The Highwayman's Curse Page 15

  Yes, their anger at Old John’s murder did not subside, but they simply stored it as one more reason to hate Douglas Murdoch.

  There was no talk of running another cargo during this time and of that I was glad. It would be some weeks before Tam could use his arm well enough to return to his duty in the tunnel, and I did not like to think of Bess facing that danger again.

  There was little time to talk alone with her. Calum was at her side more than I would have wished. Once I found him showing her how to cut willow for making baskets. And once I saw him sitting close to her outside, as they rested from some chore or other, and found he was teaching her to imitate the sound of a curlew. Her face was alight with laughter at this, as she cupped her hands round her mouth and tried to make the watery sound.

  But I kept a pretence that I did not mind. How much did I mind? I know not. If she and I could have ridden out together, with no one else, I believe I could have made her think once more of our life of freedom on the roads and to wish for that again; perhaps I could have persuaded her to leave with me. But there was no chance and I must wait. Besides, I felt a strong duty to protect Iona. Until I knew she was far away and safe, I must stay here.

  Jock spent much of one day lying on his bed, sleeping for the most part. When I heard him speak, his words seemed slurred. Many times, I saw Thomas or Red look to him, and I know not what went through their minds. No one spoke of it, or of what might be wrong with him. Once Jeannie came back with physic – from some kind of apothecary, I suppose – but no doctor came. On the next day, he seemed to improve, and wandered slowly around the yard, looking into the distance, seeming troubled.

  Bess, on the other hand, had recovered quickly, cared for by Jeannie, and by Iona, who did all that she was told, silently, but without her usual unwilling expression. And Tam helped, too, wielding an axe with surprising strength, chopping wood into tiny pieces and stacking them neatly by our fire. He seemed to need only one arm and to have forgotten the other one still strapped to his body. He could move the fingers of it quite well now, but any pressure or use gave him great pain. It would heal in time, I told him. He smiled at me, like a trusting dog.

  Old Maggie could often be found near Bess, sometimes taking her hand in her own shrivelled one, and nodding vaguely. I wished she would leave her alone, but Bess seemed not to mind at all.

  Mad Jamie came several times to our farm, sometimes on foot, once on a small, scruffy pony. He was welcomed and given a drink or something to eat, but always he seemed uneasy, frightened, like some small animal that can never trust its own safety. Iona was always kind to him and sometimes I saw her lead him by the hand like a child. Once I saw her give him some freshly baked oat biscuits, wrapped in leaves. He slipped them into his pocket.

  Old John was buried on the third day after Bess’s injury, a Saturday. I do not know where his body had been resting since it had been removed on Hamish’s cart, but everyone set off that grey morning, with a thin slicing April rain behind us. Jeannie, Iona, Old Maggie and Tam sat on the cart, huddled under an oiled cloth, the others following on ponies. Bess and I brought up the rear on our horses.

  It was a grim and saddening scene and I will not dwell on it. Bess and I watched from a distance, a little below the hilltop churchyard. Their stooped figures, huddled stiffly together, and yet not quite touching each other, formed thin windswept silhouettes on the crest of the hill.

  “Poor Maggie,” said Bess softly. We watched them all come slowly down the hill towards us, the ponies’ heads hanging low. Together we made our way back to the farm.

  The old woman’s face showed nothing as we went. Her scarred cheek was turned away from me. But the other side of her face seemed unblemished except by the wrinkling of the years. Her cheekbone was firm and high, her jaw straight. I wondered how she looked when she was younger, on this side of her face at least. I knew what the damaged side had looked like, for almost her whole life. The scar so deep and so raw.

  Of course, I felt pity for her. Who would not have? But more than that I hated the way she kept a terrible past alive.

  That night, I thought Iona would leave. She had seemed agitated all evening, unable to settle. Even Jeannie noticed, snapping at her more than once when she knocked something over.

  Bess seemed irritated by the girl, but then Bess had never formed a bond with her, had seemed to look down on her silliness. And, of course, Bess would have taken Old Maggie’s view: that the girl could only turn out bad or would have ill luck in some way. And I suppose she did not think Iona deserved more: a girl who tossed her pretty red hair as she did and had a petulant air about her. Iona had lost her mother – well, so had Bess, and Bess would have little sympathy for a girl who did nothing to make a dead mother proud. I knew enough of Bess to know this much.

  And that night, when I was taking my turn at the watch, I did indeed see Iona leave the cottage, her shawl wrapped round her. I shrank into a darkened doorway. Her elfin frame stood in the yard and she looked up at the sky, but simply stayed there for some moments before going back into the cottage. I felt some relief. Though I knew she must go, yet I feared for her.

  I continued my watch. A watery moon appeared from behind a cloud and I could see far into the distance now. But nothing stirred, only the soft whishing of rainfall and the distant crashing of the sea.

  Soon, Billy came to take my place and I walked into our cottage. Bess stirred and I went to her.

  “Shall I bring you water?”

  “Mmm, yes, please,” she mumbled. I fetched some from the jug that sat by the fire, and watched her hold the cup to her lips. Old Maggie muttered in her sleep and then resumed her snoring, close to Bess in the big box-bed.

  “Thank you, Will,” said Bess, now, before turning away and falling into sleep once more, one hand resting against the old woman’s shoulder.

  I went back to my blanket, where I lay, cold and uncomfortable, until eventually sleep came.

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  The following day was the Sabbath. Much praying happened that day, more even than I was accustomed to during my childhood. I had thought they would dress differently for church, but their attire seemed little different from usual. I think their hair was neatened and their faces were certainly cleaned. Indeed, I had seen Jeannie scrubbing Tam’s face with cold water straight from the well, and had heard Iona squealing as her long hair was tugged by a thick comb until it shone. She then wound it demurely into twists and hid it under a cap. The men, however, looked little different, and still carried their weapons when they rode off to church.

  Thomas read from the huge soft-covered Bible before they set off for their church, or kirk, as they called it. They stood as he read, and when he said a prayer, they did not kneel, which I wondered at. I had been about to kneel, but it seemed to me that I had better do what they did. He did not read the prayer from a prayer book, but seemed to speak from his heart.

  Calum stood dutifully by his father, his head bowed slightly.

  Bess and I did not go with them to the kirk. It had been decided that it was better if we were not seen, so that no word of our existence would get back to Douglas Murdoch – he would not be at the kirk, being of the bishop-loving church that Jock’s people so despised, but one of his informers might be. The only person who knew we were here was Mad Jamie, and he would not tell.

  Mad Jamie, I was beginning to realize, was trusted beyond what one might expect of someone of such simple nature.

  Jock had himself carried to the kirk by cart, driven by Hamish, who appeared scrubbed and glowing quite early that morning. I saw Red and Thomas watching the weakness of their father. But nothing was said. Jeannie bustled round, tucking a blanket around Jock’s knees.

  Calum was sitting on his pony near me and Bess as he waited for the others to be ready.

  “Calum told me that when Old Maggie was a child, they could not worship in a kirk. They met in secret in the hills, and if they were discovered at their worship they would be killed. A
nd soldiers would search the hillsides for them, all day if need be, while they hid. Can you imagine?” said Bess as we watched the others.

  I shook my head. I hated the idea as much as she did. But it was long in the past. Now they could worship as they chose, so why did they feel the need still to remember with such rawness?

  She turned to Calum. “What was it you called them? The services they held in secret?”

  “Conventicles.”

  “And that was when the curlews betrayed the people?”

  He nodded. But he looked at me a little and I fancy he remembered our earlier conversation and my questioning of this tradition. He said nothing. Could it be that Calum might begin to think differently from his father, his uncles, and his grandfather? Could it be that although he followed them blindly – or fearfully – now, he might not do so for ever? I had thought Calum acted towards his father more out of fear than respect, and this was something I could well understand. But I also knew that with strength one can overcome such weakness.

  We watched them disappear slowly into the distance. A strange silence settled over the yard. I felt my spirits rise and I breathed deeply in the spring sunshine.

  Bess and I must take turns to keep watch. If anyone passed near by, we must not be seen.

  In the two or three hours before the churchgoers returned, I saw to the horses, and cleaned out the chicken shed. These were tasks that I enjoyed. My body was thinner than it had been when I left home some weeks ago, but stronger, and toughened by weather and hard work. My hands were no longer a gentleman’s hands, the nails engrained now with dirt.

  For the rest of the day, when the others had returned, we quietly went about the things that needed to be done. The Sabbath might have been the Lord’s day of rest, but there was no rest for these people and many tasks had still to be completed.

  My happiest memory of that day is the smell of the shellfish catch that Mouldy brought from the sea, lugging the pots on his pony’s back. The crabs and lobsters were still alive, until he skewered them through the head, in a soft place he showed me, and then they died instantly, though their claws twitched for a while. And soon after, we were ripping the steaming pink meat from inside them, and sucking cooked mussels from their shells, tossing them down our throats with a liquor of water and herbs. There is no better smell than the aroma of roasting crab or lobster that an hour before was swimming free. It has the taste of the sea, salty and sweet at the same time, fresh and strong.

  My spirits lifted as we ate, so that I almost thought I could stay here for ever.

  Almost.

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Morning dawned clear, a soft orange stroking the eastern sky. Over the sea to the south, a milky haze blurred the farthest shore, making it seem further away. The coast of England across the Solway Firth. My country. Suddenly, powerfully, I wished to be there.

  The day had a delicate warmth to it, increasing as the sun drifted higher. I do not know what date it was precisely, only that it was sometime in April. The air and the grasses and the branches of all the trees hummed with new life. Seed of rye and wheat grass, stored and dried over winter, must now be sown on the runrigs, and, as I went about this task, with Mouldy occasionally checking on my progress, I savoured the heat on my back and felt my spirits lift. Later, Mouldy was going to show me where to leave lobster pots, and how to tie a wriggling worm onto a hook to catch a young trout or two from the river. He was a gruff and humourless man, but a good one. There seemed to be nothing he did not know about the land, and little he cared about the arguments between his nephews. Like Jeannie, he simply did what must be done, I believe, and had little time to think on why.

  Iona, her hair freshly brushed and tied with a green ribbon, went with Jeannie and Billy to the town, to sell some eggs and buy some items. I know not what. Women’s work this was, and Billy’s job was to see them home safe.

  This, I regret to say, he failed to do. Though, knowing what I did, I could not blame him. Red blamed him, however, and I think he would have killed Billy if Mouldy had not stopped him.

  What had happened was this: some two or three hours after Jeannie, Billy and Iona had left, when Thomas was starting to look worried and I was beginning to feel the same, though for a different reason, the cart returned, hurtling dangerously along the track from the road. Alerted by agitated shouts from Mouldy, we all rushed to the yard entrance and peered towards it as it came.

  Iona was not on the cart.

  Jeannie’s eyes were red and exhausted, her forehead creased with fear. She crumpled when she saw her sons and Thomas helped her down from the cart, putting his arm round her shoulders and leading her to the cottage, questioning her quietly as they went. She seemed worn out. She looked as though she had given up.

  The rest of us began to follow. Billy could not speak. His lips flapped open and shut but no words came out.

  Then Red kicked him, a vicious lashing out from behind, and Billy fell to the ground with a cry, clutching his knee. “Ye useless dolt! Ye were to look after Iona. What have ye done wi’ her?”

  Mouldy grabbed hold of his nephew, pulling him away from Billy, who cowered beneath him, tears on his doughy cheeks. Mouldy was a smaller man than Red, and much older, but his anger was as great. No longer would you think him gentle and mild. For a moment it seemed as though they would fight, the two of them circling furiously, like hissing cats before they leap on each other.

  “No!” shouted Calum. “This will no’ help Iona!” At first, the two men seemed not to hear him, but then Red shrugged, spat on the ground, and swaggered towards the main cottage. It surprised me to see Calum stand up to his uncle in this way.

  Thomas, too, looked at his older son, though saying nothing.

  Billy stood, his great arms hanging loosely by his sides, his eyes wide with remorse and fear, his soft mouth hanging open.

  At the cottage door, Jeannie turned round and called, “Billy, ride and fetch Hamish!”

  “No,” said Thomas. “We want to hear what happened.”

  “Billy kens nothing,” said Jeannie. “It was no’ Billy’s fault. Let him be.” Billy ran to catch one of the ponies in the field next to the yard. On another occasion I would have laughed to watch this great lumbering man chase them with flapping arms as they ran away in disrespect. Billy was in distress and it was this that made the horses run, I knew. I went to help him and soon I had caught one for him. He led it away to fetch a saddle and soon I saw him riding fast out of the yard.

  Where was Jock? I asked this now. I had not seen him all morning.

  “He’s taken ill,” Mouldy answered.

  Leading Old Maggie by the hand, Bess came from our cottage, her face tired, her hair unkempt, all unwashed. Only a small bandage on her hand now showed that anything had happened. “Iona,” I mouthed to her over the old woman’s head, by way of explanation. Old Maggie heard nothing: she walked peacefully, with the flat-footed gait of a small child, nodding happily, as though watching butterflies on a summer’s day.

  In the cottage, Jeannie, her face tight with worry, biting her lower lip, went to Jock and crouched next to him with her hands one on each side of his head. He sat on a stool, a bowl on his knees, retching into it. His eyes were glassy and he did not speak. Pain creased his grey face.

  “Jock, my love,” she whispered, struggling to keep her voice steady. “Iona is missing.” Jock seemed to hear the words as though in a dream. He shook his head, slowly, then retched some more. A thin, green liquid came from his mouth. I know not what ailed him but I did not think it something he would easily fight off.

  “We should kill them all!” snarled Red.

  “No,” said Jeannie. “We dinna ken it was their fault.”

  “Who else might it be?”

  “I think she went herself.”

  What was this? Need I not hold the secret inside me, after all? I wished to speak, but must keep my silence a while longer. Perhaps bloodshed could be avoided.

  Thomas looked to
Jeannie. “What d’ye mean?” Even Jock looked up, ill as he was. Everyone watched Jeannie.

  “’Twas in the fleshmarket. I was talking to a sausage seller, and when I turned she was gone. Billy was no wi’ us – I’d sent him to buy thread and a needle.”

  “They took her! Snatched her when ye were no’ looking!” said Red.

  Jeannie shook her head again and then took something from her pocket. It was a green ribbon. I had seen it before. In Iona’s hair. Now it was tied in a perfect bow.

  “This was in the pocket o’ my skirt. I didna put it there. I think she has gone.” She clamped her hand over her mouth and shook her head. I was glad that Iona had left this sign for Jeannie – perhaps now their anger would not be directed at Douglas Murdoch. Perhaps there would be no more bloodshed.

  A foolish wish.

  Now Old Maggie spoke. “Curst she is, I tellt ye all.” She wagged her finger at the empty air.

  I thought Jeannie would speak against her. I saw her face flash with anger, saw her open her mouth, but nothing came out. Bess took the old woman’s hands and settled her to her knitting, reassuring her with a kindly look.

  “Then we must search for her,” said Thomas. “We’ll search till we find her. We’ll tell everyone to look for her. Those o’ the kirk – they will look for her. Mouldy, go and send word to our friends.”

  “What if she does not wish to be found?” I asked, with some hesitation.

  Red turned on me. “What d’ye ken? She is our blood, no’ yours. Ye canna care for her as we do.”

  For some time they argued. Every now and then they stood and scanned the horizon. Mouldy rode away from the yard. Red wanted to set out too but Thomas stopped him. “She is my daughter – ’tis right that I go.”

  Nor would Thomas let Calum go. Calum began to argue, but Thomas stopped him, “I need ye here.” Then he lowered his voice. “And dinna let your uncles do anything foolish.” I think Calum must have been pleased to have such trust from his father.