Our Lady charmed her dearly son,
With her tooth and her tongue
And her ten fingers.
In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost.
And this shall become whole,” I declared, standing up.
I would need payment.
Alison hurried into the hut and reappeared with a sack of strawberries, the first fruits of the season, and handed it to me. “And have you seen our Mister Harry on your way?”
“Nay, and why should I?” I grumbled. I had been expecting a fork or a fire tong, and now, I was wondering whether to ask for it or let it be. Jack and Alison were just as poor as I, so I just sighed.
“Off like lightning, he was,” Jack said. He was holding his neck, his head lifted as if to distance the head from the sore. “Came to me for a horseshoe in such a rush and puffing that he was going to Brodie Castle to see the laird.”
I cocked my head and raised an eyebrow. A long ride, that, from Auldearn to Forres and then back. Perhaps I could make some mischief for Mister Harry.
I continued my walk through the village, thinking. Lilias Dunlop, with a basket of red yarn, was coming the other way—from the dye-house, no doubt. She seemed to notice that my thoughts were far off and away and didn’t interrupt.
I swung my basket and smiled absently at Maggie Burnet, the alewife, as an idea came. I passed the manse with its rotten door and scraggly garden and a beady-eyed face peering out the window. I came to the well, filled my jug, turned around, and walked back through the village, nodding vaguely at passersby. I was still thinking. How to punish Mister Harry?
When I came again to the alehouse and the big oak, I put my bucket down. Jagged white clouds scalloped in angry gray moved across the blue sky, rising and swelling, and gusty winds swept here and there. Twas a good time.
I took a long piece of cloth out of my sack and dipped it in the water. Also in my sack lay a beetle and a piece of wood like a bat. I lifted it out and wrapped the wet cloth around its end. I walked over to some small boulders beside the road, took up the beetle, and began to pound. As I pounded the boulder, I chanted:
I knock this rag upon this stane,
To raise the wind, in the devil’s name.
It shall not lie until I please again.
I noticed now that a small crowd had gathered round, and Lilias Dunlop watching in wonderment and approval.
Maggie Burnet whispered loud, “Raising the wind.”
“Aye.” Malcolm’s voice rang with fear. “She’s raising the wind.”
MARGARET
Chapter 21
Margaret stood by the window, as clouds moved faster and faster and gusts of wind swept across the fields. She gritted her teeth. Since Andrew would not, she would muster some troops herself and go to Ben Rinnes to search for Henrietta. She would commandeer the grooms and stable lads, who knew her better than anyone. Surely, they would be willing to help, and would welcome an adventure.
Lucy was sitting on the bed with the china doll she’d had since childhood, embroidering a border on the doll’s silk dress. She looked up at Margaret. “What was it like? Beltane?”
“Oh, it was marvelous! A fire and stories and dancing!”
Lucy lowered her voice to a whisper. “Dancing?” Her dark hair and eyes were very much like Margaret’s, to the extent that people sometimes thought they were twins, but she had a very different character. Perhaps because her sister’s inquisitive nature could rouse their father to anger, Lucy sought distinction by following all the rules . . . and by pointing out every occasion that Margaret didn’t follow them.
“Yes, dancing.” Margaret glowered at her sister, daring her to tell tales.
The bubbled, wavy window glass made a beautiful light, but it was hard to see through, so Margaret opened the window wider. It shook and rattled in the wind as it creaked back and forth on the brass pulley. A blast of air shot into the room. “Oh, the wind!”
Lucy dropped her doll and ran to the window. They watched as the sand blew across the fields in a gray horizontal sheet, like an ocean wave risen from the sea.
“A typhoon!” Margaret cried. “Like in The Tempest!” The wind raged across the fields, scattering the delicate flowers of the new flax, ripping up plants that would have made linen for sheets and nightgowns, dresses and undergarments. It swept the fields clear and whipped their gowns.
Lucy pushed away strands of hair that flopped like seaweed into her eyes, wiped her wet face, and laughed.
Now Margaret laughed, too, and they stood in the squall and shrieked as the wind and sand raged across the fields and roared in the window.
Then Margaret frowned and pulled on Lucy’s sleeve. “But the flax will be gone!” she shouted. “Another crop gone, and Father will rant and fume.”
But Lucy, thrust out of her cautious conventionality, was thrilled. “See the crows tossing in the clouds!” she screamed. “It’s like when we race our horses on the beach.”
“And bits and pieces flying every which way,” Margaret exclaimed, drawn back into the game as shards of wood, tree branches, and strands of fishing net soared past her home. “Like God is playing a game of cards and tossing them into the air.”
The sisters jumped up and down and clapped, their gowns lifting and flapping in the fitful storm. Lucy’s pale face was blotchy and red, and her brown eyes opened wide as she laughed. Margaret laughed again, too—though perhaps, she thought, they were laughing a bit too hard.
A whirl of sand and wind like a tunnel was hurtling towards the castle. In a moment, it spread over the shepherd’s hut, the sheiling, out on the machair, enveloping them like a blanket swaddling an infant. From one instant to the next, the sheiling was there and then was gone.
Lucy hiccupped. Margaret gasped, and just as suddenly, their laughter turned to wailing.
Bessie came into the room and hurried over to them. “What is this screeching like little children?” she scolded. She reached out to close the window, but the wind was too strong, and it wouldn’t shut. The three of them, buffeted and lashed, could barely stand in the sandy gusts that beat inside. Bessie pulled the girls back, away from the blast.
“What will happen?” Margaret cried. “Will the sand cover us? Will our house be gone? Will we all be buried?”
Bessie folded them into her arms. “Nay, nay, lassies, it won’t come here.”
“How do you know?” Lucy cried. “How can you say that when you don’t know a thing?!” She ran to Margaret’s bed and buried herself beneath the featherbed.
As quickly as the storm had started, it stopped. A sudden quiet descended, almost more eerie than the storm itself.
“Miranda!” Margaret shouted. “I must go to the stables.” She ran to the door and Lucy jumped up from the bed, still sobbing, to follow her down the tower stairs.
Harry
Chapter 22
Harry looked back once more at the castle as he mounted his horse. A stark building in the gray mist, alone in the open landscape, it stood as a testament to the Brodie presence. The Brodie family had resided here since the twelfth century, when ancient King Malcolm had granted them the land, and Alexander Brodie was still the most influential laird in Moray.
It was he who had brought Harry here to begin with, and to him Harry owed great allegiance. He needed to stay in Brodie’s good graces, there was no doubt. Today they had spoken of sin and repentance—a good discussion, but he winced remembering his own transgressions. No one knew about them, though. At least, he hoped not.
He straightened his shoulders. Those sins would no longer be a part of his life. He would shore up his foundations, fortify the ramparts. The west wing, with its debris, broken walls, and stones strewn across the ground, seemed to contradict his intention, but he averted his eyes, turned, and rode off into the wind.
The wind, indeed. It had gained strength, and the sky was now a tumultuous mass of gray clouds. Harry hunkered down on the horse and rode west toward Auldearn. All around him, the winds eddied, and the sand lashed, changing direction every minute. He lowered his head and squinted to keep the sand out of his eyes, but now a whirlwind circled and whipped up before him. He was heading straight into it. His only option was to stop.
A tunnel of sand rushed toward him as he tried to stand firm.
His horse began to buck and whinny.
There was no way out of this. He would have to forge ahead and race through the whirlwind. He wrapped the reins tighter around his arms and wrists, spurring his horse on. “Juno, on! Onward ho!” But Juno was terrified and refused to gallop straight into the raging sands. She bucked higher as the sand whipped closer.
Now they were in the midst of it—the sand cutting into Harry’s face and through his clothes, the road invisible.
The horse reared and screamed, and then, thrashed and flogged by a greater surge, they both fell.
Harry had already hit the ground when a sudden pain seared through his leg and he realized the horse was on top of him. He was pinned down. “Juno! Off! Off me!”
She trembled and whinnied and refused to move.
It seemed an eternity before the storm died down and he was able to get the horse up and off of him. When he tried to stand, his leg screamed in agony, and a bone stuck out of his thigh. Blood was pooled around his leg on the sandy road.
He managed to take off his jacket and shirt and wrap the shirt around his leg. The pain was excruciating, but he managed to heave his body up and across the horse’s back.
An hour later, dripping a trail of blood, he arrived on his own doorstep.
“Julia!” Harry cried out his wife’s name.
The door was closed, and no one was about.
“Agnes!” He called for the maid, then yelled more loudly. “Agnes!”
Agnes opened the door. Loose hanks of hair were falling out of her kerchief. Her bodice was twisted and dirty, and, as usual, her whole appearance was askew. She stared at him, mouth agape.
“Well, help me, lass!” he roared.
Agnes, a strong young woman, helped him dismount on his good leg, and propped him up as they entered the house. Julia was standing in the shadows of the dark hall, watching them with an angry expression. “What ha’ ye gone and done now, ye damn fool?” she growled.
“Julia, have you no mercy?” he whined. “I am injured and cannot walk.”
“Put him to bed,” she commanded the maid, and turned away toward the kitchen.
Agnes helped Harry into bed, then stood looking at him, hesitating. “I can call for the cunning woman,” she said. “She has medicine for such a wound.”
At this reference to “the cunning woman,” whom he knew to be Isobel Gowdie, Harry recoiled in even greater pain. “None of that fairy magic for me, lass. You must fetch the doctor.”
Agnes stared and froze, as if to contradict him, but afraid to do so.
“Go! Go now,” Harry shouted as Agnes ran out of the room. These peasants had such superstitions about real physicians. Doctor Urquhart, who had studied in Edinburgh, would surely come to his aid.
MARGARET
Chapter 23
Father had come back from Brodie Castle in a rage. “Beltane,” he’d roared. The beating had been worse this time, and then he had confined her to her chamber “forever!” he’d shouted, ranting and pacing the castle floors. Margaret had lain on her side and cried herself out.
She stood by the window. The sandstorm had transformed the landscape. The fields of flax, vast blankets of blue a mere three days ago, were now covered in sand. It was as if the strand had lifted itself up and moved inland. Instead of fields and strand, there was now only strand, from here to infinity.
Father really hadn’t meant for her to stay in her chamber forever, she thought. It had been three days now, three long days, and hopefully, he had calmed down and come back to reason. He had probably been as angry about the storm as about her disobedience.
She tiptoed down the stairs through the dark tower and out the door. Treading across sand that dusted the courtyard, she hurried down to the stables, where the animals were snorting and neighing and stomping.
Miranda jerked and neighed as Margaret entered her stall. “Nay, lassie,” she murmured. “Nay, nay.” She took the brush from the hook and brushed and smoothed the horse’s back until Miranda quietened.
“Ye need not groom the horses when we have the lads to do it.” Father’s bellow rang out as he came striding across the stable yard.
How did he know–? Oh, he must have seen her footprints in the sand.
“And what do ye think ye’re doing out here, young lassie?”
“I had to see Miranda, Father. I knew she was so worried and sad. Lucy said that since the storm, she’s been hopping and jumping as if she were on fire. She does become calm with my brushing.”
His face relaxed. “Ye do know the animals, lass.”
“And Miranda knows me.”
Father’s shoulders sank as he surveyed the damage. A buckled roof on one of the barns and several fences down, the distant fields covered with sand. He turned to face the larger barn. This one, at least, was intact.
Now came a trotting sound, and from across the courtyard: a black stallion topped by a dazzling redcoat.
“Andrew!” Margaret exclaimed under her breath. Father started and looked a question at her.
“I met him at the kirk,” she explained. “Lieutenant Massie.”
Father’s eyes narrowed as Andrew stepped lightly down from his horse and bowed. “Andrew Massie, m’laird.”
Father said nothing.
And then, as if Father’s rudeness were not offensive but merely ordinary, the lieutenant bowed to Margaret. “Lady Margaret.” He glanced around, surveying the sandy yard and the barns before addressing Father. “How have you weathered the storm, my laird?”
Father’s eyes flashed. “Almost all my crops are ruined!” he exclaimed bitterly, as if it were the English soldiers’ fault.
“Condolences, my laird.” Andrew bowed again—quite graciously and with no rancor. “I have come with news that I hope will brighten your loss to some degree.”
“What news, then, lad?” Father almost spat out the words, as if no news could brighten his loss.
“The Lady Henrietta has been rescued.”
“Oh, you found her!” Margaret burst out and ran as if to embrace him, but then saw her father’s glare. She stopped and straightened her bonnet. “Where was she? And where is she now?”
“Your minister, Mister Harry, along with Mister Hugh, the girl’s father, prevailed upon the major to resume the search.”
“Good man, Mister Harry,” pronounced the laird.
“We did find the MacDonalds’ camp on Ben Rinnes, my lady, and I apologize for my gruff reception of your suggestion.”
“No matter, no matter!” Margaret shouted again. “Just tell us everything!”
Andrew hesitated, as if weighing what to say. “She was being held by the villains, but as our troop far outnumbered theirs, we were able to arrange a peaceful surrender of the lass. She is with her mother now at Kilrock Castle.”
“Oh, oh, oh!” Margaret sighed and ran to hang up the brush. “Now you must release me from my confinement, Father, and let me go to Kilrock!”
Father scowled. “We will speak of this in private.” He turned and marched away toward the large barn, heedless that he was leaving her alone and unescorted with a young man.
Margaret opened her mouth, but no words came.
Andrew waited.
She wrung her hands, but after a few stutters, regained her composure and spoke with dignity. “We extend
much gratitude to you and your troops, Lieutenant.”
She turned and ran back to the castle.
Chapter 24
She lifted the curtain as her carriage bumped and jostled along the road to Kilrock Castle. Henrietta Rose had been rescued, and Margaret was going with Bessie to visit her at Kilrock, home of the Rose clan.
Father had not consented, but Mother had been able to bring him round. “Henrietta needs her friends now,” Mother had said, “and Margaret has great kindness in her.”
The fields lay open and flat around the carriage, and soon, behind a copse of pine and elm, Cawdor Castle came into view. Seat of the Campbell family, it stood tall and proud in the sunshine. Cawdor’s laird, Hugh Campbell, was one of the most powerful lairds in Morayshire.
Margaret had visited Cawdor once, when the Covenanter clans were gathered for a celebration. Much younger then, she’d wandered around the courtyard with stone walls rising toward the sky and found a tower with a winding staircase. She climbed up and came out on the parapet. Below, people looked as tiny as toy soldiers, and beyond the courtyard, the hills and fields stretched away forever. In the distance, she could see Kilrock Castle.
A man had come up behind her. A smooth-faced Campbell, no doubt, smiling a craggy smile and pointing at the crenelated parapet. “There stood a traitor,” he said. Young as she had been, Margaret knew quite well about traitors. “And from this very place was pitched o’er the parapet to his death.” The man grinned wider and came closer. Margaret turned and hastened back down the tower steps.
Today, she peered out the carriage window at a familiar scene. The weather was mild and warm for May, and behind the castle, the Cawdor Hills swelled gently in shades of green and gold. No sand covered the earth in this inland area. So not all is dire in this land, she thought, and her hope rebounded like spring sunshine. “This castle hath a pleasant seat,” she recited. “The air nimbly and sweetly recommends itself unto our gentle senses.’”
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