Margaret looked from one to the other but caught only a word here or there.
“This be mor obair,” Isobel said, turning back to Margaret. She put down her carding, shook her hands, and began a rapid speech, half in English, half in Gaelic, about the fairies and something about other “helpers.” She walked around in the tiny space, raising her arms and gesturing.
Margaret stared, spellbound. She understood very little—only the names of the saints, Brigid and Michael, and Queen Maeve.
“Mor obair,” Isobel shouted again and threw her hands up.
Margaret screwed up her eyebrows. This phrase must mean a great task, and perhaps Isobel was talking about money. “Henrietta’s mother, the Lady Anne, will pay whatever is needed,” Margaret said.
Now the “poor wretch,” with her dirty plaid wrapped loose around her shoulders, stood tall and proud like a statue of Athena, and gazed with a cool eye at Margaret. Then, as if she were the lady and Margaret the peasant, she nodded her head in concession.
As she left the hut, Margaret noticed five pieces of red yarn lined up on the floor beside the entrance. Above them, hanging from the wall, were some unfamiliar dried plants. She reached out to touch the plants. “What—?”
A barrage of Gaelic exploded from the dark corner, and she quickly pulled back her hand.
“Shee!” Isobel addressed the corner. Sith, pronounced shee, meant peace, and obviously Isobel was trying to silence the old woman. But sith also meant fairy.
Margaret shivered. The herbs were certainly for medicine, but were they and the yarns also for some magic ritual? Surely, Isobel used her powers for the good—healing and helping—and not for evil. Isobel was merely a woman with extraordinary powers, Margaret thought. And she had agreed to use those powers to look for Henrietta.
As Margaret bent down to step out of the door hole, she glanced back.
Isobel’s expression had changed again. The corners of her mouth were lifted, as if she knew something about Margaret that even she didn’t know.
Chapter 12
At home, she felt as though she were coming out of a dream. She had stepped into forbidden territory. And now that she’d awakened, she would direct her attention to pious matters and not to fairies and magic, however much more interesting they were. Margaret nestled into her favorite chair in the library, in a corner of the Great Hall, with its carved oak paneling and floor-to-ceiling books in red and brown leather. She opened “A Godly Dream,” a poem by Elizabeth Melville.
From the drawing room came the soft voices of Lucy and Mistress Collace in their lesson, and outside the window two crows squawked above the sound of Bessie’s shouts as she haggled with a peddler in the courtyard.
“Bessie is a good woman,” her father had said last night at tea, “and if it be possible to save our home and lands, she’ll be nothing but an asset for the Hays.”
“To save our home?” Margaret had asked. “Is our home in peril?”
Mother had remonstrated. “Your father tends towards exaggeration and gloom, as you know. Our home is not at risk.”
But Father still looked dark and gloomy, and she noticed for the first time that his hair was streaked with gray. “Those scoundrels,” he’d moaned. “Those MacDonalds.”
“But the spring planting has gone so well,” Mother said. “We should be able to recover.”
“If the weather stays and the Lord grants a bountiful harvest.” Father had shaken his head as if he didn’t believe in either of those possibilities.
Perhaps this was just Father’s usual pessimism after the spring planting. He seemed to believe that optimism would be tempting fate, so he predicted dire consequences in order to prevent them.
Margaret bowed her head to the book. “What can we do? We clogged are with sin, in filthy vice, our senseless souls are drowned: Though we resolve, we never can begin to mend our lives, but sin does still abound. When will thou come?” She raised her eyes to the window. A blue sunny sky was visible through the new, larger window at this end of the Great Hall.
A Godly Dream was the first book by a woman published in Scotland. It was a pious poem by an exemplary woman of faith, Mistress Collace had said; and, after the Bible, it was her favorite book.
But how forlorn it was, and gloomy as well. Why couldn’t Mistress Collace prefer Shakespeare?
“Elizabeth!” Father, standing in the doorway, called up the stairs to Mother.
“Into my dreame I thought there did appear . . . an angel bright with visage shining clear.” This sounded like Mistress Collace’s visions of Jesus. No wonder she liked it so much.
The crows screeched, and one of them flapped against the window.
“Elizabeth!” Father called again.
Suddenly, her mother appeared, in her brown dress, its voluminous sleeves and skirts flowing around her and rippling in folds over her enormous stomach. Perched on the third stone step, she looked almost like a huge bird of prey. Father started. “What is it, John?” Mother spoke in a soft and gracious voice.
Father shook his head as if to clear out all thoughts and fears—this was his dear wife, after all—and to remember the real threat, the one that came from the marauders. “Please come down.”
Slowly, Lady Elizabeth descended the stairs, her dress swaying around her body. She was a beautiful woman still, and her hair was uncovered for a change. Soft brown curls framed her face, which was now, unfortunately, swollen by the effects of pregnancy. Her delicate eyebrows squeezed together into a worried look.
Father gestured for Mother to sit in one of the velvet-covered wing chairs at the fireplace.
Either they didn’t see Margaret, or they were ignoring her.
“It’s about the estate, my lady.” Father paced back and forth as he talked. “In this recent raid, our cattle were taken as well as the corn, and with the shortage for the harvest this year, my only resort is to ask your uncle for a loan.”
“Uncle Alexander? But John, we just received a loan from him in the past year. Is there no other recourse?”
Father paced faster. “I have the taxes to pay, and little or nothing with which to pay them. I’ll have to confiscate from the tenants again to make up for what was stolen, but that will only tide us over for a short while. I have sent word for Alexander to come upon his return from Breda.” Father looked toward the window. “I expect him today.”
Lady Elizabeth rested her head on her hand and sighed.
Margaret looked around the Hall: the stone walls hung with tapestries and portraits of her ancestors, the grand fireplace, this solid foundation of her life. Were they really in danger of losing all of this?
Hoofbeats sounded from the courtyard, and Margaret ran to the window. A driver pulled up the reins, and the horses stopped with precision. Uncle Alexander, the Laird of Brodie, alighted from a finer carriage than John Hay could ever afford. With its Brodie crest, black lacquer and gold leaf, intricate carvings, and the delicate wheels that carried it with such grace, it looked as if it could glide on air.
Father had come up behind her at the window. He swallowed as if to stomach his jealousy and prepared to welcome his benefactor.
Uncle Alexander walked in with a spring in his step. In a green velvet doublet and breeches, white stockings, and shoes, he looked every bit the dignitary. He was tall, like all the Brodies, and smiled down at Mother with pleasure. It was clear that he had something on his mind. Father remained silent. “I bring news of the coronation,” he announced.
Mother sprang up from her seat and her eyes filled with tears. “Oh, Uncle, to think it really is to be!”
This was a momentous time. Uncle Alexander had been appointed as a commissioner to meet with King Charles at Breda in the Netherlands and escort him back to Scotland. The young king had promised to restore the Covenant, and Scotland would be Presbyterian aga
in.
“It is to be,” he said, sitting heavily in the wing chair facing Mother. “But the commission was not an easy one.”
“How do you mean, Uncle? The King is back in Scotland, is he not?”
“And he does agree to the Covenant?” Father asked.
Uncle Alexander hesitated. “Aye, he agrees to the Covenant, but not without some reluctance, I fear.” His brown eyes, deep and compassionate, changed momentarily from lively to sad, and he stroked his neat beard, the dark brown flecked with gray. He had a strong resemblance to Margaret’s mother Elizabeth, with her dark hair and skin of almost the same olive tone.
“Reluctance?” Elizabeth sat down with a graceful movement in spite of her bulk. “This bodes ill. Perhaps he will change his stance again?” Margaret laid her book on the seat in the corner and moved closer, taking a chair by the hearth.
“Nay, niece, I do not mean to trouble you. The king has agreed and must stick to his word.”
As the fire crackled and the clock on the mantelpiece chimed the hour of four, each of them sat with the knowledge of the wrenching events of the past years. Scotland, originally Catholic, had gone through so many battles and bloodbaths in the past century that the Covenanters were constantly flung from hope to despair and back again. After the signing of the National Covenant in 1638, the Covenanters believed the fighting was over. But then came Cromwell’s betrayal and the Battle of Auldearn, and once again, their hopes were dashed. Was it any wonder that Lady Elizabeth would now question the loyalty of the returning king?
Bessie entered with a tea tray and set about placing the pot and teacups, sugar and milk, scones and cakes on the table beside Elizabeth. Because of shortages in the last year, the Laird had let go of some of the servants, and Bessie had assumed the duties of the butler.
Lady Elizabeth began to pour. She didn’t need to ask either Uncle Alexander or Margaret’s father how they took their tea, and she knew that Margaret liked extra milk. She handed Alexander his tea. “We have had more troubles here, as well, Uncle.”
He took the cup and looked up at Father. “What new troubles here, lad?”
Father, Laird of Park and almost forty, was still a lad in Uncle’s eyes. He pounded his fist on the mantelpiece, his ire again aroused. “MacDonalds!” he shouted.
“They rode up in the night and stole our cattle and corn,” Mother said. “And they have also taken the Rose daughter.” She glanced at Margaret, then bowed her head. “The English major, this Major Walker, says they will retrieve her, but we fear—” She shook her head. “We are heartsick.”
Margaret felt her shoulders tense and cried, “Do you not think she will be rescued, Mother?” She had been so disheartened after seeking out the major and Mister Harry, but after visiting Isobel, her hopes rebounded.
“And they say there is no restitution for the theft!” Father barked, as if he had no thought for Henrietta. “Seventy head of cattle, scores of sacks of corn. Leaving me with nary enough to feed the family, much less the household and farmtown.”
“Indeed, I am saddened to hear of it.” Uncle Brodie looked sad, but also skeptical. He no doubt knew that this last statement was an exaggeration. As did Margaret. Father had told the English major that it had been fifty head of cattle, and she knew there was plenty left in the stores.
Father hesitated, probably wondering if he had overstepped, but he plunged in anyway, apparently feeling there was no other option. “I beg to be so bold, Alexander,” he said, still standing by the fire, “but a loan of five hundred would tide me over until harvest.”
Uncle Alexander looked startled and glanced at his niece Elizabeth, who turned her head away in shame. “Nephew, you are most dear to me in the Lord,” he said, “and I would hope you recover well. But the debt still owing to me from last year hangs heavy on my mind.”
Father clenched his fists, and his face darkened. “A curse on all the sons of these MacDonalds! May their firstborn males perish, and all male infants be shriveled in their mothers’ wombs. And if the Lord will not, we will exact vengeance.”
Mother hung her head lower. This cursing of sons and taking of vengeance was so ingrained in the land that few questioned it, but Margaret could see that it grieved her mother dearly, especially now that she was so close to her own delivery—something Father wouldn’t think of. Lady Elizabeth dared not say this aloud, dared not contradict her husband in front of her uncle.
When Uncle Alexander left in a clattering of delicate wheels and hooves, Mother and Father went their separate ways. Margaret picked up the book again: “The joy of heaven is worth one moment’s pain. Take courage, then, lift up your hearts on high: to judge the earth when Christ shall come again, Above the clouds ye shall exalted be. The throne of joy and true felicity await for you when finished is your quest.” The words were soothing and hopeful, but it was all about the rewards after death. What about now? Would Father take up arms against the MacDonalds? Even worse, what would happen if he ran out of money?
Chapter 13
The evening birds sang, the distant sea undulated, and Margaret’s spirit lightened—as if God were opening a window from winter into spring, giving her the message not to despair. How could she worry about money with such abundance all around: the flax flowering delicate blue in the fields, the winter oats a mass of green stalks, and from the stables and barns, the rustlings of cows and horses?
She strolled out of the castle courtyard and onto the road. A whisper of smoke floated in the air. The sheep’s lowing made a steady undertone, and from a distance came the airy warbling sound of pipes. Voices. Faint singing. Something was happening in the farmtown.
She rubbed her cheek and glanced back at the castle. Just last Sunday, Mister Harry had preached on the sinfulness of pleasure. Music—any music, he’d said—led their hearts and minds astray. In kirk, they sang the Psalms, but Covenanters did not play musical instruments in worship. This was idolatry. “The Papists, and even the Episcopalians, are idolaters,” he’d said, “with their ‘sacred’ music. But even that music is pleasure. We become immersed in it, and it takes our hearts away from God. All thoughts should lead to prayer, and all prayer should lead us closer to the love of the Lord.”
Yes, to turn her heart to God was something beyond pleasure, and prayer and silence could lead to God, as Mistress Collace had said. But right now, the music from the farmtown sounded so lively and joyful. Surely, God did not require every moment for prayer and silence.
She stepped onto the dyke overlooking the farmtown, and there was the bonfire. On the next hill over, its fire blazing, black silhouettes of people ranging round. The music grew louder, and shouts and laughter filled the air.
These farm folk came to kirk, and they heard the same words from the pulpit as she, but perhaps in their world, being pious was not so important. Or perhaps piety here came in a different shape, like wine in an old vessel. Could believing in the fairies be a kind of piety?
Margaret’s feet sank into the sand, and she walked between gorse bushes just beginning to bloom, bright yellow in the waning of the day. On the opposite rise, the fire sent red fingers like a blazing hand into the darkening sky. People gathered round it, holding hands and dancing, torches bobbing.
Margaret stopped. She could watch from here, and no one would notice.
Two women turned and stared at her.
Another woman walked past them and toward Margaret. Isobel Gowdie. Her light hair was uncovered and woven with yellow flowers, her feet bare, and skirts swung around bare legs. A sign of poverty, for sure, the bare feet of the peasants, but in truth, Margaret might like to go barefoot on a spring evening. She might like to wear a wreath of flowers. She might even like to dance in the ring.
“Good evening, Lady Margaret.” Isobel’s almond-shaped eyes were an unusual color—a vivid blue that could change to dark silver in an instant. Her expression wa
s intense: part lively pride and part laughing, as if she knew a joke she wouldn’t tell.
“Mistress Gowdie. About Henrietta—”
“Would you like to come and dance?” Isobel’s smile came merry and mischievous.
To dance? Margaret hopped from one foot to the other as if stepping into a fire. “But dancing is forbidden?” she said, a statement that turned into a question. In spite of herself, she raised her voice at the end of the sentence.
“Nay, lass, not here, ’tis not. Tis Là Bealltainn!”
Beltane. Held on the first of May, which was today. This was one of the festivals prohibited by the kirk.
And Mistress Gowdie was wrong about dancing. The laws of the Kirk applied to everyone. Music like this was clearly forbidden and dancing even more so. Then again, Aunt Grissell Brodie played the pianoforte—beautiful strains of Bach that she said were written to be played in kirk—and no one reprimanded her for that.
“I must go back,” Margaret said, turning away from the fire and the music to start in the direction of home. She should not have been here. But she turned her head again. She had to ask Isobel about Henrietta.
A slow, sweet melody whistled from the pipes, a melancholy air, and Margaret completed her turn, the plaintive tune reaching so deep into her heart that she almost began to weep. It was true that music had the power to make people feel different things, and perhaps this was why it was forbidden.
People were dancing more slowly now, dipping and bowing and circling round the fire. Did she dare go closer? She looked back toward home and could see the castle towers against the pale sky. It was not yet dark at this time so close to midsummer when the sun stayed up all night.
Isobel put her hands on her hips and cocked her head, eyebrows arched. “Tisn’t wise to be out alone on La Beltainn.”
“What?” Margaret shivered. Fire shadows were dancing, and shouts and squeals filled the air. “Why not?”
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