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The Highwayman's Curse Page 19
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I suppose that Calum had already told them much of what had happened when he had returned to the cottage after Mad Jamie’s message, though he could not have known the outcome, and much cursing of Douglas Murdoch had doubtless been done as they waited for us to come up the passageway. Of this I was glad: I do not think I could have borne to hear them rant and rail. They seemed shocked into inaction, with no arguments about immediate punishment and revenge.
The horses! “Where are the horses? Did Mad Jamie…?”
“Do not fret,” replied Bess. “I have already asked. They are safe. Jamie sent Billy to fetch them. They had stayed where we left them.”
Through half-closed eyes, I watched the others. I had not spoken to Jeannie. I did not need to, not yet. With tears still wet on her cheeks, she was stroking Iona’s face and smoothing her hair. The girl’s body lay on the other side of the fire from me – I thought it should be away from such warmth, but it was not for me to say or to interfere. Jeannie gently removed the wet and torn clothes, shaking her head at the bruising. She wiped away the still oozing blood from wounds which were similar to mine, and wrapped her carefully in some sheeting.
Thomas wept, too, kneeling beside his daughter. His face was white, his eyes glazed. He said not a single word. I know not what he thought, beyond his grief. Did he forgive her now? Calum, I believe, did forgive her, and his grief was indeed real and raw and right.
Old Maggie was not there, for which I was very glad. She would be in her cottage and I hoped she would stay there.
Jock lay where he had lain before. On his side, his face turned away. I suppose he slept. Tam lay beside him, also asleep. Mouldy sat at the table with Billy. Their faces spoke of sorrow and shock and a lack of understanding. They did not know what to do. Red went to Jeannie. He put his arm across her shoulders. It was strange to see him so subdued by events.
A hush now fell across that dwelling.
Bess took hot water from the pot and mixed it with oatmeal. She poured some into a bowl and brought it to me. I thanked her and, although brose was far from my favourite food, I was glad of it then.
“Bess, ye should put dry clothes on,” said Jeannie after a while.
I was angry that I had not said so myself. Although the room was warm, Bess was beginning to shiver. At first she refused, but Red insisted, and so did I. Jeannie smiled at her a little as she spoke, “I have need o’ ye in good health, Bess. We all have need o’ ye more than ever now.”
I did not much like to hear this.
Mouldy went with Bess to the other cottage and a short while later they returned, Bess now wearing her woman’s clothing. She brought with her some clean clothes of mine, too, though I did not put them on at that time. Then she sat beside the fire with me, on the other side from Iona’s body. When she looked at me and met my eyes, I know she thought of Henry Parish, as I did, and of Iona. I could not help but think also of the world’s injustice, and I wonder if she did too.
Very soon, the salve which Bess had pasted on my grazes began to soothe the pain and I started to feel drowsy, listening to the hissing of the fire and the whimpering of the dogs, and the soft clink of tankards as men drank the next hour away. And I think some of them began to settle down to an uneasy sleep themselves, to ease away the sadness of that evening, to lose their thoughts in dreams.
But it was not to be. Into my sleepy mind, came a knocking on the door of the dwelling.
Old Maggie. In she wandered when Billy opened the door. All dishevelled from sleep, she was, her matted white hair loose around her shoulders. But her eyes were bright, alert, like an early morning bird’s.
Jeannie looked up from where she sat beside Iona’s body. Her eyes narrowed, and her shoulders drew together slightly. Her whole body became still, as she waited.
I, too, waited, wishing the old woman had not come here now. Her presence threw a pall over everything. I looked to Bess but could read nothing in her face.
Surely, now, at last, Old Maggie would soften, when she saw Iona’s body? Surely she must have some heart left?
Chapter Forty-Nine
Old Maggie walked into the cottage. We looked towards her, those of us who were awake.
She shuffled slowly, clutching a thin shawl round her shoulders. Her feet were bare, the gnarled toes yellowed. Her jaw moved constantly, as though she chatted to some unseen spirit, but no words came, no sound other than of her feet on the floor. Straight to Iona she went. She stood there, looking down on the vivid red hair, the empty face, the peaceful lips, the closed eyes. Jeannie had made her hair cover the tiny mark on her skull.
Old Maggie nodded. Just nodded. And then moved on. Over to the spinning-wheel she shuffled, settled herself down and took the loose thread in one hand. With the other hand, she began to move the wheel and soon its rhythmic click filled the cottage. My eyes narrowed as I looked up into the rafters, where smoke sat heavily, wrapping itself around the twisted beams.
No one had spoken since Old Maggie came in. It was as though they looked to her to make a judgement. Their silence angered me. Her silence angered me. I wanted to know what she thought, whether it was too much for her that Iona had died. I wanted to see how far her hatred would take her.
I would not be silent.
“Are you satisfied?” My raw anger, my rudeness, broke the stillness of that place. There was a shifting of bodies, an intake of breath. I knew that my words, and their harsh tone, were wrong, that I should not speak to an old woman in such a way. She was sick, and frail, and probably mad. Yet she had a power I did not like.
The wheel stopped spinning. She turned to me. Then she looked at Iona.
“I tellt ye. I tellt ye all.” It was a simple statement. Yet it said all I needed to hear.
What of the others? Was Iona’s death enough to salve their hatred and anger? I felt it my right to ask now, that I had earned such a right.
“Jeannie? Thomas? Will you even now let this hatred grow?” Jeannie looked to her oldest son and Thomas seemed as though he wished to speak, but no words came from him.
It was Red who spoke first. “The lad is right. Iona has died and we should no’ speak ill o’ her now. ’Tis an evil man’s doing.” Calum was nodding at this.
Now Thomas spoke. “Aye, she brought shame on us but she was a bitty lass. She didna deserve this.”
“’Twas written,” said Old Maggie. For a moment I thought she referred to the words on the scrap of paper, but she could not have done. She only meant that it was written in fate. But I knew that could not be – I knew in my heart that destiny is not written down. If it was, God would have nothing to measure us by when Judgement Day came. “She was curst,” muttered Old Maggie. “She was always curst.”
“No!” I shouted. “She was not cursed, any more than I am cursed! Think of her – was she cursed with her beautiful hair, her green eyes, her lovely face? Was she cursed to live in this place, with her family? Was she cursed that she found love and happiness? It was men who killed her, not a curse, and they only did so to hurt her family. They only did so to continue the hatred.”
Everyone looked at me now, and I saw that Red nodded in agreement. I went on, “I have had an evil man throw a curse on me too, and no bad came of it. And if evil happens to me, it will be through no curse, but through my own actions, or the actions of others, or chance. A curse has no power if you allow it no power.”
“All drest in white they were!” said the old woman, her mad eyes blazing still, though with a fragile desperation. “All drest in white, an’ the waves rose an’ the waves rose an’…”
“’Twas long ago,” said Jeannie.
“But ’tis still the truth! Look at me! Do I no’ bear the scars o’ that day?” And she touched her terrible face.
Thomas spoke now. “If Iona was cursed, she is now at rest. We should mourn for her. We should forgive her.”
“Forgive her?” Old Maggie cried now, getting to her feet. “Forgive her! For going wi’ an Episcopalian lad? For going wi�
�� the men who killt my mother?”
“Those men will pay,” Red assured her. “We will see to that, but Iona is dead and we should forgive her and think well o’ her.”
“He is right,” said Thomas, wearily. “And ye may be sure that Douglas Murdoch will pay for this. Wi’ his life.”
“Aye! So he will, and all his clan along wi’ him,” Red exclaimed.
My heart sank. Would it ever end? Had they learned nothing?
And yet, should not a murderer pay? Would that not be justice for the terrible thing he had done?
Calum did not speak.
Old Maggie did not hear their last words because now she pointed her finger at Red and spoke again, spitting her rage. “Forgive? I’ll no’ forgive her even wi’ my dying breath! God is on my side.” She pointed now at Bess. “The lass kens. She kens wha’ ’tis tae lose a mother and a father. Would she forgive those soldiers?” When Bess said nothing, the old woman was triumphant. “She would no’!”
I looked at Bess. Would she take the old woman’s side still? Surely not!
Chapter Fifty
“You have forgotten something,” said Bess to her, gently, going over and taking the old woman’s hands, crouching down beside her at the spinning-wheel. “Iona did what my mother and father did – she fell in love with someone forbidden by her father. She acted as my parents did, through love and not hate. I am sorry for what happened to you. But hatred is not the way. I know that now.” And she looked quickly at me, before leaving Old Maggie and sitting down once more beside me. The locket shone in the firelight and she put her fingers up to ensure that it lay properly.
And still Old Maggie muttered beneath her breath.
Let her mutter. She was a poor old woman who meant nothing to me now. Not now that Bess was no longer under her spell.
If it had not been for the horrible knowledge that Iona lay dead in this room, I think I could have felt some kind of peace then.
The night was not yet over. Exhausted as I was, I was the first to hear Billy’s shouting in the yard, and then hoofbeats.
Almost at the same time, the others had heard it too. We stood up. As quickly as I could, though in pain, I pulled on the clean clothes that Bess had brought earlier, wincing as the cloth tugged at my raw wounds. We grabbed such weapons as were near by and slipped out of the door, leaving Jeannie and Old Maggie, as well as Jock and Tam, who still slept. Jeannie looked as though she cared little for what might happen now. As I left her, I saw her cover Iona’s face with the blanket.
In the yard, with Thomas carrying a lantern, we ran to the gateway. The clear, full moon lit the landscape and we could see in all directions. In the distance, I thought I saw tiny flickering lights, as though of flaming torches. But, much closer, a single rider approached, galloping on a fast horse. No hill pony this, I could tell immediately.
He carried no visible weapon, though perhaps he had pistols in his belt. No sword hung by his side. We were in no danger, outnumbering him as we did.
But who was he?
“Who goes there?” shouted Thomas.
The rider hauled his horse to a halt some five or ten paces from us and it stood, its flanks heaving, breathing mist into the night air. The man was cloaked, his head covered. I could tell little of his frame or age, except that he sat tall and straight on his horse and rode well.
“Who are ye?” demanded Red.
The rider paused before answering, with a strong voice. “I am Douglas Murdoch’s son.”
“Bastard! Murdering bastard!” roared Red, leaping forward, a thick wooden club in his hand. The horse reared in fright and Robert Murdoch pulled it skilfully round, turning a fast circle, keeping out of Red’s reach. “Is she safe?” he shouted above the angry noises of the men.
“Iona is dead, drowned by your murdering father!” shouted Thomas. “We have her body safe.”
With a cry of horror, the boy leapt from his horse, not heeding the danger he was in, caring nothing for the fury on their faces or the weapons in their hands. He tried to run towards the closed door of the dwelling.
He had no chance. They caught him and brought him to the ground, where he lay face down in the dirt. Red twisted his arms behind his back but he did not cry out.
“String him up!”
“Take ’im down the cave!”
“Drown the murdering bastard!”
“Slit his throat and send him back to his father!”
I could see the boy struggling to turn his face, but a foot pressed his head down. Red and Mouldy between them hoisted him now to his feet. He gasped for breath and then began to try to speak. But Mouldy hit him across the cheek and within moments blood was trickling from the corner of his mouth.
I knew then that this boy had as little chance as Iona had had. Did he hate his father too, for what he had done?
“Let him speak, Red,” I urged now. “He had no wish for Iona to die. And remember, his father imprisoned him. Mad Jamie said so.”
“He led my daughter to her death!” said Thomas.
“He did not! Douglas Murdoch is the only one to blame for that!”
And in the small pause that followed, Robert spoke, blood oozing from his mouth. “If Iona is dead, I will kill my father myself. But there is something ye know not.”
All looked to him. He struggled to control his emotion.
“Even now, other men wish him dead. Mad Jamie has sent word to many people o’ what my father has done and they are making their way to our home. If ye wish to join them, ye should make haste.”
“Is this true?” Thomas asked, with a growl.
“Aye, ’tis true. Armed wi’ weapons and fire they are.” He sounded weary, overwhelmed. Lost.
“One thing,” I said. “Mad Jamie said you were imprisoned by your father. How did you escape?” Perhaps his presence here was a trick – who could tell?
“Two o’ my father’s men helped me. Some o’ them are sickened at my father’s ways,” said Robert. “They say he has gone too far.”
By now, the other men had decided to believe Robert. The idea that they might miss such action must have been too much for them to bear. Mouldy and Billy were bringing out the ponies, throwing saddles on them, deftly fitting their bridles. Soon, they were all mounted, Calum too. They rode off into the night, brandishing two blazing torches, heedless as to who followed them.
Bess, Robert and I were left in the yard, the moonlight leaving everything colourless and ghostly. “I wish to see her,” said Robert, looking towards the dwelling, as though in truth he feared to go inside. A little light came from beneath the door, and from the slits around the window shutters.
I was about to lead him into the cottage, when Bess held me back. “What about Old Maggie?” she asked. I knew what she meant: if Old Maggie saw Robert, she would judge him to be the cause of all this. I did not wish to hear one more word of her ranting.
“Take her back to her own bed. We shall stay out of sight.” And I led Robert round the side of the dwelling. I had no fear of him, nor he of me. I felt pity for him, and some admiration that he had dared come here. The fact that we both had fathers of whom we were ashamed gave me a kind of kinship with him, too. He licked the blood on his lip.
As we waited, silent at first, a question came to me and I asked it now. “Did you know of the snake? The snake in the box, among the smuggled goods?”
“Aye, but too late. My father’s men laughed about it. They boasted o’ how clever they were, timing the tide just so. Placing the snake in the box and then disappearing by boat afore ye came.”
“Why did he do it? It should have been Tam who found the snake. And instead it was Bess. What harm had either of them done?”
“It would have made no difference if he had known it. He wanted to frighten ye all, to warn o’ what he could do. Everyone knows o’ the old woman’s curse, the story she told to all she met. He laughed at how afeard ye all would be to read those words. He is a cruel man. And I am ashamed to be his son.” He clenc
hed his fingers, open and shut. But his face showed little emotion. I think he held it all inside.
“And did your father mean then to carry out his threat? Or was it only to make us afraid?”
“No, I think he did no’. ’Twas no more than threatening talk. But then, he learnt about me and Iona, and he was furious. I couldna tell Iona that he knew it – she would have been too afeard. But she had already told me her idea o’ running away – at first, I tried to change her mind, but when I saw that my father knew about us I said we should go without delay. But … ’twas no use.”
Robert seemed to wish to tell everything now. I wondered if he had been able to confide in anyone else. I supposed not. “We’d no’ gone far when they caught us, and took us back to him. He locked me up and took Iona away. But I was able to send word to Mad Jamie. One o’ my father’s servants helped me.”
I had one more question. It was an idle question; I could not realize that the answer would mean so much. “How did your father learn about you and Iona?”
A noise escaped from Robert’s mouth, an explosive burst of disgust before he spoke. “Now there’s a man I would see dead!”
“Who? Who told him?”
“John Blakelock!”
“Who is John Blakelock?”
“The minister. A man o’ God, no less!”
And then I understood the truth. “The blind minister?”
“Aye. The same.”
“But why?”
“Who knows? He came to our home. My father almost barred the door – this was a man who preached agin our religion, who hated us Episcopalians, and who would do anything to see us pay for earlier wrongs. But he said he had information my father would want. And he did. The same servant told me o’ it. Another who hated my father.”