The Blood And The Barley

by Angela MacRae Shanks

  ‘Naething heavy fer the lad, mind.’ Her father’s voice seemed overly loud in the tense greyness. ‘Just enough fare to keep heart and limb strong and nothing fer myself, I’ve no stomach fer meal.’

  Morven’s own stomach curdled at the thought of food, and she imagined only the boys would manage anything, their unbridled excitement bringing its own appetite. She’d slept in her clothes and wound on her arisaid now, the room still cold, or was it, perhaps, just her blood that ran cold? She crossed the room and stared out of the tiny window. Somewhere out there in the darkness, like loitering wolves, the gauger and his men would be waiting. Lord, she silently prayed. Protect him, let him come back to me.

  Jamie sat stiffly at the table, Grace fretting over him, and when she turned to look at him again, he no longer exposed his grief so rawly but shielded it, guarded his pain at what the day’s deed would lose him in a grim unflinching expression, one hatred and injustice had roused within him. Her father patted him roughly on the shoulder and sat down at his side.

  ‘A sup o’ something will help chase awa’ the trembles and the shakes, lad.’ His face was tense and drawn. Jamie nodded, but there was no trace of tremor in the hands he rested on the table, he was focused on what lay ahead.

  Rowena set down the steaming infusion, the swirling green liquor a stimulant that she doubtless hoped would relieve any lingering nerves. Known as the witch’s herb, vervain was a potent elixir capable of empowering any charm or invocation, and of bestowing both protection and a blessing.

  ‘She’s gone!’ Rory stood in the doorway in his sarktails. ‘Sarah. Gone and never as much as stirred the bedclaes nor gave rouse to wee Donald or myself.’ He shook his head incredulously. ‘Spirited herself away in the night and us trussed in thon box-bed like tappit-hens in a coop.’

  Alec and William appeared at his shoulder, both bleary-eyed and bewildered. ‘It’s true,’ said Alec. He pushed past Rory and hurried out into the dark, returning a moment later. ‘The dun gelding’s gone too. My father’s pony.’ He turned to Rowena. ‘Did ye know about this? Did ye send Sarah off someplace?’

  White-faced, Rowena shook her head. ‘I know nothing of this, I swear it. Yet … she’s been stretched ower-tight inside, Alec. I felt it in her.’

  ‘She’d nae do anything daft?’ There was a catch in Alec’s voice.

  ‘No. Och no, lad.’

  Yet despite her denials, Rowena stiffened perceptibly at Alec’s words, and Morven had the feeling her friend would’ve fretted far more had morning’s break, in all its significance, not been so close at hand. Rather, the widow forced a note of calm to her voice.

  ‘She’s aye been dark, I’m sure ye ken that, Alec. And though she’s taken real ill ower all this, the girl’s no fool, wouldna do harm to herself if that’s what ye're thinking. Likely she just couldna abide waiting here on nettle-stalks wi’ all of us. She’ll have taken herself off someplace quiet-like, till the day’s dealings are ower and done wi’.’

  Rowena’s answer was half bluff Morven recognised, designed to ease her own concerns as much as those of Alec or anyone else. And perhaps to smooth the water for Jamie, to ensure her kinsman remained clear in thought without Sarah’s bizarre disappearance rippling his focus. Yet the thoughts of those in the room were all with Jamie and the fate that awaited him, and there was scarce thought to spare for Sarah and her games. Even from Alec, who nodded at Rowena in concession.

  Jamie made no comment on Sarah’s disappearance, but at the haunted look in his eyes, Morven silently cursed the girl. What was she up to now? She’d seemed that shamed these last days, that embittered with herself, and yet she was a dark one, and there was nae mistake there.

  Her father snorted contemptuously and without looking up, continued to buff flecks of mutton fat into the broadsword’s murderous blade. ‘Is there to be naething fer the lad to eat, then?’ he growled.

  ***

  The air was cold enough to mist their breath, the sky clear with a growing radiance beneath the bands of cloud in the east, although the light was still grainy with the lingering texture of night. Added to the saturated ground there had been a heavy dew, the first frosts not far away, it being September already, and the two women could’ve followed the dark trail of sodden and crushed undergrowth easily enough, even had they not known exactly which route to take.

  ‘Are ye certain this is the way?’ Rory hissed.

  ‘Aye, but keep yer voice down,’ Morven warned. ‘There’s nae telling what McBeath might do should he find us.’

  Those had been her father’s parting words, and they rang ominously in her head. Faced with his daughter's stupefying yet iron-fast resolve to attend the duel, her father had blustered and near blown steam from his ears at the outrageous notion.

  ‘Say what ye will. I’m coming wi’ ye.’

  ‘Aye,’ Rowena added. ‘I wish to be there too.’

  ‘God’s blood!’ Malcolm got to his feet. ‘’Tis no place fer women. I’ve never heard the like, ’tis …’tis scandalous!’

  ‘Maybe, but that’s how it is.’

  Malcolm’s face reddened, and he drank in a deep draught of air to calm himself. ‘It’s nae right, but even leaving the rights and wrongs aside, I could scarce stand by and let ye witness what’s done here today – to either man.’ He turned to Grace for support, although she gave him none. ‘I'd not wish that on any woman, least of all my ane daughter. No,’ he shook his head emphatically. ‘I canna countenance such a thing.’

  ‘Ye dinna understand,’ Morven returned. ‘I canna countenance waiting here, helpless and blind and kenning nothing of what’s happening.’ She looked at Jamie. ‘Bearing the fact of what’s to happen is torment enough.’

  Jamie’s nod was infinitesimal, but she knew he understood. Malcolm turned to stare at him.

  ‘Let her come, Malcolm, for my sake, them both, forbye. Hidden well, mind.’

  Malcolm stared at him for what seemed an age, Jamie returning his look, until at last the crofter raised his eyes to the heavens with an exasperated sigh.

  ‘Follow on, then! Only hang well back from harm’s way and make ne’er a sound, no matter what ye see.’

  Morven nodded grimly.

  Jamie checked the fastening of his sword belt; his breathing was quick, a quiver to it, and when he met her eyes he swallowed, the lines of his face taut with strain.

  ‘Jamie.’ But he stilled her with a finger to her lips.

  ‘’Tis a need of no words, we have,’ he said softly. ‘Once I told ye to forget me, yet,’ his throat contracted, ‘yet weakness bids me ask that ye keep me in yer prayers, fer a while at least, though I’ve no right to ask it.’ He touched his hand to the hilt of the great sword. ‘I mean to spit the gauger, but whether I do or not we’ll nae meet beyond this day, I think, save in my dreams.’

  ‘I’ve the pony loaded.’ Rory stood in the doorway, cold air steaming his breath. Through the half-open door, Morven could see her father’s bay mare, saddled and packed with Jamie’s meagre belongings, ready for the road.

  ‘Lord,’ she gasped over the lump in her throat. The urge to clutch at his shirtsleeves overwhelmed her, but the flicker that crossed her mother’s face stilled her hand, and instead she whispered fiercely, ‘Lord protect ye, Jamie Innes. Till we meet again, in your dreams or mine.’

  His face betrayed a fleeting moment of desolation before he gained mastery over it and, tightening his jaw, nodded almost curtly to her. Afraid to trust his voice, he turned away to find his kinswoman standing dark-eyed and stoic, something in her expression disturbingly familiar. A glimpse at the fibre of the Highland folk he’d found here, reflected in her eyes, a window on the woman’s steadfast acceptance of all that others’ ignorance and suspicion had brought down on her. Or was it rather an insight into his own soul and all that pride and honour had brought him to? He swallowed, feeling the weight of misery his actions had inflicted, and, sensing that despair, he could summon no fine words for his aunt either, only murmurs of reg
ret that he pressed gruffly upon her.

  ‘Ye’ll see my aunt safe, sir?’ He turned almost with relief to the waiting crofter.

  ‘Ye have my word on it.’ Malcolm cleared his throat of its customary harshness. ‘Where is it ye’ll head, then, lad?’

  ‘North, I'm thinking, to the land of Ross.’

  ‘A fine land, so it’s told.’ Malcolm firmed his jaw, and half turned from the upright young man to rummage in his sporran.

  Morven heard the clink of silver and could have kissed her father’s grizzled cheek for assuming Jamie would have the chance to head anywhere. She watched him offer Jamie a fistful of coins.

  ‘Take it, lad, little though it is, ’twill pay a night or twa’s lodgings till ye’ve yerself settled in work.’

  Jamie faltered. He thought much of the grim-faced crofter, considered him a kinsman almost, although there was no shared blood between them, only a shared hatred for McBeath. But looking into the older man’s face, earnest and stern, he found he couldn’t shame him by turning aside his charitable goodwill. His own pride was not so intractable, and he understood the gesture, sensed the crofter’s admiration, maybe even the man’s envy at his opportunity, and the money would be welcome, ill though Malcolm could afford it.

  He nodded. ‘I’d count it an honour, sir.’

  Malcolm turned away and spoke roughly, more to himself than to his thrawn daughter. ‘Mind now, there’s nae telling what McBeath might do should ye be discovered – keep yerselves well hidden.’ With that, he clapped a hand on Jamie’s shoulder and, nodding to a whey-faced Alec, led the way out.

  ***

  How Rory had contrived to accompany them, Morven still couldn’t quite fathom, but in the end, it had been easier, not to mention quicker, to relent and allow it. And she had to admit she felt a little easier for his company, his solid maleness, even at thirteen years, was oddly comforting. He crashed ower-much through the briars and brambles for her liking though, next to Rowena’s almost silent progress, and she checked him at last with a hand on his forearm and breathed, ‘Can ye nae heed where ye’re putting thon muckle great feet of yours, Rory? Ye’ve snapped more stems than a hart put to the chase.’

  ‘Sorry, Morven,’ he pulled a woeful face.

  She nodded, and they crept forward again.

  The appointed place lay over the brow of a squat little hill, a stretch of bare weedy ground gnawed by sheep, scratched by hens, and swept clear of treacherous debris by William only the day before. A thick forest of birch-wood, pine, and juniper scrub hemmed the place, and it was to within this covering that the three cautiously made their way.

  Morven shivered and glanced at Rowena, the fine hairs on her nape beginning to rise. Rowena nodded back tensely and roved with her eyes, indicating her own awareness of a watchfulness in the trees, a rustling and snapping of twigs that owed nothing to Rory. The air was damp and oppressive, and it seemed the forest birds had taken flight, leaving behind the silence of bated breath and a whispering suspense that raised the gooseflesh beneath her gown.

  It was Rowena that saw them first, and at her sudden stillness Morven and Rory froze by her side. Through a break in the trees, Morven could see Ghillie’s head and shoulders and almost all of Dougal, lounging against a tree at the far side of the clearing, his head cocked to his companion. She drew back behind an old birch tree. With the barest of movement, Rowena reached out and guided Rory further into the tangle of scrub. The women exchanged a fearful look. Unlike her da and brother, these men carried muskets, long hunting muskets that each held up to their shoulder, an upper corner of plaid looped over the lock of the weapon to protect it from the damp air and drip of trees. Wide shoulder belts testified that both carried swords.

  Worming around the tree and peering from behind a great gall sprouting from its trunk, Morven risked a better look. Close by the men, she could see two garrons tethered and browsing contentedly. Alongside stood a far larger animal that she took to be McBeath’s mount. She drew back again to watch with one eye, her cheek pressed hard against the tree’s cankerous growth. The hirelings had plainly been set there to keep watch, and while they displayed a degree of swaggering importance, she saw that beneath cock-feathered bonnets their faces were wary and alert.

  Dougal scratched absently at himself, then glanced about, hastily returning the pleats of his kilt to within the realms of decency. As his plaid fell back into place, she noted the swing of dirk at his girdle.

  ‘Christ!’ whispered Rory. ‘They’re both armed to the teeth.’

  ‘Shh.’ Rowena sank into the bracken. ‘I hear Jamie.’

  Morven could hear him too and, holding her breath, lowered herself into the sodden undergrowth. Hitching her skirts, she crawled on hands and knees to a fallen bracken-sprouting log, flattening herself behind it. Most of the duelling ground was now in her field of vision. She gestured to Rory to follow her lead, and he joined her a moment later, face sparked green, a dark trail heralding his furtive slither through the moss and the cowberry.

  ‘There they are,’ he whispered needlessly.

  From her position in the wet bracken, Morven could see the back of her father’s head, and Alec now too, waiting at the near edge of the clearing only a matter of feet away, their backs to the trees. Her stomach lurched; Jamie already stood in the centre of the ground, facing the squat figure of the exciseman, his face set and fists clenched at his side. McBeath was dressed – indeed to Morven’s mind seemed a deal over-dressed for what they intended – in breeks and polished boots, a black lum-hat, and thick black coat. But it was the expression he wore that chilled her most. Suffused with blood, his whiskered face trembled and jerked in what could only be a mighty rage.

  ‘How in God’s name did a common muck-the-byre come by a sword like that?’ His harsh words carried clearly on the still air, and he pointed an accusing finger at the great scabbard hanging at Jamie’s side. ‘’Tis hardly the blade of a landless byre-lad, a mere heather-lowper!’ Deliberately he used the hated Lowland term. ‘Aye, and a lying cheating one at that. Was it witchery? Is that how ye came by such a sword?’

  Jamie didn’t raise his voice, yet the three hidden in the bracken heard every word.

  ‘’Twas given me.’

  ‘Given you? By whom?’

  ‘By me, ye black divil!’ Malcolm made no movement toward the pair measuring each other in the centre of the ground but shrugged away Alec’s restraining hand. ‘And ’twas given to me by my father, and to him by his father afore that.’ Pulling himself straight, he squared his shoulders and levelled a black stare at the exciseman. ‘Heather-lowpers all.’

  ‘By you? Delnabreck? Another muck-the-byre!’ McBeath's voice rose in an incredulous little laugh. ‘It’ll be as old as the hills then. ’Tis a wonder it’s no long since rusted away.’ He shook his head scornfully but it was plain he was shaken by this turn of events, that he’d not expected his opponent to come so well armed, and was now realising that armed with such a blade, Jamie’s reach would exceed his own by a good few inches.

  ‘’Twas given fer the contest,’ Jamie said with painstaking patience. ‘And auld as the hills it may be, yet it’ll nae have escaped yer notice the hills are still here while, as God is my witness, I intend to make sure you’re nae fer much longer!’ He inhaled forcibly and said on a calmer note, ‘’Tis an equal measure to your own blade, McBeath. Or do ye question what’s undeniably true?’

  The exciseman's colour had deepened, and a jagged little scar stood out purple above the growth of beard on his cheek. Turning to his two gaping assistants, he snapped, ‘I'll have that insolent cow herder searched. Now, by God!’

  Dougal started into hasty activity, Ghillie grinning and drawing a pistol from beneath his jerkin. ‘A pleasure ’twill be.’ He winked cockily at Jamie.

  A twitch of muscle at Jamie’s temple was all that betrayed his irritation, but he raised his hands obligingly, revealing the folds of his sark hanging slackly. ‘I carry only the sword. The weapon of yer choi
ce, McBeath, if ye mind.’

  ‘We’ll see soon enough how true that is!’

  Jamie shrugged, his eyes glittering dangerously. ‘Search me then, and have done with it.’

  Ghillie's search was a deal more thorough than was needed, Dougal holding his musket, and when finally he slid his hands up beneath Jamie’s kilts, Jamie growled at him,

  ‘That’ll do ye. Ye dinna suppose I’d stoop so low as to conceal arms about myself?’ His eyes moved to the hireling’s master, and he cocked a scornful eyebrow. ‘But now, to keep things on an even keel, I’ll be having your man searched, eh?’

  McBeath laughed uproariously at that, even the twitching Dougal breaking into a nervous grin. He jerked his head in the direction of Malcolm and Alec, standing silent and rigid beneath the trees. ‘Ye dinnae expect me to consent to a like treatment from old Delnabreck there and the whelp?’

  ‘I do.’

  ‘Then you’re a bigger fool than I thought. ’Tis me’ll have them searched.’

  ‘Damned if ye will!’ snarled Malcolm, taking a step toward the livid-faced exciseman.

  ‘Enough of this.’ Jamie warned Malcolm off with a flick of his head. He fixed the exciseman with a cold stare. ‘This is betwixt you and me McBeath. I’m tired o’ yer games. Ye’ve made it plain enough how little meaning ye place upon yer honour, yet …’ he drew breath, loath to reveal the hurt he carried within him. ‘To me, honour means all. Ye’ve wronged my kinfolk and fer that I intend to make ye pay.’

  There was a snort from McBeath, and Jamie stared hard at him, his patience whistling away down his nose along with his breath.

  ‘’Tis satisfaction I’ve come fer. By God, I’ll have it from ye in blood!’ He drew his sword with a sound like a scythe cutting through hay. ‘Stand and face me if ye’re man enough!’

  The exciseman drew the length of his own sword, the rising sun lighting it with a wicked gleam. ‘Man enough and more!’ He wet his lips with a flick of tongue. ‘Man enough to deal with the likes of you, Innes, and still have sap left for more pleasurable business like the servicing of your kinswoman. ’Twill be three months since I spoke with her of that, but once we’re wed, I’ll be expecting her on the flat of her back a sight more often than that.’ He sneered with more than a hint of relish. ‘How think you she’ll fare as my bed-mate? A willing mare, I’ll wager.’