The Highwayman's Curse (8 page)

O
ld Maggie's fingers played in agitation on the twisted skin round her scar. I turned away.

Jeannie remained tight-lipped, a dark look on her face. She had been sweeping the floor around us while Old Maggie had told her story. Now, with a deft and sharp flick, she sent the pile of dirt into the fire, then put her broom aside and said, firmly, “Now ye tellt your story and let that be an end o' it. I'll get your spinning-wheel and ye can do something wi' that and take your mind off the memories. We could all do wi' some new stockings and there's still some o' last year's wool to be spun.” She nodded at Iona, who went to the other end of the cottage and, with a long stick, began to unhook a sack that was hanging from a rafter.

Jeannie shifted the spinning-wheel a little and guided the old woman to the stool beside it, unfastening something from the side of the wheel so that it could move freely. Iona now came back, carrying the sack, from which Jeannie took a mass of grey sheep's wool, which she set at Old Maggie's feet. The old woman smiled, as she took some of the wool in her fingers and expertly began to twist it, turning the wheel in her other hand. A rhythmic clicking filled the cottage as thin, strong strands began to appear.

“All in white,” she muttered as she spun, her ancient fingers flying fast, her liquid eyes fixed into the distance. She had no need to watch her fingers, so expert was she at this craft.

I stood up. Jeannie looked towards me and spoke. “Aye, 'tis time ye looked at the other cottage, the one I tellt ye about. Iona, come wi' us. Bess?”

Bess was sitting next to Old Maggie, passing wool to her. She looked up. “May I stay with Old Maggie?”

“No, ye'll come wi' us.”

Bess opened her mouth as though to argue, but she rose and came with us, though her thoughts seemed elsewhere.

What did Bess think of? I knew she felt some fascination for the old woman. If I am to be honest, I found her fascination distasteful. Yes, I pitied the old woman, of course – how could anyone not pity such suffering? But it was long ago. She should forget it now. She should let it pass and God would judge. What good would it do to keep it burning fiercely for ever? And what did it have to do with Bess?

Even more now, I wished that we could move on and leave these people. As soon as possible.

I wanted adventure, to ride my horse, to have the companionship of Bess, to survive on our wits and feel the open sky above me. I wanted to feel that there were choices I could make. These were things I had come to know since running from my home. No, they were not enough, but they were a start, and they were better than staying with this group of people and becoming part of their ways. I had now seen many lives of trapped poverty, and could measure them against my early life of cushioned softness and silks, and I could not believe that there was no other way than those two.

As I followed Jeannie outside into the spring sunshine, I felt weighed down by small but growing doubts. How would we leave? How would I tell Jeannie that we wished to go? And what if Bess did not choose to come with me?

The cottage, single-roomed like the other, though smaller, was cold and dank. The fire was dead. It had the smell of something rotten. Many things rotten, I decided as I looked around.

Jeannie, Bess and Iona set to clearing the mess. They flung clothes and items into a pile, then folded them and put them in a chest. Iona began to lay the fire, sweeping up the ashes and placing straw and sticks in an expert heap. I must admit that she worked well, though she spoke little and I did not know what to make of her. Bess took a broom from a corner and began to sweep the floor.

I stood there. I could not see what to do or why. I did not want to be here.

“Will, take these pots,” ordered Iona. She held towards me a pile of items: a pan with a handle, a wooden platter crusted with something, a bowl smeared with something else, spoons, two thick pottery cups.

“What will I do with them?”

“Wash them?” she said, with a slight smile. Her hair was now bound in a thick plait hanging all the way down her back. She was pretty when she smiled. Her being pretty made no difference to my mood. Still I did not wish to sleep in this cottage which Old Maggie and her dead husband had shared.

And so, in the yard, with sunshine around me, in the icy water that came from the well, I washed the pots. I heard the whinny of the horses, and at the same time their warm, grassy smell came to me and my spirits lifted a little.

I paused in my work and allowed myself to look up, and to gaze past the cottages and out of the yard. In the farthest distance lay the shiny strip of sea and suddenly all the openness, the emptiness, the vast sky, seemed indeed part of my world, a world where I could breathe freely. Perhaps what I did not like was only the grim interior of the dwelling where we had spent the night enclosed with strangers whom we little trusted, their whisky-reeking belches, their fizzing aggression, the undercurrents of what made them so dark and fierce and not of my ilk.

Indeed, the yard seemed well kept enough, though I could see little evidence of farming. I knew there was a cow, maybe more, in a byre which served as milking parlour and stable. Some chickens pecked over by some bushes. But there seemed little else. There were three small cottages, and the stable or byre, a shed which I think was for the chickens, and two other outhouses – one of which seemed to have been damaged by fire and had now a newly made roof. And there was also a latrine behind the main cottage.

Outside the yard, I saw no crops, only rough land, strewn with boulders and thick clumps of tall, reedy grass. A small field, enclosed by a wall, held the ponies. Yesterday, I remembered, I had glimpsed some fields a little way off, newly ploughed, with dykes separating them from grazing land, but I knew not whether these were fields belonging to Jock and his family.

I thought not. I think they had not the wealth for such land. Or the means to farm it.

Then I remembered the sheep. They had lost their sheep when the old shepherd was murdered. What would they do about this? Surely they would report the loss, and the murder, to the authorities? Surely the authorities would act for them?

There was much I did not understand or know. How much of it did I care about?

I used a stick to scrub the pots and dishes until they were as clean as I could make them.

Now, I wished to see my horse, Blackfoot. So I left the pots on the ground, where they could dry in the sun, and went towards the stable. Blackfoot and Bess's horse, Merlin, snickered as they saw me. I rubbed their noses. The hay in the manger was damp and unpleasant. This was the time of year when fodder from the previous autumn would be at its worst, beginning to moulder. They should be outside, eating what new grass they might find. I found some dusty meal in a bin and gave them some from my hands. The soft flutter of their lips against my palms was warm and familiar to me.

“We will ride you later,” I said to them. I was about to leave the stable, when I heard a noise in the yard – a clattering, and voices. I hurried out.

A man drove a cart. It was Hamish. Next to him sat a man dressed all in black. A churchman. The minister. On the back of the cart, a dark cloth covered something large.

Hamish helped the man out of his cart and led him across the yard towards the main cottage, holding onto his arm at the elbow. The minister was blind, that much was obvious. He looked like a crow, hunched and black, walking with a birdlike gait, picking his feet up high and placing them down cautiously. He held a stick before him.

After watching them go, I gathered up the pots and went to tell Jeannie that the minister had arrived. I thought he must have come to deal with the body of Old John.

I was correct only in part.

I
did not wish to watch what the minister might do with the body. Nor did I wish to intrude on the grief that the family must show. “Bess and I should ride the horses,” I said to Jeannie, as I saw her go towards the main cottage. “They need exercise,” I explained.

“Calum will go wi' ye.” He had come from behind one of the cottages.

“There is no need.”

“Aye, there is need. There are scoundrels and gipsies and villains o' all sorts. 'Tis no' safe for strangers.”

Nor was it safe for natives, I thought to myself, thinking of that old man's slit throat. Perhaps, too, she did not yet trust us. Perhaps she was right not to.

“I'll go too,” said Iona. It was not my wish that either of them should come.

“Ye'll no',” said Jeannie firmly. By chance, I looked at her as she said this. I thought I saw her shiver.

“Ye'll help the men,” said Jeannie. Iona turned swiftly, anger on her face, and flounced her way into the cottage, skirts swinging below her tiny waist.

And so Calum came alone with me and Bess. I did not wish for his company or like it. I do not think he had favoured us with more than two words and a blank look since we had arrived there the day before. It was not possible to tell what he thought of us, or of anything.

My doubts and my dark mood lifted as we rode out of the yard into the sunshine. We followed Calum on his long-haired, thickset pony, and rode towards the hills. When Thomas heard that we were riding out, he said we should go to Old John's hut and retrieve his few possessions.

With the sun and the sea behind us we travelled north. A dark forest covered part of one hillside, somewhat to our left, its edges clear and stark. On another hillside, yellow gorse stubbled the landscape, newly blooming. Soon we left the road, and to the sides of our path I saw patches of flowers, yellows and pinks and whites. The chill of the North was in the air, though on our backs there was some warmth in the sun.

Blackfoot felt powerful under my thighs, dancing to the music of spring. At a stream, we stopped, and dismounted to let them drink and eat new grass.

Bess was trying to talk to Calum, I noticed. She asked the name of his pony and complimented him on his riding – as she had complimented me on mine when first she met me, I remembered. I did not think him as good a rider as I.

She asked him about his uncles. His short answers told me nothing I did not already know. That Red was always arguing with Thomas, his brother; that Hamish lived over the hill and was married and had children; that Billy was weak in the head, but was strong and a good fighter.

“Why did Hamish not come to the cave with us?” I asked, more so that I could be part of the conversation than because I wanted to know. Since I had no plan to stay here long enough to need to know, it was of no interest to me.

“His wife does no' like him to. She has some idea o' him as a merchant.” Calum smiled. It was the first time I had seen him do so and I saw now how wide his mouth was. “And that he is! He plays no part in the smuggling, as far as his wife knows, but he deals in the goods afterwards. Along wi' his friend, the minister.”

The blind minister! Turning a blind eye, in truth!

“And you?” I asked now.

“Me?”

“Is this what you wish to do? For ever?”

The boy looked blankly back at me. A hostile look flashed in his eyes and he tossed his hair back. “How no'?”

And now Bess spoke. “Why should he not, Will? Is it not a way of taking from the wealthy what is not theirs by right? Just as we do?”

“Aye!” said Calum. Did I imagine it or did he really seem to move a step closer to her? “The taxes! What right have they to take a part o' what's ours? Why should we no' buy salt and whisky and malt without that they take a part o' it?”

I said nothing. Ideas such as this were not new to me any more. There had been a man I'd met once, shortly after meeting Bess, and his wife must wash their clothes in cow dung because the tax on soap had made it too expensive. I knew that this was not right. But….

But I did not like the alternative. I found no pleasure in anything about the lives of these people. A highwayman's life with Bess had been one thing, a life of adventure, just the two of us. And we could manage on our own, could we not? But this, this complicated group of people, with their whisky and their fighting, this did not feel like something I could be part of. And the old woman, and her fury, her ancient, futile bitterness – she especially I did not like.

Bess and Calum moved towards the horses and mounted. I followed. We rode on, the two of them riding slightly ahead, so that I could not quite hear all they said. Once Bess turned round in the saddle, smiling at me. “Isn't this a beautiful place, Will?” she said.

I did not want to disagree with her, so I nodded. And indeed, it was. No one could deny the beauty in the rolling hills, some gentle, some rugged, the range of colours, the light and dark splashed across the slopes, the shining sea behind us, the scents and sounds and shades of spring.

It was not enough.

W
e came to Old John's hut at around midday. A patch of dirty clouds now covered the sun as they swept in from the west, but I could see its steely glow above us. We were silent as we approached, and I could not help but look around cautiously, expecting armed men to leap from behind any bush or boulder. Did the old man's spirit linger here?

It seemed much longer than two nights since we had fallen asleep in the hut and woken to find the shepherd murdered and lying in his own blood by the stream. I remembered Bess's mood too, one of gloom, even despair. She had not wished to take Tam with us: I wondered where we would be now if we had followed her advice. But now she seemed light of heart again, and to burn with something like her usual spirit.

I was glad to see her this way once more, though I did not know what had changed her. Perhaps her earlier sadness had come merely from exhaustion, and the memories of losing her cottage to the redcoats' wilful destruction? And now perchance she had put such thoughts to the back of her mind and was living for the moment once more?

I did not know, not then.

I had noticed that she wore her locket, containing her father's ring, outside her clothing, but I thought perhaps this was because there was now no danger of it being stolen.

We dismounted from the horses. Bess reached out to touch Calum's arm and pointed down towards the place by the stream where we had found Old John's body. Calum said nothing, but his face looked grim and he nodded. She touched his arm again, as though to comfort him.

“Bess, come this way,” I called. I thought she should leave Calum to his own thoughts. It was his great-grandfather who had died here.

But Calum turned to us now. “I would kill them myself,” he snarled.

We looked at him.

“Our enemies,” he said. “The men who killed my great-grandfather.”

“Reivers?”

“No' reivers. Douglas Murdoch and his men.”

“Tell us more of Douglas Murdoch,” said Bess.

Calum frowned, his mouth tightening. “An evil man. A Highlander by birth, a Jacobite. No friend o' the English and no friend o' ours. His father has land up north and he threw his son out when he could no' control him. There was talk o' him cheating in a duel and killing a man. Douglas Murdoch owns much land here. He builds walls on common pasture so we can no' graze our sheep. And he grows richer. He takes what he wants and he has his own men who fight for him. All good men round here hate him. But we are afeard o' him.”

“How are you sure he killed your great-grandfather? Might it not be reivers?”

“No. This has the mark o' Douglas Murdoch. And he has taken our sheep afore. Because we would no' give him what he wanted.”

“What did he want?”

“At first, he wanted money. Everyone in these parts pays him, else his men cause damage, fearsome damage. We paid him for many years, but then Red said we must no'. We stopped paying Douglas Murdoch, so his men stole our sheep in revenge. That was many months ago. And then…” Calum paused.

“And then?”

“Then they burnt our winter fodder and we had nothing for our ponies. And he said if we gave them our ponies, and started paying again, they would leave us alone. But we couldna lose the ponies. Then he saw something they wanted even more. My sister. They tried to take her one day, two months back, but he had sent only three men and we fought them off. One o' them was hurt – he'll no' fight again, I think. Douglas Murdoch said we'd be sorry. This is how he thought to make us sorry. And it'll no' stop here.” He looked afraid, and I did not blame him.

But Iona. They would take Iona?

“They would steal her? Like a chattel?” asked Bess.

“For a wife?” I demanded, in disbelief.

“Mebbe. If Murdoch liked her. Or he'd sell her. Some other laird's son would pay a good price. Or the gipsies would. Douglas Murdoch wouldna mind, if he took what is ours. 'Tis his way,” he continued, seeing our unbelieving faces. “He takes all he wants. We have paid more money than we can afford since then and he has taken it, but if he wants Iona he'll have her too. He has not tried since the other time – perhaps he is content wi' what we pay now, but he might change his mind. And now Iona must no' go out alone, for her safety. 'Tis his way, to make us live in fear, no' knowing what he might do next.”

“If everyone hates him so, why do you not all join together, and stand against him?” Bess asked.

“No one dares join us. Bad fortune follows us and the world knows it. And now that they have done such a thing as murder, 'tis worse.”

Perhaps they were tainted by bad fortune. But they were also mired in their own struggle. If they fought fire with fire, would they not be burnt? Was there not a better way to stop the fighting? A better way to live?

Surely the law would help them? I asked this now.

Calum laughed. “The law is no' for the likes o' us! The law is for the lairds who want to take our land from us for their crops and their cows, so we canna graze our sheep on the common land. The law is for the King, who wants to take our money in taxes. We make our laws and follow God – that's what my father and my grandfather say. If a lawman came to our dwelling, my uncle Red would as soon fight wi' him as ask for his help.”

We were silent.

How could something like this end?