The Betrayal of Maggie Blair (34 page)

When my work in the kitchens was over at last and the last glow of the summer light was fading from the castle walls, I would stand drained with weariness at the edge of the green space in front of the barracks to listen to Tam's piping. His jigs and reels bore in them an almost unbearable gaiety, and his laments carried a world of suffering. Against the music I would hear the shouts and laughter of the men. Slowly, as the night went on, the notes would become a little less rhythmic, a little more blurred, and so it would go on until he let the air out of his bag in a final hideous wail. I knew then that he had drunk himself to silence.

In the first couple of weeks, he came often to the kitchen to see me. He would stand in the doorway peering in, and if I saw him before anyone else did, I would be able to run across to him. We never managed more than a few minutes, though, before the master cook shouted at me to get back to work. After the third or fourth visit, Mr. Haddo lost his temper completely and told Tam not to show his face again if he didn't want me to get a beating.

I'd been able, even in those short visits, to see that Tam looked different, though I wasn't sure if he was better or worse. The dreadful gray tinge in his face was not so noticeable. The drink had reddened it, and his cheeks had filled out a little.

"It's not that terribly bad here after all, Maidie," he told me cheerfully. "The lads are great ones to listen to a tale or two, and they're not stingy with the bottle either."

"No need to tell me that," I said severely. "I hear it in your piping every night."

"Well now, darling, an old man must have his comforts."

When I told him I'd seen Uncle Blair and how dreadful his situation was, he shook his head. His eyes, dulled and softened after nights of drunkenness, filled with tears.

"Cruelty," he said, squeezing my hand sympathetically. "Unkindness. That's a thing I could never abide. I've been thinking and thinking, but there's no trick that even old Tam could pull to get the good man away from here."

***

I worked hard in the kitchen. There wasn't much chance of doing otherwise, but in fact I wanted to. The work took my mind off my worries, and I even earned the approval of Mr. Haddo, who began to send me out of the kitchens on errands to the stores or called me to go with him up to the green to check over the fresh supplies brought in daily from the mainland. I didn't tell him that I could read and write. I was afraid he would become suspicious of me.

Whenever I left the kitchens, I kept my ears and eyes open for anything that might tell me how the prisoners were, but it was as if those cruel gray walls had swallowed them up. They were a dark secret, a dreadful horror at the heart of this fearful place, which everyone seemed anxious to ignore.

I learned after a while that the female Covenanters and even some of the men had been moved to other rooms in the castle, but I had no way of knowing if Uncle Blair was among them. I took comfort, though, from the fact that they must now have a little more room in which to move around and more air to breathe.

There had been an uproar one day when a group of the prisoners had wriggled out of the tiny window over the cliff. At least one had fallen to his death. A few had gotten away, but most had been rounded up and caught. Even behind the thick walls of the kitchens, on the other side of the castle, we heard the poor souls cry out in agony at the tortures that had been inflicted on them.

Uncle Blair can't be one of them,
I kept telling myself.
He's too big. He'd never have got through that tiny window.

But doubt nagged at me. I was wound up with anxiety all day and woke each night in the grip of nightmares. I prayed constantly and fervently, as I knew that the Covenanters would be doing.

I longed for the certainty of their faith. I wanted to stand on the sure rock of conviction on which they were grounded, but under my own feet I could feel only shifting, sinking sand.

I'm not one of the Elect,
I told myself miserably.
I can't be one of the saved. God hasn't chosen me for his own. He doesn't hear my voice.

My worries were all centered on my poor uncle, but I didn't know—how could I have known?—that it was my dearest, my oldest friend, Tam, who should have been in my thoughts and prayers.

I won't forget a single detail of that dreadful day. I was hurrying back to the kitchens from the cowshed with a pail full of cream when a man came out of the door to the soldiers' quarters and called out to me, "Hey, girl! Aren't you the piper's granddaughter?"

"Why? What do you want?"

He came over to me, and I stepped back warily. There was no threat in his manner, though, only a kind of rough sympathy.

"You'd better come. You're needed."

I looked at him stupidly, not understanding.

"Come where? I've got to take this cream to the kitchen."

He took the pail from my hand.

"I'll take it. I'll tell them. Go in there, lassie. He hasn't got long. See Musketeer Sharpus? He's standing by the door. He'll show you the way."

A chill of dread froze me.

"What do you mean? What's the matter?"

"Just get in there."

I ran toward the barracks. The soldier, Musketeer Sharpus, had been watching. He beckoned me to the door. He didn't say anything but nodded to me to follow him, and so I did, up a narrow stone stair and into a small dark loft, into which only a little light could struggle through the cracks in a shutter that covered the window at one end.

Tam was lying on a heap of straw. Even in the dim light, I could see death staring at me from out of his frightened blue eyes.

"Tam!" I dropped down on to my knees beside him. "Tam, no! It's me! Please, Tam."

With what seemed like an extreme effort he turned his head to look at me.

"Maidie!" The word was no more than a breath.

I picked up his hand. It was horribly cold. I rubbed it between my own. I was shaken with terror.

"I can't manage without you, Tam," I cried. "You mustn't die! What will I do?"

How could I have been so selfish? How could I have thought, at that moment, only of myself?

He tried to say something, and I leaned forward but couldn't catch the word.

"Water," he mouthed.

The musketeer called out, "Bring the old fellow some water!"

There was a clatter on the stairs, and a moment later a beaker was put into my hands. I lifted Tam's head and held the water to his mouth. Even the effort of swallowing seemed too much for him, but when he'd managed it, his eyes were a little clearer and he was able to speak more easily.

"I'm frightened," he whispered. "I'm a sinner, Maidie."

"No, no! Never to me, Tam."

"I stole that money in Edinburgh."

"I know. It doesn't matter."

"I've lied and cheated all my life. I'm a thief. I'm a—"

"You never hurt anyone. You risked everything to help people. To help me."

"I'm going to Hell, Maidie. I'm going to burn forever and ever."

I tried to think of words of comfort.

"God loves a sinner who repents, Tam," I said at last. "You repent, don't you?"

A tear trickled out of the side of one eye. I wiped it away with my finger.

"Aye. If I've harmed anyone, I'm sorry, right enough. But I can't be sorry for the drinking and the dancing and the joy of all that."

"I wish I knew what to say!" I cried, desperate to comfort him. "I don't know what's a sin and what isn't! But maybe if you just say,
'Jesus, I'm sorry for all my sins, and please let me go to Heaven,'
that will make it all right."

He managed to turn his head, and in his eyes I saw helpless doubt and fear.

"Would I not be out of place in Heaven, Maidie, amongst all the ministers and preachers?"

"No," I said, suddenly inspired. "My mother's there. She'll be your friend."

The worry lines left his forehead as he relaxed into a trembling smile.

"Oh yes, right enough. Say the words again. I'll say them after you."

I repeated my pathetic little prayer, and he mouthed each word after me. Then he turned such eyes of love on me that I felt my heart ache with sorrow and gratitude. I wanted to tell him everything I felt, but my throat was too tight. I couldn't speak. Anyway, he was struggling to say something.

"You've been the joy—the joy of my..."

He never finished. His eyes, which had gently closed on this last sentence, flew open, and his breathing changed, coming fast and rattling in his chest.

"Tam! Don't go! Tam!"

I was holding his hand tight and shaking it.

"He can't see or hear anything now," said Musketeer Sharpus. I realized then that he'd been standing beside us all this time.

I watched, my heart in my eyes, waiting, until Tam took a last shuddering breath, and then no more.

I saw, I felt his soul leaving. As it took flight, his eyes glazed, and his body seemed to shrink in lifelessness.

"Open the shutter!" I cried out. "Let him out!"

The man had done so already.

I knelt and kissed Tam's cheek, which had grayed at once to the color of stone.

"You've gone to Heaven, Tam, I know you have. Straight as an arrow. Jesus loves you, because you loved me."

I didn't cry. Not then. I felt frozen. I rocked back on my heels, staring at all that was left of Tam, and I would have been there for hours if the musketeer hadn't shaken my shoulder.

"We'll look after him now," he said kindly. "I'll come and tell you where he's to be laid. Don't come unless it's me who calls you. Neil Sharpus. Remember the name. Now you'd best get out of here."

He almost dragged me to my feet and pushed me toward the stairs.

"You'll need to watch out for yourself," he warned me. "The old man protected you more than you know. There are too many sparky lads here who like a pretty girl."

And he was right, because before I was out through the barracks door, there came a chorus of whistles and guffaws, and hands reached out to paw at me.

"Come on, boys, have a heart, will you? The lassie's just lost her granddaddy," said Musketeer Sharpus, hustling me through.

"Yes, and he can't curse us now. He can't play 'The Unlucky Soldier' now," came the laughing answer.

My grief was swallowed up in a red tide of rage. I turned on them. I felt in my voice and in my face the power of righteous anger.

"He can haunt you," I hissed at the mass of greedy, stupid faces. "He can come at you from beyond the grave. He'll be in your nightmares, he'll infect your blood, he'll drive you mad..."

I stopped myself. Their mouths had fallen open, and they were backing away from me, afraid.

Be careful,
a little voice inside my head warned me.
Don't use the power of anger or they'll take you for a witch.

Somehow, I stumbled back to the kitchen, and there I was surprised. Agnes and the scullions and even Mr. Haddo himself showed me such sympathy and gruff kindliness that for the rest of the day I was overwhelmed. The sorrow came, and I was allowed to go and huddle in the corner by the salt box and cry and cry until I had no more tears.

***

They laid Tam to rest in the little cemetery within the castle walls. The minister who attended the Marischal said a perfunctory prayer, yawning as he did so. I wanted to shout at him,
Make sure he goes to Heaven! Ask the Lord Jesus to take him in!
But I knew that no one could help Tam now. He must stand alone before the Throne of Grace while God weighed his sins in the great balance.

Musketeer Sharpus stood beside me at the open graveside. He was holding the bag in which Tam had kept his pipes.

"They're yours, I suppose," he said, handing them over.

"They're his to take," I said, and I leaned over the gaping hole and laid the bag on Tam's crude coffin.

The musketeer was silent as we walked away. At the entrance to the passageway leading to the kitchens, I touched his arm.

"Thank you. You were kind to him and me. I don't want to lie to you. Please don't tell anyone, but Tam wasn't my real grandfather, only he looked after me all my life and rescued me, and he was all I had."

I couldn't go on.

"No need to cry," he said gruffly. "What are you going to do now?"

I was tempted for a brief moment to confide in him and ask for his help in rescuing Uncle Blair, but I could see that he was impatient already and wanting to be off.

"I don't know. I'll see," I said. "I don't have any money."

I saw a struggle in his face, and then he reluctantly put his hand into the pouch hanging from his belt and pulled out a little leather purse.

"I found this under your—under his pillow," he said. "I was going to buy whiskey for the lads to raise a toast to the old man, but I suppose by rights it belongs to you."

He dropped into my hands the purse that Tam had stolen at the city gate of Edinburgh and was gone before I'd had a chance to thank him.

***

I have never felt so alone as I did in the weeks that followed Tam's death. The last link with my childhood had been cut. The last person who had truly loved me had gone.

As the days passed, I started to feel as if I, too, was a prisoner in Dunnottar. The kitchen walls were as thick as a dungeon's, and the endless routine of work had closed around my mind like a trap, enclosing me in a kind of dull helplessness.

I'd been surprised, at the end of my first week at work, to be given a couple of coins as wages, and my little hoard began to grow until they jingled satisfactorily in my pocket. The weight of Tam's purse, though, weighed heavily on my conscience. When the soldier had given it to me, it had felt at first like a gift from beyond the grave, but every time I heard the sound of singing from the prisoners, the thought of the stolen money made me flinch with shame.

Uncle Blair would never have touched it,
I told myself.
If he was me, he'd have flung it straight into the sea.

But I kept the money, all the same.

As usual, the first that we in the kitchens heard of visitors to the castle was an order for a special banquet. The countess sent for Mr. Haddo, who came hurrying back down our steps, wiping his brow, which was furrowed with anxiety, and repeating under his breath the long list of dishes that she had ordered. We were sent scurrying to pluck geese and ducklings, top and tail gooseberries for the sauce, shell crabs, knead the bread dough, and clean the spit for the haunches of venison, while Mr. Haddo made up the stuffing for the woodcock and tossed up a fry of cocks' combs.