“More fool him,” Duncan says, and my cheeks flush. “I’m afraid your monks didn’t send any work for you this time,” he continues.
Of course they sent none; I’ll be joining them in a few days’ time. But he can’t know that.
“They don’t want me any more,” I say, and shrug. “Sent me a note last time thanking me for my services, but telling me I was no longer needed.”
Duncan tuts, shaking his head. “Ah, Alva, I’m sorry. After you working so hard for them all these years. Shame on them to cut you loose with no warning.”
“Aye. But what can you do?” I shake my head. “I’ll send the last lot back with you and get paid for that at least. What time are you leaving tomorrow?” I say it as casually as I can.
“After lunch, I expect.” He looks down at the tankard in his hand. “I won’t be wanting an early start.”
I smile. “Of course not. Say around one?”
He smiles. “One sounds about right.”
“Although,” I look at my own drink and raise my brows, “if I haven’t brought them by then, don’t hang about,” I add. I don’t want him waiting for me while I’m huddled in the back of his cart, desperate to get on.
“Too right.” He grins. “No more than they deserve, to be left in the lurch after ditching you.”
Giles beckons to Duncan to join him.
“I’m being summoned by my host. But I hope I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Enjoy the feis,” I call after him, and he raises a hand in acknowledgement.
“You’re a curiosity,” a voice says the moment Duncan is out of earshot. “That’s the only reason he’s interested in you. Same with Gavan. Novelty.”
Hattie Logan is at my elbow, upturned nose in the air.
“Nice to see you too, Hattie,” I say. “Thanks for that. I’ll be sure to keep it in mind.”
“The strange girl from up on the mountain. That’s your allure.”
“At least she has some.” Ren has appeared unnoticed at my other side. Now he looks out across the square with the air of a man surveying his lands and finding them wanting. “Unlike certain others here, who are about as enticing as sheep dip and twice as loathed.”
“As if I care what some Sassenach thinks of me,” Hattie says, spitting the insult at him.
“Whisht, you mardy coo,” Ren says, thickening his accent to mimic Auld Iain’s thick Highland brogue.
I laugh as Hattie’s neck flushes beet red and she stalks off.
Ren picks up one of the mugs of cider Gavan left and holds it out to me.
“Here. Waste not, want not,” he says. “Happy feis samhaid.”
“Same to you. Thanks for standing up for me just then.” I take a deep breath. “Ren … I’m sorry—”
“Don’t.” He stops me. “Neither of us were at our finest yesterday, and if you say sorry, then I’ll feel obliged to say it back, and I really don’t want to. So let’s just agree we had a mad moment and there’s no harm done.”
But I still don’t feel absolved. “Ren, it was more than a wee mad moment. I—”
“Do I need to tell you to whisht too? I said forget it. Know when you’ve won. Or lost. Or both.”
I shake my head and drink my cider, both hands around the mug, until it’s gone.
By now the light is starting to fade, and people are drawing closer to the pyre, waiting for it to be lit, but we stay back, outside of it. Though for once I don’t feel outside. I suppose that’s the difference between standing alone, and standing with someone else.
“Do you want another drink?” he asks, holding his hand out for my cup.
“You’ve not finished yours yet.” I nod to the other tankard, still sitting on the wall.
“I don’t like cider,” he says. “I’ll get something else.”
“All right,” I reply. “You owe me anyway. I paid Mack for your apple juice.”
He smiles wickedly, canines denting his lower lip as he bites it. “So you did. Can I tempt you with a birch wine?”
“Go on, then.”
He starts towards the square, then turns back. “Close your eyes and hold out your hands.” I raise my brows. “Just do it,” he says.
I do as he says, cupping my hands before me and shutting my eyes.
He places something solid in them and whispers, “Count to ten,” in my ear. I feel him move away.
I start to count, feeling foolish. Once his footsteps have faded I stop, and heft whatever he’s handed me cautiously in my palms. I hear rustling – paper – and feel small, solid objects within. I open my eyes and peer into the brown bag in my hands, and it’s full of pine candy.
Oh.
TEN
By the time he returns, my face is a normal colour again, the sweets tucked into my pocket.
“Thank you,” I say. “For these.” I pat my pocket, not meeting his eye.
“I owed you, if I remember right.” He hands me a wooden cup of sweet birch wine. “My lady.”
“Thanks. Again.”
Across the square we watch as Giles Stewart lights the pyre. The dancing will begin now. Gavan stands with Cora, James and Hattie, close to the Staff, waiting to snatch up the first ribbons and take their spots. Hattie and Cora have their arms linked, though Hattie is pulling her red hair around her finger, gazing at Gavan with naked adoration. He doesn’t seem to notice; he’s laughing at whatever James is saying, who in turn keeps glancing at Cora, as if to be sure she’s noticed how funny he is.
And from the looks of things, she hasn’t; her attention is occupied by subtle glances over at Ren. Well, I never. Cora Reid, from one of our finest and oldest families, has a yen for Ormscaula’s black sheep. Her mother would have her hide if she knew. Maybe that’s part of the attraction.
“Do you mind?” Ren asks.
“Mind what?” I watch Cora scowl as Ren leans closer to me.
“Not being part of that crowd any more?”
“I was never part of that crowd,” I scoff.
It’s not true, though, not quite. We were friends, once. I was always closest to Gavan, but I’d had tea at Cora and Hattie’s a couple of times, me the awkward third point of their triangle. In a place the size of Ormscaula you don’t have much choice; it’s pals or pariahs. And then there’s the uncomfortable truth that you’ll probably end up marrying one of your classmates. We have to keep records of every marriage, to make sure we’re not too interbred. That’s why Duncan caused so much excitement; he wasn’t related to any of us.
“You were,” Ren says. “So… Do you?”
“Yes. And no,” I say. The musicians are starting to tune up; I hear the warm hum of the fiddle, the boom of the drum. Ruairidh Cross will be somewhere with his pipes. “What about you?” I ask. “Do you mind when they call you ‘Sassenach’?”
“Yes. And no.” He repeats my words back at me. “It’s true, isn’t it?”
“Only half. Your father’s from here.”
“Is he? You’ll have to introduce me sometime,” Ren says. “Because as far as I know my mam and me are the only Rosses in Ormscaula. Unless you see someone out there that’s the spit of me.”
We both look out across the square at the villagers, gathered around the fire, which has finally taken hold of the pyre and is burning merrily. Ren’s mam came here just before he was born, claiming his da was a villager, but he’s right – there are no Rosses here, never have been. Only Liz Ross knows the truth of Ren’s father, and she swears blind he’s a Ross from Ormscaula and that’s why she came.
“I think,” he continues, his voice soft, “the truth of it is that my mam met some man who said he was called Ross and from some place called Ormscaula. And after he was done with her, he vanished. Then she found out about me, and came here looking for him. Though I can’t account for why she stayed, because it’s certainly not the friendly neighbours.” He smiles ruefully. “It would be the last place I’d run to.” He gives me a pointed look. “It’s more somewhere you’d run from.”
/> I keep my eyes fixed on the cup in my hand.
He throws back his drink, leaving the cup on the wall. “Come on.”
“What?”
Ren grabs my hand. “We’re going to swaddle the Staff. We two outsiders.”
“Oh no we’re not,” I hiss, but he’s already pulling me towards the square. “Murren, I don’t want to dance!”
“Of course you do.” He turns and grins. “Just imagine the looks on their faces when they have to make room for us. Don’t tell me this hasn’t been your dream since childhood.”
I’m spilling wine everywhere, dragging my feet as he pulls me towards where everyone is pairing off. But he’s right; a teeny, tiny part of me does want to dance. Growing up I couldn’t wait for it to be my turn to take my place among the older boys and girls of Ormscaula, ribbon in my hand and music in my heart. I’ve never done it before. I won’t ever get to again.
“They won’t let us,” I protest.
“Like they can stop us.”
In the fading light he looks wild, his blue eyes alight with glee. Like he’s from another world, some sprite or puck sent to tempt me into behaving stupidly.
“Ren…”
He stops. “Do you think I can’t?” He gestures down at his leg.
He would have grown up watching the older kids swaddle the Staff too. I bet he’s never danced it before, either.
And he’s right. It’ll put an itch in the knickers of every single one of them to see us taking part in their precious festivities instead of hiding in the shadows. I’m not ashamed to admit the thought of it makes me giddy.
“To hell with it,” I say, tossing the cup to the ground and picking up my skirts, pulling him behind me this time. “Let’s show them how it’s done.”
He whoops, which is enough to make some on the outskirts of the crowd turn, their jaws dropping as they see the two of us pelting towards them.
“Coming through, mind yourselves there,” I announce, slipping between people. Soon enough we’re standing behind a furious Cora and James, frozen in the act of reaching for a ribbon. “We’re in too,” I say, locking eyes with Rhona Logan, Hattie’s mother, as she glares at us from her lofty position as mistress of the dance.
“There’s no room,” she says immediately.
“I see two ribbons right there,” I say, before I can think better of it.
“I’m holding them for…” She peers over my shoulder, casting about for anyone she can rope in. “For… Ah – there they are. Aileen!” Mrs Logan bellows at her eldest daughter. “Come on through, you two! You’ll miss your place.”
Sure enough, there’s jostling behind us, and Aileen and Connor Anderson, who danced last year as newlyweds, are pushed forward. I look down at Aileen’s heavily pregnant stomach, ballooning under her apron, and then at the look of confusion on her face.
“Of course,” I say, stepping back, and gesturing for them to step forward. “After you.”
Connor makes to take a ribbon, only for Aileen to whack him in the arm.
“Connor, I cannae swaddle the Staff any more than I can see my toes,” she hisses. “You try heaving this weight about.”
“So, can we?” I ask. “If Aileen and Connor can’t.”
“There are others waiting for a turn,” Mrs Logan says. She is gripping the ribbons tightly, scanning the crowd behind us for anyone to prove her right, when Gavan speaks.
“Murren can have my spot, if he likes. And I’m sure Hattie will give hers to Alva, won’t you, Hattie? We don’t mind.”
Hattie looks as though she’s never minded anything more, but nods and holds her ribbon out without looking at me.
There is a pause. “No,” Mrs Logan snaps. Loath to lose a chance to throw her daughter at the son of the richest man in the village, she shoves the ribbons in her hand at me. “It’s fine. I suppose seeing as they’re so keen, they can have them.”
I snatch them before she can change her mind, and pass one to Ren. “Thanks,” I say, slipping past her and following my ribbon to its spot, aware the whole village is watching. Suddenly I’m not sure we’re doing the right thing.
Ren follows me and we stand, back to back.
“Have we made a terrible mistake?” he asks in a low voice.
“I expect so,” I reply grimly. “Can you remember how this goes?”
“Nope.”
“Me neither.” It’s been seven years since I last practised. “Just make sure you take out Hattie Logan first.”
He laughs as the music starts up, and the drum counts us in. To my surprise my body knows what to do, my muscles remember even if my mind doesn’t, and I put my left foot out, tilting at the ankle before swapping to my right.
I flash a quick smile at Ren as we begin to orbit the pole, kicking our legs in time to the drumbeats, weaving in and out past the others. Gavan gives me a radiant smile as he passes me, and James Ballantyne ignores me completely, but I don’t care, suddenly filled with the joy of the dance. I skip past Ren and hear him laugh.
Each circuit brings us closer and closer to the Staff as we swaddle it, the ribbons crossing over and shortening, so we have to take care not to knock into each other. In a flash of foresight I know what’s going to happen just before it does, but too late to do anything to stop it.
Hattie Logan moves to the side, as she should, so I can go around her, but she puts her foot out at the last second.
And I trip.
I grip the ribbon so hard in a bid to stay on my feet that my arm is almost wrenched from the socket. Ren slams into my back, and I fly forward, almost smacking into Tam Reid, one of Cora’s brothers, as he makes to cross beside me.
The music falters, but I keep dancing, determined not to give them any more reason to stare or mutter. I throw myself into it, eyes on the middle distance, teeth gritted, until the pipes finish with a flourish and the dance is over. As the village begins to clap and whistle, we all take our bows. Gavan is looking at me with pity, and Ren steps closer, maybe to keep me from flying at Hattie and murdering her.
But just then there’s a commotion from the back of the square.
“Help! I need help!” a voice cries, and the people part to let Fergus Brown from the Ballantynes’ stables stagger into the centre.
He bends double, wheezing, but trying to speak through it.
“What is it, man?” Giles steps forward.
“Someone’s let all the horses out of the stables. They’re gone.”
Ren nudges me. “Let’s get out of here,” he says in a low voice as Jim Ballantyne pushes through the crowd.
“What do you mean, gone?” Jim asks.
“I heard them carrying on from the hostler’s cottage, sounding afeard, so I went to look. But when I got there the stalls were all open, and they were gone.” Fergus stands upright and looks his employer in the eye. “The fences are all bust. Whoever took them just smashed clean through them, didn’t even bother with the gates. I followed the tracks as far as the forest.”
“Who would do this?” Jim Ballantyne spits. “Who would dare?”
“Come on,” Ren says, reaching for my hand. “Alva, if there’s trouble it’s best we’re not in sight.” He’s right, and I let him draw me away from the square as everyone crowds around Fergus.
He drags me all the way to the bridge. We stop then, drawing breath. He stands and looks at the village for a while, then turns to face me.
“Listen, Alva… I was serious the other day. I want to come with you when you go. I’ll be useful; I’ll get a job. And I’ll watch your back – I know you can take care of yourself,” he adds hurriedly, when my eyebrows shoot north in outrage, “but people will try to take advantage of a lass on her own, you know that.”
“And who will you be to me, Ren? My guardian? My brother? My husband?” I ask. He’s been planning this, trying to sweeten me up – literally, I realize, remembering the bag of pine candy.
“I wouldn’t expect—”
“I’d cut your balls off if you
even thought about it,” I snap, wrenching my hand from his.
I step right up to him, in his face, lowering my voice. Ren tenses, watching me, the moonlight washing him into black and white.
“Hear me, Murren Ross. I like you well enough, but I’ll not be your wife, pretend or otherwise. If you want to leave Ormscaula, leave. But you’ll not come with me. Do you ken?”
He gives a single nod.
“Goodnight, Ren.” I cross the bridge at a march, leaving him staring after me.
I hadn’t meant to stay down in the village until after dark, and I soon regret it as I climb the mountain towards home. The moonlight is bright enough when the skies are clear, but wreaths of cloud keep scuttling across it, plunging me into darkness and forcing me to stop walking until the light returns and I can see the track once more.
Twice I think I hear something behind me, and I turn, half-expecting to see Ren following, ready with a new argument, but the track is always bare, the fire in the village square visible as a glowing dot in the distance.
That’s when fear starts to creep in. Lughs, mountain geists… All the things that could hurt a girl alone on the mountain, and I didn’t bring a gun with me. I see a rock that looks to have decent weight and pick it up, grateful to have some kind of weapon.
But still, it’s a long, creepy walk home, and for the first time in my life I’m relieved when I finally step on to the cottage path and see there’s golden light inside, winking like a friendly eye.
Of course, that means my father’s home tonight, and therefore knows I’m not. My stomach begins to churn as I imagine his fury.
Screwing my courage together, and preparing to face him one last time, I start towards the cottage.
The reflection from the moon makes a pretty path over the water of the loch and I stop just outside the cottage, taking it in for the last time, breathing in the smell of the water, and the rushes, and the mud. It looks like a scene from a fairy tale, everything cast in pewter and black, the reeds silvered by the moonlight, the shadows between them velvety dark, the water beyond the mirror of the sky above, glittering as though a thousand stars sit just beneath the surface.
I will miss it, I think, taking it into my heart and holding it there. Even if I don’t want to, I will. I take my time, committing it to memory.
Hold Back the Tide Page 7
