The Highwayman's Curse Read online

  “’Tis no secret around here. ’Tis our territory. Folks respect it. Others use other beaches, other caves.”

  “What about Douglas Murdoch and his men? Do they know of it?”

  “Aye. But our cave leads only to the passage beneath our farm. They would gain nothing from it. They wouldna tell the excisemen, for then our smuggling would end and they would lose their cut.”

  I was silent. For it came to me that Murdoch’s men could enter the cave at high tide, after they saw a cargo being left. They could have done so, and left the snake in the box, disappearing quickly without anyone knowing or seeing. I already knew that our men only fetched the goods from the cave when the tide had fallen a little – so that they could be sure that no one was in the cave. It had seemed a sensible precaution, since Tam would be at great risk otherwise.

  Now Calum was pointing to the right, at the other end of the small beach, by the cliff. At first I could not see what he indicated, only the shadows of crevices and protruding rocks. He kicked his pony and, as I trotted after him, I saw another cave, at the level of the ground. The sand was lower here, the lowest point of the beach, and rock pools sat, murky and still, seaweed swaying, sea anenomes pulsing. This cave would be quickly covered by a rising tide.

  As we approached the opening, Blackfoot jibbed at the bit, though the cave mouth was easily large enough for us to ride through. He tossed his head, dancing in fear, and tried to turn away. I urged him on. It was only a cave and he should trust me. But, try as I might, I could not settle him. I could have forced him to enter but I did not wish to.

  Calum’s pony was little keener and we both dismounted, fastening the reins to the saddles and letting the animals go free. They trotted a short distance away along the beach and then stood and watched us.

  The cave was small, perhaps ten paces to the back of it. Weeping water ran in rivulets down the jagged walls, collecting in pools on the sand. Lichen and seaweed lay in splashes on the rocks and the whole place was cold and miserable, sunless. I shivered.

  Calum was walking towards the back of the cave and I followed him. I saw the passageway before he pointed it out to me. A black hole in the back of the cave, as tall as I and only a little broader.

  “Does it lead anywhere?” I asked, thinking that he must have a reason for showing me this cave.

  “Ye remember when we leapt o’er the hole in the tunnel floor?”

  And then I realized. “At high tide, the waves come through here and push their way to that place?”

  He nodded. “The tide rushes through this cave – there’s nowhere else for the water to go so it’s forced through this tunnel. Even afore high tide, the water fills the tunnel. Ye wouldna wish to be caught in this place wi’ the tide rushing in.”

  Indeed I would not. I had seen the force of the waves, the fierce fountains of water spouting up the passageway.

  But my eye had been caught by something else. Quite close by the entrance to the tunnel, set into the stone, was a huge iron ring.

  I suppose it was for mooring a boat. Man-made, it looked out of place here and I reached out to touch it. I caught Calum looking at me.

  “They would have tied ye to that, ye and Bess. And as the tide rose, ye would have drowned. And when the tide had fallen once again, they would have cut ye free and left ye to the fishes and crabs. And no one else would have known.”

  “I think you would not have minded much.”

  “I thought as they did. At first, I thought ye were Douglas Murdoch’s men. I thought ye had killed Old John and harmed wee Tam. I would have killed ye myself.”

  “And then what? Where would it end? Bloodshed never ends.”

  “I know not.” He looked troubled, confused. “I din-na think o’ such matters. And my grandfather and my father and my uncles, they decide what we should do.”

  “And you do everything they say?”

  “O’ course! How should I no’? I must obey my father.”

  “They are strong men, that’s true,” I said, carefully, thinking perhaps to goad him. But he said nothing. Perhaps he had no ambition in him, no frustration, no need to break away. “Do you not wish to have a different life, to leave your home and … do something different?”

  “And what’s wrong wi’ what we do?” he retorted, turning his face away, biting his lip. “Ye know nothing o’ it. ‘Tis the way we live, no better and no worse than yours.”

  I opened my mouth to speak, but I held my tongue. Besides, what did I care what Calum did, what choices he made? One thing I wished to know. Whether he would help Iona if he knew what I knew? If he knew that she was in love with a boy from a different church.

  Yet I could not take the risk of asking. Not directly.

  We turned and walked from the cave, towards the sea and the horses.

  “What think you of the curse?” I asked. “Old Maggie’s curse?” It was easier to talk while walking. We need not look at each other.

  “I fear for Iona,” Calum answered. “She shouldna know her future. ’Tis a heavy burden.”

  We mounted the horses, and kicked them towards the path once again. I did not look back at the sea – I did not like to think on its hungry power, its greed, its cold depths. Seeing that iron ring had made me think not only of what might have waited for us, but of what had been done to Old Maggie’s mother. And I preferred not to think of that.

  “So you believe she is cursed?”

  “Aye. Why else does everything bad befall the female line?”

  “Perchance she will break the curse. Or one day the curse will end.”

  “Aye, mebbe.” He had not seemed to think of that. Or, I think, to believe it.

  “And what of Old Maggie? Her hatred of the people who killed her mother is powerful. She curses them and all their descendants. But their descendants are not guilty.”

  Calum pulled his pony to a halt, roughly. We were some way up the path by now, the cliff dropping away steeply to our right. A stone, dislodged by the pony’s feet, rolled over the edge and I was aware of it tumbling, faster and faster to the beach below. A light rain had begun to fall, the wind scattering it to a fine sheeting spray across my face. Blackfoot’s mane was whipped sideways. His ears went back.

  Calum’s face was harsh. “D’ye know what they called those times? The Killing Times. Because they killed so many – men, women, children. For our faith, our true faith, our love o’ God. I hate them, their descendants too. They are o’ the same blood. Old Maggie is right. Though she seems mad, she is right about that. There is a truth in her, perhaps from God. A holy fool, I once heard my uncle Hamish call her. If one o’ their folk crossed my door, I would kill him. And there’s many o’ our people feel this too. ’Tis right.”

  I turned away. I could not meet the violence in his eyes. He was no different from the others. The madness of Old Maggie had seeped into him as well.

  What good would such hatred bring them?

  But worse, what protection would Iona find in her own family if they knew what she was doing? She had no one to protect her, other than me. Yet what good could I do? If Calum was the same as the older men, as steeped in hatred, then how would they ever change?

  I wished again that Bess would come away with me and we could leave these people to their warring. It was not for us to be part of it. And yet we were part of it now. I was tied to Bess. She seemed drawn to Old Maggie. And Iona had need of me.

  In truth, I was trapped.

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  We came back to the yard in silence, unsaddled quickly, rubbed our mounts dry, fed and watered them. But Calum spoke then, not looking at me. He hung the saddle up on its peg.

  “Is Bess…? Are ye…? Is she yours?” He flicked his hair back from his face.

  I looked at him, narrowing my eyes. “Bess is no one’s.”

  He turned to face me. “Ye know what I mean.” His cheeks had grown red. I knew not what to say, or think. Yes, I did indeed know what he meant. But how to answer?

&nbs
p; Bess was mine, but not in the way he meant. She was my friend, my companion, but there was nothing else. And yet, what did I now feel? Was there indeed nothing else? I cared for her more than for anyone. And no one alive cared for her as I did.

  If I had thought at all, I had hoped that we could carry on as before; that one day soon, Bess would tire of this place and we would move on together. But wed her! I could not imagine it. I could not imagine her wed at all. Not to me; not to anyone.

  Not to Calum. I could not imagine her staying here for ever, making her home with these people, bearing children, growing old in this place. Calum did not have her need for freedom. He believed too much what he was told. He was not suited to her. But I would not say so. He would find out for himself that Bess would not have him.

  “No, she is not mine.”

  And his smile cast a cloud over me that did not lift for the rest of that day. I watched him walk away with a spring in his step, whistling.

  As I went through the door to Old Maggie’s cottage, several faces looked up. Jeannie cast me a welcoming look and then turned back to her task of helping Bess take some sort of broth. Old Maggie stared at me with a gaze of utter emptiness. She sat knitting – her fingers flying as her needles clicked together. Iona leapt up from where she sat mending a garment, and went to pour something into a tankard. She passed it to me, her worried green eyes searching my face.

  I suppose she wished to know if her secret was still safe, if I was on her side. I smiled at her and her face softened as she held out the tankard.

  But it was Bess I wished to see. She looked exhausted, with dark shadows under her eyes. Her hair was tied back, strands plastered across her forehead with sweat. But she was sitting up and seemed not to be in pain. I went to her and took her hands. Cold they were, cold and dry and without strength. A fresh cloth bound her palm where I had cut it, and there was no sign of redness around the bandage.

  “I am glad to see you better.” I would have said more than that, but only without the others there. What I would have said, I do not know, but there was much to speak of, between the two of us.

  She nodded. “I was afraid. Very afraid. I have had nightmares before and none was as bad as this. All the while I was thinking I was in a dream but then the pains would come and I would know it was no dream.” Her face twisted suddenly and she stopped, breathing slowly, deeply. “I am sorry – the pain is nearly gone. You saved me, Will.” I turned away, wishing not to see her weak like this, the tears in her eyes.

  It brought to my mind how, when we first came here, she had seemed weighed down by a burden in her mind. But then she had regained her spirit – though I had to admit that it had seemed to be Old Maggie who had rekindled it. Now, it was dampened once more.

  A movement at my back made me turn round. Old Maggie was standing over me, looking down on Bess. She reached out her hand and touched Bess’s hair, stroking her forehead, muttering something that I could not decipher, if it meant anything at all. I liked not her closeness; there was a smell about her, sweet and yet unpleasant.

  But Bess seemed comforted. Suddenly Old Maggie spoke, clearly now. “God has watched o’er ye, lassie. Ye’re a guid lassie an’ God has cared for ye.” Bess closed her eyes, peacefully, seeming within moments to drift into a soft sleep. I turned away and looked to where Iona sat. Our eyes met, only briefly, but a world of thoughts crossed between us and we understood much of them.

  Outside, I stood at the entrance to the yard. Dusk was falling and in the open doorways of the dwellings moths flapped around the spilling light. The rain had stopped and there was now a smell of wet earth and air. Smoke poured from the chimneys. The dark figure of Mouldy wandered around the perimeter of the yard, a wooden club in his hand and the two dogs running here and there, sniffing. The horses harrumphed softly in their shelter and through the doorway I could see the gently swinging tails of the cows. From the chickens, in their hut closed firmly against night-time foxes, came silence.

  And now Iona was walking towards me, her shawl wrapped round her, her bare feet thrust into wooden clogs. It was cold and the recent shower had made the ground sodden and filthy.

  Her thick red hair tumbled around her face and shoulders and as she looked up at me I wondered at the danger she was in. It was not right that it should be so. What had she done wrong? She had been foolish, but she had done only what many had before her: loved the wrong person. The wars between religions were not of her making; nor did she care for them. It seemed to me that her one foolish love was worth more than a thousand hatreds.

  But if she had known what I knew, would she have been brave enough then? If she too had read the words upon that paper, the paper that I had so hurriedly burned, would she continue in her dangerous love?

  Yet, if I told her, might that not indeed help her? Might it not make her think again and choose life over death? Might it not make her give up her love?

  Or was there already no choice and was she marked by fate? Cursed, even, as Old Maggie claimed.

  But I decided that there was only one thing I could do. It was better to act, to try, than to stand silent and let a tragedy unfold.

  I would tell her what the words on the paper had said. Although it would frighten her, perhaps it might make her take greater care.

  As I opened my mouth to speak, that was indeed my intention. But it was not to be.

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  “I must speak with you,” I said, hurriedly now that I had made up my mind.

  “Shh!” she said, looking around. Mouldy was walking near us now. Beyond him in the sky two bats swooped fast, diving and swirling in the gathering dusk. He raised his hand in greeting. He thought, I suppose, that we had some assignation. I minded little what he thought. I wished only that he would pass by and I could speak with her.

  Soon he was too far away to hear what we might say and I opened my mouth to begin. But Iona spoke first. “I must tell you,” she said, her voice spring-tight with excitement. Her next words tumbled, unstoppable. “I plan to run away, wi’ Robert. ’Tis our only hope! I will tell him and I know he will come wi’ me. When ye find me gone, say nothing, I beg o’ ye. Never tell them that ye knew.”

  Out of my confusion came one clear thought: she was right. It was the only way. Yet what a terrifying way for her, to leave everything she knew, everything she had ever known.

  She would lose her family and all those who loved her. She would lose everything, for love. And she only thirteen years old. Could she give all that up? But I had done so. I had cut myself off from my family, perhaps for ever.

  I looked at her eyes. Like a fairy’s they were, and deep, full of life and hope. I saw her beauty then, as she sparkled at the thought of her future, the excitement of it.

  All I could do was take her by the hands. I know not whether anyone saw, and it would not have mattered if someone had. How small they were, the fingers so thin and yet warm. “I wish you good fortune,” I said quietly. “You are brave indeed.”

  Now I would not tell her about the words on that paper. There would be no gain in that, not for her and not for me. I would keep them to myself. And I would pray for her. I had prayed little in recent days – my childhood of Bible instruction, church on Sundays, religious lessons at school, my parents’ dutiful faith, all seemed far away now. But I hoped indeed that God would look kindly on her.

  She had great need of His protection. And of mine, if I could help her.

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  She did not leave that night. Nor the next. Nor even the next.

  During this time, our lives fell into some kind of pattern. The chores were hard and never-ending, simply to survive and put food on the table, to keep the buildings in repair, to fetch sufficient firewood, to find food for the animals. The winter fodder, stored from the previous year, was all but gone, and what there was had turned dank and dusty. New grass was only just beginning to appear. Sometimes a person would come to buy cheese, of which we had plenty – a hard cheese ma
tured over months from last summer’s milk. But we had no milk to spare now for passers-by, with the cow producing less each day, as its calf grew older and the maternal milk dried up.

  The sheep’s wool, which Old Maggie had spun, was sold or used for knitting stockings for the family. Or for darning patches. And with the weather warming now, Jeannie looked through the few clothes they had, deciding which must be mended, which washed, and which Calum, Iona and Tam had outgrown. The womenfolk were expert in unpicking garments and turning them into something else. Every moment of each day was occupied in the business of living.

  Sometimes men would come who were strangers to me, and a huddled meeting would take place with Jock and the others. I supposed that these conversations concerned their smuggling activities or the suchlike.

  I do know that money was paid to Douglas Murdoch from the last cargo – after much arguing between Thomas and Red. Thomas feared for Iona above all else and wished to pay, at least for now. But Red believed that paying money would not guarantee her safety – he was all for settling it once and for all, with weapons. Jock, clinging to his strength grimly, sided with Thomas, and while Jock was alive, I thought their view would hold sway. And yet, all of them were of a violent mind and would have killed Douglas Murdoch there and then if there had been an easy way. All believed God to be on their side in this, though it seemed to me that Red had less concern for that and more for his love of action.

  For the first day after my conversation on the beach with Calum, and into the next, nothing was heard from Douglas Murdoch. I began to think he was but a figment of imagination. I had never seen this man. Could he be as grim and cruel as they said? Perhaps everything was merely an empty threat. Perhaps, after all, Old John had been killed by reivers. We had no proof of anything more. We had not found the sheep near the tower where the Murdochs lived. None of their enclosures, with their hated stone walls, held our sheep, for Billy had looked. But the men said that meant nothing – that he would have sold them far away. And Tam could tell us nothing – he had not seen the men closely, and it had been dark. Besides, they could have paid gipsies to do their dirty work for them.