‘No.’ He tried to back away. But instead, he found himself even closer, close enough to see the flecks of gold in her eyes, to see how strangely enlarged her pupils were. ‘I dinnae wish –’
‘Me to speak o' yer crimes? Pity that as I ken them all so well. ’Tis the hares do the watching and gossip to the faeryfolk, even the rustling aspens spread word to me.’ Her expression hardened. ‘Mebbe I should summon my master to speak o' yer deeds. I can see yer acquainted wi' Him already. Ye've met Him in one o’ his guises afore, I can tell.’
The exciseman’s face was grey now, twitching and convulsing in fearful spasms as he tried to form words. She pressed ahead, conscious only of her advantage, of the crumbling of McBeath's authority, the disintegration of his command and eager to capitalise on it. She stole a glance at Jamie, but he too was watching the gauger with a look of fascinated loathing on his face.
Remembering her father’s mocking tale, she found herself driven to go on. ‘In the form o' the Grey Man, was it not? On Ben MacDhui? Am Fear Liath Mòr.’ She gave the entity its Gaelic name, knowing the gauger had not a word of the Highland tongue but regarded it with the typical superstitious suspicion of the ignorant.
He gasped at mention of the entity. How could she know of such a thing? Of his meeting with it on a frozen mountaintop? A chill stole over him, a cold so biting he felt the sting of snow driven in his face, heard the crunch of it beneath his boots.
‘Help me.’ He was giddy with the effort of trying to tear himself from her hold, as weak as a new-born. She was gripping him with her will, summoning something; the abomination he'd come face to face with before and prayed never to see again.
She closed her eyes and quite suddenly he was released, staggering backwards. ‘Help me get away!’ he yelped at Jamie. ‘Fer pity's sake, man, leave the still just help me get away!’
Focusing a deadly stare on a point beyond the gauger’s head, Morven began what she prayed he’d believe was some manner of summoning:
‘By slip of moon and grove of oak. By cleave o’ hoof and curve o’ horn. Ghairm mi mo mhaighstir!’ Slipping instinctively into Gaelic, she cursed every fibre of his body, but he didn’t wait to hear it.
Scrambling onto the ledge, he dropped to his hands and knees. ‘Save me, Lord,’ he bleated, groping frantically for the rope. With it in his grasp, he slithered almost snakelike down the gorge, his breathing so violent he near choked himself.
Morven’s knees buckled, and she crumpled to the ground. When she dared lift her head, Jamie was also gone, and it was as if neither had ever been there. She let out a desperate little sob and rocked herself back and fore until her heartbeat slowly returned to normal, and her body ceased its trembling. She felt giddy and drained, unable to think clearly, and cold, so cold.
What would be the consequence of the things she'd said in her desperation, she dared not think, though the echo of her act would reverberate, she sensed. Yet it had been so simple, the gauger's terror already coiled beneath the surface and so simple to awaken.
‘Forgive me,’ she whispered, but she doubted such wickedness could ever be forgiven.
After a time, she forced herself to rise and think hard what to do, not think of McBeath and his obscene intentions, and not, dear God, think of Jamie. Slowly, a matter-of-fact practicality gained control over the chaos in her mind, and she knew what she must do. She strapped a sack of malt to her back and made the slow climb down the rock-face, then returned for more. At length, she removed all six sacks and concealed them beneath an overhanging rock at the foot of the gorge. The copper worm was the last item she removed, and she wrapped it in her arisaid. The rest of the equipment could be sacrificed.
She crawled onto a slab of rock at the foot of the falls and peered at herself in the water. Self-pity welled in her throat, but she ruthlessly swallowed it down – there was her mother to think on. The water was icy, but she plucked a handful of moss and dipped it in, then pressed it to her swollen face. Meticulously, she washed away every trace of blood and then smoothed down her hair, twisting and plaiting it into some semblance of normality. Next, she stripped off her clothes and washed, scrubbing every part the gauger had touched to rid herself of his foulness. She sobbed at the memory of his fingers, shivering with both horror and cold, and then dressed again. The bruising to her ribs was severe, but she thought the bones themselves intact, while a sharp hawthorn needle and some scurvy grass would repair her torn gown. The most obvious damage was to her face and would be instantly noticed.
It was unthinkable her mam should see her like this and learn of the attack. Grace was too weak for such an upset. If she was honest, Morven knew she’d never really wanted the child her mother carried, had thought it a parasite, something her father had carelessly put there, and her mother could not bear to part with, given it was from him. Now though, for some inexplicable reason, she felt a furious burst of love for the tiny soul and a desperate desire to protect both the infant and her mother. Jamie and that part of her he'd occupied since the Beltane night was now dead to her.
It was nightfall by the time she returned to Delnabreck, but her hours of industry with leeches and a mixture of witch-hazel, arnica, and mountain mint had done its work, and her face appeared no puffier than if she'd spent the hours weeping. She held herself stiff and awkward and felt herself to be changed in some fundamental way, but that, she tried to convince herself, mightna be evident to anyone else.
Curiously, the lambs had yet to be penned for the night, and at her approach they cried piteously and followed her into their fold. Immediately she entered the cot-house, she sensed something was wrong. Stilling her breath, she stood a moment in the long shadows, recognising a tension in the air, then cautiously called, ‘Rory? Donald? Are ye there?’
‘They’re both out looking fer ye.’ It was Rowena who answered her from the threshold of her parent’s bedchamber. ‘Where is it ye’ve been?’
Something in the widow’s voice churned fresh fear in her belly, and she clutched at the back of a chair. ‘Nowhere … that is … something’s wrong, I ken it is.’
‘Yer mam’s pains came on some hours ago and quicken swiftly now. She’s been asking fer ye.’ Rowena clasped Morven’s cold hands and then drew her close, enclosing her aching body within her arms.
‘I felt it,’ Morven whispered. ‘But … but hoped I was mistaken.’ For a moment, she clung to Rowena, breathing in her familiar scent, taking comfort in her inherent tenderness. Kindness was a quality she'd almost forgotten existed.
Rowena drew back a little and lifted Morven’s chin, studying her face, but whatever it was she saw there she chose to make no comment on. ‘There's nothing can be done now to stop the child coming, ye ken that, don't ye?’ she said gently. ‘We can only pray yer mam’s strong enough to endure another labour. The bairn though … at ower two months early …’ She shook her head.
‘’Twill finish her.’
‘We'll nae let it. But she's this night to endure, and she's pitiful weak.’
Grace's face was colourless, her eyes closed tight against the pain. She put out a clammy hand to Morven and squeezed so hard Morven had to clench her teeth to prevent herself crying out. Even after the pain had passed, Grace managed only a few breathless words, her thoughts as always with Malcolm.
‘Rowena doesna believe ’twill live. He’ll nae even see it … ’twill be dead and buried afore he gets hame.’
‘Ye dinna ken that,’ Morven whispered. ‘None o’ us do.’ She traced the spidery veins on the back of her mother's hand and blinked back her tears.
The door opened to admit Rory and Donald, both white-faced. Seeing Morven, Rory’s eyes widened, then he swallowed and looked down at his hands. Being his elder, she was beyond his reproach, and she supposed he’d weightier matters on his mind. He shifted his gaze to Rowena, and she indicated they should both approach the bed, should see for themselves their mother still lived.
Watching a stark-faced Donald fidget fearfully beside his b
rother, his childish presence for once not only tolerated by Rory but actively welcomed, Morven felt a stab of guilt, knowing it was she who’d dragged them away at such an hour – she who had sinned. The boys exchanged an uneasy look, then withdrew to the other room to fret and to pace.
Rowena worked tirelessly, plying Grace with a tincture of crampbark to ease the course of her labour and occasional sips of a pale green elixir Morven knew was to lessen her awareness of the pain. She spoke calmly to Grace, bolstering her through each agonizing struggle, massaging her back and speaking of the infant that was so badly wanted.
Grace was drenched in sweat and the period of rest between each wave of pain seemed too short for her to prepare herself for the next onslaught. Morven cooled her face with a damp cloth and prayed. In contrast to her mother's last two labours, this one was almost silent, Grace too weak to produce the spine-wrenching screams she'd uttered in the past. The only outward indication of her pain was a hissing intake of breath through clamped teeth and the endless writhing of her body.
Some time near dawn, Morven drew Rowena away from the bed. ‘Should we nae make her walk? Ye did tell me once it quickens the progress, eases the opening o' the way.’
‘It does, but I dinna see how she can walk, she can scarce lift her head.’
‘We could hold her, she's as light as a wishbone, we could bear her weight whilst she moves her legs.’
Rowena nodded slowly. ‘’Tis worth trying,’ she agreed.
Rory was eager to help, and between the three of them, they eased Grace as gently as they could from the bed where she’d lain for the past three weeks. Her head lolled, and she muttered something unintelligible in Gaelic, but she could move her feet a little to shuffle slowly around the room. For the next two hours, the three of them walked with her in turns, Rory doing the lion's share of the work while Donald watched anxiously, too small to take his turn. When they laid Grace back on the bed, Rowena judged her as ready as she'd ever be. She ushered the boys from the room and took Grace's hand; it burned ominously.
‘Ye must bear down now. Fer Malcolm’s sake. ’Tis the bairn he wants, a lass … I believe.’
Grace's eyes rolled, but she pushed her damnedest, losing consciousness but being remorselessly brought back.
‘Ye're killing her!’ Morven cried. But Rowena shook her head.
‘It does seem that way, I know, but ’tis the only way to help her live.’
Even so, it was mid-morning before the tiny soul finally entered the world, the tiny head slippery with the mutton fat Rowena had used to ease its passage. Grace let out a bloodcurdling cry, and it was over.
‘A lass,’ Rowena told her. ‘A dear wee soul.’
Grace slumped into the pillow, her chest heaving, but a trace of a smile touched her lips.
Quickly Rowena swaddled the infant and passed her to Morven. ‘She lives. At least fer the moment. Take her to meet her brothers, I must work fast.’
The infant had quite the dearest face any of them had ever seen and wisps of delicate red hair.
‘She’s that wee,’ said Rory. ‘To have given Mam so much trouble. But, should she nae be crying?’
Morven studied the precious infant, noting the pallor of her lips, the shallowness of her breathing. Her throat tightened hopelessly.
‘She’s alright though, isn’t she?’ Donald piped. ‘I mean, Rowena said ’twould be dead.’
‘Ye could pray fer her,’ Morven suggested, and she began to clean the blood and grease from the tiny face.
Grace had slipped into unconsciousness, although there was more colour in her face than there had been in weeks. Still, Rowena was plainly worried. Feeling the heat radiating from the frail body, she frowned at the simples she had to hand and checked again the rapid racing of Grace's heartbeat at a point on her wrist.
Morven watched her fearfully. ‘Has she a fever?’ But there was no need to have it confirmed, the signs of fever were manifest.
‘’Tis what I was afraid of.’
‘What can we do?’
‘Send one o’ the boys out to gather wild garlic. ’Twill help fight the infection. I’ve dried myrtle to hand and … aye, thank heavens,’ she rummaged among her potions. ‘I’ve juniper oil. We’ll make a solution and bathe her with it.’
‘Will she live?’
Rowena’s dark eyes were full of tenderness. ‘Only God can answer that. But whatever’s in my power, I will do.’
Over the next few hours there was little change in Grace's condition, she remained in that deep state to which she’d slipped, drifting between bouts of distressing delirium and lengthy periods of deathlike stillness. They continued to bathe her with juniper water, a potent remedy for fever, and sprinkled her with the silvered water Rory had eagerly fetched. Beyond that, there was little any of them could do, and Morven's prayers joined the chorus of desperate Hail Marys and Our Fathers Donald and Rory recited.
The child was dying, her tiny abdomen barely moving, her lips tinged blue. Morven racked her mind for ways to bring the mite some relief but there was nothing. The little soul's lungs were simply not developed enough to supply her body with the air she needed. She’d uttered not a sound since birth but battled silently for breath, seeking neither to feed nor be comforted.
Lord, Morven silently beseeched, what has this little soul done to deserve such a brief glance at life? Or was the infant’s suffering a punishment fer her own wickedness? Her mam's early labour hastened by it? The notion wormed insidiously through her mind. She who’d sinned, who’d sold her soul to the devil to escape arrest and humiliation. What had she done?
The notion was too much to bear. She held the infant close, desperately willing air into the tiny lungs, her own chest constricted with despair. ‘Ye are loved,’ she whispered fiercely to the little bundle. ‘Loved more than …’ She swallowed. ‘More than I have words to explain.’
But the struggle went on, the infant weakening by the hour, her eyes never once open to see how much she was wanted. Such a fighter she was, but among the folk gathered there was no talk of the outcome of her struggle – the hopelessness was plain to see.
It was nightfall again before the infant's struggle finally came to an end, and, convulsing, she lay limp and still.
Rowena kissed the delicate little forehead. ‘She's at peace now,’ she whispered.
The infant's struggle was lost, but Morven could see no peace in that. She laid the infant beside her mother – Grace almost as still as the child – and crept away.
It was almost two days since she’d slept, and she longed for oblivion. She took the copper worm from her arisaid and pushed it beneath her bed, then lay down. She was sore and choked with tears that refused to come, but nonetheless, sleep came mercifully quick.
When she awoke, daylight's glimmer was fading again, and she found her mother a little improved and the infant laid in a tiny homemade coffin lined with fleece. Tears blurred her vision and tightened her throat as she looked at the delicate mouth that would never smile, the tiny unopened eyelids, now still and cold. Yet looking at her mother's dear face, she dared to hope.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Jamie caught up with McBeath floundering in the Fèithe Mosach, a bog half a mile from the Lochy Gorge. At the sound of hooves bearing down on him, the gauger thrashed through the sodden heath and near wept with relief at seeing Jamie and the mounts. Sobbing and wheezing and without a word of gratitude, he scrambled into the saddle and with a blubbering cry flogged his horse mercilessly out of the mire and away.
Jamie followed at a more rational pace, using the time to think through his next move. ’Twas hard to think straight, difficult to focus on what he must do to bring the Black Gauger to justice with the grievous burden of his guilt weighing him down. It gnawed into his soul. He carried with him an image of the lass he loved, crumpled where he’d left her, and the shame of that fired such a rage within him it clouded his judgement. For he now blamed himself as much as the gauger.
He drew a r
agged breath. He no longer knew what to say to Morven, his efforts at keeping her safe had failed utterly. He looked down at his calloused hands as they gripped the reins; they appeared brutishly big and clumsy. Too crude to give any comfort, to touch the delicate curve of her shoulder and turn her toward him, then slide down her back and cradle her. He felt unworthy to attempt such a thing, yet yearned to do so nonetheless.
Tightening his grip on the reins, he took several fierce breaths, struggling to keep his loathing of the gauger under control. ’Twas plain the man’s considerable sins troubled him. Leaning forward in the saddle, he pressed his mount into a gallop. Time the man unburdened himself.
At Balintoul, Jamie was forced to leap aside as a frightened maid near knocked him down in her haste to escape McBeath’s home. The wind had risen, and he watched the girl's arisaid swirl about her as she crossed herself and scurried away. He turned back to the house. The exciseman had simply let his horse loose to wander, still saddled, and he caught the spent animal and tethered it alongside his own. Both doors to the house were jammed fast, but using his shoulder he rammed the rear entrance, splitting the timber doorframe, and landed heavily amid a stack of casks and barrels on the scullery floor.
The house was dark and silent. Straining his senses, he made out a faint but repetitive sound and followed it. As he neared the drawing room, he recognised the gauger's voice, pitched peculiarly high.
‘If only I'd known. Dear God, if only I'd known.’
Without preamble, Jamie booted the door open.
McBeath's start was so violent he almost fell in the fire, and he let out a half-strangled cry of alarm.
‘Lang!’ He pounced on Jamie and drew him further into the room. ‘Thank God.’
‘Who was it ye were expecting?’
McBeath paid no heed but hastily closed the door. ‘I need holy water.’ He turned and lurched across the room.
The Blood And The Barley Page 23
