A strange sickness overtook her, and from what seemed a great distance, she heard voices singing in the Gaelic tongue. They called for the earth to be fertile. To ripen and bear fruit. Rising together, they urged the natural energies to grow potent, to be virile and impregnate the land. Pungent fumes billowed in her face, and she staggered to a halt.
The images became carnal. Impressions of rutting stags, cattle mounting, and cot-lads openly straddling young girls swam in her head. Disorientated, she lost her grip on the stranger’s hand and would have fallen had not strong arms held her up. She faltered, giddy and a little nauseous, and swayed in relief against the cottar who prevented her fall.
Yet something here wasn’t right. Rising above the stupefying fumes another pungent but familiar odour assaulted Morven’s senses. Poached in Glenavon Forest and carried home for her and her mother to butcher, the stench of deer carcass overpowered her. She cried out in alarm. A swift and crushing pressure bore down on her ribcage, then the ground lurched away beneath her feet as realisation struck. The Beathach had her in its grasp.
It was useless to struggle yet she did so anyway. Never had she felt so helpless. A drum-beat struck once more and fell silent, the hammer of her heart loud in its place. Flames flared briefly, then the stone slab took shape before her. There was silence now but for the crack and ripple of fire.
Fingers dug ruthlessly beneath her ribs, and she gasped, writhing to free herself. Twisting her body, she saw the assembly stood still now, watching the spectacle from behind the fiery ring, their faces lit by its glow. She drew a desperate breath, trying to calm herself. Whatever was to come would likely be over in moments, yet her heart pounded so fiercely, her chest ached with it.
The creature swung her down onto the slab of granite and made a great show of pawing at the heather and braying like a wild stag. Beneath her, she felt stone, cold and unyielding, and made a scramble to remain upright and gain mastery of herself. The creature’s head swayed close. There was no face, merely a velvety muzzle, but when it snorted, Morven was engulfed in a cloud of whisky vapour. Her fear died. This was no beast, only a man playing one. She’d known that, but the recognition he’d required copious amounts of whisky before he could carry it off, calmed her. She almost laughed. The fog in her head began to clear, and she remembered why she’d come. A fair reap was needed, and calves for the droving markets, else there'd be no paying the rentals come Martinmas and no feeding the bairns come winter. She’d not wished for it, but she had been chosen and must play her part.
Looking again at the watching crofters, Morven saw many avert their gaze, although others did seem transfixed. Sarah stood amongst them, watching intently, a look of resentment on her face. Abruptly she turned and was gone.
The crowd began to stamp their feet, crying out, goading the Beathach to plough and plant the waiting earth. She swallowed. Plainly that was the part she must play. The creature began to circle her, moving in, snorting and pawing, then, sensing she was no longer afraid, grunted, ‘Best mak’ a good show o’ it, then.’
She gasped as it straddled her, pushing her down, a heavy weight on her chest and abdomen, and again the stench of whisky and deer carcass was unimaginably foul. She closed her eyes, held her breath, and the remorseless pounding began. Pinioned against the stone slab, the jar of bone was excruciating, and the creature wheezed a fine spray of stale liquor over her face. Yet she endured the wild sham mating with as much dignity as she could muster, bearing the deed in tight-lipped silence. Then, to the thunderous approval of the onlookers, he faked the climax and, leaving her splayed in a heap, danced away deftly and leapt the flaming barrier with all the agility of a young hind.
Morven struggled to her feet. Her skirts billowed, and she fought them down, a rise in the strength of the wind hampering her efforts. A blast of hot air hit her full in the face, and she reeled away, shielding her eyes with her hands. A gasp went up from the crowd. Within the ceremonial ring, the wind whipped and swirled, and Morven stared in horror.
The burning ring now rose in a wall of flames. Wherever she looked, there was nothing but fire. Another squall struck her with the fury of a banshee, spinning her around and knocking her down. She gasped, for the flames now leapt even higher, snapping and roaring. Dear God, how would she escape them?
There were shouts of alarm from those on the other side, and someone began to shriek. Desperate to find a way out, Morven ran to and fro, not knowing where to turn, flames licking at her heels. The wool of her arisaid began to burn, and she flung it from her, then snatched the smouldering pile up again pressing it to her mouth and nose. Her lungs began to ache, and she coughed and wheezed until her eyes and nose streamed, and she could no longer see where to run. The wind battered her again, almost blowing her onto the flames, and she stumbled to the ground. Beneath her, the heather curled alight. Flailing at it, she shrieked and pulled herself onto the stone slab, clutching at the cross hanging at her throat.
From the far side of the flaming barrier, she could hear frenzied shouting. Yet her heart told her nothing would be done. The ritual, the ring itself, was too sacred. An age-auld magic had been conjured, and no-one would interfere, for that could bring down unspeakable ills on the glen and its folk. No-one would risk that. Retching now, she remembered a chilling tale she’d overheard yet only half understood as a child. A tale of another lass and another Beltane night. A lass no-one spoke openly of, whose grave on a hillside folk still tended, but who’d done something that terrible she could never be buried in the consecrated ground of the chapelyard.
‘Pity Lord! Have pity!’
To her left, amid shouts and screams, the blazing barrier exploded in a hail of flaming missiles. A swathed figure ignited briefly, rolled to the ground, then barreled toward her. Not understanding, she cowered in fright, the hair on her nape standing on end.
‘’Tis alright,’ said a strange voice. ‘I’ll not let harm come to ye.’ She looked up into the face of the stranger, tight now with concern.
He lifted her and carried her through a brief blister of intense heat, then out into the stormy night, laying her down in the darkness some distance from the blaze. Exhausted and unable to fully comprehend her escape, she lay still, wheezing and sucking in gulps of clean air, listening to the growing clamour around her.
Above the sough and whine of wind, there were angry voices. They rose in alarm and confusion, some folk trying to beat out the now burning heather while others tried to stop them.
‘The Beltane ring!’ shrieked one old man. ‘Disaster! ’Tis disaster foretold.’
No-one asked if she lived and no-one came close enough to find out. She looked up to see the stranger, now a solitary figure, still thrashing heroically at the flaming heath.
‘Who is it brings ruin upon us?’
‘Thon stranger. Does anyone ken who he is?’
The change in the mood was unmistakable as all now recognised the significance of the man’s actions. Morven felt the ugliness grow and struggled to her feet as a pack of angry cottars advanced on him.
‘Wait!’ she cried. ‘He’ll nae ken. ’Tis a stranger he is, he’ll nae understand what he's done.’ She felt the hostility transfer to herself as stricken expressions now hardened and were directed at her. ‘He did save me. I'm thankful. He meant nae harm.’
The crowd made a menacing sound.
‘The lass speaks true! What are we, savages?’ Donald Gordon’s voice was shrill, the old cottar from Craigduthel now the focus of every stare. ‘Naeone has even tended her. ’Tis shamed of ourselves we should be, and thankful ’tis nae her smouldering body we’re collecting.’
A grudging murmur of acknowledgement followed this, then all turned to watch the stranger pick his way over the smouldering remains of the Beltane ring. He’d removed the protective covering from his head, and his dark hair was laced at his nape, revealing a face both surprisingly young and ardent. Locating Morven on her feet at the margin of the gathering, his strained expression darkened at
the sight of her taut, soot-smeared face.
Stumbling toward him, she extended her hand. ‘Sir, these folk believe ye've wronged them. But I give ye thanks fer my life.’ She gripped his hand. ‘I'm Morven MacRae. I'd be honoured to learn your name.’
Necks craned collectively to hear it.
‘James Innes of Tomachcraggen.’ He swept her a bow. ‘Jamie, I prefer.’
There was a combined intake of breath and Morven was momentarily at a loss: Tomachcraggen was Rowena's croft.
‘Tomachcraggen is held by the widow Forbes,’ said a blunt voice. ‘So who in blazes are you?’ The question was from Alexander Grant of Achnareave but was poised on every lip.
‘Her nephew. Son of her brother James. I was born in this glen but have bid in Inverness until two days ago. My family are all dead, but for Rowena and my cousins, and they’ve need of me.’ The young man raised his chin a fraction, a gesture not lost on the crowd.
Morven felt a tingle of excitement. The name James Innes … it meant something, but what? Her eyes widened, her breath caught in her throat. This young Highlander, and she could see now that the giant was no more than three or four years her senior, was from the family who’d taken her orphaned mother in near forty years ago. He was Rowena’s brother’s son. But that meant, as Rowena and her own mam were brought up together, that he was also the son of her own mother’s brother – or at least, her mam thought of him as a brother.
The gathering digested this information in stony silence.
‘Aye,’ muttered Jeems, a crony of her father. ‘I mind his kin. They were put from Druimbeag when my lads were but nippers.’
Morven was aware of a tensing of muscle in the young man beside her. He nodded, a flicker of anger crossing his face.
‘Aye, ’tis true enough. Reivers took our cattle, and my father was paupered. Unable to pay his rent, the factor had us evicted.’ He swallowed, a shadow crossing his face. ‘I have no memory of it, I was only a babe. My father took my mother and me to Inverness to find work.’ His jaw tightened a fraction, but he kept his voice level. ‘He died eight days ago, my mother and sisters too. The morbid throat did take them.’
Morven blanched; little wonder Rowena wasna among the gathering, she’d be crushed by this news.
There was silence, then Elspeth MacPherson, the miller’s wife, cleared her throat. ‘Yer folk, Jamie, they were well thought on. In the glen, I mean.’
‘Aye,’ Hal McHardy chipped in. ‘I mind them too.’
‘Mebbe so,’ grunted Achnareave. ‘And I’m sorry fer yer loss and all, but what ye've done here…’ he shook his head, unable to put the scale of the ruination into words. ‘God help us, I say, fer ’tis paupers we'll be, or bones fer the filling o’ pauper's graves.’ He shook his head. ‘You be marking my words.’
Jamie looked blankly at him, then turned to Morven with a questioning lift of his brows.
‘He means,’ she said, ‘that the rite, the ring itself, is age-auld and sacred. An enchantment it is, a pact wi’ the faeryfolk that we might be spared the hardship and suffering that is life in these high glens.’ She swallowed over her parched tongue. ‘Here where the auld ways are still followed we live by them and survive.’
‘The ring mustna be touched. It must burn the night through. Only, ye’ve beaten out its flames, scattered its bones ower the hillside.’ Achnareave lifted his hand to the litter of smouldering brushwood in a futile little gesture and stared hard at Jamie.
Jamie returned the look with open bewilderment. ‘I wasn’t to know of yer superstitions, sir. But I couldna let the lass burn. Ye'd not have wished that, would ye, faery charms or not?’
‘She’d have come to nae real harm,’ Achnareave spluttered. ‘But ye've laid waste to this place. Ye're an outsider. Misinformed.’ Pointing a quivering finger, he brought his face, working furiously, to within inches of the younger man's chest, his voice lowering in judgement. ‘The instrument of our undoing. That's what ye are.’
There was a murmur of agreement from the crowd, and Morven felt her anger rise, tempered a little by confusion.
‘Faith, she’d have burned alive!’ cried Craigduthel.
‘And how would we live wi’ ourselves then?’ blurted Elspeth.
‘And who,’ Craigduthel demanded, rounding angrily on Achnareave, ‘would be the one to explain it all to her da?’ He nodded grimly, glaring around at the others as each took turn to slide their attention down to their feet. ‘Aye, Delnabreck. Who’d be barefaced enough to tell him we’d left his only daughter to burn?’
Jamie blinked and shook himself, plainly mystified by the complexities of glen life, and leaned in toward Morven. ‘I meant nae harm. I hope ye see that. But if I've done ill in some way, I pray ye can forgive me.’ He turned to examine the faces in the crowd.
‘I ken that.’ She shivered, struck by another blast of wind, not knowing what to say. Had he saved her life? In her heart, she knew he had. And so his treatment now seemed unjust. Mightily so. And yet … yet she should not have come here. A humiliation it was, one that near cost her life. Only, Beltane was necessary, Rowena had said so. What, then, did all this portend?
She looked more closely at the young man beside her. He was Rowena’s kinsman, she could see her likeness in him, and seeing it, a stubborn desire to protect him stirred within her. She swallowed, ready to speak up on his behalf when an arrogant but familiar voice rose above the others, high-handed and imperious.
‘Damn it all, sir, Achnareave is right! You've no business here tampering with what you neither know nor understand. It comes as no surprise to learn you're a kinsman of the Forbes woman. Damnable mischief-makers, the pair of you!’
Morven gaped as William McGillivray, staunch Presbyterian, factor to their laird the Duke of Gordon, and local Justice of the Peace, pushed his way through the crowd flinging aside his homespun guise.
What she'd expected of the hilltop ceremony, she little knew. But the factor's presence she'd not foreseen, and it astounded her. Was it incurable curiosity that brought the factor up Carn Liath on a black Beltane night? Or an infernal wish to oversee? To make certain no pacts were forged here that might threaten the interests of his Grace the Duke? No crimes committed against king or government. Or was it, perhaps, a wish to gather evidence of sins or darker deeds? There was no way of knowing, yet, whatever it had been, his presence struck consternation throughout the gathering and brought home to all the threat of eviction. A fate all held in dread.
Jamie's face darkened, the tightening of a muscle along his jawline unmistakably marking his anger.
‘I'll have ye know, sir, my aunt is decent and kindly. No offensive words will I allow said of her.’ His voice came low but laden with such focused intent that the air near crackled with his anger. He held the factor's gaze, unblinking. ‘God will witness my truth, but I swear no finer kinswoman could a man wish fer.’ Turning, he swept his gaze over the gathering, and then, with a look of open challenge, brought it back to rest on McGillivray's slack-jowled face.
There was an immense presence about the towering young Highlander, a courteous yet rigid quality that allowed no crudeness or abuse of those precious to him. Several of the hill-folk agreed, despite the factor's standing with their laird. ‘A healer,’ someone called.
McGillivray guffawed. ‘I’ve heard it said, sir, she’s a priestess of the black arts. And a stinking Papist,’ he muttered under his breath.
With a gasp of rage, Morven blundered forward to defend her friend, but within her limbs, a mighty trembling had arisen. She felt giddy and weak. The blood drained swiftly from her head, her vision swam, then everything shrank away to blackness. She knew she’d dropped to the ground, could feel the roughness of heather against her cheek, the ridge of a stone jutting into her hipbone, but rising was beyond her. For a lingering moment, she could still hear voices.
‘The MacRae lass!’
‘’Twill be the shock.’
‘Is she just here herself, then?’
; ‘Aye, Delnabreck's away wi’ a consignment.’
‘Who’ll be getting her hame?’
The silence stretched for barely a heartbeat before a male voice spoke up, soft yet self-possessed.
‘I will. It’ll be my honour to see the lass home.’
Instinctively she knew the voice, unknown to her before that night, belonged to Jamie Innes.
CHAPTER TWO
Morven came round to find herself being carried through the darkness, her head cradled in warm linen. A fold of plaid was wrapped around her, tucked carefully in place beneath her shoulders, and an overpowering odour of burning arose from it. Her head snapped up and she sucked in a mouthful of frigid air.
‘Tis alright,’ said a low voice. ‘Ye're safe with me.’
A brief image of demonic flames and blistering heat arose before her, and she let out a half-sob before the memory dissolved in the night. The hold on her tightened, and the voice murmured something reassuring, something the wind caught and whipped away. All she could see of her rescuer was a vague shape, but his voice was calm and held a note of certainty, and the steady jolt of his strides lulled her into a place of peace. She slumped back, a little embarrassed by her childish liking for the refuge he provided.
‘Morven,’ he said tentatively. ‘D’ye know who I am?’
‘Aye,’ she said at once. ‘Ye're Jamie Innes. Rowena's kinsman.’
‘Thank the Lord, I was thinking the smoke had harmed ye, ye lay that still. Are ye hurt, d'ye think?’ They came to a halt in the darkness, and she felt his scrutiny.
‘No, I dinna think so … maybe my throat. Can ye let me down?’
The Blood And The Barley Page 2
