Morven stood obediently for the Bible readings, then knelt to pray when directed and responded in the correct places to the Father's familiar prompting. It was warm in the chapel, the air vaporous with the breath from many bodies crammed close together, their woollen clothing sodden with rain. The scent of incense and the flicker of altar candles brought a drowsiness that reminded her of her lost hours of sleep. She shifted uncomfortably, pressed against wee Donald, and fixed her eyes on the statue above the altar where Our Lady of Perpetual Succour smiled down benignly. The languid air lulled her again and her vision blurred, her eyelids heavy with weariness. She half wished she could sleep, that way it might all prove to be a dream.
Instead, she stared at the charred chapel walls, their blackness bringing a familiar pang of horror. Belying the glory of the chancel, the blackened stones of the chapel walls bore testimony to the passage of the British army on route to Culloden, when they burned not only the old chapel but also the homes of the Catholic Highlanders they found in the glen. Faithfully rebuilt to the same inadequate proportions as the original, the building now leaked copiously when it rained, the walls slick and slightly green-tinged, and bulged at the seams, each seat accommodating at least two people.
She shook herself but could find no solace in the Father's words. Rather, his voice set her teeth on edge and the dimness and pressing warmth seemed to suffocate her. The gospel reading and epistle left her untouched, and uncharacteristically she wished the service to be over and to feel again the freshness of rain on her face.
People began to file past to receive Holy Communion, and Morven watched Rowena carefully, yet there was nothing to be read in the widow's pale countenance. Rowena remained as enigmatic as ever.
Soon, Morven also received the consecrated bread. ‘Go in peace,’ the Father mumbled, touching the top of her head, but she could find no peace in her heart, only bitterness and confusion.
At length, with the solemnity of the service over, the Father's weatherworn face, hardened and ruddy through the assaults of wind and snow, creased into a kindly smile and his eyes watered.
‘I have heartening news,’ he declared, surveying his flock with unconcealed pride. He dried the top of his head where rainwater had been dripping through the roof. ‘This very day I received a momentous communication from Rome.’ He picked up an elaborate scroll, his hand trembling a little, and held it up before continuing. ‘The Papal Administration has generously presented funds to the faithful of this glen. These funds are fer the building of a new more commodious chapel, one that ’twill serve the steadfast and devout of this land.’ He clutched the scroll to his chest, beaming as a gasp echoed around the blackened building, and nodded his head delightedly. ‘It's nae quite enough, I fear,’ he added hastily. ‘But I'm confident we’ll be able to raise the remainder ourselves.’
There was a cheer at this, and the congregation broke into spontaneous applause, the little priest bobbing jubilantly. ‘I thought,’ he went on, holding his hand up for calm, ‘that the Stratha’an Gathering in a few weeks’ time might afford an opportunity fer fund-gathering, there being generally many visitors to the glen. And perhaps His Grace, whom I know to be sympathetic to our cause, might also be persuaded to donate.’
This last proposal clearly held even greater support, and he again signalled for calm. ‘I had hoped,’ he went on, ‘that the hated, Act for Preventing the Growth of Popery, might soon be repealed, and we might be free to design our new chapel to look quite openly like a church. However, ’tis not to be, dear souls – nae yet – but our day will come, dinna doubt it. Until then, we’ll keep the faith, and I pray ye all remember what the Lord himself preached – that the meek shall inherit the earth.’
At that, the congregation rose to their feet amid a mighty clamour, a collective outpouring of devotion. Father Ranald shook his head self-effacingly, motioning for them all to be seated again that he might conclude his announcement.
‘Anyone with suggestions fer raising funds can speak with me outside or see me at their convenience, and of course all those fit and able to perform their portion of the necessary building work will be expected to do so.’ With that, he brushed away a stray tear and sat down abruptly on the chancel step, his robe trailing in a puddle.
Grace grasped Morven's hand and gave it an excited squeeze. ‘Is the Lord nae bountiful? And methinks,’ she added conspiratorially, ‘that our littlin when it comes might be the first bairn baptised in the new chapel!’
Morven smiled weakly at her, her eyes unconsciously straying to the flat plain of her mother’s midsection where the new life quickening in her was still indiscernible. Grace was far from glowing, Morven often wondered how such a slender neck could support her head with its weight of hair, yet she was undoubtedly euphoric to be once again swollen with the fruit of Malcolm MacRae's loins.
They gathered outside on the heath, Grace instinctively seeking out Rowena to share in her joy. ‘But, where's Jamie?’ She looked past Rowena to the last few people emerging from the chapel into the rain.
Rowena's hesitation was so fleeting it might have gone un-noted by any but the shrewdest observer. ‘Inverness,’ she said cautiously. ‘He wished to go back … to see folk, see how they fared the sickness. I'm nae rightly sure when he'll return.’
‘Aye, poor lad.’ Grace dismissed it, turning to blether excitedly to the boys.
Sensing Morven's scrutiny, Rowena glanced into her face, a flicker of contrition darkening her eyes before she turned away. She was lying. Morven knew her far too well to mistake her discomfort. Jamie had never mentioned folk in Inverness. There'd been acquaintances, aye, and an old priest he'd spoken of, but no-one he'd been close to, nae that he’d mentioned, nae enough to make him wish to go back, she concluded. ’Twas true then, Jamie’d forsaken his kinfolk.
Yet such was Rowena's desire to protect his honour, to shield her nephew from shame, she’d attempted to cover his contemptible behaviour with a lie. Morven tasted gall on her tongue, but above all, it was a terrible sadness she felt. Grief for Rowena. And feeling it, she realised she must uphold his worthless honour too, for Rowena’s sake, though the miserable cur had no right to such a kinswoman.
Her father was less charitable. ‘Nae muckle use to ye in Inverness, is he?’ he grunted. ‘And what o’ the crofting and the whisky-smuggling he was so eager to get into? He's surely nae expecting me to sell his liquor fer him, or has he forgotten the ankers he's stashed at my bothy?’ The shrewd green eyes disappeared under lowered brows.
‘We could mebbe carry Rowena’s whisky south fer her,’ Alec interjected. ‘Along wi' our own. After all,’ he added, seeing his father's expression, ‘another couple ankers will make little odds. Rowena could mebbe spare a pony to carry them?’
‘If it's nae too much trouble.’ Rowena eyed Malcolm dubiously.
He grunted without enthusiasm, then, realising all eyes were turned on him expectantly, grumbled, ‘God’s blood! Am I never to be done wet-nursing that lad?’ Glowering at Alec, he puffed his cheeks out. ‘If the lad's truly gone, then I daresay I've little choice.’
‘That's real Christian o’ ye.’ Rowena's relief was pitiable. ‘We're indebted to ye.’ Her gentle hand gesture included William, standing silently beside her in the rain, and Sarah, slightly removed from their little group and watching with an odd air of attentiveness.
‘Och,’ said Grace. ‘There's nae need to thank him. ’Tis what any decent man would do.’
Malcolm turned away sourly, making a great show of greeting Craigduthel, who loitered nearby. He was glad of an excuse to extricate himself, yet once he'd have helped Rowena without a second thought, there'd be none o’ this sullenness. Yet he was a man, Morven thought with a measure of scorn, and like the rest o’ the breed utterly beyond comprehension.
Droplets of rainwater were beginning to gather on her eyelashes and to drip from the end of her nose. She tilted her head back and let them trickle down her neck. Alec was the only decent man she knew, excep
ting perhaps fer Father Ranald, who, being a priest, hardly counted. She turned to catch her brother's eye, but he was far too busy gazing at Sarah. He was trying to cheer her with one of his quirky grins, that whimsical look on his face, the one he used to win over wee Donald when he was crabbit, the one he sometimes gave her.
Sarah remained unmoved, her eyes surveying Alec with apparent disinterest before dismissing him. Yet a flush at the base of her throat betrayed her pleasure. Alec whispered something into her shoulder and brushed her arm as he drew her closer, his eyes soft and coaxing, and she rewarded him with a throaty laugh. His sensitive young face lit with elation. With a jolt, Morven realised her brother was smitten. Conscious of prying on something private, she turned away.
‘… wi'out Jamie, then?’ She caught only part of her mother's enquiry but observed Rowena's immediate discomfort.
‘Aye,’ answered the widow, ‘but we'll manage.’ Swiftly changing the subject, she turned to Morven. ‘I’m thinking about reading fortunes at the Gathering. To raise funds fer the chapel, I mean. And am wondering would ye like to help. Ye've a gift fer such things. What d'ye say, lass?’
Taken aback, Morven glanced instinctively at her father. He snorted without looking at her, but nodded minutely. ‘But, would it nae be unseemly?’ She lowered her voice. ‘An ungodly thing to do, given the money's fer the chapel?’
Rowena considered for a moment. ‘I'll need to ask Father Ranald first, but he's kent me long enough to know I mean nae disrespect. I doubt he'll object. ’Tis fer the new chapel after all.’
‘Then, aye.’ Morven felt a slight lifting of her gloom. It was the first pleasant sensation she’d had for some time. ‘I’d be liking that.’
Rowena was skilled in the art of soothsaying, a spaewife folk called her, and had already shown Morven a little of what she knew. Yet there was still much to learn; Morven felt a tingling in her belly at what was to come.
***
Isobel and her infant were laid to rest in Balintoul kirkyard the next day. They were buried beneath the yew tree that already sheltered the graves of her other infants. None of the Catholics from the glen attended, the service being held in the Presbyterian Kirk with a heavy presence from the Board of Excise, but Grace offered a prayer for her soul and that of her infant at breakfast on the day of the funeral, and Morven knew many in the glen remembered her fondly.
It was rumoured McBeath was that drunk on the day of the funeral, he stumbled bearing Isobel's coffin and pitched forward, tipping it headlong into the grave. But as time went by, no dragoons came to arrest Rowena, and there were no reprisals exacted on her or any of the glen smugglers. McBeath was rarely seen in the glen, spending his time, ’twas said, the worse for drink at his home, or, more often, ‘mortal fou’ at the Balintoul Inn with his equally idle assistants. Morven began to breathe a little easier.
Her father and Alec made full use of this slack period, smuggling their mountain dew south into many Lowland cities, even Edinburgh itself. They’d meet up with agents Malcolm dubbed ‘blethermen’ some miles from the town where their rough Highland appearance and laden ponies would draw less notice.
Morven worked herself ragged at the still, keeping them supplied with whisky, and for the first time she could remember knew her father was confident of paying his rental at Martinmas in the cash demanded by the articles of his lease agreement instead of precious cattle. He even spoke of having silver left over to go toward next year's rent and joked he'd become McGillivray's best customer. It failed to lighten his mood any, and he warned the Black Gauger was surely plotting something.
Morven's days were full, but at the same time, she felt her life to be empty. She spent long hours alone at the bothy, Donald bringing her parcels of food and ale, and although she was needed more and more by her mother as Grace's health deteriorated, despite her father’s command to stay away, she still managed to spend every spare moment she could with Rowena.
The widow mentioned Jamie only the once. A few days after his departure, alone together at Tomachcraggen, Morven sensed a rent appearing in the widow's mask of composure. They’d been discussing the behaviour of egg whites dropped into cold water, interpreting the writhing of upright oat straws thrust into the ashes of the fire and other such methods of divination for what seemed an age, although was likely little more than an hour, the atmosphere in the room stiff with tension, when at last Rowena sighed and turned to Morven.
‘Ye'll be wanting to know why Jamie's gone, I expect.’
Morven had been skirting around the subject, at pains to avoid anything that might bring back a memory of him and sensed Rowena had been doing the same.
‘It’s nae my concern,’ she said gruffly. ’Twas enough that the coward had deserted his kinswoman without Rowena needing to explain what so plainly shamed her. ‘Anyhow, I ken why he's gone,’ she said without looking up.
‘What d'ye ken?’
‘That he's … away seeing folk in Inverness. ’Tis what ye said, isn’t it?’ Acutely aware of Rowena's attention to her answer, of the air of sudden stillness about her, Morven kept her tone light.
‘Aye.’ Rowena released her breath. ‘’Twas his reason.’
Morven observed the tension leave her companion and was glad. Rowena had plainly sensed she didn’t believe her story and had felt the need to explain, though the thought of revealing Jamie’s real reasons clearly pained her. Well, there was no need. If Rowena had no wish to speak of Jamie's shameful desertion, then that was fine – neither did she.
‘Are ye going to show me how to use thon magic stone?’ she coaxed, picking up a small wooden box Rowena kept on her dresser. It contained a cairngorm, a semi-precious stone from the Cairngorm Mountains, a fascinating thing of translucent umber that caught the light of the fire and then burned with its own fire. She opened the box and held up the gem, watching it gleam slickly as she turned it in her hand.
Rowena chuckled. ‘Ye've been fair taken wi’ that since ye were a wee sprout, but it can tell ye things if ye really look.’
Morven smiled. Rowena was at ease again, and ’twas as it should be. ‘Will ye teach me how to look?’
***
Having given his permission for the fortune-telling, Father Ranald suggested a small hut be built for the purpose on the ground where the Gathering would be held. This, he felt, would accord a degree of privacy to the proceedings and would hopefully encourage more to part with their money. Alec built the hut, and with William and Rory as eager apprentices, had spent the last two days thatching it with heather. Morven now surveyed the neat windowless structure with a mixture of both pride and embarrassment that he’d gone to so much trouble.
‘Ye've done a grand job,’ she told him, pushing open the rough-timbered door. ‘You as well,’ she added, seeing Rory's crestfallen expression. ‘Let's just hope there's many willing to part with their siller fer the curiosity of it all if naught else.’
‘I doubt many hill-folk will,’ Rowena observed. ‘They've nothing to spare. But maybe the visitors.’
It was dark inside the hut, the chimney little more than a hole in the roof, and the interior smelled strongly of fresh-cut pine. Morven thought a few fir-candles would be enough to supply the correct air of mystery.
‘The factor should be paying ye fer this.’ Rowena spoke to all three boys with equal measure. ‘He's bound to find some use fer the building once the gathering's over.’
For many years now the Strathavon Gathering had been held in the grounds of Inchfindy Hall, home to William McGillivray, and they were all aware that acting as host with the position and privileges that entailed was very much to his liking.
They emerged from the hut into the sunlight again to see a group of men standing at the entrance to Inchfindy Hall. All were dressed in fine hunting clothes, carried muskets, and were apparently watching them with considerable interest. A stocky well-dressed figure in bronze doublet and feathered bonnet broke away from the group and advanced purposefully toward them across the lawn
. The bloated figure was unmistakable, as was the swaggering gait.
‘Hell, no,’ swore Alec.
The factor cocked his head suspiciously to one side as he neared, his face darkening, jowls wobbling in rhythm with his snatched strides. Morven was conscious of Rowena tensing at her side.
By the time he reached them, he was breathing hard, whether through anger or exertion she couldn’t tell, but the murderous glare he levelled at Rowena was impossible to mistake. His lips thinned in distaste.
‘What in the devil is this woman doing here?’ He directed his bark at Alec, evidently dismissing Morven and the two boys as beneath his attention.
‘My neighbour, sire,’ Alec replied evenly. ‘Mistress Rowena Forbes. His Grace’s tenant at Tomachcraggen.’
‘I know full well who she is!’ he boomed. ‘What's she's doing on my lawn, that's the question?’
‘She's here to inspect the hut I built fer her, sire. She and my sister are to use it during the Gathering. ’Tis fer the fortune-telling. But…but I thought ye’d be knowing that already, sire.’
McGillivray's eyes widened incredulously. ‘You mean to tell me this…this,’ his mouth worked furiously, searching for a fitting phrase to describe Rowena given the presence of the youngsters. ‘This disciple of Beelzebub, this false prophetess, is to practise the sin of divination here, on my land?’
‘She’ll try to raise funds fer the chapel, sire. But she's hardly a false prophetess, or…or thon other thing ye called her.’
‘Mam’s a healer,’ William informed him.
‘I know exactly what she is,’ McGillivray snapped. ‘I've heard tell of her. If she's your mother, then you have my sympathies laddie, but she'll not be carrying out her evil practice here. Not on my land!’
‘We have permission –’ Rowena began.
‘What've ye heard?’ Morven cut in. ‘And from who?’
‘I have my sources.’ He rounded suspiciously on her. ‘And they’re entirely reliable.’
The Blood And The Barley Page 17
