The Blood And The Barley

by Angela MacRae Shanks

  ‘A rider, Hal! Think ye ’twill be our slate-layer?’

  But as they watched the dark figure’s approach, Hal ceased his whistling, and both men fell silent. The journeyman would ride a sturdy pony, and would likely bring a cart filled with the implements of his trade, and maybe a few lads, underlings or apprentices. This was a lone rider moving fast, and the beast was large, clean of limb, finely bred and, by the sound of it, iron-shod.

  ‘It couldna be …?’ Hal turned to Jamie.

  But no, as the rider neared it became clear this was not the Black Gauger returned from disgrace but the factor himself out giving stiff exercise to his fine black hunter. McGillivray reined in the beast and dismounted, then waited patiently for one of them to take it from him and tether it nearby. Obligingly, Jamie did so.

  ‘A fine day we’re having, sire,’ said Jamie, for want of anything better to say.

  ‘Mild fer the time o’ year,’ added Hal.

  ‘Indeed, indeed.’ The factor strolled over to the pallets of uncut slate. He stooped to peer at them, then straightened and stepped back to view the simple sandstone frontage with its twin buttresses and short bell tower.

  ‘You built this?’ he said in astonishment.

  ‘No, sire. Every able man in the glen turned his hand, and there were drawings, diagrams to follow drawn by a man o’ letters.’

  ‘Jamie did much o’ it, though,’ Hal chipped in.

  A man of many talents, McGillivray mused, too valuable to be allowed to idle his days away building Popish kirks. He hadn’t seen it before, indeed until the last few weeks he’d gleaned his information almost entirely from the treacherous exciseman, but James Innes he could see quite plainly for himself possessed many of the qualities his Grace would look for in a tenant.

  ‘And you intend to reside here? In Strathavon. Put down roots, so to speak?’

  ‘My roots are here already, sire. All that I am is here. But aye,’ Jamie added, seeing the factor’s bemusement. ‘I plan to bide in the glen now, wi’ my aunt.’

  ‘Your aunt? Mistress Forbes, then, who holds the tenure of Tomachcraggen?’

  ‘Aye, sire.’

  The woman was a widow, McGillivray knew, with a willful daughter, an arrogant and willful daughter, he thought with an inward chuckle. The girl had put up a forceful argument the morning of the duel. Indeed an impassioned plea it had been to drag him from his bed at that hour, though she’d been damned winsome with it, and he admired that in a woman. Her mother was reckoned to be a witch, that could account for the girl’s nature, but still, winsome was winsome wrapped in any religion.

  ‘And there will be no difficulty, I assume, in the paying of her tack duty come Martinmas?’ McGillivray said.

  ‘None, sire. I have the siller counted out already from the sale of her grain.’

  ‘Commendable, commendable.’

  Hal shuffled his feet, uncomfortable with the direction the factor’s questions were taking. Surely, he didna mean to evict Rowena after all? ‘Was there something ye was wanting, sire?’ he asked a mite bluntly.

  The factor cleared his throat; he had to be sure of his ground before making any offer. ‘Since you mention it. As you may be aware, his Grace the Duke has a number of vacant possessions throughout the glen. Land requiring improvement – clearing and draining and so forth. Such rentals are only offered to those deemed to be of sound character by myself. I, as it were, put forth the applicant’s cause to his Grace if, and only if, I’m convinced of the calibre of the applicant’s character. None but decent, upstanding tenants will I abide.’

  He pursed his lips, hands clasped behind his back, and paced for a moment. Jamie turned to Hal, who shrugged his shoulders, mystified by much the factor said.

  ‘In that context, I wish to offer such a rental to yourself, sir, an assignation of say, nineteen years to begin at Martinmas in the year of our Lord seventeen hundred and eighty. What say you to that, James Innes of Tomachcraggen?’

  Jamie gawped at McGillivray, momentarily robbed of his tongue. ‘Do … do ye speak in earnest, sire?’ he finally managed.

  ‘Come now, I'd not jest on such a matter.’

  Jamie let his breath out. The strangest, giddiest sensation had begun in his innards, and he felt it rush up hotly to his face, bursting upon his features in a face-splitting grin.

  ‘Then I'd say thank ye, sire. Thank ye and God bless ye!’

  He turned and caught Hal by the hands. Beaming, Hal pumped his hands up and down, then linked arms with Jamie, and, whooping with delight, spun him around, kicking his legs out in a gay little jig.

  ‘That’s settled, then.’ The factor’s jowls wobbled in satisfaction. ‘I’ll have the papers drawn up. I was thinking, perhaps, of Lynavoulin up by Clachfuar croft, not too much felling would be required as I recall it and –’

  ‘Sire,’ Jamie cut in. ‘If ye dinna mind, I’d much prefer the lease on Druimbeag on the far side o’ the A’an.’ Looking over the factor’s shoulder, he caught sight of Morven and Rowena, bending under the sweep of low pine that sheltered the chapelyard, then straightening and making toward him. They’d been attending the graves he knew, and were now looking at him, and each other, in astonishment. It wasna every day ye danced a wee jig in front o’ the factor, he realised. He turned back to McGillivray, the thread of his thought gone, and stared a little stupidly at him.

  ‘The crofthouse at Druimbeag is no more than a ruin.’ McGillivray grimaced in distaste. ‘And the land has run to seed, is rank with elder and thorn, so I’m told. I think I can find you something a little better than that.’

  ‘Nothing that canna be cleared, though,’ Jamie persisted. ‘And rebuilt. It’s just … just Druimbeag is the place o’ my birth, sire, and I hold it dear to me.’

  McGillivray pulled a face, a gesture that indicated quite plainly his opinion of Jamie’s choice. ‘Have it your way,’ he said with a stiff bow to the two approaching women. ‘Then the lease of Druimbeag is yours, sir. May you never have cause to regret it.’

  Jamie’s breath quivered. ‘Oh, that I’ll nae.’ He took Morven’s hands, then pulled her to him and kissed her fiercely. Releasing her, he laughed at her incredulous expression.

  ‘I’m come home!’

  She slipped her arms around his waist and pressed her cheek to his heart. It beat strongly, strong enough for them both.

  ‘’Tis where ye belong,’ Rowena said firmly.

  Morven would have echoed Rowena’s words had she been able. The drum of her heart beat so loud, it seemed to fill and tightened her throat.

  ‘If ye want me,’ Jamie added shyly.

  A hotness welled behind her eyes, matching the swelling in her throat, but she blinked and smiled through it.

  ‘God, Jamie,’ she blurted. ‘I do want ye that badly.’

  THE END

  A Note of Thanks

  To Andy Ellis, who read it first and kept me on the right path. I am eternally grateful, Andy, for your encouragement, your generosity, and most especially your patience! Without you, this book simply would not exist. You are a man generous in both time and knowledge.

  From Angela MacRae Shanks

  Thank you for reading The Blood & The Barley. If you enjoyed it, I would be grateful if you’d take a moment to leave a frank review, good or bad, on the book’s Amazon page. Reviews are very important to me and help other readers like you find my work. You can go straight to the page by clicking HERE (UK) or HERE (USA).

  This is my first novel, I am currently working on my second, also in The Strathavon Saga. This is a prequel to The Blood & The Barley and is Rowena’s story, seen from her eyes, unfolding the circumstances that led to her brother’s eviction, her marriage to Duncan, and revealing the events that spawned the love/hate relationship between Rowena and the exciseman, Hugh McBeath. On completion of this, I will continue Morven and Jamie’s tale. If you would like to be notified when the next book is available and to receive exclusive material from it prior to its release, please visit
www.subscribepage.com/angelamacraeshanks or sign up here.

  I particularly welcome contact from readers. If you have any questions, comments, suggestions or criticisms, I’d be delighted to hear from you. You can email me at:

  angela@angelamacraeshanks.com or contact me on my website: http://www.angelamshanks.com or on Facebook at: www.facebook.com/angelamacraeshanksauthor

  The Scots Tongue

  The Scots language is wonderfully expressive, and I have used it freely throughout this work, both to add authenticity and a sense of time and place. It is my hope the meaning is generally inferred, but for readers unfamiliar with the Scots tongue a glossary is provided below.

  anker – a liquid measure of spirit and the barrel containing it: approx. 10 gallons.

  bide – dwell or reside.

  canker – bad temper, ill humour.

  cooried – nestled or snuggled.

  crabbit – out of humour.

  crowdie – a soft curd cheese.

  cuddie – a donkey or obstinate horse.

  dram – a small measure of whisky.

  drouth – a drunkard.

  fash – to fret or fuss.

  fou – drunk, intoxicated.

  garron – a small sturdy horse or Highland pony.

  gauger – an exciseman; one who collects excise taxes.

  haiver – to speak nonsense or foolishly.

  hirsel – a group of sheep of the same kind.

  kebbock – a whole cheese, especially homemade.

  kertch – a traditional head covering of linen worn by married women.

  lum – a chimney.

  muckle – large or great.

  quine – a young woman.

  reiver – a cattle raider.

  semmit – an undershirt or vest.

  skelloch – a shriek or shrill cry.

  smoorach – fine dust or crumbled peat.

  spaewife – a woman who can prophesy or foretell.

  squalloch – a loud shrill cry.

  stramash – an uproar or commotion.

  tinker – an itinerant trader dealing in small goods.

  thrawn – contrary, obstinate or stubborn.

  whin – common gorse.