Halfway through the night she feels his presence. She senses him before she sees him. He stands against a wall with a woman, a fine, tall woman with a firm bust. Long glossy raven-black hair cascades around her sloping shoulders and her eyes glitter like polished emeralds. William leans across her, his eyes observing her as he lightly touches her arm. With a pounding heart, Maggie observes them, her mind spiralling into an eddying darkness.
Wandering about, Maggie knows not where, she passes by the scullery, helping Cook for a while to clear her mind. But when she returns, William’s still there, although this time without the dark-haired girl, and suddenly she begins to feel the walls closing in on her. With the greatest confusion imaginable, Maggie stares into William’s eyes, straining to see him through the smoky room, trying to connect with him, until their eyes lock together. When they do, for the first time Maggie allows a man to enter her heart, to go beneath her skin and in her blood. And he whom she is waiting for comes at last.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
THE RAKE’S PROGRESS
When spring comes, Maggie’s thoughts return to home. At Musselburgh, the fishermen will be barking their nets now, boiling up huge cauldrons of cutch, using a tree bark that helps to prevent damage or decay to twine. For Maggie, life is much simpler in Kelso; no trudging back and forth to market and no children to look after.
On Fastern’s E’en, there’s a cock-fight outside the tavern and Adam Bell takes no more than eight pennies Scots from each man. No one suffers to enter that day except folks from the village and persons whom nothing is demanded and can furnish a cockerel. After the fight, Isobel collects the killed and wounded birds, shaking her head at her husband and pointing to the crude wooden stake protruding from the ground. ‘There’ll be no cock-throwing, husband; I’ll have you know that I think that is mighty cruel.’
Maggie shakes her head and wonders why Isobel finds cock-throwing abhorrent – but cock-fighting acceptable, to her mind the two things are both unkind. As Maggie helps Isobel to pick up the cockerels a holy man approaches from the rear. A heavy Bible protrudes from his puny arms as he walks towards them with a slight limp.
‘You’re too late, Minister. The cock-fight’s over.’
The minister cuts him off. ‘I’m not here for such folly. I’m here about the woman, the stranger working in your tavern.’ He looks around with beady eyes, his eyes settling on Maggie. ‘Ah – there she is, I believe she is unchaperoned and I must ask to see her testificate.’
‘Let me deal with this,’ whispers Adam to Maggie.
‘There’s no need,’ replies Maggie.
‘I insist,’ Adam folds his arms over his body.
‘Has she a certificate of good character?’ the minister persists. His eyes stare towards a tankard of frothy beer.
Maggie gestures towards a jug. ‘Would you like a drink?’
‘No. I’ve other matters to attend to, and so I wish for you to make haste. Have you the papers, woman?’
‘Yes. I will fetch them at once.’
The minister takes the paper with shaky hands, unfolding the wrinkled piece of paper and holding it up to the light. Carefully he folds the document back to its original form and ambles away. He’s just nearing the edge of the village green when he stops abruptly to shout out to the innkeeper: ‘I expect to see her in kirk, Adam Bell – and that ungodly son of yours.’
And with that, he’s on his way.
***
At Pasch, folk celebrate the return of spring, and the festivities spill out onto the village green and nearby meadows scattered with gorse and ling. Delicious buns and breads are baked and pipers and maypoles are everywhere, and all around people are joyful and happy. A small crowd congregate outside the tavern, singing and dancing and being merry. Maggie never gets a moment’s peace; she’s rushed off her feet and her arms are aching from carrying tray after tray of ale or food.
‘Is that for me, pretty wench?’ A military man in full uniform reaches out for Maggie’s last tankard of ale. An overpowering whiff of masculine scent comes off him as he searches for a coin.
‘Aye, if you have the right money.’ She places her drinks tray on the ground.
He tosses a coin inside her dress; finger’s lingering over the lace panel. ‘What a fine dress, but I wager you’d look even better out of it.’ His eyes glitter with roguish mirth.
Maggie smiles and salutes him. ‘You should not take liberties with poor tavern girls…’
Suddenly from out of nowhere, William squares up to the man. ‘Is this man bothering you?’
‘Nae, of course not. The man is thirsty and wants a drink, that’s all. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have customers to serve.’ Maggie picks up her tray and walks away.
But as Maggie dashes away, it soon becomes apparent that William’s not finished with her. He’s close at her heels, ignoring a young woman with fiery red hair tugging at his arm. But Maggie’s no time for this; Adam’s already calling out to her to fetch more ale, and if she does not respond soon, he’ll kick up a right fuss. Nevertheless, William for some reason keeps on at her – until finally she stops what she’s doing to confront him. And as she turns to face him, he stares down upon her with contempt in his eyes; and Maggie can’t help but notice how the muscles in his jaw twitch and pulsate.
‘What is it, for heaven’s sake?’
‘I was jesting with you that day – about the dress. You’re not really fat like a pig.’
So that was it. He wants to apologise, Maggie thinks, but she’s wrong.
‘You’re just a little fat. Here and here.’ William places his hands on both of her hips.
Maggie shrieks and pushes him away, but he seizes her with firm hands by the shoulders. ‘William – I despair of you. Why are you always so pig-headed? Every time we meet you’re either scowling or quarrelling with me.’
‘Nonsense. You should learn to govern your tongue, woman. You’re imagining things and you’re a little fool. Now dance with me.’
Maggie shakes her head and points in the red-head’s direction. ‘You’re jesting. Dance with her instead, she’s more your height.’
‘I’m not leaving till you agree to dance with me.’ His eyes crinkle at the corners and there’s amusement in them.
‘You’ll have to wait forever, then.’
And with that William grabs Maggie, curling his hands around her small waist. They swirl around in time to the music, Maggie’s dress billowing around her. She feels her face begin to burn, imagining the gawping faces all around at the sight of them together.
‘I told you I don’t want to dance with you.’ Maggie struggles from his embrace but he’s much too strong, his arms hold her fast as he presses his body against her. ‘Why would you want to dance with a fat pig like me anyway?’
‘I was just teasing, Maggie.’
‘That’s a falsehood.’
‘William. William!’ the young redhead shouts. ‘You said that…’
William pays no heed to the woman. But the redhead is not one for being ignored, and so she calls out to him again and again, until he can bear it no more.
‘Alright, woman, I am coming.’
But before William breaks apart from Maggie he stoops and whispers in her ear, sending delicious tingles and shivers up her spine. ‘I enjoyed that.’
It’s a strong desire Maggie feels as she walks away from them.
A great ache forms in her throat and she swallows hard and tries to regain her composure, but to no avail. When she glances back at them, William holds the woman close to his body, and her neck is thrown back in rapture. A sharp pain throbs in Maggie’s chest like a cold steel dirk twisting within.
A man taps Maggie on her shoulder. ‘Here, wench – fetch me some ale.’
Maggie collects a new tray. Upon the table she places a tankard and jug. She moves slowly, her face wrenched into a scowl. As she proceeds with her chores, she is very distracted.
‘Stop, stop, you’re spilling ale all over me,’ cries t
he man. His clothes are saturated with beer.
‘I’m sorry,’ Maggie reddens with embarrassment and wipes his garments with her apron.
‘You should watch what you’re doing, lassie. Your attention’s elsewhere.’
***
With each passing season the air becomes warmer. It’s Maggie’s nature to gravitate towards water and the next best thing to the sea, the river, has its charms. There are all kinds of wildlife here; strange fish, insects and plants. Just the other day an angler pointed out an otter with one of the jumping fish trapped in its strong jaws. But even here, and despite such tranquillity, William continues to invade her thoughts.
Before evening comes, Maggie helps Cook with some chores. Beads of sweat form on Maggie’s brow as she works with the vigour of a scullery maid. She washes the pots, turns the dangle spit and sweeps the floor. A quantity of leftover mutton fat sits in a basin near the door. Maggie picks it up and brings it to her nose. It smells foul.
Cook takes the basin from her and grins, her teeth are all yellow. ‘You can make some rush lights for me. We’ve collected rushes from the river all summer, so you might as well make yourself useful and do some now.’
‘But I can’t remember how to do it. I wasn’t listening when my mother taught me.’
‘Lord Almighty, every lassie knows how to make a rush light. Didn’t you used to put up a new length and mend the rush when it burnt out as a child?’
‘No, not really.’
‘No matter. Here – take a rush. You peel a rind from the pith and take care to leave only a strip of rind. And when the rush is dry – dip it through the grease, and keep it well under mind and then lay it on the side to dry. That’s it.’
Maggie nods.
‘You can catch a breath of air when you’re finished. I loathe to see you moping about.’ Cook sniffs and seems content at the prospect of solitude. The scullery is her domain and for the most part she prefers it to herself.
***
With her fingers still greasy with fat, Maggie ventures out of doors. The sunshine feels heavenly upon her skin, how she loves the sting of sunrays upon her face. Chickens cluck nearby and beyond the coop is a bird-house and clear of it a fruit tree in bloom, masking the scent of fowl and swine with its sweetness. She leans back on a wall and closes her eyes, releasing her grip on her cap so that it falls to the dusty ground. A few minutes more, she thinks, and then back to the grind. When the time is up, she bends to pick up her cap, and as she does so, suddenly there is a sharp sting to her backside.
‘Ouch! What on earth…?.’
‘I couldn’t resist that.’ A bare-chested man grins from ear to ear.
Maggie looks at the young man. He’s a stocky fellow, with a face full of freckles and watery blue eyes. Maggie’s seen him around delivering kegs of ale. Her brows knit together as she thinks for a moment, but the name will not come.
‘You can’t remember my name, can you?’
‘No – I’m not good with names. What is it?’
‘Michael. The brewer’s son. I’m the man who delivers your ale.’ He slaps her shoulder in a playful manner.
‘Be off with you, laddie. I’ve matters to attend to and so have you, no doubt.’
The young man leans in close, and he smells of whisky or brandy, or perhaps both.
‘Where did you get the scars on your body?’ Maggie enquires.
‘From Castle Floors, up river. They put me in the dungeons in an iron maiden and tortured me. It’s like a coffin see, with spikes inside that pierce your skin and makes you bleed all over from your fingers to your toes. I was in there for weeks I was, in agony covered in sores.’
Maggie’s eyebrows arch. ‘You’re spinning a yarn.’
‘I am not.’
‘So they’re scars from an iron – what did you call it?’ She shakes her head and laughs. ‘You’re jesting with me, aren’t you?’
He frowns and takes her hand, guiding her fingers to press against his upper body. ‘No, I wouldn’t joke about something like that. Feel the marks with your fingers – see they’re all over me. ’
***
The cellar is clear. It’s taken up most of their morning, and by the end of it Adam Bell’s covered in sweat. He turns to his son and tries to a smile, but William can tell that it’s forced. His father mounts the cellar stairs with slow heavy steps, and it’s so unlike him, just a few months ago he watched his father run up those steps. Mid-way up the stairs, his father pauses for breath, his body hunched over. ‘I think I’ll stay here a wee bit longer, son, you go up without me.’
‘Damn it,’ William mutters under his breath. It never occurred to him before, but he suddenly realises his father is getting old. There’s a slight curvature to his spine he’s not noticed before, and his father’s eyes are dull and haggard.
‘Come on, old man – you’re worn-out from drinking too much ale, and eating too many of Cook’s pies.’
‘Mind your business. I’m just grand. It’s you that looks ready for some shut eye. Be off with you and back to the tailors. I can finish off here on my own.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Aye, get yourself outside, William. Have a breather before you return to work. See you tomorrow.’
Without a word, William climbs the rest of the staircase, but before he reaches the top he hears voices, two of them, a man and a woman. Laughter follows, a feminine titter mingling with a deeper, heartier laugh. His curiosity stirred, William presses himself against the door, eavesdropping on the conversation, one eyebrow arching at the scandalous exchange. When he’s heard enough he presses two hands against the door, and it makes a great creaking noise as he opens it and steps out into the summer air.
‘William,’ gasps Maggie. ‘I didn’t realise you was there.’
‘I didn’t think so, sweet,’ William remarks with a sardonic air. His eyes glower down upon her as she removes her hands from the brewery boy.
William turns to the lad. They are of a similar age but William towers above him. ‘What was it you were just saying about an iron maiden? Brewster is the name – is it not?’
‘Aye, Michael Brewster’s the name. It was nothing, just a bit of tomfoolery. I was just larking about here with Maggie.’ Brewster tugs his linen shirt on quick sharp.
William turns to Maggie. ‘Maggie, are you really that gullible? They’re smallpox scars, not torture marks. Haven’t you ever seen smallpox scars?’
‘Aye,’ she replies.
‘Where’s your cap?’ The muscles jump in his jaw.
‘What business is it of yours?’ she declares.
‘This is my father’s tavern. So it is my business when one of our maidservants acts like a slatternly slut.’
‘From what I am told, that’s the way you like them.’
William’s taken aback, a wench with a smart mouth. He likes a lass with spirit, but not one who coverts with a brewery lad. A look of lazy amusement crosses his face as she crouches to retrieve the cap. And he can’t help but stare at the curve of her bottom as she bends down.
‘What’s keeping you? Haven’t you a tavern to be off to?’ William barks to Brewster.
Brewster makes no answer and backs away with sagged shoulders to grab a barrel. So, with Maggie now gone and the brewery lad at work, William storms off to the smoky twilight of the tavern, to pour himself a wee dram before he returns to his work.
‘Bit early for that?’ his mother remarks, eying him with a strange look.
He knocks it back in one and shakes his head. ‘I’ll be off now, see you later.’
On his way out he passes Brewster, fists clenching as he bangs into his shoulder. Suddenly, a strange compulsion comes over him to knock him off his feet. And then, all of a sudden, he arrives at his senses, and wonders why he’s just acted as he did.
***
Never before has Maggie felt such pain. It started in her jaws at first with a dull ache, and then travelled to her neck, throat and gums. The hurt is unbearable and becau
se of the swelling to her face, everywhere she turns people look at her and shake their heads, as though feeling her pain.
‘Shouldn’t she see a tooth puller or blacksmith? There’ll be one at the travelling fairs,’ Adam asks his wife. ‘She’s putting the customer’s off their ale.’
‘No need, Adam. I know how to cure it. It’s simple. When I was a wee bairn in Jedburgh, my mother used to suffer with toothache. And what she used to do is find a nail, a new one if possible and scratch her gum with it. Then all you have to do is hammer it into an oak tree. It works every time.’
Adam Bell grimaces. ‘That’s an old wives tale like when you take a poker, heat it on the fire and burn your earlobe.’
Maggie shudders, her eyes are watering with the throbbing pain. But she doesn’t fancy burning her earlobe or scratching her gum with a nail. In her desperation, she even tries a strange concoction, a potion made up of squashed fisheyes that tastes so foul she has to gag into a pail. And then it comes to her, a cure her mother used long ago. Orris plant – she remembers how her mother used to search for it high and low.
The following day Maggie feels much better. At the crack of dawn she starts her chores; cleaning, sweeping, and fetching water from the river. Just before noon she scrubs a small tiled section of the scullery floor, kneeling down on all fours before Cook returns. The stone floor is cold and hard on the knees, so Maggie puts her back into it, pressing down on the wooden scrubbing brush with all her might. After a while she gets a rhythm going as she pushes back and forth. A section of her long hair escapes from her cap and tickles her neck; she brushes it away with impatience and works up a sweat. Nearly done, she scrubs harder, just a few more tiles, and then she hears a cough. Maggie stops what she’s doing and continues to look down at the floor. She knows without looking that it is William. He coughs again, this time louder. Maggie takes a deep breath and tilts her neck back; her eyes are dark, hot and naked in their longing for him. She pushes down on her hands to stand.
The Hanging of Margaret Dickson Page 18
