The Blood And The Barley

by Angela MacRae Shanks

  ‘Are they? And ye're certain o’ that?’ McBeath, she thought in disgust, he'd not miss an opportunity to blacken Rowena's name, particularly where it mattered. ‘’Tis unwise to believe every scrap o’ idle gossip ye hear, sire,’ she said scathingly. ‘Most especially wi’out first attesting to the virtue o’ its source.’

  McGillivray gaped at her. ‘I've no earthly notion what you're suggesting, nor do I care for your tone. You’ve exactly one minute to remove that woman from my lawn before I have her removed.’ Deliberately, he shifted his gaze back to Rowena. ‘Permanently removed. Do I make myself clear?’

  Alec's jaw tightened, and a spark of anger lit his eyes, but he nodded and drew his kin around him, then silently guided them away. He turned back to look at the factor and caught Morven's eye. A warning flicker crossed his face. She indicated her acceptance with a weary nod.

  They’d left their ponies tethered to a wych elm by the river's edge. Morven mounted with as much dignity as she could muster and pressed her garron into the ford.

  ‘Dinna go fashing yersel’ ower that jumped-up wee lairdie,’ Rory advised Rowena. ‘Da says he's got crowdie fer brains and tends to speak through his arse!’

  Alec snorted with laughter, and William, generally more reserved, also began to giggle, then they all collapsed in fits of laughter, the tension of the encounter quickly swept away. He would say that, Morven thought with a rare twinge of fondness for her father, but then he still insisted on referring to the king in London as, ‘thon wee-bit German Lairdie,’ and the other in Rome as, ‘oor Rightful King.’

  ‘You may speak more truth than ye know,’ Rowena told Rory with a slow smile. She settled William more comfortably in front of her on the pony. ‘Fer when I said we had permission, I didna just mean from the Father, I meant from His Grace himself.’

  Alec turned to stare at her.

  ‘The Duke's opening the Gathering this year and Father Ranald tells me he's keen to see a new chapel in the glen fer those that still follow the auld faith. He's agreed to the fortune-telling and anything else that might bring in funds.’

  ‘One in the eye fer auld McGillivray,’ chuckled Alec. ‘He'll likely choke on his French claret when he hears o’ this.’

  ‘Though I dinna suppose ’twill make him any fonder of me.’

  That was true, Morven reflected, though it felt good to savour this one small victory, this would do nothing to further Rowena's standing with the factor.

  ***

  The day of the Gathering finally dawned; one of those rare July days when the sun shone from the moment it slipped over Carn Daimh. The wind was nothing but a breath carrying the rippling cries of golden plover over the hum of bees busy among the heather. Alec was up early, cleaning his pipes in noisy experimental skirls until Malcolm put a stop to it with a harsh reminder that there were still beasts to be seen to. But even Malcolm had a spring in his step, taking pride in unpacking his father’s Highland dress from the kist beneath his bed.

  The wearing of Highland garb had been proscribed since 1746, since the disaster of Culloden, and the law had yet to be repealed, although many in the glen, her father included, still owned fine examples. Confident that under the protection of the Duke he was unlikely to be transported to the colonies for wearing his father’s plaid, Malcolm took pride in donning the richly coloured tartan fèileadh-mòr. The pattered wool was still as vibrant as it had been the day his father last wore it; Malcolm gathered and belted it around his waist, the length mantled over one shoulder, and secured it in place beneath his belt. His silver-buckled sword belt, minus the weapon itself, he strapped across his chest. Pleased with himself, he looked over at his wife and daughter.

  Morven couldn't help smiling. There was nae doubting he was still a fine figure of a man, his red hair newly washed and tied back behind blue bonnet. Grace was quite beside herself, praising her fine man with his bonny looks.

  ‘Hold yer tongue, woman,’ he snarled, face crimson.

  But Morven sensed he was secretly pleased by his wife’s obvious adoration.

  When they arrived at the Gathering, the MacRaes found the grounds of Inchfindy Hall already aswarm with folk. Tinkers had come to ply their wares and many powerfully built men, both militiamen and hill farmers from neighbouring glens, were strutting about preparing for the strength competitions. Everywhere she looked, Morven could see Highland dress being worn with pride and dignity, the folk of the high glens clinging stubbornly to their traditions and cocking a snook at the handful of redcoats in nervous attendance. Many poor cottars who only the day before had worn shabby remnants of hand-me-down trews, now stood upright in fine belted plaid with gartered tartan hose, sporran and targe.

  The Duke was present and housed in a raised enclosure with the other members of his family and household. McGillivray hovered in the background, face purple and corpulent, relaying orders to a string of scuttling servants. It was only the second occasion Morven had seen the Duke of Gordon, and despite the display of glittering finery around him, he seemed very much an ordinary man, nothing about his face suggesting he was, in fact, one of the wealthiest men in Scotland owning vast tracts of the Highlands.

  ‘Naught but a common-enough looking man,’ murmured Rowena, materialising at her shoulder.

  ‘How d’ye manage to read my mind like that?’ Morven laughed.

  ‘’Tis nae so difficult with your face,’ Rowena chuckled. ‘Maybe more so with some we'll see today.’

  They waited for the Duke's short opening speech, which he delivered in clipped English, much to the disgust and general incomprehension of many of the older folk in the crowd who understood barely a word.

  ‘Has he nae any Gaelic?’ grumbled Granny Muldonich, shaking her head. ‘All my sons have the Inglis and the Gaelic. Ye'd think a educated man like himsel’ would hae more than the one tongue.’

  ‘He can likely speak French and Latin and all sorts else,’ muttered Sarah from somewhere behind Morven. ‘But nae the tongue of his ane land.’

  The sharp crack of a pistol firing rang out, and then the hill racers were sent off in the direction of Carn Meadhonach, the rangy runners leaping over boulders, kilts flying, bare legs quickly stained with bracken juice. They’d be gone for many hours.

  ‘That's more like it!’ cried Granny Muldonich as the Duke's footmen rolled out casks of ale from the Duke's own stock. A great cheer went up as the Duke's personal piper piped in the uisge-beatha and flasks appeared from sporrans like midgies at dusk.

  ‘We'd best go see if there's any desperate to hear o’ their future.’ Rowena took Morven's arm.

  When they reached the little hut, a group of bedraggled people already waited outside, although it soon transpired they were mostly folk from further up the glen who, having heard Rowena would be here, had come with various ailments ranging from toothache to an ingrown toenail in the hope she could ease their suffering. Rowena had half expected this and had brought along a basket of potions and salves in readiness. She turned to Morven.

  ‘’Tis my belief you should tend these folk,’ she said with an air of quiet certainty.

  Morven's eyes widened.

  ‘Ye're more than ready, and I'll be here if ye need me.’

  ‘But they'll nae be wanting me,’ Morven said in an urgent whisper. ‘’Tis you they've come to see.’

  ‘Maybe so, but they know ye've a gentle touch, and they trust ye. It's near three years I've been teaching ye. It's time,’ she said firmly.

  That much was true, but Morven couldn't help experiencing a stab of doubt. ‘Ye think?’ she said uncertainly.

  ‘Aye, I do think.’

  A giddy sensation swooped through Morven’s midsection, and the corners of her mouth twitched into a self-conscious grin. It was a moment she’d long waited for. ‘Lord!’ was all she managed to say.

  Among the line-up of sufferers, there were no ailments Morven hadn’t seen before, and she soon found herself settle into an assurance born of sound teaching, her stomach un-kn
otting as her confidence grew. Only once did she need Rowena's help. Archie Chisholm had dislocated his shoulder and whimpered like a puppy whenever she tried to touch him. He carried himself stiff and awkward, his face greased with a thin film of sweat.

  ‘How long've ye been like this?’ she asked him.

  ‘A while,’ he grunted through clenched teeth.

  ‘More than a while,’ put in his wife. ‘But ’twas the jolting o' the pony on the way here that did fer him mair than anything.’

  Morven winced at the thought of Archie's bone-jarring ride; ’twas near fifteen miles from Clachfuar croft. ‘I'm thinking a drop of the Duke's whisky might help,’ she suggested.

  Archie broke into a grin at that, revealing several rotten teeth stagnating in a mouth that smelled like a midden. She reached for the whisky.

  Away from the area near the hut where she’d been dispensing aid, Morven saw a number of men, both young and old, waiting to try their hand at lifting the clach làn-aois, the manhood stone. Among them were a few lads she recognised, although she imagined her father would wait for the caber-tossing, which he was well skilled at. She glimpsed him nearby with Craigduthel knocking back the Duke's whisky and laughing at the old crofter's jokes. He mightna last till the caber-tossing if he kept his right elbow so well exercised.

  In the end, it took more than a drop of the Duke's whisky before Archie would let her manipulate his shoulder joint back into its socket, and he bellowed like a bull before passing out cold on a patch of clover. Morven took the opportunity to remove his rotten teeth while he lay unconscious and he awoke pathetically grateful.

  While Morven was treating the ailing, Rowena had been scrying using her knowledge of hidden signs and omens. Now that the last patient had been attended, Morven was free to join her. Two giggling girls from Ballindalloch were the last in line. Both, it emerged, were servant girls from Ballindalloch Castle and had lads they were uncertain of. They wished to know if these lads would stay true and wed them.

  They paid their dues and settled themselves at Rowena's makeshift table, nudging and tittering nervously. Humming an old Gaelic charm under her breath, Rowena passed a smoking brand of hazel beneath the girls' noses, and they settled instantly, eyes glowing. She managed to extract from them the names of the offending lads and Morven placed two pairs of hazelnuts, symbolising the couples, into the fire. When the nuts were glowing around the edges but not yet alight, she removed them with iron tongs and set them in pairs on the firestone while Rowena murmured a love charm over them. As they cooled, both pairs of nuts jumped violently apart.

  ‘Aye,’ Rowena noted. ‘Neither the two of ye are well-enough acquainted wi' yer lads. They've not been true to ye, but are still after sowing their wild oats, aye?’

  The girls looked at each other in horror and Rowena drew out the cairngorm stone from its wooden box. She chanted some faery words over the stone, then tapped it three times with a switch of rowan. ‘Now, each of ye look into the stone and tell me what ye see.’

  The girls did as they were bid, then again looked at each other. ‘You go first,’ prompted the smaller, prettier of the two.

  ‘If ye like,’ sighed the other, running her hand nervously through her hair. ‘I ken the stone's brown, gold almost, but I see a great stretch o’ blue inside.’ She shook her head. ‘Just that – a stretch o' blue.’

  ‘’Tis what I see too,’ gasped the other.

  Rowena nodded. ‘Blue as the sea. And from where do these lads hail, now tell me?’

  ‘From Skye,’ the girls chorused.

  ‘Then that’s where they intend to return. To Skye. But nae, I fear, with either of you.’

  Both girls then launched into a hostile tirade accompanied by a deal of savage cursing, shocking Morven with their language, then whispered together urgently.

  ‘’Tis just, we might be…’ faltered the small pretty one.

  Again, Rowena nodded. ‘Ye'll be wanting to know if they've left ye with more than just promises.’

  Blushing, the smaller girl slid her gaze to the ground, while the other scowled darkly, her gaze similarly occupied.

  ‘They came to the castle wi' thon Sir whits-his-name,’ the taller girl blurted. ‘MacDonald o' Sleat. His bodyguards they are. Said they'd take us wi' them to the isles when ’twas time fer them to go.’

  ‘They're men!’ Morven said scathingly. ‘’Tis what they’d say. They'd say anything to bed ye.’

  Rowena glanced sharply at her and shook her head. The smaller girl began to sob.

  ‘I'll need to examine ye both,’ Rowena said gently. ‘Ye might wish to watch the caber-tossing, Morven? Fer a while, aye?’

  Thankful, Morven scrambled to her feet and left the two girls with Rowena.

  Outside, she spotted her mother with Alec, Sarah, and the three boys settled on a small hillock watching the sword-dancers; she made her way over. Her father was close by, still jesting with Craigduthel but looking a bit more bleary-eyed.

  ‘Have ye no more takers fer the fortune-telling?’ Alec teased. ‘Ye'll be able to listen to my playing, then. I'm told I’m to play with His Grace's piper.’

  ‘A rare honour!’ Morven was pleased for him. ‘I've not to sing, have I?’

  ‘I didna volunteered ye, no.’ He turned to whisper something to Sarah, who sat slightly stiffly beside him.

  Morven caught the name McBeath spoken somewhere behind her and immediately turned to locate the speaker. Her father was markedly louder in both manner and speech now as he relayed the tale of Hugh McBeath's brush with Am Fear Liath Mor, the old man of Ben Macdhui, to Donald Gordon. She’d heard the tale many times and felt sure Donald had too, but her father never seemed to tire of its telling.

  ‘And he was just settling himsel' fer the night,’ Malcolm said in a loud attempt at a hushed voice. ‘When he heard footsteps whooming and crunching through the heather.’ He failed to keep his face straight as he continued. ‘Fair shivering wi' fright he was, near fillin’ his breeches, when oot the mist loomed a great grey shape. ’Twas the giant himself.’ His voice cracked, but he sobered enough to go on. ‘Fair made his blood run cold, and like the woman he is, he upped and ran fer his life, leaving six ponies and a dozen ankers of confiscated whisky behind!’ He snorted with laughter. ‘Many the poor soul’s seen that creature, but none's run so fast as the Black Gauger!’

  Her father had drawn a small group of interested listeners around him and all now creased over with hilarity. He nodded delightedly as they scoffed along with him. There were no excise officers present today, the Duke happy for his tenants to enjoy themselves in peace on this one day, and with McBeath's strange absence from the glen many had begun to view him as more an amusing figure than an alarming one. Morven excused herself and returned to the hut.

  The door was shut fast. Half expecting to find one or other of the girls still inside, perhaps tearful, she opened it cautiously. ’Twas a stark warning of what could happen if ye allowed yerself to care fer a bonny lad wi’ fine words but nae backbone. It took a second for her eyes to adjust to the gloom, the only light coming from the small fire and a single fir-candle, then she jerked back, drawing her breath in with a hiss.

  Talking quietly with his kinswoman, Jamie Innes was now turned toward the door, his face pale and perturbed. She took in the striking red plaid, the strong jawline and dark eyes, widened in surprise, the lock of loose hair hanging roguishly over one eye, then abruptly turned on her heel and bolted, her heart leaping in her chest.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  ‘Morven! Wait, Morven!’ Stricken, Jamie glanced at his aunt, then plunged toward the door.

  ‘Let her go, Jamie.’

  He halted and turned to stare at her. ‘But, the way she looked at me. Wi’ contempt. She thinks me false…dishonourable.’

  Rowena’s eyes softened. ‘Morven’s confused, nae understanding why ye left. But, ’tis how it must be. She’ll calm down soon enough, and that's the time to speak wi’ her, not when she’s that riled she har
dly kens what she’s saying. Though ye must be guarded in what ye say.’

  Still doubtful, he continued to regard his kinswoman intently, his hand poised on the door.

  ‘Morven’s long been fiery,’ Rowena said with fondness. ‘Seeing ye was a shock. She’ll nae ken how to react – this is her way.’ Her voice was calm and full of reason. ‘I know her well, she'll nae go far, and when she's mastered her hot blood, she'll come looking fer ye.’

  He sat down again, pressing his fingers into the hollow between his eye sockets. He’d thought he might see Morven, had hoped he would, only the way she looked at him – it had felt like a dagger strike.

  ‘Are ye alright, Jamie?’

  ‘Aye.’ He shook his head with the closest thing to a smile he could raise. ‘’Tis just, after what I said to her … the things I swore to, she must now set little value on me.’

  Rowena looked oddly at him and poured him a stiff dram from the flask she kept for medicinal use. ‘Here,’ she offered, ‘ye look as though ye need this.’

  He murmured his thanks and took a mouthful of the whisky, feeling the familiar fire seer through his innards. Dread had been his constant companion on the road from Elgin. He’d not broken his journey to rest but had made the ride in two gruelling days, guilt at leaving his kinfolk alone all this time driving him on. Along with a fear of what he might find when he reached them.

  He’d found the cot-house at Tomachcraggen empty, yet his kinfolk’s belongings were still there, herbs and the like still hung from the roof-beams. He’d tormented himself with the possibility Rowena was arrested, his cousins taken and cared for by others. Sick at heart, he rode on. But at the forge and every croft-house he came to it was a similar picture, beasts left unattended, homes empty. In the end, a strange panic overtaking him, he followed a band of genial cottars, keeping his distance, observing their extraordinary high spirits, and at length came upon the Gathering. The first person he asked pointed him in the direction of a small wooden hut, and he waited out of sight in a copse of aspen, anxious to speak with Rowena alone.