’ve had a long, long day. Come to bed, get a good night’s sleep and we’ll take a look at this ‘Jordy’ of yours in the morning.”

Ephraim Henderson paced his dining room, swirling the claret in his goblet. The candle-light and fire in the large, ornate hearth created flitting, dancing shadows which only made his mood more uneasy and suspicious.

Why is Muir doing this to me, he thought. I don’t buy all that ‘Christian’ talk for one second. I know my old friend, he’s up to something. He’s a fly bugger - it’s one of the reasons I like him.

He tried to recall the words spoken during the idiot’s fit. Something about a horse. With horns? A red lion. A grinning fish. Flies and morass.

It was no use. I need to speak to Barclay. First thing tomorrow.

Preface and Chapter 1

Preface

“Part of the Hill[s] are covered with Woods and itt is well watered with small Rivalets; there I met with greatest Quantity of Fish I ever see. . . . Here may Black Cattle, Sheep and Goats be Easely Breed, and itt is a good place for a Look Out or to Sett Wounded or Sick Men on Shore, In order for their Recovery.”

From the account of Lionel Wafer, ship’s surgeon and buccaneer, of the lands of the Isthmus of Darién, c. 1695.

Chapter I.

“I’ll kill ye, I swear to God!” yelled Ephraim Henderson as he charged up from the fruit cellar.

         He  stood panting at the top of the stairs, straightened his waistcoat and surveyed the courtyard of Newark Castle through the September drizzle. Someone was stealing his stock and he thought he knew whom.

         “Iain Barclay, where are you?” Henderson inquired, failing to completely recover his composure. “Put down your hammer and nails and the raspberries and onions you stole and show yersel’!

         A stocky man in an apron flecked with curls of planed wood emerged from the doorway of his workshop.

         “No’ this again Mr Henderson.” Barclay dropped his hands loosely to his sides. “I swear on my wife and weans I’ve been nowhere near your stock. Besides, I couldn’t steal it even if I wanted to; you’ve bricked up the passage between the cellar and my workshop, remember?”

         Henderson could feel his face flushing. He stared at the silver buckles on his shoes while he waited for his normal, paler colour to return. Barclay was right, but who else could it be? Ever since he had moved down from the city of Glasgow and taken up occupation of part of the castle for storage of his stock, things had been going missing. Sometimes fruit or vegetables, sometimes other things like quills, ink, a knife or a length of rope.

         It was easy for Henderson to blame his castle neighbour. Barclay was a carpenter; a tradesman, and therefore to be looked down upon by Port Glasgow and Kilmacolm’s principal (or rather, only) wholesale merchant of fruit and vegetables. He disliked Barclay’s tone but the man had a reputation for honesty, a rare trait among the trades. Furthermore, it had been he who had first warned him about the mysterious pilfering that had recently plagued the castle's tenants. Henderson took a breath and leaned against the trestle by the cellar door.

         “Alright Iain, I grant that there would appear to be a third party making our lives difficult, as if things weren’t difficult enough with the poor harvest,” stating the obvious and stopping short of an apology; none of which was lost on Iain Barclay.

         “Do you really think so, Mr Henderson?” Barclay asked, with an exaggerated inflection.

“Aye, Iain, I do. And I’m most vexed that I need to purchase another knife. My old one was a beaut.”

Two eyes and one ear took in this exchange from behind the doocot. The eyes and ear belonged to something. A person, a ghost; it barely knew. It knew words though and could understand almost everything the two men were saying. It knew that it had once been called a name. The name sounded like Jordy. Jordy smiled.

         Knife. The word appeared and disappeared in Jordy’s mind like a spark struck from flint. He could feel the wooden handle of the fruit knife as he held it in his grimy right hand.

         “Ah-ah,” he said, “Bad, last time, remember?”

         Jordy remembered. He ran the three fingers of his left hand along the flat side of the blade.

         Jordy could feel hunger. His belly gurgled. After surviving for weeks on raspberries, blaeberries, onions and cabbage he craved a more substantial meal.

         Iain Barclay sat by the small hearth in his workshop. The harbour clock chimed six o’clock. The heat from the fire was pleasant, as was the evening meal of ham, bread, cheese and a small bottle of porter, which his wife had packed for him. Barclay looked up and out of the doorway; the clouds had cleared a little but the sun was already low in the western sky. He would normally be home by now but he had a deadline to meet for a shipping firm on the far shore of the River Clyde at Dumbarton. A squadron of ships was assembling for the second phase of the Darién venture and Barclay had been lucky enough to secure some work. Like most Scots, he had invested some of his savings in the scheme and hoped he’d see a return. In the meantime, ends had to be met and this additional work was a blessing.

         The doorway darkened. Barclay saw the black outline of a man but far larger than any man he knew, looming larger as it made toward him then hesitated. The right arm of the dark visitor raised and Barclay could see a short blade. Iain jumped from his stool rapidly, sending it tumbling back, and grabbed a broad mallet.

         “Thief! You’ve got a brass neck coming back here. Put that knife down or you’ll have a broken neck, too!”

         The knife-wielding stranger started forward, babbling. The carpenter yelled “Get aff me!” and struck out at the stranger as he side-stepped the advance. The mallet caught the back of the man’s head and sent him to the ground, arms and legs splayed, and the small knife skittering under a bench. He rolled onto his back and put his hands in front of him in submission. Looking around him nowhere in particular, disoriented by the blow to his head, he mumbled,

         “Pease missur. Nay mer. Ahmuh good boay.”

         Barclay drew back. He could now see, in the light from the doorway, the pathetic state of the visitor; filthy and ragged but muscular and well-fed. Barclay estimated the man’s age to be early thirties, although possibly younger, judging by the damage he had suffered.

         “You do a lot of theft and blade brandishing for a ‘good boy’.” said Barclay. “I take it you’re the tar-finger who’s been plaguing me and my neighbour, Mr Henderson. Now, stay just where you are and explain yourself.”

         “Ah didnae know ye wur here, honest! I smellt meat. Jist wanted a wee bit. Wisnae gonnae tak aw ae it. Honest!” said the stranger on the floor, less dazed but now starting to cry.

         “Och, enough. I should have you before the Sheriff right now and no amount of bubbling’s going to change that.” said Barclay

         The stranger composed himself, sniffed, smeared his grimy nose on his forearm, looked up at Barclay and said, “Wissa shurruff?”

         Barclay dropped his arms to his side and threw his eyes skyward. Is this poor wretch an idiot? he thought. He should be under the care of his family or the Church or a charitable person.

         “Sit there.” Barclay motioned to the stool. The stranger complied. Barclay gestured to the small table by the fire: “There’s the meat you were after. Eat.”

         Again, the stranger obeyed with great enthusiasm.

         “I thought you said you didn’t want all of it,” said Barclay, as Jordy consumed the lump of meat. “What’s your name?” he asked, retrieving the fruit knife from the floor.

         “Vorvay,” said the stranger through an overflowing mouthful of part-chewed ham.

         “Whit?” Barclay narrowed his eyes at the disgusting sight.

         The stranger swallowed the gifted meal and announced, “Jordy. That’s whit ma mammy cried me when I done somethin’ right. Alexander George MacSuail when I was bein’ a wee shite.”

         “I see.” Barclay wondered what he was getting into and whether this Jordy fellow was as mentally impaired as he first seemed. “Well, ‘Alexander George MacSuail’ you have caused a more than reasonable aggregate of trouble in these parts lately. You care to tell me what you’re doing here and why you’ve been stealing from me and Mr Henderson? Where are you from?”

         “Here,” replied Jordy.

         “What do you mean, ‘here’? The Port? Greenock? Kilmacolm?”

         “Naw, here,” Jordy gestured all around him.

         “The castle? But no-one’s lived here for about thirty y…” Barclay stopped and looked at the floor as a new sensibility of his guest began to dawn. “Are you one of the MacSuails who used to own this place when it was a great house?”

         Jordy looked blankly at Barclay. “It was just me and my mammy. She died. I didnae like the folk that came for me,” explained Jordy, now staring intently into the flames in the hearth.

         Barclay took in the pathetic figure and felt some pity for his ordeal. “I think we need to…” as Barclay spoke he was interrupted by a voice behind him.

         “Barclay, I’ve asked … what the devil? Is this him? Well done, man! Although it looks like there’s been quite a struggle in here,” said Henderson.

         “You!” he snarled, addressing Jordy, “I ought to whip you myself! Ugly, stinking brute! Here, have a taste of my rage!” exclaimed Henderson becoming red in the face. He looked round, finding a length of wood, and raised it to strike Jordy who was now getting to his feet. Seeing Jordy at his full and substantial height and breadth, Henderson stepped back then recovered his bravado and struck at the larger man. The blow came down. Jordy raised his left arm to fend it and the wood snapped and splintered.

         “Bad man!” howled Jordy with pain. He cradled his arm for a moment before he reached with his right, grabbed Henderson by the shirt and propelled him through the door.

         “That’s enough!” shouted Barclay, “Sit down!”

         “Bad man . . .” Jordy said. But, he obeyed and watched Barclay run outside to revive Henderson.

         “Mr Henderson, are you alright?” asked Barclay.

         Henderson groaned and looked up. “That thing is a menace. We’re going to the Sheriff. I want it locked up!”

         “Aye, you’re probably right but I think he’s harmless, really. And, to be fair, you attacked him.”

         “Are you suggesting he should press charges against me? I’ve never been so…” spluttered Henderson, looking around as if to find some meaning to the occurrences of the last few instants.

         “No, Mr Henderson, of course not.” said Barclay, attempting to calm his red-faced neighbour. “I just think this poor creature is more to be pitied than vilified.”

         “Vilified is it, now? You have ideas above your station.” said Henderson shaking his head. “You’re a stout fellow but you must learn your place,” he went on as he took Barclay’s arm and they both headed back into the doorway of the workshop. “I appreciate your charitable instincts but…” at that moment he was interrupted by Jordy collapsing to the floor, moaning loudly. They found him lying on his side, squirming and babbling.

         Having eased Henderson onto a seat, Barclay looked to Jordy. “It seems to be some sort of fit. He’s sweating but ice-cold, his jaw’s clamped shut – I pray he isn’t choking on his tongue!”

         Jordy’s body became rigid and his eyes snapped open, staring, wide and wild like a panicking animal. “Death for the horned horse and the saltire!” he rasped in a new voice, growing louder. “The red lion with claws bared is perishing. So too the brave adventurer and the grey fish that grins! Your hubris blinds you. Flies and morass are taking you. The dragon-slayer and the orange king are your betrayers. Make not a grave of your efforts! The rising sun will die in the west!”

         With this last sentence screamed as if to be heard over a storm at sea, Jordy collapsed senseless into Barclay’s arms.