Bessie narrowed her eyes.
“It seems to me a wonderful thing,” Margaret rushed on, though, in truth, she was not at all sure it was wonderful. “The fairies can help her, like the fairies in Mister Shakespeare’s play.”
Bessie’s light eyes darted back and forth under black eyebrows, looking to the doors and back. She lowered her head and whispered, “You mun’ not talk with that woman.”
“But why? She seemed to do no harm.”
“She may not seem to, but when you see the straws in the wind, these will be the fairies flying. And then you must sanctify yourself so the fairies and elves canna’ shoot the arrows at you.”
“I know; you have told me that. And I don’t believe it.” Margaret set her mouth with determination. “But I sanctify myself just in case.” She made the sign of the cross on her forehead and chest, reciting, “In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost.” Bessie had taught this to both Lucy and Margaret, though they couldn’t let their mother and father know. To them, this was just another Catholic superstition. “But that woman,” Margaret said, “is not a fairy.”
“I know that woman. Her name is Isobel Gowdie. You must never talk to her, and you must always sanctify yourself when you see her.”
“But Bessie, why?”
“I say no more.”
Chapter 2
The next morning, Father finished his porridge and stood up from the table. “To the cellar, young lady.”
Margaret had no choice. Though she was seventeen, her father treated her like a child, and she had to follow him down the tower stairs, past the kitchen, and to the last cellar room, or some harsher punishment would follow.
He lit one candle in the gloomy dungeon and pulled her over to the wall. “I am your father, and I must keep you safe,” he said with some sorrow in his voice.
“But I am seventeen, Father. I know how to be safe.”
He shook his head. “Daughter, you must learn to stay within our walls and not go roaming of an evening. Night is a time of danger. Great danger.” The birch rod through her pantaloons came like a shock, a terrible sting. At least he no longer beat her on her bare skin.
This punishment hurt her, almost more in heart than in body. This father who loved her—she knew he did—to beat her so, how could he? She clenched her teeth. She would not cry out, but beneath the anger, silent tears flowed. She must try harder to be a good daughter. She would learn the catechism so perfectly that Father would smile with pride. And she would try to stay in the castle in the evening. She sighed. She knew the fields and paths, the Wood of Lochloy, the strand and the shore so well. She was sure that she could roam them without any light.
But now it was morning, with no need to hide. As soon as she could, she saddled Miranda, her bay roan, and leapt up, straddling her horse in a very unladylike seat. Oh, that sting on her bottom. But she ignored the pain and galloped under the gray sky towards the sea, the bog to her left, the fields of flax on the right. She would go to Henrietta. Henrietta Rose, her dearest friend, who would be as fascinated as Margaret herself with the fairy woman.
Skirting the bog, Margaret followed the path past the farmtown. Several people were about—a farmer dragging a sledge, two women carrying peat—but no Isobel Gowdie.
Margaret pulled off her cap as she flew past the loch, over the machair, and down to the strand. On horseback, this was the quickest way to Nairn. Henrietta was the one person she could confide in, the one who knew her best.
It was vulgar for a woman to straddle a horse as opposed to riding sidesaddle, but Margaret could go so much faster when she pulled up her skirts and threw one leg over. Loose hair was another thing she could be punished for, because that meant a woman had loose morals, but hardly anyone was around to see her, and she loved to feel the wind in her hair.
Margaret leaned over and clung to Miranda as they galloped along the shoreline, the sea calm beside them, the air gray with mist, the strand deserted with the fishermen out at sea.
She stopped at the estuary, the mouth of the River Nairn. Rich smells of rotting life and oozing life, and little burns gushed through the pale marsh grass into shallow pools. The tide was low, and Miranda’s hooves squished in the soggy peat as she splashed into the water and across.
A flock of Redshank pipers, their spindly legs bright orange against the deep brown of the peat, moved away as they approached. Farther down, two fishermen held a salmon net over one of the pools. They tipped their hats and bowed to Margaret.
On the other shore, Margaret pulled on her cap and lifted her leg back over to the side. Nairn was a busy village, and people would be about. She sat up, refined and graceful, and trotted along the King’s Steps Road, past the wee thatched houses and to the stone manse beside the kirk where Henrietta’s father, Mister Hugh, was the minister.
“Margaret!” Henrietta ran out the front door to greet her, pale red hair translucent in the sun. They embraced, and Henrietta led her into the parlor. Like the castle, it was dark in the house, but there was something cheerful about the Rose house. Margaret didn’t feel the oppression of Inshoch Castle. Perhaps it was because this was a more modern home, with windows and a garden on the same level. No tower stairs to bumble down in the gloom. But really, she thought, it was more because of Henrietta’s mother, the Lady Anne. There was about Lady Anne a feeling of flowers, warm colors, and comfort.
Henrietta’s freckled nose crinkled up as she smiled, and they went into the drawing room, all yellow and white with sun coming in through the windows. Henrietta, like Margaret, loved horses and riding, and they often met on the strand to gallop and wade. They had been friends since childhood and could talk about anything. Henrietta’s father, Mister Hugh, was her tutor, and, like Margaret, she endeavored to be a pious Covenanter lady. But while Margaret was more passionate, Henrietta was thoughtful and practical.
Lady Anne, in a green satin gown, smiled at Margaret as she brought tea and oatcakes, then excused herself to see to the wee lads.
Hungry after her ride, Margaret took a big bite of oatcake as Henrietta sipped her tea. Margaret couldn’t wait to tell her. “I met a woman,” she burst out, her mouth full of cake, crumbs spilling down the front of her gown.
Henrietta laughed as Margaret brushed them off. “A woman?”
“A woman who sees the fairies and knows magic.” Margaret tore off her cap and shook out her untamed curls. “Henrietta, she can talk with the dolphins and the fairies. She has the second sight.”
Henrietta pushed back one strand of her fine hair. “Is she a witch?”
“No, no, she is a wise woman, I’m sure. She said a charm to talk to the dolphins, and she sent them out to bring fish to the fishermen. I will visit her and find out more.”
“You know that magic is forbidden, and fairies are evil?” Henrietta’s face looked skeptical, and Margaret pulled back. She’d thought her friend would be enthralled.
“Yes, I know ’tis what the kirk says, but not all fairies are evil. There really is a fairy kingdom, like in Shakespeare’s plays, a world of delight and surprise. This woman knows it, and I would love to go there, too. I will visit her and ask how.” Her excitement was so great that Henrietta was now smiling and nodding.
Margaret hesitated. “You won’t tell, will you?”
“No, of course not, Margaret. But come with me.” Henrietta stood up and went to the door, where she put on her cloak.
She led Margaret out, and they walked, turning right, away from the kirk and into the market square. Here, the fishwives stood with their salmon, trout, and eels in baskets, and farmers prodded cows and goats through the crowds of people talking, watching, or buying. Smells of fish, cow dung, and men’s sweat mingled with the sea air.
“Look,” Henrietta said, pointing across the square. She indicated the tollbooth, a bleak stone building that housed the j
ail and the sheriff. In front of it stood the gibbet, a high L-shaped wooden frame with a frayed rope dangling and swaying as if the ghost of a hanged man hovered around it. Beside it was a stake surrounded with charred black rubble and ashes. “Tis where Jane Dunlop was burned for witchcraft,” Henrietta said. “Just last month.”
Margaret gasped and clutched her throat. “You could not think that I am in this kind of danger?”
“Of course not, my dear.”
A fisherman staggered into the square with a new load of salmon. People shouted and jostled as he called, “Step back. Step back.”
The two young women stood in silence, staring at the blackened stake.
ISOBEL
Chapter 3
I glanced up toward the castle. Who was this lass, this Lady Margaret with the dark curls and eyes like a deep ale, and why was she questioning me?
I shook my head. Not to think on this when there was work to do. I called the cows, ooheeee, like a keening or a chant. One by one, they turned and followed as I walked. I swung my distaff, twirled it round and round, pulled the flax from the ball of lint, and spun it into linen thread with one arm.
Sunlight reflected off the waters of the firth, to the white clouds above and back to the land, where the flax waved its pale flowers, a soft swelling of blue. The fairies were busy today, dancing and skittering in the sun.
Mistress Gowdie, came a voice—a singing voice, like wind on the sea or a rustle of grass. Good Tidings!
Tidings? I asked without speaking. What tidings?
She was there: the Queen of Fairy, radiant in white and lemon.
I could see beyond sight and hear beneath hearing. Others would have wished for this gift. Others were envious. But this was my power, and mine alone.
What tidings? I asked again.
But the queen had vanished, as the fairies did, so unpredictable and capricious.
I shrugged and sang to myself, in rhythm with the walking and the swinging, the waves on the distant side of the dune. My voice was low like the rhythm of earth, the undertone of the day:
Come, Brendan, from the ocean,
Come, Ternan, most potent of men,
Come, Michael valiant down
Bring favor to my cows.
The cows were treasure and sustenance, constant companions and the substance of all life in this land that bordered the sea. A land of darkness in winter and light in summer; and now, in the spring, it was a place of radiant skies over open plains.
I stopped and gazed past the cows. What did the Queen of Fairy mean?
The cattle followed me across the machair, the open grassland where they grazed. Calves jumped and ran back and forth beside them as the cows lowed and moaned. They were thin, like so many in this land—animals and people both.
There was the tree. The rowan tree. Wider than tall, with a thick trunk and spreading branches full of leaves, the tree bore clusters of red berries that burst like fiery suns upon it. The rowan was the threshold between the worlds, the numinous place where life met life, the place I came to sit and spin while the cows settled and fed.
My voice went down to earth and belly, and my song lifted into the song of Thomas:
True Thomas lay over yon grassy bank and beheld a lady gay,
a lady that was brisk and bold, riding over the fernie brae.
I swung my distaff, swaying and humming. The wind frolicked and whistled, and a man appeared.
I stopped. Where a moment ago there had been just a tree, a man was now standing before it. A man in green, from cap to waistcoat to pantaloons. Over six feet tall, with yellow hair and yellow beard, wild and tangled, and a merry smile. He was humming, too. He smiled and sang out the next line in a hefty bass:
Her skirt was of the grass-green silk, her mantle of velvet fine,
and at each tuft of her horse’s mane hung silver bells, fifty and nine.
The man paused his song, bowed, and reached out his hand. “Come here, my lady,” he said—like a gentleman or a king as if I really were a lady, not the rough and barefoot wife who sat on the dirt in her hut.
I straightened and beamed. The promise of goodness and abundance was present in his face and in his every move. Good tidings.
Yes, I was a lady, full of sunshine and good food, plump, and dressed in velvet and gold. I took a step, for I would go to him. Who would not?
But sudden-like, I halted. I lowered my head and glared at him through my lashes. Was this a trick? Some English soldier come to attack me, like in the battle time, when a man had sprung from behind the hedgerow?
Dressed all in red, with a wicked smile and sweat running down his face, the man reached out. In his open hand was a beautiful pastry topped with a sugar violet. I took it, of course . . . to my everlasting regret.
I looked back at the skinny cows, but when I turned again, the green man was gone.
At the fireside that night, with Elspeth Nychie and John Taylor and the rest, I sat with my distaff, spinning still, and sang the ballad again:
True Thomas he took off his hat,
And bowed him low to his knee:
All hail, though mighty Queen of Heaven.
Your peer on Earth I ne’er did see.
The eyes around the fire shone in excitement and suspense, though they had heard the story many times. People were sitting on the dirt floor around the peat fire, with smoke pervading the room and only a thin thread wending up and through the roof hole. Immersed in smoky darkness, here were Lilias Dunlop with her knitting, Elspeth Nychie carding, her daughter Ann teazing the wool into strands, little lads perched sleepily on bags of grain, and little girls snuggled between their fathers’ knees. At the end of the room in the byre, the cows rustled and grunted, and the goats snorted and jumped, knocking their hooves against the wooden stall. The strong smell of animals mingled with that of human sweat, unwashed wool, and peat smoke, all as familiar as breathing.
I looked with a dreamy head back into the afternoon. “In truth, I saw Thomas this day.”
Thomas the Rhymer was a name everyone knew, and everyone knew that Thomas, though a legend, was still present in the land.
Elspeth pulled a strand of gray hair away from her face and looked up sharply. “And would this be at the rowan tree?”
“Aye, and he was dressed all in green from his head to his toes. I was singing his song, and the cows were with me, and there he was.”
“Like to take you into his bed, I’ll wager,” John Taylor bellowed, and the others laughed.
“A bed of green, green heaven,” Agnes Pierson sighed. She stood up and yanked at her low bodice. The men stared at her plump breasts as she poured the last of the precious ale into upheld cups around the circle.
“There’s no man like the fairy man for anything a lass desires,” Lilias shouted, and the roaring commenced.
John Taylor plucked the fiddle, his wife Elspeth Nychie picked up her pipe, and everyone joined the song:
For forty days and forty nights,
He wade thro red blood to the knee.
And he saw neither sun nor moon
But heard the roaring sea . . .
The little lads got up to dance as Agnes put down her carding and joined them in a jig. The singing grew louder and louder:
O, they rode on, and further on,
’Till they came to a garden green.
Light down, light down, ye lady free,
Some of that fruit let me pull to thee.
We sang and shouted Thomas and the fairy queen through the garden till she bade him stop. The music slowed, and the voices quieted. This was the place in the story where Thomas had to make his choice: the road to hell that looked so fair, the road to heaven, with its briars and thorns, or the road to fair Elfane, where lived the fairy queen.
/> All but unnoticed, my husband, Hugh Gilbert, passed quietly in through the low door, hunching down his tall form and bringing a new kind of darkness into the darkened room. He unwrapped his plaid—the woolen blanket that everyone used as cloak—lay it down, and sat, fading into the dark corner.
And now the music rose again as Thomas made his choice: He would go with the fairy queen to fair Elfane. He is given:
A coat of the even cloth,
and a pair of shoes of velvet green
And till seven years were past and gone
True Thomas on earth was never seen.
I sighed into the quiet that followed the song. “Ah, were I but to go with Thomas to fair Elfane.”
Elspeth looked up from her knitting with a mysterious smile. “But you can, my dear. You can.”
From the corner came a harrumph, loud and ominous.
Chapter 4
In the morning, I fed Hugh first before the bairns who were whinging and crying for theirs. He ate his porridge quickly, made to go outside, but stopped at the door and turned around. “We’ll leave for kirk directly when I return.”
I avoided his eyes, looking down at the linen thread in my lap. “I mun’ spin and finish today.”
“Nay, ye’ll come with me,” he boomed. “I’ll not have my wife in the tollbooth again.”
The last time I’d tried to stay away from kirk, the searcher came ’round. It was the law of the land that everyone attend kirk. We were a land of the pious, the searcher said, a Covenanting land and all must hear the word of the Lord.
I won’t go, I said, but he dragged me off. On the way, though, I pulled loose from his grip and ran, but then three others chased me, took me to the tollbooth, and locked me up in that clammy stone crypt.
Bitter Magic Page 2
