The Blood And The Barley

by Angela MacRae Shanks

  She looked darkly at her nephew. ‘I knew ’twas all a lie. Duncan had no pistol – he's never owned one. But no-one else could speak at the hearing.’

  ‘’Twas all a sham, then.’

  ‘The sheriff said the death was unfortunate, but a desperate disease must demand a desperate cure and the gauger was only doing his duty fer the Crown.’

  ‘A pat on the back, no less!’

  Jamie began to stalk back and forth. But what, if anything, could he do? In his mind, he turned over the events as Rowena had told them, exploring possibilities, carefully considering options and assessing the risks involved only to reject his fledgeling ideas in favour of others. After a while, he frowned and looked down at his aunt.

  ‘He’s cock-sure o’ himself. Convinced he canna be touched, or he'd never have told ye all this?’

  She considered for a moment.

  ‘I dinna believe he planned to tell me it all but in the heat o’ the moment, riled by anger and fear – fer he's more than a little afraid o' me – a kind of madness took him, a …’ She shook her head, and a violent shudder ran through her. ‘A bedevilment.’ Abruptly, she stood and stalked a few paces before turning back, her eyes blazing. ‘But if there's any in this glen possessed by the divil, then it's surely that man!’

  Jamie looked uneasily at her. Her hands were trembling, and unconsciously she traced the neat rows of stitching that crisscrossed the bodice of her gown. ‘Possessed, ye say?’ He lowered his voice. ‘He didna hurt ye, Rowena, bodily I mean?’

  She turned away. ‘He didna hurt me. But he plans to have me fer his wife and … and failing that he’ll see me gaoled and evicted. Thereafter I’ll be homeless – landless and penniless – me and my bairns at his mercy. In the end, he knows full well I’ll have no choice but wed him.’

  ‘Nae as long as I draw breath!’ He’d not allow it. The certainty of that settled in his core, buoying him a little. ‘He carries the knowledge of this deed with him always,’ he said gruffly. ‘It must burden him some, God-fearing soul that he is.’

  ‘I doubt it.’

  ‘But if he’d someone like-minded he could confide in, or better yet, if there was someone of little consequence close to him, listening, keeping his eyes open, searching fer the ring, that might prove the way to ensnare him.’

  A spark of hope ignited in Rowena’s eyes. ‘Who d’ye mean?’

  He smiled grimly but with a sickening lurch felt his guts turn over. ‘There’s only one man could do it. I must join the Board of Excise, seek work in Stratha’an, and then wait fer the miserable bastard to slip up.’

  ‘God, no, Jamie! ’Tis too much to ask! If he should find ye out, why he’d kill ye fer certain. He’d no more trust a kinsman of mine than sup ale wi’ his Holiness the Pope.’ She sat down abruptly and dipped her fingers into a dark pool Jamie hadn’t noticed before.

  ‘Ye mightna ken this lad, and I hadna the heart to tell ye afore, but you’re mistrusted here, in the glen, nae accepted yet, though I dinna doubt ye will be in time. Only this, this would just confirm their worst suspicions. The Stratha’an smugglers will never accept ye after seeing ye in the gauger's garb.’

  ‘To blazes with them!’ Seeing his aunt's shocked expression, Jamie softened a little. ‘You and yours are all that matter Rowena. You’re my blood, my kin … I canna let this happen.’ Kneeling before her, he willed her to understand and accept his gift. ‘I wish ye to know how dear ye are to me – far dearer than my own safety – and … and knowing it, will ye not let me do this fer ye? At least try?’

  She regarded him for what seemed an age, unblinking, then finally dropped her head into her hands and whispered fiercely, ‘God forgive me, but aye. Aye, I will.’

  ‘Thank you. I'll leave at dawn. Go to Elgin. To the Collector there and offer myself. I can send ye my wages to help with the croft and … and I'll come and see ye whenever I can, when it's safe, and tell ye what I've learned.’

  When she gave no answer, he continued to speak to the top of her head, hoping that if he talked through his fears and doubts, they might somehow cease to exist.

  ‘I'm certain McBeath kens nothing of me. I saw him only the once, at the ceilidh if ye mind when he tried to arrest Morven's da, but he paid me no heed. Nor does he know who I am.’ He thought for a moment. ‘We must tell no-one about this. With a traitor in the glen, the bastard could well get wind of our plan. And that would mean the end of it.’

  ‘Aye,’ she agreed. ‘I’ll nae tell a soul. If I must, I’ll say ye've gone back to Inverness, gone to make sure folk ye're acquainted wi’ survived the sickness.’

  ‘You can tell Morven,’ he added hastily.

  ‘We canna do that, Jamie.’ There was hurt in her eyes as she said it. ‘Canna be taking the risk. If ’twas her father betrayed us …’ She swallowed, an anguished expression twisting her face. ‘Ye must promise me.’

  Rowena was right, but still, his heart sank. What if he should discover Malcolm MacRae was the traitor? How could he tell Morven that? He nodded briefly and summoned the closest thing to a smile he could find. ‘Ye have my word on it.’

  Rowena looked tenderly at him. ‘Come, lad, we'll ask Brigid to protect ye. I need yer dirk.’

  He handed it to her and watched curiously as she cut a strip of cloth from his sark and dipped it into the pool. Chanting softly in Gaelic, she tied it onto a branch of the oak tree. He looked more closely at the tree. What he’d at first taken for blossom he now realised was a great number of cloth strips just like the one Rowena had cut from his sark but all obviously of great age. Desiccated by the winds of time, they looked as though they might disintegrate if he as much as breathed on them. The dusty remains of many were littered around the tree.

  ‘What is this?’ He peered into the dark water.

  ‘A clootie well. And a verra ancient one at that.’

  ‘A what?’ But he did know. As a child, he remembered seeing the bedraggled procession wend its way to the clootie well at Clava. His mother had tried to explain.

  ‘A place o’ healing,’ said Rowena, and he nodded. ‘These cloots or pieces of cloth represent the heartfelt pleas fer help of many souls over a great many years. No-one comes here now, but once this place was sacred to the Celtic Church. A place o’ pilgrimage. They’d pray to Brigid, the White Woman, and cut a strip from the clothes o’ the afflicted, or the one to go to battle, or into danger, and tie it onto the tree. Brigid would watch ower them as she still does today, only she’s kent as St. Bride now.’

  ‘She’s like Our Lady, then?’

  ‘One and the same,’ Rowena confirmed.

  ‘Thank ye,’ he said, watching his cloot move gently with the others.

  ‘No, lad. ’Tis me should be thanking you. I pray Brigid keeps ye safe.’

  ‘I pray she keeps you safe,’ he whispered. ‘You and my cousins.’

  Turning, they made their way out of the clearing, Rowena leading the way and an air of peace returned to the sacred place. Birds called to each other from amongst the trees, and a pair of tree pipits parachuted down from the treetops, giving voice to their joy in loud musical trills. They settled on the ground, then rose again in alarm as the branches of the old oak tree began to shake violently. There came a loud snapping of boughs, and a shower of rags rained down in a cloud of dust. Eventually, a pair of legs appeared, dangled for a moment, and then dropped down in a ball of skirts.

  Sarah picked herself up and rubbed her neck and shoulders. She was stiff from her long-cramped concealment in the tree, but it had been well worth it. Whoever would’ve guessed her playing truant from the teachings of the dry auld dominie would be so rewarding? She hadna heard everything they’d said but enough, enough she supposed for her purposes.

  So, Jamie was to join the Excise. Why he couldna just stick a dirk in the Black Gauger’s back, she couldn't quite fathom, but she hoped McBeath would hang. A slow lingering death with the knot nae positioned right so he would choke, a quick death was too good fer him.

/>   She brought out the parcel of bannocks and cheese her mother had made for her that morning and made herself comfortable by the well at the foot of the tree. A knowing smile stretched her pretty lips. Poor Morven, she snorted aloud at the thought. What rare entertainment she’d have with her mother’s devoted apprentice. Anticipation warmed her breast, a welcome exchange for the more confusing feelings her mother’s words had aroused within her.

  She’d not think on her da’s unspeakable end, wouldna dwell on the shock of it. Only in the depth of night, alone in the darkness would she think on that. Then the tears would come. She screwed her face up, lest they come now and spoil her fun.

  ’Twas only fair she should have some sport with Morven. Compensation, so to speak, fer her stealing her mam away. For that gnawing wound that ate away at her innards. And she was stealing Jamie too, she could feel it. A fearful bitterness smarted in her heart. What was so special about Morven anyhow? Naught that she could see. And soon Morven would see it too. And Jamie? She considered him for a moment. She’d still to decide about Jamie.

  She stretched herself out to wait in comfort until it was time to meet up with William returning from his lessons. So, no-one ever came here anymore? That only proved how little her own mam knew about her. She cracked her knuckles. Or cared.

  CHAPTER TEN

  A little after dawn on the morning after Isobel and her infant died, Morven sat with her kinfolk as they broke their fast. She had no appetite. She’d passed a restless night thinking long and hard how best to tell them of the deaths, thinking on the words to use and how much to divulge of the gauger’s accusations. Disturbed by what she’d witnessed, she finally delivered the tidings in a forthright manner, then sat back, her stomach churning. She’d meant to soften the news somehow for her mother’s sake, but ’twas done now.

  Her mother’s eyes filled with tears, and she dropped a protective hand to her abdomen. ‘Poor Isobel. After all she’s been through, ’tis so pitiful unfair.’

  Morven turned to her father. He’d stopped chewing and now glowered critically at her, his spoon suspended in mid-air.

  ‘The woman was aye a weakling, but ye should've kent better than to go there … and wi' Rowena Forbes. God’s blood! Ye'd no business involving yerself wi’ the gauger's wife.’ He brushed the crumbs from his beard and fixed her with a black look. ‘There’ll be hell to pay, see if there’s not, and we’ll all have to pay fer yer foolishness!’ Grunting, he resumed ladling porridge into his mouth.

  Stung, Morven raised her chin. ‘We went there to help her. To be Christian!’

  ‘Aye, and failed.’

  ‘Maybe so, but Rowena brought her some comfort – at least she tried!’

  ‘Rowena! I'll tell ye what Mistress Forbes has brought.’ He leant across the table and locked eyes with his daughter. ‘More tyranny. More hardship and suffering fer us all.’ Standing abruptly, his breath whistled down his nose causing the protruding hairs to quiver. ‘There’ll be reprisals. He’ll be wanting to take an eye fer an eye. ’Tisna hard to see where he’ll be wanting to take it. Stay away from Rowena!’

  ‘What?’ Her mouth dropped open. ‘Rowena’s the wisest, most selfless …’ But he’d not see that, being hellbent on opposing his daughter. He’d merely judge this another opportunity to curb Rowena’s influence over her.

  He made an exasperated sound in his throat. ‘She’s seen as blasphemous, profane. She be deemed wicked!’

  ‘By who? Nae by me!’

  ‘By those that matter, those we need to cultivate good relations wi’ that we might keep a roof ower our heads!’

  ‘Ye mean the factor? As if he even kens ye exist!’ She tilted her head and looked askance at him. ‘And he means more to ye, does he, than yer own kind?’

  ‘He does not!’ A storm of indignant blood boiled up Malcolm’s neck and steam near blew from his ears. ‘Upon my honour, he does not!’ He drew several short breaths to calm himself, then hissed, ‘Stay away from her.’ He thrust his bowl at Grace. ‘Swear it!’

  Morven’s eyes ignited mutinously; deliberately she pressed her lips together.

  Malcolm nodded once to verify his understanding of the facts, then with a disgusted glance in her direction stuffed his bonnet onto his head and banged the door on his way out. Alec coughed apologetically into the silence that followed and gave her hand a quick squeeze.

  ‘Never heed him. He doesna mean anything by …’ His hand fluttered, encompassing the volatile idiosyncrasies of their father's manner. Ever her champion, Alec would remain loyal to his da no matter what. Giving her a rueful smile, he took his leave to catch him up.

  ‘He means nae harm,’ Grace said defensively. ‘’Twill be alright, I ken it will.’ She sat back in her chair and looked steadily at her daughter. ‘I mind how earnest he was the day Duncan and Rowena were marrit. It did swell my heart. He swore to take care of her, swore it to Duncan, vowed should anything ill happen he’d look after her as if she were his own blood. He’s nae forgotten, I ken he’s not, nae matter how it seems.’

  ’Twas hard to believe, yet Morven could also remember a different man, a father she’d once been proud of, before this crabbit stranger. She glanced at her younger brothers; both were staring at her, even Donald recognising the significance of Isobel's death. She took a calming breath. She’d made no mention of the Black Gauger’s behaviour, of his wild accusations, that could come later, maybe, if she deemed it wise.

  ‘I'll be away to the spring fer water.’ She rose from the table and her untouched bowl. Fetching water was generally Donald's chore, she winked at him, but she needed time on her own.

  ‘If ye like. Ye did right to go to her, though.’ Unconsciously Grace cupped the still flat plain of her own belly. ‘I'm proud of ye fer trying, nae matter the outcome.’

  Morven smiled faintly; ’twas good to hear her say so, even be it out of her da’s ear-shot.

  The spring their water was drawn from was only a few minutes’ walk from the shieling hut. Here, Morven washed in the icy water and filled two staved wooden pails ready for the day's cooking and chores. The rocks around the spring were sodden and slippery with weed, though it looked drier under the stand of pines clinging to the hillside above. She climbed up to them. It was peaceful among the trees, the silence broken only by the dry crunch of pine needles beneath her boots and the haunting cry of a curlew. She sat on the ground, feeling the sharp prickle of the needles, and stared out across the glen. The clouds were thin and high, mere smears of mist, and she could see Ben Avon in the distance, wild and barren, still wearing her bonnet of snow. In a good year it might melt by August and stay clear until October, but she hadna come to admire the view. ’Twas Rowena that worried her.

  The widow had uttered not a word during their frantic ride from Balintoul, her expression ghastly. She'd been shocked by the gauger’s violent behaviour as much as her failure to save Isobel and the child, but Morven had never seen her look so stricken. She’d helped Rowena onto her pony, hastily packing her things around her, then urged the garrons into a frantic gallop. Taking Rowena’s reins together with her own, she scattered the merchants at the marketplace, inciting several to run cursing after them, and drew a sharp challenge from two redcoats loitering in the square – she lent them scarce a glance.

  As they left the tumult behind, she mouthed a silent prayer for the ponies’ sturdy hearts as they tackled hill after hill without complaint, breath snorting from dripping nostrils. Turning the garrons toward Strathavon, she glanced sidelong at her companion, wishing to ask what had happened while she ran for help but deterred by the dreadful look on her face.

  On reaching their own glen, she slowed the garrons to a walk, allowing them to recover. Her own breathing was ragged, and her heart pounded hard. She gave Rowena back her own reins, and they walked silently in single file. At the fork in the track that led to Tomachcraggen, she at last ventured to ask what had taken place in that room. Rowena swayed in the saddle, then tumbled to the ground and staggered
a few feet before retching into some bracken.

  ‘Are ye alright, Rowena?’

  Her sickness over, the widow dropped to her knees and rocked herself back and forth emitting an unearthly keening sound. Morven faltered at her side, then shrugged off her arisaid and wrapped it around Rowena's shoulders.

  ‘What’s happened?’ she said again. ‘Can ye not tell me, Rowena?’

  ‘I'm alright. This is … just a bit o’ foolishness.’

  ‘But something's happened. I ken it has.’

  The widow ran an unsteady hand up the side of her neck, massaging the tense flesh at her nape. ‘Nothing's happened. The man was demented wi' grief … ’twas understandable.’ She gave a grim nod, indicating she was restored enough to continue and climbed back into the saddle.

  ‘Are ye certain? I mean, he didna threaten ye?’

  ‘I just took it hard being so … so powerless to prevent that gentle soul from bleeding to death afore my eyes.’ She smiled a crooked smile. ‘But I’m accustomed to being branded a witch.’ She averted her eyes from Morven’s continued study of her face and stared patiently ahead, waiting for Morven to remount.

  ’Twas plain she was hiding something. But what? And why? Morven stole another glance at her, but the widow planned to give no more away; she’d withdrawn into herself, her face a careful blank.

  They went their separate ways then, Rowena mumbling her thanks, and Morven pressed her no further. She held the bay mare in check for some time though, watching until the small mounted figure merged with the moor, and her disquiet continued.

  She felt that same disquiet now as she gathered up a handful of dry pine needles and crushed them to dust. Lord, that the bairn had thrived, that Isobel had lived to tell the truth of the matter, but the Lord hadna seen fit to work things that way, more was the pity.

  She thought it likely McBeath had threatened Rowena, and his threats were anything but idle. He was able to draw on the redcoats or Black Watch if need be. She remembered Sergeant Shiach's irritation with him; perhaps the sergeant would be less than eager to do McBeath's bidding, but that still left an entire garrison of English redcoats stationed at Corgarff. Charged with keeping peace in the Highlands, arresting a murderess would certainly fall within the scope of their duties. Whether McBeath could have Rowena charged with witchery was another matter, but this would be serious kindling for the fire that already raged about her in certain quarters, notably with the factor and his band of acquaintances. And the risk of eviction already hung over Rowena's head.