The Highwayman's Curse (15 page)

T
he 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. And 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.

M
orning 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.

Thomas galloped away in the opposite direction from Mouldy. Calum paced about, unable to settle. But his father was back in less than an hour, I think, frantic, not knowing where to begin looking.

Soon after this, by which time it was many hours since Iona had disappeared, there was a clattering of a cart and a clashing of hoofs in the yard. Billy had returned with Hamish. We waited for them to come in through the door.

When they did so, they were not alone. The blind minister was with them. And what he had to say put an end to any care that Red might have felt for Iona. It put an end to any hopes of peace.

It promised bloodshed and more hatred.

H
e walked with a rolling step, slowly tapping his way into the dwelling, holding Hamish's arm with one pale hand, and a polished stick with the other. Cloud-white was his hair, hanging like icicles around his neck. He wore a black hat, stiff and tall.

And his eyes were white as bone, rolling beneath thick, steely eyebrows. As he walked, his face flicked now this way, now that, with birdlike movements, as he sought to catch any sound.

Hamish, on the other hand, looked down, at the ground. He met no one's eyes. At first I thought that his grim expression was for Iona's disappearance, but that was only part of the truth.

Into the cottage they came, and, apart from Jock, we all stood up, because a man of the church was among us even though he could not see what we did. Mouldy removed his crumpled hat and the pipe from his mouth, but the others had none to remove. Even Old Maggie stood, smiling all the while.

“God be wi' ye all,” said the minister.

Hamish was guiding him to a seat. He gestured to Billy, who set the chair carefully behind the minister as he sat down. Tension grew within the cottage.

Jock, his face the shade of ash, his eyes narrowed, began to speak between heavy breaths. “Ye are welcome. Welcome.” Everyone looked to him to see what he would say further. But his eyes seemed to blur and his mouth to move without sound. He passed his hand across his forehead again, pressing his fingers to one temple. The other men looked away.

But Hamish now spoke. “Our minister has some news. Ye'll no' like it. Ye should sit yourselves down.” There was a thump as Jeannie almost fell onto a stool. One hand clasped her mouth, the other gripped Jock's arm.

One by one, everyone sat now, except for Thomas, who moved close to Jeannie and Jock, but remained standing. Old Maggie resumed her knitting. Everyone else looked to the minister. None spoke. Only the fire crackled and a bubbling came from the water in the steaming pot.

One of the dogs scratched itself, the violent thumping of its leg on the ground loud in the room.

And now the minister's voice came again. “I have news o' the lass.”

“Oh! What news? Tell me! What news?” Jeannie could not hold back her fear.

“The devil has surely ta'en her for hisself,” said the minister, his voice shrill and nasty. There seemed some cruel pleasure in him. He savoured his words as though he wished their flavour to linger on his tongue. He must have known the effect of them; he must have known how everyone wanted to know Iona's fate.

“Is she dead?” demanded Thomas, his voice strident.

“She may as well be,” snapped the minister.

“Then she's no'!” cried Jeannie.

The sound of Old Maggie's knitting tapped against the edges of my mind. I tried to ignore it, not to notice the moments when it slowed, or stopped, or gathered speed. If I could have ripped the wool from her hands, I would have. I had never felt such anger at her.

My mouth was dry. When would the minister tell us what he knew?

“A message was brought to me. By a well-wisher. The lass has run off wi' a lad.”

“Is that all?” Jeannie laughed, a forced laugh. As though she knew it was not all. There was a shifting among the men. Did they too expect what was coming?

“He is an Episcopalian,” said the minister now. Was that a smile, that twisting upwards of his lips? Or a sneer? Did he enjoy the news he brought? More than he should have if he had a heart, I think.

Now I could only watch and hold my breath as the men's angry words tumbled over each other. Only Jock and Jeannie stayed motionless, and wordless. I did not look at Old Maggie but from the corner of my eye I could see her knitting more quickly now, as though her fingers were chased by flames. I was aware that words mumbled from her lips but I wished not to know them and so I did not let myself hear.

We, Bess and I, could only wait. Bess said nothing, though the surprise showed in her face. She looked towards me but I turned away.

What would they do now?

Did the minister know the last piece of the story? That Iona's lover was none other than…?

“There is more,” said the minister now. His thin, beaky face was angled and shadowed, as though chiselled from some northern granite. There was no softness anywhere, only sharpness and edge. Silence fell once more, and into it his words. “'Tis Douglas Murdoch's lad. They have run away together.”

“I tellt ye!” shrieked Old Maggie now. “Curst, she is! Curst! I tellt ye she would turn out like this!”

Now Jeannie let fly with her anger. “Hold your tongue, old woman! I'll no' hear ye talk like that ever again, d'ye hear?”

“I was right! Was I no' right?”

But Jeannie leapt at her now and grasped her shoulders. With tears on her cheeks, she shook Old Maggie like a blanket, shouting angry words at her. Thomas and Red grabbed Jeannie, while Bess took Old Maggie and sat her back down, soothing her.

Jeannie wept as she struggled to free herself from the two men. “How can ye let her talk so when wee Iona is in danger? D'ye care nothing for your daughter, Thomas?”

“She has betrayed us!” growled Red. “To go wi' Murdoch's son!”

“Aye, she has shamed us all!” agreed Thomas. “To go wi' an Episcopalian. Does the Bible no' say, ‘the tree is known by his fruit'? Am I no' shamed by her act?” The minister nodded, offering no words of comfort.

And then everyone's words poured out. I heard harsh damnation of Episcopalians and those who followed bishops; there was Old Maggie repeating over and over again, “All drest in white they were.” Red was for mustering as many arms as we could and going to Douglas Murdoch's place. What good would that do, asked Thomas, if Iona and the lad were not there? But the villain needed to be punished, argued Red. And if we no longer had to fear him stealing her away then what did we have to lose?

“But if she loved the lad!” said Jeannie.

“Did ye ken about this?” demanded Thomas.

“No!” said Jeannie. “But she is the age when such things happen.”

“Did we no' teach her our history?” asked Thomas. “Did she no' listen often enough to the story of her great-grandmother? Does she think our people didna suffer enough at the hands of Episcopalians and kings and others who betrayed their own faith? That our persecution was no' enough?”

“She is but a bitty lassie!” cried Jeannie.

“Aye, and she's a lassie who must learn a lesson. When she comes running back, she will find out that God is a harsh judge and we will no' cease in His work,” said Thomas.

“‘Whoso sheddeth man's blood, by man shall his blood be shed',” the minister's voice rang out. I suppose he meant to justify their need for vengeance against Episcopalians, but Iona had killed no one.

Murmurings of agreement passed around the cottage.

Calum, I saw, sat silent, his face troubled, his eyes going from one to the next. I could not tell what he thought. Did he wish to protect his sister now?

The door flew open and Tam ran into the room. When he saw the minister sitting there, crow-faced, and saw everyone's grim looks, he went quickly to Jeannie, where he buried his face in her skirts and she ruffled his hair absentmindedly, her face rigid as she struggled with her thoughts. Thomas and Red had now let her go and she grabbed Tam's hand and led him to the fire, where she set him to pounding something in a bowl. She would not look at Old Maggie. Tam asked no questions, though he looked fearfully at the minister.

The minister stood and Hamish and Billy led him out.

“All things work to the good for them that love God,” he pronounced, as he left the dwelling. I was glad indeed when he had gone. He had brought a chill to the place, a darkness, something not of this world.

Into the shifting muttering of the men when he had gone, came Jock's voice. “We must show mercy,” he said. “'Tis no' for us but for God to judge.” His eyes looked empty, or as though a thin fog veiled them.

“Ye're a good man indeed,” said Jeannie eagerly, nodding and looking around at the others, as though to tell them that he was their leader still.

Thomas and Red looked away at their father's words. It was clear they did not agree with his mercy. Though Red was more angry that Iona had gone with Douglas Murdoch's son, and Thomas that his daughter had gone with an Episcopalian, both must act in revenge or punishment.

And Old Maggie would not have this talk of mercy. “My ain son! Gone weak! How will God judge us if we dinna help Him in his work?”

“Dinna speak to Jock so!” snapped Jeannie now. “He is a good man. And we do what he says.”

“Curst be her heid and all the hairs on it!” said the old woman spitefully. With a noise of pure rage, Jeannie rose to her feet and ran from the cottage, knocking over a stool. Tam fell onto the ground, where he sat crying. She was like a beast gone wild and soon we could hear her sobbing outside. Jock made to get up, but seemed overcome by dizziness, and fell back on his stool.

Thomas and Red looked at each other, knowing not what to do.

Calum stood looking from one man to another, saying nothing. I knew his views on the religion of the Murdochs, remembered what he had said about killing them if they came to his house, and that he did not forgive them for the Killing Times. But I knew too that he feared for his sister and loved her. Which would be stronger? His hatred or his love?

Bess turned her mind to giving Old Maggie a drink, busying herself, while Tam was crouching on the ground, looking from one person to another, wondering what was splintering his world – a world which had Jeannie's strength and love at its centre.

So it was left to me to follow Jeannie outside and as I did I could hear the others continuing to argue, and to rail about bishops and Catholics and the English and the King and Episcopalians. Between them all, Iona had made herself some powerful enemies by her unfortunate choice of boy to love.

I hoped she was very far away by now and that she would not come back, for her own sake and the sake of peace.