The Blood And The Barley

by Angela MacRae Shanks

  Two girls emerged, and he watched them embrace and make off across the grass, then slipped inside himself. His kinswoman’s joyous face chased away his fears, and he’d near wept with relief. Now weariness crept over him, such a deep boneless exhaustion he could gladly curl on the floor like a dog.

  He shook himself and looked more closely at his aunt. She appeared well enough and was sitting in the shadows contemplating him with that stillness of hers. As always it unsettled him, made him feel she could read his very thoughts, though she made no judgments. Not for the first time, he wondered if she was a seer. He'd always considered his dark eyes and countenance fairly unreadable, had been told so on occasion, but likely ’twas as gazing in a looking-glass for a woman like Rowena.

  Completing her study of his face, a troubled frown drew Rowena’s brows together. ‘You and Morven,’ she ventured. ‘Ye've feelings fer each other? It’s nae my business, but I canna help –’

  ‘I have feelings.’ A tone of desolation crept into his voice. ‘But she doesna return them.’ He made a dismissive gesture with his head. ‘And in truth, I can hardly blame her.’

  Rowena digested this information in thoughtful silence, then looked at him again, a light of pity softening her eyes.

  He took another mouthful of the whisky. ‘But I need to know what's been happening here.’ In an instant the frustration of his time in Elgin, the enormity of what lay ahead, engulfed him and he railed against his own impotence. ‘Such a time the Excise Board kept me in Elgin. ’Twas my own doing, I should never have let on I could read or write. Once they kent that they took me on forthwith but put me to work as a clerk. I'm shamed to say I've spent the last few weeks compiling records o’ seizures and writing out accounts fer the courts.’ He cursed softly. ‘All this time I've been fretting ower what might be happening here, imagined ye arrested and thrown in gaol and me trifling wi’ paper and pens!’

  ‘Hush, nothing's happened. There's no need to fash yerself.’

  ‘Then, he's not accused ye?’

  ‘I've seen neither hide nor hair of McBeath since that day in Balintoul. And I'm nae likely to either, fer he said three months and I'll wager that's what he'll give me – to the verra day.’

  ‘Generous o’ him. But aye, ’twould be like the miserable creature to find some misbegotten honour in upholding his word in that way.’ He cleared his throat. ‘Word came to the authorities of his wife's death of course, and ’tis rumoured he's neglecting his duties, drinking himself senseless wi’ the contents o’ seizures and passing on nothing to the Treasury. ’Twas only on account o’ this idleness, along wi’ my constant chivvying, that I was given leave to come here.’ He looked grimly at his kinswoman. ‘As of the morn, I'm to be a revenue man. An officer of his Majesty’s Excise – Assistant Riding Officer to Hugh McBeath.’

  Rowena's eyes widened, and a ghost of a smile flitted across her face. ‘Then ye did it. Just as ye said ye would.’

  He nodded, a trace of grim humour lurking at the corners of his mouth. ‘Fair flummoxed they were in Elgin, thought I'd taken leave o’ my senses. Who in their right mind would give up decent town work, they said? Only to ride the glens sniffing out smugglers and ruffians.’ He laughed shortly. ‘The Collector himself advised me to reconsider.’

  Rowena's face sobered. ‘Then maybe ye should, Jamie.’ She laid her hand over his and held his gaze uneasily. ‘I've nae right to ask this of ye. Giving up a decent future, putting yerself in danger, and fer what?’

  He stared at her. ‘To stop this man, this … predator, to have justice fer Duncan. Surely yer nae forgetting what's to happen in barely four weeks if we do nothing?’

  She flinched. ‘I've not forgotten.’

  ‘Forgive me. I know that.’ He watched her turn and add more peat to the fire, her graceful neck bent to the task, a slender wisp of dark hair trailing from beneath her kertch. ’Twas the same blood flowing through her veins that had flowed in his father. They were the same blood. He pictured her wed to McBeath – the man's crude hands upon her, his outlandish eyes stripping her of her dignity. Swallowing, he pushed the image away.

  ‘What good is decent town work when my kin are here, in this glen? I could no more turn my back and leave ye to be dispossessed or … or worse, than I could do the deed myself.’ He reached out and touched her hand, trying to convey to her the great need in him to do this for her.

  ‘I ken that. And I thank ye.’

  ‘Only,’ he squeezed his eyes shut and waited while a wave of exhaustion swelled up over him, then ebbed away. ‘I didna think on it taking such a time to get this far, didna imagine I'd waste so much time just getting the chance to watch the man.’ He breathed out heavily. ‘There's still much to do and little time left to do it.’

  ‘Ye mustna chide yerself. ’Tis a wonder ye managed to do this much. It hardly seems possible of all the glens the Elgin collection covers ye did manage to get work here, in Stratha’an.’

  His mouth twitched again at that. ‘Let's just say I made a good impression wi’ the Board o’ Excise.’ He felt a slight twinge of guilt at deceiving them the way he had, letting them imagine him some manner of zealot bent on stamping out all illicit stills on the Duke's land, but it couldna be helped. He shrugged off the feeling and caught his aunt watching him with a look of such tender sincerity his throat immediately tightened.

  ‘I’d have ye know, Jamie,’ she said softly. ‘There are more forces at work here than just you. Ye are one man. If things go badly, you're nae to blame. I dinna wish ye carrying the weight o’ my eviction on yer shoulders, nor do I hold ye responsible fer the course my life must take.’ She smiled a bright smile at him. ‘That's down to the Creator … and to me. Mind and heed it.’

  He nodded, feeling a trace lighter, grateful for her attempt to relieve him of his responsibilities. Yet the cold fact remained: he was the only one who could prevent his kinswoman’s arrest and ultimate eviction. Or, if she chose the other course, her enforced union with her husband's murderer.

  He finished his dram, draining the last of the golden liquid, and eyed her surreptitiously over the rim of his drinking vessel. As always, she maintained an outwardly calm appearance, nothing in her face or manner indicating the crisis that awaited her. Which would she choose, he wondered for the thousandth time? To be put from the land of her forefathers? The place where she and his father had been born? Or to submit to a union with the man who slaughtered her mate? A man who was scarcely a man at all, a creature who believed himself cursed, but was that consumed by her he'd do almost anything to make her his. He didn't know. She’d never spoken of either course; both were too loathsome to contemplate. ’Twas his duty to stop the devil before then, to ensure neither alternative need be considered.

  He set the vessel down reluctantly. ‘I fear I must be taking my leave, must report to my new master in Balintoul.’ He smiled with a brightness he didn’t feel and pressed a heavy leather pouch into his aunt’s hand.

  She uncurled her fingers gingerly, staring at the pouch as though it might bite her. It contained his earnings from the last eight weeks, or at least the best part of his earnings; he'd had lodgings to pay for. ’Twas no great fortune, but still, a useful-enough sum slid from the purse into Rowena's hand. She turned the softly clinking coins, marvelling at them, weighty and flat in her small fingers, then slipped them back into the pouch.

  ‘I canna take this. ’Tis yours and likely ye'll need it.’ She tried to push the pouch back into his hand.

  ‘I'll not,’ he said with equal insistence. ‘Your need is greater than mine. I've been no use to ye on the croft these last weeks, and I've taken yer good pony. I mean ye to have this.’ His dark eyes locked with hers, then softened a degree. ‘Or I will go back to Inverness.’

  She swallowed and considered the purse before laying it carefully on the table. Unable to speak, she reached out and touched his hand, a small gesture of thanks, and he was stricken to see pitiful appreciation brimming in her eyes along with a sad accept
ance that he’d likely change nothing.

  He placed his hand over her smaller one and squeezed it lightly, trying to impress a sense of his resolve upon her, his sincerity, then, as a surge of bitterness rose in his gullet, stood and took his leave. He would change things, one way or another he must.

  Outside, he glanced around. He was trembling, and weariness dragged at his bones, but he ducked back into the copse of aspen and again prepared to wait, this time for Morven.

  Morven thought badly of him. His behaviour would seem questionable, shameful, she might even believe he’d forsaken the oath he made to her. Yet the weight of her contempt would be worth it, anything would to keep her safe, for she was precious to him.

  A tiny shiver ran through his heart at the thought of her. His kinswoman was already involved, and her eviction was also his, but there was no need to implicate Morven. She'd been present at that poor woman’s deathbed, but that's where her involvement ended. Telling her the whole truth would serve no purpose, even had he not given his word. And he knew not the whole truth, only hoped to discover it. A shadow crossed his heart. What if he found the traitor was her father? He’d need to be truly convinced of the man’s guilt before attempting to expose him.

  He leaned wearily against a tree-trunk, too tired to think clearly. Sleep was what he needed, but more than that he needed to see Morven. After all this time, he yearned to look at her again. He felt the pull of the mossy ground at his feet drawing him down to curl like a dog on the nearest tussock and, with a groan, knocked his forehead sharply against a tree. He sincerely hoped his aunt was right and Morven’s hot blood had cooled enough for him to speak with her, though what he’d say he had no notion.

  ***

  Morven fled the hut only to crash headlong into the factor just steps from its door. McGillivray had been muttering with Alexander Grant of Achnareave, she realised with some irritation, passing judgment nae doubt.

  ‘Ye see!’ grunted McGillivray. He snatched his feathered bonnet from the muddied grass at his feet and replaced it slightly askew on his head. ‘As uncouth as they are ungodly!’

  She pushed past him.

  ‘Aye,’ muttered Achnareave. ‘Nae good will come o' this tampering wi' the natural order o' things…’

  She stumbled away, the sound of her thudding heart drowning out their words. Why had Jamie come back? Did he think himself safe now? With Rowena neither arrested nor accused did he think he could worm his way back in again as if nothing had happened? She blundered across the grounds of the Gathering, oblivious to what went on around her, almost struck by the clach neart, stone of strength, as it thudded into the ground beside her, deaf to the curse hurled after her. Squeezing through a knot of rowdy drinkers, she choked as she entered their cloud of tobacco smoke. It still hurt. The pain of his betrayal was still as raw, as deep. Her hands were cold and trembling, and she pressed them to her cheeks, feeling the heat radiating from her flushed face. Everyone must surely see it, must know of her humiliation.

  The small hillock where her mother still sat with Rory and Donald reared up in front of her; she shied away. They would see her distress, ask questions she’d no wish to answer. She whirled around. The river, then. She could maybe quell the agitation in her heart at the riverside.

  The caber-tossing area was in front of her now. She watched the next contestant make his run, shorn tree-trunk balanced within cupped hands. There was her father, staggering slightly but stripped to the waist and dusting his hands with dry earth. She gave him a wide berth.

  She could hear the Avon, feel it almost before she saw it. A breeze oft-times arose from the river, from the turbulence of the currents, the air disturbed by the seething of the water. It drew her to it, a match to her own turmoil. She sat on a boulder at the river's edge and breathed-in deeply, feeling the delicate mist from its passage cool her face. What was wrong with her? She stared into the swirling pool at her feet. She'd forgotten about his eyes, deep and serious they were, thoughtful. They made ye think ye could trust him. She cursed softly.

  Yet Rowena wasna angry with him, it struck her now. Even in that brief glimpse, she’d recognised her friend’s joy at seeing her kinsman again. Rowena was far too generous-natured to bear him any ill-will. Was she the only one cursed with a temper, then? A gift from her da – the hot MacRae blood. And Rowena had given Jamie one of her two ponies; the grey mare. The willing wee garron that carried her from Balintoul on the day of Isobel's death. She’d never said as much, but from the day of Jamie's going ’twas evident Rowena had given him the mare, leaving only old Trauchle to help her work the crop rigs. Doubtless he'd been an eager-enough garron in his day, but as her da had scornfully put it, the poor creature was scarce fit to pull the skin off a milk-pudding. He’d been quite beyond words when he discovered that was the only mount Rowena could spare him to carry Jamie’s whisky, though his scathing expression had said it all.

  But then, ’twas like Rowena to be selfless – she would turn the other cheek. Was it sinful, then, to feel bitter and betrayed? If so, then Morven knew herself to be such a sinner, for she felt as consumed with rage at Jamie's betrayal now as she had when she first learned of it. Yet, if she were honest, was it not her own hurting that really fired her anger? He'd inflicted a deep wound and ’twas the sting of that wound that gave life to her anger. Nae verra noble considering the person he'd hurt most had clearly forgiven him already. If she ever blamed him at all.

  She gazed across the Avon to the birches growing on the far bank. A froth of meadowsweet moved in the breeze. Her mother loved meadowsweet, the scent o’ summer she'd often say. At her feet, chamomile blooms nodded among the grass; she bent to pick some. She could make a soothing infusion with them. Chamomile was known to promote sound sleep, and Grace slept only fitfully now, the weight of the child causing her much discomfort. She piled the blossoms in her lap. But no, this wasna helping. She needed to face Jamie, running off was his way, nae hers. ’Twas stalwart MacRae blood that pulsed through her veins, nae the mealy-mouthed kail bree that likely dribbled through his. Anyhow, she needed to show him the contempt he deserved.

  Her decision made, she wrapped the blossoms in a corner of her arisaid and tied it securely, then hurried back to the Gathering, her jaw clenched defiantly. Only her heart betrayed her, its rapid fluttering beating a nervous tattoo against her ribs.

  It was the grey mare she spotted first, Rowena's pony, tethered among a copse of aspen. Her heart gave a series of wildly erratic thumps; Jamie was still here, then. McGillivray and Achnareave had evidently moved on, and there was no sign of either of them. As host, McGillivray was to judge the piping competitions, though what he knew of masterly piping ye could likely crush into a fine snuff and snort up yer nose, she thought scornfully.

  No-one appeared to be waiting outside the hut, although Rowena's little sign with the picture of a hand palm up and crossed with silver was still nailed to the door. She approached warily, listening for the sound of voices, reluctant to burst in again in case the scoundrel still loitered within. But as she leant to press her ear to the door something struck her on the back and then dropped at her feet. She spun around. And there he was, half hidden among the trees, another pinecone poised in his hand.

  He beckoned her over with an urgent gesture and then stepped back behind a tree. Holy God, he was hiding! A prickle of irritation raised the hackles on her neck, and she muttered, ‘Spineless rat,’ under her breath, but found herself checking to see if she was observed, then slipping into the trees herself.

  As she approached, Jamie put his hand out to her as though to draw her to him, perhaps to draw her further into the concealing brush, his eyes dark and intense, and she recoiled with a hiss. ‘Dinna dare touch me!’

  His hand dropped, and he winced as if she'd struck him. ‘Forgive me. I meant only –’

  ‘I ken what ye meant.’ She eyed him coldly. ‘But I think I can manage to resist ye.’

  He swallowed, the lump in his throat dipping sharply. ‘Ye're
angry. I knew ye’d be and ye've every right. Perhaps ’twas wrong o’ me to want to see ye.’

  He was unshaven, several days' growth darkening his chin and throat and he looked slightly wild-eyed, his dark hair escaping from its lace to hang disreputably over one eye. The effect was oddly magnetic on the dark gravity of Jamie’s face, and unconsciously she took a step toward him. ‘What was it ye wanted to see me fer?’ She slanted her eyes in suspicion.

  ‘I wished to explain.’ He took a deep breath, and his jaw tightened. ‘Only I canna. I can only ask ye to trust me – though I realise ’tis nae so easy.’

  ‘Trust ye!’ She gaped at him. His gall took her breath away, and for a moment she was without words, then her voice squawked incredulously. ‘I doubt I've met anyone I trust less.’ She could think of a few, but the brazenness of his request struck her afresh, and she gave a choked little laugh. ‘Ye must be the most shameless nae to mention gutless excuse fer a kinsman I've ever met. How Rowena can…?’ She bit back the rest of her words, not wishing to reveal how much his callousness had hurt. Cold contempt was needed.

  He seemed genuinely startled by both her words and the force of her scorn. ‘I’ve distressed ye, I can only say ’twas not intended.’ He lowered his head and, remembering his bonnet, snatched it from his head and twisted it in his hands. ‘I pray ye can forgive me.’

  He wore a sprig of broom on his bonnet, the age-old emblem of the Forbes clan, and she wondered fleetingly if Rowena had given it him. ‘Ye've caused me nae distress, though I canna speak fer those others ye abandoned.’

  His politeness was vexing; she wished to tear it away, to expose what lay beneath. Even stronger was the urge to rage at him. She wished to name him for the miserable milksop he was, demand to know why he'd wanted to learn the whisky-making when he'd been too afraid to smuggle. Most of all, she wanted to know why he'd told her he cared for her when so plainly he did not. But she found his courteousness frustrated her, and she dug her nails into her palm to prevent herself losing control. Once she did that, she'd be lost.