The Blood And The Barley

by Angela MacRae Shanks

  Lang wasnae getting any part o’ this. Likely it was nothing, but still, by God, this could just be it – fifteen years of searching and this could well be Delnabreck's hiding place, insidious thorn in the flesh the man was. If so, this was far too good to give away to a foolish young upstart like Lang. If this was what he thought it was, and already McBeath’s nose was twitching at the scent of victory, ’twas rightfully his and his alone. He wrenched his horse’s head up. ‘Stay here, Lang!’

  Jamie watched in horror as the mounted figure descended the ridge, tailed black coat flapping in rhythm with his horse's movements, the column of his hat ruthlessly rising and falling.

  ‘Dear God,’ he breathed.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  At first, the exciseman baulked at the sharp drop in front of him. The Lochy Burn, channelled through a narrow gully, seemed to plummet over the edge of the earth. Cautiously he peered over the lip, watching water thunder and crash on many razor-edged ledges below. He stepped back, wary of the roiling water, mist rising around his feet. The lad could hardly have climbed up there. But…he drew a sharp breath. Was that no a rope looped around a tree? He knelt in the wet bracken and reached out to touch it, then gasped with excitement. Almost indistinguishable from the twisted roots snaking from the rock-face, he felt the pliant but unmistakeable roughness of rope and an unguarded whoop erupted from his lips.

  Morven didn't hear McBeath clamber down the gorge, the roar of falling water was too loud. She didn't hear him curse at the slipperiness of the narrow moss-furred ledges, nor mutter, ‘At last, at last,’ under his breath. As she drained the worts through the heather filter and into the waiting fermentation cask, some wash slopped onto her hand scalding her, and she winced at the pain, but it was the abrupt darkening of the bothy that brought her head snapping up.

  Hunched on the ledge and blocking out the light, McBeath had drawn his pistol and peered in at her, a feverish excitement burning in his eyes.

  ‘Well, well.’ He stooped through the opening and straightened, a quick glance confirming she was alone. He replaced the pistol among the folds of his coat and sneered at her.

  ‘So, this is it?’ He stared around him a mite incredulously. ‘This is Delnabreck's hiding place, this damnable hole in the hillside.’ His sneer widened as he eyed the empty ankers stored in readiness by the cauldron, the sacks of malt piled high against the walls.

  It wasn't quite as he'd imagined it, for he'd dreamed of this moment more times than he cared to recall, but always at the moment of discovery, at the very point of sweetest success it was Malcolm MacRae's startled and fearful face he saw before him, no this lass with the hint of ice in her eyes. No the witch's apprentice. And he’d have enjoyed the look on Delnabreck's face, would’ve taken untold pleasure in smashing the petty symbols of his defiance, trampling them into the ground. But no matter. He drew his axe from the loop on his belt and raised it high above the fermentation cask. For a brief exultant moment, he felt like a kirk minister exorcising a demon. ‘May the devil take back his own!’

  He scarcely knew what happened next it happened so fast. The witchling launched herself from the fireside, lowered her head and charged butting him hard in the stomach. As the breath fled his lungs, he uttered a shocked little grunt and reeled backwards, ending sprawled on his back.

  ‘You're the only devil I see!’ Scrambling on her hands and knees, Morven made a desperate lunge for the axe trying to wrench it from his grasp. He was a powerful man though, and his grip was iron-hard.

  Strangled whooping and wheezing sounds were coming from his throat; there was only the time it would take him to drag some air into his heaving lungs and he'd be upon her. The axe seemed set in stone, she gave it up and made a grab for his dirk, sliding it from its sheath.

  His eyes fixed on her in shocked surprise, and she saw a flicker of ruthless intention take shape, and knew she’d made a mistake. Before she could think what to do with the dirk, he drew his knee up and kicked her squarely in the face. His boot connected with her cheekbone and jaw, snapping her head back, and splitting her lip. An explosion of pain flared out over her face bringing tears to her eyes, and she gasped in shock.

  In the second he'd raised the axe, rage had overtaken her, and she'd acted without thinking. Now, as he rose to his feet with elaborate leisure and collected the dirk from the ground where she'd dropped it, fear curdled her innards. He was grinning again, but something dangerous moved in his eyes.

  ‘I might've known. Ye’re Delnabreck’s getling … the witch’s apprentice, defiance must flow in yer blood.’ He snorted. ‘But ye’re still naught but a muck-the-byre’s daughter.’ Bringing the point of the blade up to the soft spot on her throat just below her left earlobe, he canted his head, openly raking her with his gaze, assessing her as a breeder might an untried filly. For all she was a common muck-the-byre, she did look young and ripe. And the familiarity she enjoyed with the dark-eyed witch who tormented his dreams, somehow made her immeasurably attractive. His breathing quickened. Deflowering her would be yet another way to strike at Delnabreck. A pleasurable means to bring the most vexing smuggler he’d yet pitted himself against to his knees.

  ‘Aye,’ he said slowly. ‘Yer faither did me a great service, he played the witch’s man right into my hands. But I believe I’ve found a better way to bring that bur in the breeches to his knees.’

  ‘Liar!’ she gasped. ‘Ye’re a damned filthy liar.’

  Her mouth had dried, despite the blood, but she spat as hard as she could directly into his eyes. He recoiled as a bright red spray splattered his face, and she bolted for the opening.

  He was quicker. A hand snaked out and caught her by the hair, viciously yanking her back, and she screamed and lashed out with her fists.

  ‘Scream all ye like.’ He slammed his fist into her stomach, then as she doubled over, kicked her again in the face. ‘There's no-one to hear ye but me, and I dinnae mind a bit.’

  Momentarily blinded, she saw the bright pinpricks of light behind her eyes and instinctively raised her hands to shield her face. She'd had thrashings before, but nothing compared with this. Blow after blow slammed her to the ground and she crawled backwards into the cave whimpering and praying. It was dark in the cave but she could hear him coming after her. Choking on her sobs, she prayed he'd had enough, but he'd not finished with her yet.

  It was the dirk she saw first, the dull gleam of its blade. The blade swayed before her eyes, winking in the meagre light. No more than a dark shape now, crouched and panting, the exciseman obliterated the light, plainly seeing her better than she could see him. The blade flashed. She gasped, then clenched her teeth for the blow.

  Her gown opened with a zipping little rip, and he thrust her backwards, falling upon her, sucking and nipping; gorging himself with indulgent little grunts. She cried out in revulsion, thrashing to dislodge him, then turned her head and sank her teeth into his ear, hearing the raw crunch of gristle. He yelped like a dog, twisting his fingers into her hair to savagely yank her head away. Still thrashing, she desperately tried to throw him off, but he was built like a buttress and just as unyielding. Writhing her hips, she rained blows on his back and shoulders, but he merely groaned,

  ‘Struggle all ye like, ’tis more pleasurable.’

  Wrestling his coat off, he hurled it away and tore his sark open to press his grizzled chest against her. The rancid stench of unwashed male rose in her nostrils. Then he was pushing her skirts up, spreading her thighs with his knees, his weight pinning her down. His free hand pawed at her linens, and she felt the pain of his blunt fingers probing and jabbing.

  ‘Ye black devil!’ She groped for his eye sockets. ‘Ye'll not have me.’

  Ignoring her, he sat up and fumbled with the fastenings of his breeches. She made a wild scramble for her feet, but he jerked them from under her.

  ‘Be still, ye vicious wee vixen. I like to take my time ower these things. Be still!’ He struck her hard across the face, her head hitting the rocky
cave floor, and spat into his hand. ‘I mean to rut with ye. Fight me if ye will, ’twill only make the rutting more lusty.’

  The last blow struck her senseless, and her vision swam. She no longer had a firm grasp of her surroundings for there seemed to be another dark shape now, even bigger and more menacing bent over the gauger. Something slim was being pressed to the devil’s head.

  ‘One more move and I’ll send ye to hell,’ said a murderous voice. The voice was acutely familiar. ‘Take yer foul hands off her and let her up.’

  The gauger's weight abruptly left her, and she scrambled from the cave, sobbing and shivering and snatched up an empty malt sack to cover herself.

  ‘God’s teeth! What d’ye think yer daeing, ye great mutton-head!’

  The answering voice was cold with fury. ‘No-one told me the work involved attacking defenceless women. Nor rape. Naeone at the Board mentioned that when I joined up.’

  There was a stunned silence. ‘Jesus God, she's a smuggler! The witchling attacked me! What am I explaining myself to you fer? A pox on ye. I told you to stay where you were. This has naught to do with you.’

  ‘Then complete the seizure. And let the lass be.’

  The voice swirled in Morven's battered head as she searched for the face that matched it. Vague shapes formed, then dissolved in the aching blur. As Jamie stooped from the cave, the voice joined with the face in a jolting impact that sent her hands flying to her face. She stepped back in disbelief. ’Twas Jamie, but … she stared at his clothing. He was dressed in the same tailed black coat and austere black hat as McBeath. He was dressed as a gauger.

  ‘Brathadair!’ she hissed.

  Jamie recoiled in shock. Not her word, betrayer was truthfully what he felt himself to be and she could hardly see him as anything else. He'd expected that. But the sight of her. Her face was swollen and bleeding, horribly disfigured, her lip split and oozing bright blood. The bastard had beaten her. The imprint of a boot buckle rose livid on her cheekbone.

  ‘Dear God!’ His features contorted, and he dropped his gaze from her face as a violent shudder ran through him. He'd let this happen. Dithered on that ridge at a loss what to do. He raised his gaze but couldn't meet hers, staring instead at the curve of her neck, discoloured with bruises, the sweep of chestnut hair he’d never seen unbound. She was shivering and unsteady on her feet, trying to conceal herself behind an empty malt sack as if the sight of her might incite him to the same kind of behaviour as his companion. White-faced, he moved his gaze up to briefly meet hers, longing to cradle her, to take away her hurt, but knowing she’d never let him do that again. He made an anguished sound and dropped his gaze.

  ‘Dè tha ceàrr, Jamie?’ she asked him in Gaelic. ‘Can ye nae look me in the eye?’ Her voice broke, but she continued in a cracked hiss. ‘After betraying the bothy … and me … to that … that devil, can ye nae bring yerself to look at what he's left?’

  Reluctantly, he lifted his eyes to meet hers. Above one brow an angry gash gaped, but from the look in her eyes ’twas plain he disgusted her. He gave an agonized little groan, knowing his words of affection to her had only heightened the betrayal.

  ‘Trust ye, ye said. Have faith.’ Her swollen mouth twisted bitterly. ‘And then ye do this. Become … this.’ She made a distressed gesture at his clothing. ‘Why?’

  He could hear McBeath cursing inside the cave, searching for his discarded coat. ‘Things are nae … as they appear,’ he said quickly.

  ‘No?’ A tear slipped down her cheek. ‘How are they, then?’

  He swallowed, his heart crammed high in his throat, but there was no time to explain. Even if ’twere possible, he’d no words to justify this. Her gaze was still upon him, shaming him, while his hands itched to throttle the base creature responsible. To heave his worthless bulk into the falls.

  Cursing, McBeath emerged from the cave, crumpled garment in hand. His sark still gaped and his face was speckled with Morven’s blood, but his fit of lust had evidently passed, and she was of little interest to him now. His anger was focused on his assistant.

  ‘Is that what those priests of yours taught ye? To disobey orders and turn on your own kind?’

  ‘I thought ye were killing the lass.’

  ‘A lesson was being taught,’ he growled. Some respect introduced. But it's hardly business of yours how I choose to apprehend lawbreakers. You were told to stay where ye were.’ He stooped to leisurely fasten his breeches and glared up at Jamie.

  ‘What was the witchling saying anyhow? Cursing me, I’ll warrant. I’d forgotten ye speak the tongue of the savage, but if ye must know, I caught her in the very act, crouched over yon cauldron stirring her illicit brew. When I made to destroy it, she attacked me.’ Clearly incensed, he continued to berate his interfering assistant for all the maggot-brained half-wits, but Jamie heard barely a thing.

  He was staring at a small bright object nestled within the hoary pelt growing on the exciseman's chest. ’Twas undoubtedly a ring. A small silver band threaded upon a leather cord. He inched closer for a better look. A tiny object, it couldn’t possibly fit any of McBeath's beefy fingers. The sark was being fastened now; he took another half-step closer. There was an entwining design upon it, indeed ’twas a piece o’ rare beauty. The breath caught in his throat, a rash of gooseflesh broke out on his skin. Entwining ivy leaves she'd said, and there they were twisting around strange unearthly symbols. ’Twas Rowena's ring, he knew it with the same certainty he knew Morven now valued him lower than a louse.

  McBeath shrugged on his coat. ‘What are you gawping at ye great dunderheid? Destroy the still while I truss the witchling.’

  The ring was the way; he knew it now. He shook himself and reluctantly withdrew his axe, looking at the precious still equipment he'd used himself not so long ago. It felt like a lifetime now.

  ‘There'll be no need to tie the prisoner, surely,’ he protested. ‘How will the lass manage the climb?’

  ‘She can be dragged for all I care.’

  ‘Then let me do the tying, sir.’ An image of the two Glenlivet women viciously roped together came to mind.

  ‘Here then.’ McBeath pulled a length of hemp rope from his coat and hurled it at him. ‘Only get on with it, or she’ll be away down the gorge before ye can blink.’

  The thought of having a part in handing Morven over to the authorities was thoroughly sickening, yet he felt some confidence he could save her a gaol sentence. Farquharson was a reasonable man after all, and provided the fine wasn’t too steep he could likely pay it himself.

  ‘Aye, sir.’ He uncoiled the rope. For some reason, Farquharson seemed to pay great heed to everything he said, and he thought it likely he could manipulate her release somehow. If only he could get an opportunity to whisper something of this to her during the ride.

  Seeing him advance toward her, Morven’s face reddened, heat stinging her smarting cheeks. Her head pounded, and it hurt to move, but her thoughts were now achingly clear. Rowena's reluctance to speak of her nephew made infinite sense now, nae wonder she'd been shamed. A gauger, by God. Never in her darkest moment had she considered such a thing. Swaying on her feet, she drew herself up, and, swiping at her cheeks, made a desperate bid to forestall her captors.

  ‘So, ye think me a witch's apprentice, do ye?’ she blurted at McBeath.

  ‘I do.’

  ‘What if I said I'm nae that at all, but a fully-fledged witch?’

  The exciseman betrayed no apparent reaction to this, other than an imperceptible wariness about his whiskered face, yet she was conscious she now had his utmost attention.

  ‘You're admitting it?’

  ‘I am.’

  She laughed then at the absurdity of it all. Jamie's impossibly handsome face looking at her all torn and confused – damn him! And McBeath, ugly face stippled with her blood, a faint quiver to his breathing as he assessed her. She scarcely knew whom she hated more – the exciseman who’d bled the glen dry all her life, or the other who’d so shamefully
deceived her.

  ‘Admit it?’ Her voice rose menacingly. ‘Praise Lucifer, I rejoice in it. Rowena's nae my mistress, ye fools. ’Tis me embraces the black arts!’

  Both men stood stock-still now, staring at her. She read apprehension on one face, incredulity on the other. It only fed her fury. If they wished to brand her a witch, then let her be one, and gladly, that’d give them something to cry about. What had she to lose?

  McBeath's eyes bulged, the one with the squint near popped from his head. ‘You're saying the Forbes woman is no a sorceress?’

  ‘She can perform little more than the simplest of charms, nothing that canna be done by many in the Highlands.’

  ‘Whereas you, on the other hand –’

  ‘Can do a great deal more.’ Her voice dropped a notch, becoming sly and insinuating. ‘I ken all about you and yer secrets, even yer darkest fears are known to me.’

  He glanced furtively at Jamie but couldn't stop himself asking, ‘Such as?’

  ‘Such as yer unnatural craving fer the mistress of Tomachcraggen. I ken all about that.’

  She seemed to be much closer to him now, yet he hadn't seen her move. He wet his lips. ‘I proposed marriage to the woman once, ’tis no secret. She could’ve told ye that herself.’

  ‘No. She never speaks o’ ye. I ken of ye through yer darker deeds. They've come to the notice o' my master, shall we say, and through Him to me. I believe yer acquainted wi’ the one I speak of, or do I have to name Him?’

  McBeath let out a little squawk of fright, but a most peculiar paralysis had come over him, and he couldn't break away from her eyes, glowing cat’s eyes. A fear of the dark arts and their mysteries had been instilled in him from birth, his religion only reinforcing that fear, yet a reluctant mindfulness of his previous sins, now totting up, had begun to prey upon him. He swallowed, knowing he’d good reason to be afraid.

  Sensing his fear, she breathed in deeply, drawing strength from it, feeding her rage with it. ‘Did ye use the same gentle methods on Rowena as ye tried on me?’ She laughed. ‘Nae wonder she turned ye doon. But ye'll be wanting to know what dark deeds I know of.’ Her voice took on a knowing guile.