The Highwayman's Curse Page 18

  Chapter Forty-Five

  By moonlight we rode, the path a pale ribbon in front of us. A curlew wheeled and mewed its reedy cry overhead. I had no fear of curlews.

  We could be seen, I knew. If anyone chose to watch our progress, the ground here was flat, with little cover of trees, and anyone could be watching. I tried not to think on this. I thought only of keeping to the right path, and of the sound of our horses, Bess’s and mine, as they galloped willingly beneath us. We were Iona’s only hope and we must not fail her now.

  I turned to shout to Bess, the wind whipping my words away. “Take care – the path goes down the side of the cliff. Be ready.” She nodded, her lips tight shut, her face rigid with effort.

  Just in time, I saw the place where our route must turn. Sharply to the right we swung, and slowed as the path rapidly descended. If I had been full of fear the first time I rode this way, I was the more so now. Though not for myself, but for Iona.

  For some moments, the only sounds were of our horses’ hoofs dislodging stones, stones which fell with sickening speed and then silence as they tumbled into empty air. Once, Blackfoot stumbled, and I lurched forward, clinging grimly to his mane, but I righted myself and we continued without slowing again until we came at last to the bottom of the path.

  The tide was, indeed, rising. In truth, there was scarcely any beach remaining. We must leave the horses there. Once the tide had risen fully, there would be nowhere for them to go.

  Bess asked me no questions. She must have understood that there was no time, and trusted that I knew what I was doing – though I confess I knew little enough. We dismounted and sent the horses back up the path, with firm slaps on their rumps. They were unwilling to go, standing looking at us as though to ask why we had brought them there. But we could not pause to consider them.

  The strip of beach still uncovered by the tide was perhaps three or four paces from the water’s edge to the cliff, in parts more and in parts less. There was no time to lose. “Follow me!” I urged Bess and we ran along this narrow strip. At one point the rock face swelled outwards, and here already the waves lapped hungrily at its base. We splashed through shallow, tugging water.

  Now there was no turning back. Within moments that place would be deep with swirling sea. I tried not to think of the horses. They must find their way home. Or Jamie would send someone for them. We would find Iona in time and carry her up the passageway and the horses would be waiting for us at the farm.

  How could I hope for so much? How could I not accept that Iona was probably dead, that perhaps we too might drown in those tunnels, that our horses would be lost to us, perhaps captured by Murdoch’s men? I know not, merely that I could only hope.

  Something rushed through my body, urging me on, forcing me to hope, lending extra speed and strength to my legs. I would not give up!

  And now, dodging the nipping teeth of the waves, I could see the overhanging darkness of the cave. Moonlight did not enter here and at first I struggled to discern the back of the cave or the entrance to the tunnel.

  Bess was close behind me. I could hear her quick breathing. We both held our bags above our heads, protecting the contents from the water. We would need the wicks of the tallow candles to be dry, for without them we would have no light at all in the tunnel – if we even managed to reach it.

  Ahead of us here, the beach sloped downwards, so that the tide had already entered the main part of the cave. Where we stood now, as each wave receded, the water was at ankle depth. As each icy wave rushed in, our legs were soaked past our knees. I gritted my teeth against the clawing coldness. Pressing ourselves close to the rock face, we clung to each other and tried to stay upright as each wave passed. It was impossible not to gasp. Already we were shivering, soaked up to our chests by spray.

  But I held onto one hope – that Iona had not drowned. If she was standing upright, she could not have done, I believed. The water was not deep enough. I called her name now, peering into the darkness, still struggling to make any speed through the water.

  “Iona! Iona! We’re here!”

  No reply came. Only the sucking and spitting of the sea, and the whishing of a growing wind.

  We forced our legs through the waves, close to the cliff face, with the water getting deeper as the sands sloped further downwards. With a jarring pain, my foot hit an unseen rock and I stumbled. At the same moment, a wave crashed into me and I lost my footing. I managed to stand upright, but another wave hurled itself at my face. Water entered my mouth as I gasped and my eyes stung with the salt. And I knew, in an instant, that the contents of my bag would be soaked and useless. But Bess’s bag was still dry, or its contents would be. I would not think of failure. For failure would spell Iona’s death, and perhaps ours.

  Strangely, from that moment I felt no cold. A surprising warmth began to suffuse my body, my skin losing its feeling, my mind losing its fear. I thought only to find Iona and the tunnel and safety. Never had the smoky, dirty cottage seemed so desirable. Never had I wished so much to see the swarthy faces of Red and the others.

  “Come on!” I shouted to Bess, more for my sake than hers. I firmly placed one foot in front of the other, gripping Bess’s arm with one hand and any protruding rock that I could find with the other. By now, my eyes were used to the near-darkness of this cave and so it was then that I thought I saw Iona.

  Yes! There she was! I could discern her small shape, slumped forward, against the cliff face at the back of the cave, where the swirling water was at its deepest, tugging at her waist.

  My heart leapt. The water had not reached her face. She had not drowned. We pushed forward, further into the cave.

  When Iona’s family saw the terrible punishment she had suffered from Douglas Murdoch, then surely they would forgive her? Blood was surely thicker than water, and love stronger than hate.

  “Good God!” cried Bess, still holding her bag above the water. “What have they done?”

  We reached Iona as the waves snarled and crashed around us. I gripped the iron ring for balance. “Hold tight!” I called to Bess. The sea could beat us yet. She gripped the iron ring above Iona’s head and between us we supported the girl’s limp body as I took the knife from my belt and began to saw against the ropes that bound her.

  I suppose a part of me noticed her coldness, her dead weight as she slumped. I suppose I saw that she made no response, no movement, no sign that she knew we were there. But I could not bear to think what that might mean.

  Only when her ropes were cut and she fell forward into my arms, did I try to rouse her. Only then did I fear for the terrible chill of her body. Her face was close to my ear, her head lolling on my shoulder. No breath could I feel, no warmth from her mouth, no beating of her heart against mine. And her skin – how icy it was, how lifeless.

  I shook her. Another wave hurled itself at us, stronger, angrier now.

  “Hurry!” shouted Bess above the hollow roaring of the sea and the moaning of the wind in the cave. “The tide is rising fast! Where’s the tunnel?”

  “Over there!” I shouted, pointing towards the opening, a few paces further round the rock face. I lifted Iona until she was hanging over my shoulder, and pulled myself through the water. Bess grabbed my arm and pulled me too. Between us, we reached the opening.

  The tunnel mouth gaped in front of us. It spelt safety. Yet, what terrifying safety! I remembered with what brutal power the waves had spouted through the passageway. I had been told how quickly the sea’s strength would force them through the narrow opening. But there was no time to think on that now. The waves rushed in and out, now covering the ground underfoot, then swishing back, spitting shells and shingle and seaweed. The tunnel floor was higher here, the waves slapping only at our ankles and knees, but each wave seemed to shoot into the opening with greater power. There was no time to lose.

  Iona was a dead weight over my shoulder as I stumbled as fast as I could into the tunnel entrance. The ground sloped sharply upwards here, for which I w
as glad. Although my breath rasped in my chest, I had the strength of three men that night. Goaded by the waves behind me and by terrible fear for Iona, I would not slow down. I could hear Bess behind me.

  Climbing steeply up the steps hewn into the rocky floor by man and water, very soon we were above the waves, though I knew they would continue to rise, and quickly. Yet, at that moment, I believed we could climb faster than they.

  But I had not counted on the darkness. Within moments, we were in pitch blackness. I stumbled, cutting my hand on the sharp floor and grazing my elbow. I felt Iona’s body crash against the side of the wall.

  We could not go on. We needed light. I stopped. Bess’s voice came through the darkness, reading my thoughts.

  “Wait!” she gasped. “I’ll light a candle.” I gently placed Iona on the ground, lowering her body as carefully as I could. Not knowing what else to do, I slapped her hands together, pinched her cheeks, called her name. She did not stir. I wanted to believe that she was merely in a faint, that she had swooned through cold, or fear.

  I feared that this was not the case.

  I could hear Bess fumbling with her flint, striking it several times, many times, against the tinder. It must have been damp too, despite her best efforts. God was not on our side and I knew not why.

  But suddenly, with a rasp, a spark became a tiny flame, lighting the wick of the candle that Bess held carefully on the tinder. Quickly she shielded it with a hand and I watched the flame grow. Once the lantern cover was round the candle, it would not go out, not unless a wave covered it.

  It was at that moment, in that flickering light, that I saw the worst thing of all. On the side of Iona’s head, between the strands of hair, was a small, perfectly round hole, blood encrusted on its edges.

  Trepanning. Douglas Murdoch had trepanned her skull.

  Chapter Forty-Six

  Iona was dead. There could be no doubt. A part of my mind was blank, numb, refusing to accept. And yet, I must accept it. Murdoch had drilled a hole in the side of her head while she was alive. He had tortured her before leaving her to drown.

  I could say nothing to Bess. Not now. She needed to believe, to hope. I needed something else to fill my head. I needed to believe that there was a reason why I struggled through that passageway, in the dark, in fear and exhaustion. Because now, indeed, exhaustion began to take hold. As I sat there, uselessly rubbing her hands and trying to stop my tears from flowing, I felt my strength dissolve; I sensed the cold creep over me until I was shivering with an iciness that pierced my bones.

  Iona had died a useless, cruel death, just as Henry Parish had done. Bess and I had tried to save them both. And we had failed.

  Despair began to take a hold. What was the point in believing in justice? Yes, I would take Iona’s body back, because that was right and proper. But what then?

  If it were not for Bess, I think perhaps I would have given up at that moment. I am ashamed to say so, because I thought myself stronger. But then Bess did not know what I knew, that Iona was dead and that we had failed.

  From the noise of the waves, I knew that the sea rose quickly behind us. I could feel its spray, hear its rhythmic breath, like a huge monster spitting at us.

  “Hurry!” urged Bess.

  For a moment, I did not reply. But I glimpsed her face in the candlelight. Full of hope it was, her eyes alight, full of determination once more.

  Although I had no hope, yet what else could I do but follow her?

  “Lead the way,” I said. And she squeezed past me as I sat with Iona’s body on my lap.

  A wave crashing against my back and splashing across Iona’s upturned face goaded me to activity. Quickly, I grasped her under both arms and hoisted her over my shoulder, summoning all my strength once more to climb up the unknown passageway.

  Sometimes the passage levelled out. Sometimes it twisted round a corner. Sometimes we seemed to climb as if up a flight of stairs, though never have I seen stairs so irregular and treacherous. Always, we moved slowly, painfully slowly. Stones slipped under our feet, rocky overhangs threatened to lacerate our faces, and all the while, over and over again, the waves below us reached up with their grasping fingers or sent their icy spray across our backs.

  As we climbed, the force of the waves behind us grew. More than once I found myself hurled forwards, sometimes falling onto my face, Iona’s legs beneath me. Although I had no hope of her being alive, I nevertheless tried to protect her body from further harm.

  Although I would doubtless have moved faster without her weight, not once did I think of leaving her body to the waves. How could I have borne to see Jeannie’s face, or Jock’s, and Calum’s, if I had not brought her body home? They needed to bury her, I knew that. Even Thomas, though he had condemned her for her betrayal, surely he too would want to mourn over her corpse? When he saw her small frame, her beautiful flame-red hair, surely he would forgive her too?

  And so, I carried her, though my heart was as heavy as it had ever been. I followed the small flame that Bess carried before her.

  But I did not know how much longer I could keep going. My head felt dizzy. Pain sliced through my lungs, my chest, each time I took a breath. And my legs grew more and more tired, losing strength, until even lifting them required all my effort.

  Yet, every time I thought I must stop, every time I almost called to Bess, another wave would hurl itself against my legs, snatching at my ankles. And when it did, I wanted to scream my anger at the sea.

  In my head, strange sounds flitted. The pounding of blood, the roaring of the sea, my own breathing, the crunching of stones beneath my feet, Bess’s footsteps in front of me, and voices.

  Voices!

  Ahead of us! Surely that was Calum’s voice! We were almost there – at the place where the passage from the farmhouse met this one, the place where we had had to leap across when the tide was high.

  My mind was broken in two parts. In one part, relief at our safety, mine and Bess’s. And in the other, dread.

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  “We are safe, Will!” came Bess’s voice from above me. I saw her legs disappear quickly upwards, saw her smiling down, and Calum’s face beside hers. The dancing light of two lanterns leapt up the craggy walls. Red was there too, I saw, reaching down with his strong arms towards me.

  I said nothing, but prepared to lift Iona high above me so that he could take her. I had only to climb the last few steps with her, before heaving myself over the lip of the hole, and hauling myself over and to safety.

  “Hurry!” urged Red, as I gathered my strength. What was the hurry? The waves had not beaten us. We would be safe.

  I did not know if I had the strength to lift her above my shoulders. She was heavy, lifeless as she was, and soaked through, her clothes weighty with water. And I was tired. Very tired. This was why I paused so long, summoning all the strength I could find. I almost wished not to let her go, perhaps to hold onto the knowledge that she was dead. I wished no one else to know.

  “Hurry!” said Red again. “The highest waves are near. Ye dinna ken their strength.”

  “I know their strength!” I snapped. “Have I not come this far?”

  Now Calum’s voice came to me. “The last waves o’ the rising tide have a terrible power, Will. Hurry – Red is right!”

  And, as he said that, as if the sea had heard, an awful muttering roar came from below me, in the bowels of the cliff. I felt the air sucked from around me, a gathering pressure on my ears, and the hairs on my neck rising. The moment after Red reached down and pulled Iona from me, I grasped the edge of the rock, and an enormous wave hit me from behind, shooting its power high into the air.

  For several moments I could neither breathe nor see. I could hear nothing but the roar of water around me, feel nothing but its tugging arms, think of nothing but gripping the rocks for dear life. But when the wave fell back, its vast, dragging power ripped me from the wall of the tunnel and plunged me into its depths.

  As the water
carried me down at huge speed, I felt no pain, though the rocks tore my clothes and sliced the flesh on my side. In an instant, I was being hurled upwards again. I had no time to think, no power to make any choices at all. I had, I know, resigned myself to a quick death – already my thoughts were drifting into emptiness – when suddenly I found myself hurled to the top of the wave, and grabbed by unseen hands.

  Now, the pain was intense as I landed on my side, hauled to safety by Red and Calum, their faces looming over me. I was choking and coughing, vomiting seawater. My clothes were shredded in parts, blood seeping through the cloth above my hip and my thigh. I must have been cut in a dozen places and the air and salt water stung viciously.

  Barely able to remain awake, scarcely aware of what was happening, I felt myself lifted into the air in strong arms and I groaned as I was thrown over a broad shoulder. Red was carrying me, I dimly understood. In front of us, I saw Iona, carried in the same way over Calum’s shoulder, hanging limp and grey-faced. Bess went first, carrying one of the lanterns, and I saw her look back at me with concern. I did not know whether she understood that Iona was dead, or whether any of them did, though I think they must have known. But I could do nothing now.

  And then, at last, I surrendered and let my eyes close on the pain.

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  I awoke to the sounds of voices. We had reached the trapdoor. Calum had already carried Iona’s body up the rungs and the sound I heard above all else was the crying of Jeannie as she tried to take in her granddaughter’s death.

  “Let me walk,” I said now. I would not be carried up like this. But Red ignored me and carried me upwards until I was pulled into the warm fug of the dwelling by other hands.

  Blood was all over one side of my body, soaked through my clothing, and the palms of my hands were cut in several places. I must have been a shocking sight, bedraggled and bleeding. For one confused moment, I thought I saw Iona stoking the fire or stirring something in a pot. But it was Bess who brought warm water to bathe my cuts. And it was Bess, drenched through herself, who would not let them question me until she and Red had removed my jacket and trousers. She made me sit by the fire, with only some sheeting to preserve my modesty and a scratchy blanket to keep me warm, while she soaked the scraped flesh of my legs and hip and shoulder with warm water, wincing for me as she did. Someone brought a salve which she pasted onto the cuts – these were not deep, but the ones on my hands bled profusely until she bound them.