The Highwayman's Curse (16 page)

O
ut in the yard, I found Jeannie staring towards the sea, twisting the sides of her apron. I went to her, with no thought of what to say, only that she had seemed the only one who would not condemn Iona to Hell. She turned when she heard my steps. Her voice now was without power, flat. It was as though a large weight pressed down on her, and she could make only a small sound.

“I should have held my tongue. It's no' Old Maggie's fault. I shouldna hurt her. She is just a poor old woman.”

“But it's not Iona's fault either, surely? She cannot choose whom to love.”

Jeannie looked at me then, deep into my eyes. After some moments, I had to look away. For one long breath, I almost told her that Iona had confided her secret in me. But it would not have helped. And I did not know how far I could trust Jeannie.

“I think ye care for her,” said Jeannie now.

“I am sorry for her,” I said. “And I do not like the hatred that is between your families. For something that happened so long ago.”

“Aye, but it did happen. And mebbe Old Maggie was right. Mebbe Iona was curst, though I never liked her to hear it. The both o' them grew up without a mother – Iona's died of a fever when Tam was a wee baby. I didna like to see her flinch under Old Maggie's words, but the woman was right after all. The silly lassie has run off wi' our enemy. How could she be so foolish! She doesna deserve my protection any more. I should wash my hands o' her and leave her to her lad.” She shook her head, sadly.

Not Jeannie too! Did Iona have no friends at all?

“A silly girl, perhaps,” I said. “But does she deserve this?”

“How often in this world do we get what we deserve?” retorted Jeannie now. “Did Old Maggie get what she deserved? Iona should have kept herself from him, if she'd any loyalty, any love for her family.”

How much love did they have for her? I could not understand it, any of it. So much hatred, so little hope for better times.

“Jock has need o' me,” said Jeannie, straightening her back now. “I have a family to care for. I pity Iona, but she has brought this on herself. She'd better no' return, or she will feel the anger o' her uncles and her father. I wouldna wish that on her and so she should no' return,” she repeated, shaking her head, sadly. She walked towards the cottage door.

The door closed, leaving only me outside.

I did not follow her. The only person now who might show any kindness to Iona was Jock, and Jock was weak and very ill. And it seemed to me that, without Jeannie's agreement, he would wither under the anger of everyone else. Besides, I did not think that mercy was a word much used by these people. No, his talk of mercy was not something I could rely on.

Iona had no one other than me. And all I could do, it seemed, was hope and pray for her to escape.

The sun shone strongly for an April day, with a warm west wind. I went to the stable and stroked the horses. Burying my face in Blackfoot's mane, I breathed in his smell, his grassy, musty, living smell.

Why did I not simply ride away? I could gather my few possessions from our cottage and slip away without anyone knowing. My heart sang with the thought of this, the freedom once more of the open road.

Could I leave without Bess? Not if there was any hope that she would come with me. But if I could not persuade her… Then, I must leave and must find the strength to make my own way, find a new life once more.

M
y first chance to talk to Bess alone came a little later. She had gone to fetch some water from the well, and there I joined her.

“Poor Iona,” I said, to see what her response might be. Surely she would not think that these people were right to treat Iona as harshly as they had?

“She was a silly girl,” retorted Bess. Her thick hair was greasy and untidy, scraped back from her forehead and tied roughly behind her, the colour of coal dust. Already she seemed to have taken on a little of the harshness of these people. Some of her grace had gone, that mysterious strength and elegance. Her lips now were cracked and her skin lifeless.

“But only a girl,” I replied. “Too young to understand.”

“Older than Maggie was when she was branded by the soldiers. Old enough to know.”

“And I suppose you believe in the old woman's curse?” I said, with some spite. Why was Bess being so cruel? Did she think that the ancient anger of these people was right?

“Old Maggie is a good woman! She is strong in her faith and no one will sway her. She does not change her heart just because things around her change.” Bess now reached up to finger the locket round her neck again, rubbing it softly, perhaps not noticing what she did.

“Perhaps she should! Perhaps she has no heart.”

“She has suffered as you never have! One silly girl's error will not change her heart. And nor should it. Iona has proved Old Maggie right.”

“Yes!” I said, furious myself now. “And I suppose your mother's error in falling in love with your father would not change her father's heart! I suppose he was right to nurse his hatred and to throw you out when you were a tiny baby! He said your mother and father should never have loved each other and so he caused their deaths. Perchance he said your mother was a silly girl too, until she died. Did he think she was silly then?”

“Be quiet!” she cried. “Do not speak of my mother and father like that! You understand none of it!” She picked up her bucket and ran towards our cottage.

I regretted what I had said, or how I had said it. Yet I knew I was right.

It came to me then that Bess would carry her hatred with her to her grave, just as Old Maggie would do.

As she disappeared across the yard, I no longer saw the Bess I had come to know, the brave spirit who would not be imprisoned. And it seemed to me now that perhaps she was suited to these people after all, that she would stay with them and be wrapped round in their own ancient hatreds, passing their anger down the ages until no one could remember why any of it had started.

I did not wish to stay with her if she would not change.

Should I simply leave, without Bess?

If I could not stay, and she would not come, then I must go.

I
would leave the next morning, I decided. It was now too late in the afternoon and darkness was only a few hours away. In the stable, with a heavy feeling in my heart, I groomed Blackfoot, and ensured that his saddle and bridle were in good condition. Bess's horse, Merlin, pushed his nose into my back, demanding my attention too. Willingly I gave it to him.

I fed Blackfoot well, or as well as I could, and checked his legs for signs of injury, but he was sound, strong and fit, and as ready as I was to make a journey. And the more I considered it, the more ready I felt. A sense of adventure grew in me now as I thought of leaving behind the dark and hopeless lives of these people. In such a beautiful land, why should they hold onto such cruelty? Was it what God wished for them? I could not think so.

But I knew not where I would go. Perhaps to Edinburgh? I had heard tell of it as a place of learning and erudition. If I could find a way to earn money, I could perhaps afford to go to the university there. Or I could travel to England again. A part of me wished to know how my family fared now, whether they thought of me at all and, if so, in what way. But I did not think I could return and so perhaps I would never know.

This was a difficult thought, I confess. I regretted not one bit that I had left home, but now that I faced the world on my own again, I admit to a small shiver of fear and a sudden wish for the comfort and safety of my home-life again. I wished I did not have to be alone. But there was little point in dwelling on this. I would be alone and I must become accustomed to it.

But I suppose that it was these doubts, these fears, that made me agree to what we did later that evening. Although I knew I would be on my own again soon, I wished to delay that.

When I had finished in the stable, I went to the cottage I shared with Bess and the old woman. No one was there. The fire hissed softly. There was the familiar smell of bodies and boiled kale and damp stone and the smoke-soaked heather in the thatch. The shutters were closed, and these I now swung open, letting the breeze wash through the dwelling. I gathered together my few possessions, items of clothing, my knife, my sword, pistols and their accoutrements, my flint, tallow candles, and the very few coins I had left. I looked at them: they would not last me long if I had to pay for lodging as well as food.

And I suppose it was that thought, too – the need for money – that made me agree to what we planned that evening.

As I gathered everything up in my saddlebags, I was startled by the sudden sound of voices and the door swung open. I looked up. It was Bess and Calum. They stopped talking when they saw me.

We greeted each other, awkwardly. Bess saw what I was doing. She looked at me.

“Yes,” I said, in answer to her unspoken question. “I am leaving, in the morning. This is no place for me.”

“I wish you would stay,” said Bess, after a pause in which I hope she felt some regret, some sadness. I believe she meant her words, but did she mean them with great force? I could not tell. Bess had been happy before I met her and I think she would not mourn my departure now. And Calum stood close to her. It seemed that there was more than a friendship between them.

If I were honest, if I looked deep within myself, I could hardly bear to think of Bess staying here, becoming mired in the choiceless lives of this family. It seemed to be as wrong as keeping an eagle in a cage. But she had changed in some way over the last days and perhaps now she had lost her desire for freedom. And if she had lost that, then I could do nothing. Because Bess
was
freedom.

Perhaps that was the final reason why I agreed to what we did that evening – that I wanted one more chance for Bess to change her mind and come with me.

Bess looked at Calum now. “I shall tell him.” Calum nodded. What did they have to tell me? I said nothing, just waited, though my heart beat a little faster.

“We are to ride out tonight,” she said, her eyes bright once more. “You and I. We are after a prize. Douglas Murdoch's men ride with money this night. Mad Jamie has told us. They have been collecting payments from people in the west and they will be returning to Murdoch's tower in a few hours…'

“This is madness!” I retorted. “He is a dangerous man. He will come for revenge and then what will happen to you all?”

“No! Don't you see?” cried Bess, her face shining. “They will not know us. Murdoch's men have never seen us – you or me – and know not that we are here. When they see our horses, they will not think of Jock's people. There is no risk.” I said nothing. “He deserves it, Will. And think of the money. If you are leaving, you will need your share. We have little enough left.”

“I do not like it. Not at all.”

“Then I will do it alone!” Was she angry, or disappointed? I could not tell.

Calum turned to her. “I will come with ye.”

“No!” I said now. “It is not safe. You would be recognized,” I added when he scowled.

“So you will come?” asked Bess of me.

Where would be the harm in it? There were powerful reasons for doing it, and few against. Once more would I ride out with Bess. And then, then I would leave. “I will come. But I do not like it, nevertheless,” I said.

Only a few days ago, I would have jumped at such an idea with enthusiasm, but now this constant battling on the wrong side of the law sickened me. Had I not already condemned my father for corruption? So, how much better was I if I broke the law so easily?

But I did agree, for money, for companionship, for Bess, and for myself.

And, for adventure. Perhaps I went with my heart and not my head. I know not which is the more important.

For the next hour or more, we prepared for our escapade. Calum would come with us a part of the way, to show us a good place to wait secretly for the men to pass, and then he would wait near by for us to carry out the robbery. Bess was fired with excitement.

Seeing her spirit inflamed once more, seeing her eyes shining again, I confess to wishing more than ever that she could come away with me. After tonight, might she choose to? Perhaps she would remember our adventures and the excitement of the open road, and sitting by her fire after dark, telling our stories to each other and planning to fight for what felt right. But when I saw the way Calum hung on her words, and she on his, it seemed to me that the hope was slim indeed.

Bess and I checked our pistols, packing powder into powder horns, counting our lead shot, placing them within easy reach in our belts. Calum had a knife, which he now took pleasure in sharpening against a whetstone. I hoped that he would not need it, but it was better that he should have a weapon than not. My saddlebag was already filled with all my possessions, but Bess, dressed in her male attire once more, and with the locket hidden, also packed what she might need for some hours of waiting, including her flint, tallow candles, and even a small lantern, wrapped in a cloth, in case we should need them.

When we were ready, we walked to the other cottage. Jeannie got to her feet stiffly. She had been tending to Jock, who lay curled on his side on the box-bed. I could not see if he was sleeping but he did not stir. Jeannie's face was grey, her forehead furrowed, her hair unkempt. There was little expression to be read in her eyes. Tam sat near her, throwing small stones into a circle he had marked in the dirt on the stone floor. A dog lay on its side, one eye open, watching the stones land.

Mouldy was stretching rabbit skins on a rack near the fire. Billy sat sharpening sticks to a point – I know not what for. Perhaps for setting a trap. Thomas stared up into the beams under the roof, as though he would find the answer to all his problems there. He glanced at us when we came in. Calum went to sit near him, and Thomas looked at him and I think smiled a little. Calum poured some ale for his father and his father drank it.

Jeannie poured us some bowls of broth and set bread beside them. We ate in a strained silence. I wished to ask what they thought about Iona now, after some time to think on it, perhaps to find some forgiveness. But I could not find the words, and I feared the answer.

How could they appear to have forgotten her so easily? Even Calum, it seemed. How could they think about us going after money when Iona had vanished and they might never see her again?

The silence was broken by Bess, asking Jeannie a question. “How does Jock fare?”

Jeannie shook her head. “I fear mightily for him. He canna walk – one side of his body doesna move right. I have heard of such a thing but…”

At this moment, the door opened and in came Red, with Old Maggie. He led her to the fireside, and set her in the high-backed chair, with surprising gentleness. Bess went and sat with her. I looked away.

Red turned to me, an unusual note of respect in his voice. “So, ye will ride after Douglas Murdoch tonight?” When I nodded, he continued. “We should mebbe try such a thing on the excisemen, one day! 'Tis a good trade, this highway robbery, taking from people what's no' theirs by right.”

“We'll use the money to buy more goods when we run a cargo next,” said Thomas.

Was this all they could think of? Even Thomas, Iona's own father? Sorrow was grooved in his face, but still he acted as though Iona no longer existed. Was their hatred of the other religion so deep that an only daughter could be lost with so little grief? And no attempt yet to find her and fetch her back?

As we finished our plain meal, wiping up the last thin dregs of salty soup, Old Maggie began to sing some of the words of Bess's ballad. And as Bess joined in, and as I watched her face harden and her eyes light up while she sang those words, I wondered if there was anything that would stop her holding her own poisonous hatred inside her, anything that would soften her heart and allow the bitterness to go.

I understood then that there was not. Bess would grow old and poisoned and damaged like Old Maggie. And I would not stay to see that.

I was sure then that tomorrow, after one more adventure, I would leave without her.