The Blood And The Barley

by Angela MacRae Shanks

  Jamie’s face darkened, blotches breaking out on his neck. He made a half-strangled sound in his throat as he struggled to give vent to his fury, then, with a feral howl, lunged at the exciseman.

  Through the roar of blood in his head, Jamie heard the feral sound but didn’t recognise it as his own. A bloodlust overtook him, filling his lungs, swarming up his throat and rendering him senseless to anything but the urge to strike down the foul creature. At the look of startled terror that flashed across the exciseman’s face, he experienced a stab of satisfaction, then the gauger leapt back wildly, dropping a hand to the ground to balance himself and brought his sword up in a desperate attempt to slew away the lunging blade.

  Their swords clashed with a rasping metallic ring, and the force of his attack brought Jamie thundering down on his opponent, off-balance and breathing hard. McBeath had his sword up again and took a slicing swing at Jamie’s midriff, the blade slashing the empty air, the draught it created pulling Jamie up sharply.

  He grunted in shock. The gauger was quicker than his squatness suggested and a deal deadlier. He’d need better judgment than that, would need to take more cunning stock of his opponent. They circled each other, Jamie striving to clear his head of the murderous rage that fogged his judgment. He could hear Malcolm’s voice urging him on, though whether the crofter did so in reality or whether he summoned the words himself, unwittingly from memory, he could no longer tell.

  Keep yer guard up, lad. Watch fer yer chance! Should the bastard go doon, be after him to finish it. Straight after him. He’d be after you – depend on it!

  He parried a cutting blow with the flat of his sword, his wrist and finger bones dirling at the impact. Dinna take the full force, twill brak’ yer wrist – parry it awa’! Watch fer him reaching ower-far. ’Tis you’ll hae the edge there!

  The savagery of his own attack surprised him. His chest ached with the pounding of his heart, his wrist and forearm screamed at him, but he embraced the pain, absorbed it into his hatred, the physical reality of it preventing his slide into reckless folly. More than once he hurled the creature away with a great grunting heave, panting with the effort, the stink of the man’s breath foul in his nostrils. Then they circled each other again, the tip of his sword searching for a way in, weaving and striking in relentless pursuit, grating in protest against that of the exciseman.

  Steadily the thrum of blood in his ears quietened, and he heard the guiding voice, clear now and insistent. Hold yer legs wide and firm so ye canna be wrong-footed. Mind and breathe! Watch fer signs o’ him tiring, but dinna lose sight o’ that blade!

  As the heat of rage receded, so his grace and agility returned, and he was able to sidestep McBeath’s thrusts, darting away, then engaging with lightening ferocity, slitting the black stuff of the gauger’s coat and opening a bloody gash in the flesh beneath his earlobe. All else shrank from his consciousness but the sinuous silver streak the exciseman wielded and the expanse of buttoned topcoat, flayed and tattered, that danced tantalisingly before his eyes. McBeath was stumbling and panting now, his hat gone and the hated face stark with fear.

  Now’s yer chance, lad. The divil’s flagging. Move in to finish it!

  It was true, he saw it in the gauger’s desperate grimace and slashed at the hated features, thinking only to wipe the scorn from the loathsome face. An image of his own father arose before him, bent under the strain of hauling a cart laden with his wife and worldly possessions together with his young son far from the land of their kin. The poignancy of the image drove a storm of seething blood around his heart, and he bayed with fury and struck at the exciseman, opening a great rent in the man’s topcoat and on into the flesh beneath, blood quickly leaching out.

  The exciseman shrieked, swiping wildly at his opponent, then lurched away, shouting for his henchmen.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  ‘Morven!’ Rowena grasped her by the shoulder and gave her a little shake. ‘Morven. Look, lass.’

  She was trembling, her chin pressed hard against the peeling log, her fingers stiff and nerveless. She daren’t risk taking her eyes from the clashing figures for fear it was nothing more than the force of her will that kept them from killing each other. ‘What? What is it?’

  ‘I dinna rightly ken. See fer yerself.’

  ‘Thundering great flames o’ hell!’ swore Rory, starting in fright at her elbow. And then Morven turned herself and could do nothing but stare and stare.

  They were crowding through the trees, stooping under low boughs, tramping over sodden bracken and branch. Crofters and herdsmen. Cot-wives and their bairns, babes happed at their breasts. Young and old, and, stalking before them like some staffed and be-robed vision from the Holy Bible, the diminutive figure of Father Ranald Stewart.

  Rory was on his feet now, still spouting a stream of profane oaths, a look of incredulity on his face. Every way she turned, Morven could see folk pressing forward in great hordes, flocking to the edge of the clearing, their faces set grimly.

  Craigduthel tipped his bonnet to her as she lay in the wet bracken, then elbowed his way past, an iron-shod pitchfork held upright in his grip. She blinked. She turned to Rowena, but her companion was staring with equal disbelief as the entire McHardy clan streamed past armed with sickles and flails.

  ‘My dears.’ The Father hauled them both easily to their feet and clasped their icy hands. ‘I pray we’re not too late.’

  ‘But … but what –’

  ‘Now’s not the time for explanations,’ he said hastily. ‘’Twas your mother here and the boys kindly showed us to this place.’

  Morven twisted around and there she was, blundering through the bracken, wee Donald pulling at her hand. William was tight-faced at her side.

  ‘Morven! Thank God, Morven, but is he …?’

  ‘Still living,’ Rowena assured Grace. ‘And seemed to have the measure of the exciseman, though I fear it’s nae ower yet.’

  For a moment the women clung to each other, hungry for the comfort of familiar face and touch, then Morven twisted away. ‘But how?’ She turned to stare around her.

  ‘Father Ranald,’ answered Grace. ‘He called together those o’ the parish as would come, those that heard the calling, and bid them raise as many of the others as could stomach no more injustice in Stratha’an.’ She shook her head with a wide-eyed little shrug. ‘’Tis what he said. They came by Tomachcraggen asking to be shown here.’

  ‘Is it a battle, it’ll be?’ Donald turned to hug William excitedly.

  ‘No, dear, I dinna rightly ken what ’twill be.’

  From the direction of the duelling ground, angry shouts were ringing out, and the women exchanged a fearful look, then shouldered their way through the crowd.

  Morven could hear the Father’s voice behind her, but his words were lost in the commotion. What was he doing here, a man of the cloth interfering in a duel? Had he taken leave of his senses? His principles? But more pressing still was the question of the crofting-folk he’d brought with him. When it came down to it, where would they cast their hand in a choice between the exciseman all knew held the factor in his pocket, and the stranger once judged the undoing of them all? But there was no time to dwell on any of that. The crowd was gathering along the tree-fringe, and the women were obliged to join them, squeezing their way through a crush of woollen-clad bodies, jostling for a glimpse of the duelling ground beyond.

  ‘Here,’ offered old Jessie MacBride, making a space for them, ‘we’ve a grand view from here.’ She was with her even older sister Eliza, their watery eyes sharpened in anticipation. Eliza had brought along her spindle, a thing of great beauty carved from horn, though it was now tucked long forgotten beneath her oxter.

  ‘Whit’s that he’s saying?’ She stretched her scrawny neck, dishevelled hair straggling from beneath a grubby kertch. ‘Damned if I can hear the black divil.’

  Morven doubted the spinster sisters had come through any genuine desire to uphold the equity of the combat, as the Father h
ad likely done, but suspected their real reasons lay more in an elemental relish of the spectacle.

  ‘I canna be hearing right myself,’ she muttered.

  Eliza grunted in disappointment.

  McBeath was backed against a small drumlin in the ground, wheezing and bleeding profusely. Around him whirled Dougal and Ghillie, eyeballs near popping from their heads, muskets held ready on bend of elbow.

  ‘What trick is this?’ The exciseman turned on Jamie in furious indignation. ‘Betwixt you and me, eh?’ He swung his sword in a wild gesture at the watching crowds. ‘What’s all this, then? What of the honour ye made so much of? What o’ that, eh?’

  The blood pulsed hotly through Jamie’s veins and his chest heaved, every fibre of him throbbing with the energy of the fight, yet despite the thrill of the clash, McBeath’s barb found its mark. ‘I know naught of this!’ he growled.

  ‘No?’ The gauger narrowed his eyes. ‘I think different. If I mind how it went, ye said ye’d have the Lord on yer side. Only, I didnae see then just what ye meant.’ He jerked his head at the Father, now standing at the edge of the duelling ground, a spare little man when set against the breadth and girth of the exciseman. ‘I didnae realise ye meant literally.’

  Jamie’s nostrils flared. ‘This is ….’ He cast his eyes over the Father, and the waiting crowd congregated among the trees, then shook his head in confusion. ‘I’ve no notion what this is but it changes nothing, I mean to send ye to hell regardless.’

  The exciseman shifted his gaze from Jamie’s baffled face to the silent gathering, then back to his opponent. He swallowed, his anger losing some of its substance at the sight of so many crofting-folk ranked grimly along the tree-line. What in God’s name did it mean?

  ‘And you told me ye’d have justice on your side. Is this it, then? This is your notion of justice? A rabble of hill-folk arrayed against me, whipped up by yon false minister and likely the witch-woman as well? This is Innes justice, is it?’

  ‘None o’ this is my doing.’ Jamie turned in frustration to the priest.

  ‘But,’ pressed the gauger, ‘ye can hardly deny the outcome’s now weighted in your favour. That this is a far cry from the honourable contest you spoke so high-handedly of.’

  ‘It never was that, and well ye ken it!’

  The voice was her father’s, although he was lost to Morven in the press of people.

  ‘Nae when ye’d yonder sleekit pair kitted out wi’ blade and barrel and held ready on yer word.’ His voice rose in anger. ‘I say let them fight fair, Father, wi’ nae paid man to swing the balance!’

  A cheer went up from the crowd.

  ‘Aye,’ cried another. ‘Call off the hirelings, tether them like the dogs they are, and let’s hae this settled fair and square!’

  Morven turned to Rowena; it was Grant of Achnareave who’d shouted out, the old herdsman who damned Jamie so callously after the Beltane fire. Taken aback by the man’s complete change of stance, she moved to voice her astonishment when Rory bellowed in her ear.

  ‘Let’s hae the gauger searched as well, Father! He’d oor man raked like a common brigand – let’s see what he's got alow that weel-stuffed coat!’

  There were shouts of support from the crowd, the mood shifting from one of uncertainty to unmistakeable defiance. Slowly folk began to press forward, muttering and calling out.

  ‘Get back!’ shouted Ghillie, raising his musket to his shoulder. ‘Get awa’, all o’ ye, or so help me I’ll mak’ sun and moon shine through ye!’

  ‘Fer the love of God, man!’ Jamie raised his sword in a futile attempt to protect the crowd behind him. With a swing of kilt, he ran the length of the clearing, gesturing wildly, his sword glinting in the risen sun. ‘Stand back! I beg ye all, stand clear. I’ll have no innocent blood spilt. Christ, man!’ He turned on Ghillie. ‘Can ye nae see there’re women and bairns among this crowd!’

  ‘A damned lynch mob’s what I see.’

  ‘Call him off, McBeath! Afore the fool shoots someone.’

  The exciseman’s face was colourless now, the bones of his features unpleasantly severe beneath a corpse-like complexion. His face twitched, and he stared at Achnareave and the enraged crowd, his mouth gaping. Damn it all, had the world gone mad? The confounded muck-the-byres owed their living to him, yet they were turning on him in droves and with an unwarranted savagery. Did he no allow the smuggling of barley-bree to go on unmolested? At a price maybe, but unmolested all the same. Damn them, their ingratitude was beyond belief!

  He drew his gaze along the ragged front line, then swiftly backtracked, his attention centring on one face with a jolt of understanding. She stared back openly, dark-eyed and bold and infinitely fascinating. The woman who possessed his every waking hour. A shiver rippled through his flesh, excitement rising through his innards; what she did to him during the hours of darkness he’d confess to no man. She was the reason for the hill-rabble’s mutinous mood. Indeed, she was the reason for the hill-rabble. Rowena Forbes. Witch-woman and tormentor of his soul. The witless fools were but tinder to her spark and the witch had fired them like a swathe of dry heather.

  His tongue felt thicker than he’d known it, out of place in his mouth and rougher than any bout of drinking had ever made it, but he swallowed hard, his heart pounding. A show of authority was needed here. Hill-folk, he’d long judged, were of little more value than the cattle they herded and no shrewder than a hirsel o’ sheep. Show weakness, and they’d flock to the witch and her kinsman, yet show steel, and they’d soon remember who held the real power. And she could yet be his. Filling his lungs, he tamped down his unease and contrived to raise his voice above the clamour.

  ‘Keep things on an even keel, is it? With a lawless pack baying for my blood? Why, if I’d no’ the presence o’ mind to bring along my seconds here, I might well be swinging from a tree already.’ He shook his head. ‘I’ll no’ be calling them off.’

  The clamour heightened until the Father, half forgotten in the stramash, hailed the crowd in a strident voice. ‘I’ll have calm! Calm, d’ye hear? We’re civil folk and let’s nae forget it.’

  Father Ranald was in no mood to mince words with the exciseman. He jabbed a finger at Ghillie. ‘Should that man kill, Mister McBeath, in front of all these witnesses, God help me but I’ll see him hanged and you along wi’ him, fer ’tis well known the man does naught that’s not the bidding of his paymaster.’

  ‘So ye’d hand me to the pack?’

  ‘I would not. I give ye my word, as a servant o’ the Lord, no man here will interfere. Stand yer men down, show ye’ve no dirk nor blade hidden about yourself, and ye’re free to take satisfaction for whatever offence has been caused ye.’

  The exciseman’s whiskers twitched once more, his face set in a look of perfect incredulity. Was he expected to take the word of an idol-kissing priest? Damn her, but the witch even had the Popish cloth dancing to her jig. Ghillie would stand firm though, and he’d take orders from no saint-loving Father. He shifted his gaze from the balding priest to his rattled attendants.

  Ghillie looked back darkly, noted his employer’s pallor, the patch of blood spreading through a rent in his coat, the tic beneath his left eye, then glanced at the wrathful priest and lastly turned to survey the waiting crowd.

  ‘Nay,’ he muttered, lowering his musket. ‘Ye dinna pay me near enough to swing fer ye.’

  In an instant, Alec relieved him of his musket, and Morven observed a flash of satisfaction cross her brother’s face. Swiftly he searched the man, then piled the hireling’s weaponry upon the pile her father was removing from a more compliant Dougal.

  ‘Well, McBeath?’ Jamie’s voice rose in challenge. ‘Are ye prepared to show ye’ve no like arsenal stowed about yerself?’

  Loosening the laces on his sark, he threw the linen wide and in a bold gesture jerked the garment free and hurled it to the ground. Gasps rang out as all now looked on Jamie’s naked flesh, smooth and vulnerable and finely etched with muscle. At his throat
hung Father Ranald’s silver crucifix.

  ‘Well?’

  Swallowing, the exciseman glanced down at his own costume, his hands jerking defensively to the fastenings. The Forbes woman had done this. The cunning temptress had set a trap for him.

  ‘’Twas the witch brought me to this. The Forbes woman. She’s cursed me that one. Cast a beguilement on me, a fixation that makes me burn with the wanting of her.’

  ‘’Tis yer own flesh does that,’ Jamie snapped.

  ‘No, I tell ye, this burning’s no natural. There’s no deliverance from it but to take her to wife.’

  ‘Never!’ shouted Rowena. ‘I’d sooner be served wi’ removal papers and dispossessed than wed to the likes of you.’

  At Rowena’s outburst, Jamie glanced up, locating her in the crowd and nodded grimly to her. His gaze shifted and lingered a moment on Morven’s face, relief at seeing her shining in his eyes.

  ‘And removed you’ll be,’ McBeath hit back. ‘Once the factor hears of your murdering ways – yer witchery. Every one o’ my bairns stillborn, every pregnancy blighted by your hand.’

  The crowd made a shocked sound like the north wind rushing through the trees.

  ‘’Twas God’s will, nae mine. I did my best to save them.’

  The exciseman shook his head, his face working feverishly. He scanned the crowd, sensing a subtle shift in the sympathies of the rabble stirred by mention of the factor, and perhaps reference to his dead children. He stifled the triumphant twitching of his lips. Could it be that what he’d always considered to be the mindless vagaries of Highland fealty, swayed by distrust of the law and those set to uphold it, might yet come to his aid? Lord, were they no’ a flock o’ witless sheep? If he could just keep a grip on his nerve, and with a show of bluff, he might yet slip from the witch’s snare.