The Highwayman's Curse (14 page)

W
e came back to the yard in silence, unsaddled quickly, rubbed our mounts dry, fed and watered them. But Calum spoke then, not looking at me. He hung the saddle up on its peg.

“Is Bess…? Are ye…? Is she yours?” He flicked his hair back from his face.

I looked at him, narrowing my eyes. “Bess is no one's.”

He turned to face me. “Ye know what I mean.” His cheeks had grown red. I knew not what to say, or think. Yes, I did indeed know what he meant. But how to answer?

Bess was mine, but not in the way he meant. She was my friend, my companion, but there was nothing else. And yet, what did I now feel? Was there indeed nothing else? I cared for her more than for anyone. And no one alive cared for her as I did.

If I had thought at all, I had hoped that we could carry on as before; that one day soon, Bess would tire of this place and we would move on together. But wed her! I could not imagine it. I could not imagine her wed at all. Not to me; not to anyone.

Not to Calum. I could not imagine her staying here for ever, making her home with these people, bearing children, growing old in this place. Calum did not have her need for freedom. He believed too much what he was told. He was not suited to her. But I would not say so. He would find out for himself that Bess would not have him.

“No, she is not mine.”

And his smile cast a cloud over me that did not lift for the rest of that day. I watched him walk away with a spring in his step, whistling.

As I went through the door to Old Maggie's cottage, several faces looked up. Jeannie cast me a welcoming look and then turned back to her task of helping Bess take some sort of broth. Old Maggie stared at me with a gaze of utter emptiness. She sat knitting – her fingers flying as her needles clicked together. Iona leapt up from where she sat mending a garment, and went to pour something into a tankard. She passed it to me, her worried green eyes searching my face.

I suppose she wished to know if her secret was still safe, if I was on her side. I smiled at her and her face softened as she held out the tankard.

But it was Bess I wished to see. She looked exhausted, with dark shadows under her eyes. Her hair was tied back, strands plastered across her forehead with sweat. But she was sitting up and seemed not to be in pain. I went to her and took her hands. Cold they were, cold and dry and without strength. A fresh cloth bound her palm where I had cut it, and there was no sign of redness around the bandage.

“I am glad to see you better.” I would have said more than that, but only without the others there. What I would have said, I do not know, but there was much to speak of, between the two of us.

She nodded. “I was afraid. Very afraid. I have had nightmares before and none was as bad as this. All the while I was thinking I was in a dream but then the pains would come and I would know it was no dream.” Her face twisted suddenly and she stopped, breathing slowly, deeply. “I am sorry – the pain is nearly gone. You saved me, Will.” I turned away, wishing not to see her weak like this, the tears in her eyes.

It brought to my mind how, when we first came here, she had seemed weighed down by a burden in her mind. But then she had regained her spirit – though I had to admit that it had seemed to be Old Maggie who had rekindled it. Now, it was dampened once more.

A movement at my back made me turn round. Old Maggie was standing over me, looking down on Bess. She reached out her hand and touched Bess's hair, stroking her forehead, muttering something that I could not decipher, if it meant anything at all. I liked not her closeness; there was a smell about her, sweet and yet unpleasant.

But Bess seemed comforted. Suddenly Old Maggie spoke, clearly now. “God has watched o'er ye, lassie. Ye're a guid lassie an' God has cared for ye.” Bess closed her eyes, peacefully, seeming within moments to drift into a soft sleep. I turned away and looked to where Iona sat. Our eyes met, only briefly, but a world of thoughts crossed between us and we understood much of them.

Outside, I stood at the entrance to the yard. Dusk was falling and in the open doorways of the dwellings moths flapped around the spilling light. The rain had stopped and there was now a smell of wet earth and air. Smoke poured from the chimneys. The dark figure of Mouldy wandered around the perimeter of the yard, a wooden club in his hand and the two dogs running here and there, sniffing. The horses harrumphed softly in their shelter and through the doorway I could see the gently swinging tails of the cows. From the chickens, in their hut closed firmly against night-time foxes, came silence.

And now Iona was walking towards me, her shawl wrapped round her, her bare feet thrust into wooden clogs. It was cold and the recent shower had made the ground sodden and filthy.

Her thick red hair tumbled around her face and shoulders and as she looked up at me I wondered at the danger she was in. It was not right that it should be so. What had she done wrong? She had been foolish, but she had done only what many had before her: loved the wrong person. The wars between religions were not of her making; nor did she care for them. It seemed to me that her one foolish love was worth more than a thousand hatreds.

But if she had known what I knew, would she have been brave enough then? If she too had read the words upon that paper, the paper that I had so hurriedly burned, would she continue in her dangerous love?

Yet, if I told her, might that not indeed help her? Might it not make her think again and choose life over death? Might it not make her give up her love?

Or was there already no choice and was she marked by fate? Cursed, even, as Old Maggie claimed.

But I decided that there was only one thing I could do. It was better to act, to try, than to stand silent and let a tragedy unfold.

I would tell her what the words on the paper had said. Although it would frighten her, perhaps it might make her take greater care.

As I opened my mouth to speak, that was indeed my intention. But it was not to be.

“I
must speak with you,” I said, hurriedly now that I had made up my mind.

“Shh!” she said, looking around. Mouldy was walking near us now. Beyond him in the sky two bats swooped fast, diving and swirling in the gathering dusk. He raised his hand in greeting. He thought, I suppose, that we had some assignation. I minded little what he thought. I wished only that he would pass by and I could speak with her.

Soon he was too far away to hear what we might say and I opened my mouth to begin. But Iona spoke first. “I must tell you,” she said, her voice spring-tight with excitement. Her next words tumbled, unstoppable. “I plan to run away, wi' Robert. 'Tis our only hope! I will tell him and I know he will come wi' me. When ye find me gone, say nothing, I beg o' ye. Never tell them that ye knew.”

Out of my confusion came one clear thought: she was right. It was the only way. Yet what a terrifying way for her, to leave everything she knew, everything she had ever known.

She would lose her family and all those who loved her. She would lose everything, for love. And she only thirteen years old. Could she give all that up? But I had done so. I had cut myself off from my family, perhaps for ever.

I looked at her eyes. Like a fairy's they were, and deep, full of life and hope. I saw her beauty then, as she sparkled at the thought of her future, the excitement of it.

All I could do was take her by the hands. I know not whether anyone saw, and it would not have mattered if someone had. How small they were, the fingers so thin and yet warm. “I wish you good fortune,” I said quietly. “You are brave indeed.”

Now I would not tell her about the words on that paper. There would be no gain in that, not for her and not for me. I would keep them to myself. And I would pray for her. I had prayed little in recent days – my childhood of Bible instruction, church on Sundays, religious lessons at school, my parents' dutiful faith, all seemed far away now. But I hoped indeed that God would look kindly on her.

She had great need of His protection. And of mine, if I could help her.

S
he did not leave that night. Nor the next. Nor even the next.

During this time, our lives fell into some kind of pattern. The chores were hard and never-ending, simply to survive and put food on the table, to keep the buildings in repair, to fetch sufficient firewood, to find food for the animals. The winter fodder, stored from the previous year, was all but gone, and what there was had turned dank and dusty. New grass was only just beginning to appear. Sometimes a person would come to buy cheese, of which we had plenty – a hard cheese matured over months from last summer's milk. But we had no milk to spare now for passers-by, with the cow producing less each day, as its calf grew older and the maternal milk dried up.

The sheep's wool, which Old Maggie had spun, was sold or used for knitting stockings for the family. Or for darning patches. And with the weather warming now, Jeannie looked through the few clothes they had, deciding which must be mended, which washed, and which Calum, Iona and Tam had outgrown. The womenfolk were expert in unpicking garments and turning them into something else. Every moment of each day was occupied in the business of living.

Sometimes men would come who were strangers to me, and a huddled meeting would take place with Jock and the others. I supposed that these conversations concerned their smuggling activities or the suchlike.

I do know that money was paid to Douglas Murdoch from the last cargo – after much arguing between Thomas and Red. Thomas feared for Iona above all else and wished to pay, at least for now. But Red believed that paying money would not guarantee her safety – he was all for settling it once and for all, with weapons. Jock, clinging to his strength grimly, sided with Thomas, and while Jock was alive, I thought their view would hold sway. And yet, all of them were of a violent mind and would have killed Douglas Murdoch there and then if there had been an easy way. All believed God to be on their side in this, though it seemed to me that Red had less concern for that and more for his love of action.

For the first day after my conversation on the beach with Calum, and into the next, nothing was heard from Douglas Murdoch. I began to think he was but a figment of imagination. I had never seen this man. Could he be as grim and cruel as they said? Perhaps everything was merely an empty threat. Perhaps, after all, Old John had been killed by reivers. We had no proof of anything more. We had not found the sheep near the tower where the Murdochs lived. None of their enclosures, with their hated stone walls, held our sheep, for Billy had looked. But the men said that meant nothing – that he would have sold them far away. And Tam could tell us nothing – he had not seen the men closely, and it had been dark. Besides, they could have paid gipsies to do their dirty work for them.

Yes, their anger at Old John's murder did not subside, but they simply stored it as one more reason to hate Douglas Murdoch.

There was no talk of running another cargo during this time and of that I was glad. It would be some weeks before Tam could use his arm well enough to return to his duty in the tunnel, and I did not like to think of Bess facing that danger again.

There was little time to talk alone with her. Calum was at her side more than I would have wished. Once I found him showing her how to cut willow for making baskets. And once I saw him sitting close to her outside, as they rested from some chore or other, and found he was teaching her to imitate the sound of a curlew. Her face was alight with laughter at this, as she cupped her hands round her mouth and tried to make the watery sound.

But I kept a pretence that I did not mind. How much did I mind? I know not. If she and I could have ridden out together, with no one else, I believe I could have made her think once more of our life of freedom on the roads and to wish for that again; perhaps I could have persuaded her to leave with me. But there was no chance and I must wait. Besides, I felt a strong duty to protect Iona. Until I knew she was far away and safe, I must stay here.

Jock spent much of one day lying on his bed, sleeping for the most part. When I heard him speak, his words seemed slurred. Many times, I saw Thomas or Red look to him, and I know not what went through their minds. No one spoke of it, or of what might be wrong with him. Once Jeannie came back with physic – from some kind of apothecary, I suppose – but no doctor came. On the next day, he seemed to improve, and wandered slowly around the yard, looking into the distance, seeming troubled.

Bess, on the other hand, had recovered quickly, cared for by Jeannie, and by Iona, who did all that she was told, silently, but without her usual unwilling expression. And Tam helped, too, wielding an axe with surprising strength, chopping wood into tiny pieces and stacking them neatly by our fire. He seemed to need only one arm and to have forgotten the other one still strapped to his body. He could move the fingers of it quite well now, but any pressure or use gave him great pain. It would heal in time, I told him. He smiled at me, like a trusting dog.

Old Maggie could often be found near Bess, sometimes taking her hand in her own shrivelled one, and nodding vaguely. I wished she would leave her alone, but Bess seemed not to mind at all.

Mad Jamie came several times to our farm, sometimes on foot, once on a small, scruffy pony. He was welcomed and given a drink or something to eat, but always he seemed uneasy, frightened, like some small animal that can never trust its own safety. Iona was always kind to him and sometimes I saw her lead him by the hand like a child. Once I saw her give him some freshly baked oat biscuits, wrapped in leaves. He slipped them into his pocket.

Old John was buried on the third day after Bess's injury, a Saturday. I do not know where his body had been resting since it had been removed on Hamish's cart, but everyone set off that grey morning, with a thin slicing April rain behind us. Jeannie, Iona, Old Maggie and Tam sat on the cart, huddled under an oiled cloth, the others following on ponies. Bess and I brought up the rear on our horses.

It was a grim and saddening scene and I will not dwell on it. Bess and I watched from a distance, a little below the hilltop churchyard. Their stooped figures, huddled stiffly together, and yet not quite touching each other, formed thin windswept silhouettes on the crest of the hill.

“Poor Maggie,” said Bess softly. We watched them all come slowly down the hill towards us, the ponies' heads hanging low. Together we made our way back to the farm.

The old woman's face showed nothing as we went. Her scarred cheek was turned away from me. But the other side of her face seemed unblemished except by the wrinkling of the years. Her cheekbone was firm and high, her jaw straight. I wondered how she looked when she was younger, on this side of her face at least. I knew what the damaged side had looked like, for almost her whole life. The scar so deep and so raw.

Of course, I felt pity for her. Who would not have? But more than that I hated the way she kept a terrible past alive.

That night, I thought Iona would leave. She had seemed agitated all evening, unable to settle. Even Jeannie noticed, snapping at her more than once when she knocked something over.

Bess seemed irritated by the girl, but then Bess had never formed a bond with her, had seemed to look down on her silliness. And, of course, Bess would have taken Old Maggie's view: that the girl could only turn out bad or would have ill luck in some way. And I suppose she did not think Iona deserved more: a girl who tossed her pretty red hair as she did and had a petulant air about her. Iona had lost her mother – well, so had Bess, and Bess would have little sympathy for a girl who did nothing to make a dead mother proud. I knew enough of Bess to know this much.

And that night, when I was taking my turn at the watch, I did indeed see Iona leave the cottage, her shawl wrapped round her. I shrank into a darkened doorway. Her elfin frame stood in the yard and she looked up at the sky, but simply stayed there for some moments before going back into the cottage. I felt some relief. Though I knew she must go, yet I feared for her.

I continued my watch. A watery moon appeared from behind a cloud and I could see far into the distance now. But nothing stirred, only the soft whishing of rainfall and the distant crashing of the sea.

Soon, Billy came to take my place and I walked into our cottage. Bess stirred and I went to her.

“Shall I bring you water?”

“Mmm, yes, please,” she mumbled. I fetched some from the jug that sat by the fire, and watched her hold the cup to her lips. Old Maggie muttered in her sleep and then resumed her snoring, close to Bess in the big box-bed.

“Thank you, Will,” said Bess, now, before turning away and falling into sleep once more, one hand resting against the old woman's shoulder.

I went back to my blanket, where I lay, cold and uncomfortable, until eventually sleep came.