The Highwayman's Curse (20 page)

A
s we came closer to the valley where Murdoch's tower sat, we could hear distant noises. Shouts of men and the whinnying screams of horses. What was happening? The sky was lightening rapidly, glowing almost orange in the east, in the direction of the valley. Was it so late? Was dawn breaking so soon?

When we rounded the crest of a hill, we pulled the horses to a sudden halt. We sat there, staring.

It was not a rising sun that suffused the night sky with orange. It was fire.

One side of Douglas Murdoch's tower was on fire, the flames leaping skywards, dancing from the wooden roof, whipping the air. Below it, running around it like frantic ants, many men darted about, throwing firebrands through windows or onto piles of sticks against the walls. At the entrance to the tower itself, six or seven men held a tree trunk, which they used as a battering ram, crashing again and again against the door. It remained firm.

Other men tried to breach the thick double door into the low wall that enclosed the outbuildings. But it held firm. One of the buildings inside was on fire too and there was a terrible noise from frightened animals. Then I saw men, Murdoch's men they must have been, running to free the animals from the blazing structure. Horses stamped and whinnied, and cows huddled together at the wall furthest away from the flames.

I could not tell where Robert Murdoch was. It was not possible to be certain where our men were, though I thought I recognized the great hulking frame of Billy, and was that Thomas with him? But there were more men than ours – perhaps twenty or thirty, and who knew how many at the other side of the tower? Douglas Murdoch had made many enemies.

I could see our ponies waiting near by, tied, I think, to trees. They stamped and snorted, fearing the smell of the flames. I hoped they would not take fright and break their reins. Our men would need them.

“Listen!” Bess pointed in the other direction, from the west. At first, I heard only the noises from below. Then I, too, heard it. Hoofbeats. Many hoofbeats. Cantering. Iron shoes on the stony road. Not local ponies then, for they never went shod.

I knew before I saw them what sort of men would ride iron-shod horses, cantering in such great numbers.

Soldiers. Redcoats. Perhaps a quarter of a mile along the road, coming towards us along the ridge of the hill. We saw the moonlight glinting on their bayonets, shining on their white sashes. They had no need to hide from anyone.

We moved off the road and into the shelter of some trees. “Deeper!” I urged Bess, when she stopped. Bess's terrible hatred of redcoats had led her to rash actions in the past. I hated them too, for what they had done to Henry Parish. But this time, I felt, we might be glad of them.

For them to be out at this time of night, there must be good reason. Were they making for Douglas Murdoch's tower? Even if they were not, they must see the fire. They would investigate, would they not?

I watched Bess as the soldiers passed by our hiding-place. She saw me looking, and smiled. “Do not fear! I am not so foolish!”

But now, we must warn Thomas and the others. It would not help Jeannie if some of them were caught and hanged for fire-raising. Or murder, if that was what was happening.

It was then that I heard a curlew. So close by that it startled me. But it was no curlew, I realized quickly, seeing Bess's face. She had her hands curled round her lips, and once more she made the piercing wail, an eerie sound, with nothing human about it at all.

Calum had taught her well. But the men would not hear from here, not above the other noises.

“Take Merlin and stay here with the horses,” said Bess. I would have argued, but there was no other way. She dismounted and handed the reins to me.

“Be careful!” I urged her, but she was gone. All I could do was wait and hope.

From my position in the trees, I could not see into the valley, could not see the tower, though the glow in the sky did not diminish. But with the redcoats now far enough from me, I dared to come out from the hiding-place and peer into the valley. I could just make out the shape of Bess, sliding down the slope, dodging from one patch of gorse or boulder to another. I wished that the moon would go behind a cloud but such things are in the hands of God. And God, I think, had left us to chance or our own devices that night, for the moon stayed bright in the sky and the few clouds did not move across it.

My wounds were hurting afresh, my hands sore as I gripped the reins. I tried not to think of the pain.

The redcoats were out of sight, though I knew roughly where they would be by now. Soon, they would be in the valley. I could just see Bess again, crouched beside a patch of gorse. From here, I could faintly hear her curlew sound. At first, the men did not seem to hear her, but then I saw two of them stop, listen, and drop the battering-ram. A few moments later, all the men who had held the huge tree trunk had scattered. Some ran towards ponies, others ran round the side of the tower. Now, the redcoats were upon them, and the noise of shouting, and some shots, filled the air.

“Hurry, Bess!” I muttered, under my breath. I could see her darting up the hillside now and within a minute she was with me once more. She leapt onto Merlin and we galloped back in the direction of the farm.

But when we were safely away from the tower, I called a halt. Of a sudden, I did not wish to return so soon to the farm. I had no desire to witness the moment when they saw that Iona was alive.

It would be better to leave it to them. I cannot clearly explain why, only perhaps that I was tired and I wished not to be part of it any more. It was peaceful out here, with Bess and the horses. It was easier to breathe.

“We are near the stream, Bess,” I said, by way of excuse. “I need to drink.” We found the water, not very far from where we had found the old shepherd murdered – how long ago that seemed now, though less than two weeks – and I stooped to drink, putting my face to the water.

And then, after the horses had drunk their fill, we made our way slowly back to the farm.

S
ome time later, while birdsong told of an approaching dawn, I found myself lying wrapped in my blanket, desperate to sleep. The men had all returned safely, though with battle wounds to boast of and stories to tell. Their joy at finding Iona alive was short-lived – very soon, they were arguing about whom to blame. Still they talked of revenge, and their hatred seemed as great as ever, though this time fuelled by strength and the sense of victory.

Iona simply lay on the box-bed near the fire, grey-faced, and silent. She seemed unaware of what had happened or of what anything meant. I feared for her mind then. Her hair, fiery as ever, framed an empty face, her eyes like cold embers. The fairy light had gone from them.

I had not stayed with them longer than I must, preferring my own company. Bess, however, stayed with Calum, to listen to his stories of bravery and action, his face gleaming in the firelight as he sat beside his sister, rubbing her hands uselessly.

And so, in our cottage, I slept at last, with only the sounds of an old woman's snoring and the distant calling of sheep, and the small noises of a countryside awaking without me.

I dreamt of my father again, and of my brother. Again we fought, but this time it was not the same. This time, it was my brother who writhed in the mud, as I stared down on him, my sword-tip poised at his throat. I had won. But I did not know what to do with my victory and strangely there was no pleasure in it. And then, suddenly, the face in the dirt was not my brother's any more, nor even my father's, but a stranger's. I did not know what I had done or why I was there. When I had been the loser, the dream had an end – a frightening one perhaps, but an end all the same. Losing is not difficult. But where was the end for the victor? What was the winner to do?

When I woke from my dream, I felt oddly dissatisfied.

T
he sun was quite high in the sky. I think it was mid-morning. The shutters were open, fresh air sweeping through the cottage. Bess was shaking my shoulder. And the sound of a cart came from the yard. I pulled on my clothes with stiff and painful fingers. I removed the bandages and found the cuts to be clean and knitting together, so I did not replace them. I ached in more places than I had last night, but the pain was bearable.

It was Hamish's cart. And he brought with him the blind minister.

I was the only person here who knew what this man had done. And I vowed that by the end of the day, I would not be alone.

Bess, who had slept for even less time than I, explained, “It is for Jock. Jeannie fears he is dying. She sent for Hamish to bring the minister.” I said nothing as I followed Bess slowly across the yard. A chill wind blew suddenly and I pulled my coat tight round myself.

I did not enter the dwelling. I did not wish to. If the man was going to pray for Jock, if he was going to be there to help this family through the death, then I did not wish to see his hypocrisy. Nor did I wish to see him pray. Or to look at him, knowing what I knew.

Bess glanced at me as she went inside without me. She didn't know my thoughts, of course. But I would not speak them, not quite yet – this was a man's death, after all, and I had no wish to make it harder for them to bear. Or for Bess, for I sensed that she felt some affection for Jock, some sadness at his passing.

But when the minister had finished, when the time was right, then I would speak to him.

While I waited, I went to the stable to see to our horses. This always brought me peace, as though their easy breathing and their warm eyes contained wisdom beyond words.

It was not long before I heard the voices of Hamish and the others in the yard again. I went outside to meet them, the low sun briefly blinding me. To my side, by the wall, a spray of forget-me-nots, in a single shade of blue, grew in a patch of grass. Three dandelions nodded in a soft breeze. Unseen birds chattered in roofs and trees. Everything was innocent and simple.

My heart beat fast as I walked towards the group, wondering what I would say, and what the minister would say in return. Should I perhaps stay silent? Should I let it pass? This was a man they trusted. Would it help if they lost that trust?

Yet it was because they trusted him that they should know the truth.

Beyond them, I could see the rolling hills of Galloway, rich, fertile. And to the distant right, the crystal sea, herring-silver, gentle-seeming. The smells, of salt and sand, of grass and horse, of dank and marshy ground, were things I had come to know. This land was worth something. It was a place of beauty. And yet it was being sullied.

I stood in front of the minister. “I wish to ask you something.”

His face turned in my direction, the hollow white eyes wandering over me. His face was still, though his hand shook on his stick.

No one else spoke, though Hamish frowned. I had never liked Hamish. His face was somehow too clean, too scrubbed, too gleaming. He sweated overmuch. I did not like his wet lips. There was an unnatural silence about him, as though he had things he wished to say but would not say them. I cannot say precisely why I felt this. I can only say that I did not like him.

“What would ye ask o' me?” asked the blind minister now.

“Why did you tell Douglas Murdoch about Iona and Robert?”

“What?” This was Thomas. “What d'ye mean, lad? Show some respect to a man o' the kirk!”

But I would not stop now. “I wish to know.”

“Have ye taken leave o' your senses?” demanded Thomas.

“Maybe,” I answered. “But what has the minister to say?” We looked at him.

“Then I'll tell ye,” said John Blakelock now. “I gave Douglas Murdoch the truth because 'twas right. The lass and her lad were doing wrong in God's eyes and a minister o' God must put an end to that. We look to our place in Heaven, nothing more. ‘Be ye therefore perfect, even as your Father which is in Heaven is perfect', the Bible tells us.”

A slight smile played across his lips.

And I knew not what to say. Was that all? Simply a minister doing what he thought right in the eyes of God?

“But there is no law that says they might not be together,” I said.

“Your King has no' set a law, no. But I obey God's law, which is higher. And Douglas Murdoch's church follows a bishop's law and a King's law above God's. That is the path to Hell and damnation. I saved the lass from that. 'Twas right.”

“She came near death by drowning!”

“There is a worse fate than death. To be damned to Hell is worse, is it no'?”

I knew not what to say. But he was continuing, warming to his theme, his followers around him, hanging on his words.

“The Bible also says, ‘Let us do evil, that good may come…' Thus God tells us that the end justifies the means.
Cum finis est licitus, etiam media sunt licita:
when the end is allowed, so too the ways to that end are allowed, as your education will tell ye.” The sun glared in my eyes, casting his face into shadow. He continued. “We are faithful people. Good people. God's people. We wish only the freedom to worship as we please. And those who went afore us have died for this, believing that our place is in Heaven, at God's right hand. He will reward us for our faith, our steadfastness, whiles Douglas Murdoch and his like will burn and twist in the flames o' eternal damnation.”

“I do not think God would wish a young girl to die because of whom she loved.”

“Who knows God's mind? I know His word. 'Tis written. ‘Honour thy father and thy mother.'”

The blind minister turned away from me, without waiting for what I might say, and held out his arm. Hamish took it and led him to the cart. I watched him climb stiffly onto the bench.

He spoke one more time. “'Tis also written, ‘Life for life, eye for eye, tooth for tooth, hand for hand, foot for foot, burning for burning, wound for wound, stripe for stripe.'

“‘Vengeance is mine,' saith the Lord. And we help Him in His work. Nothing more. We do God's work.”

He did not look at me again. Hamish clicked at the pony and drove him away.

Crushed, I watched him disappear. I had not said all I felt – I had not the words for it, did not know where to start. Confusion wrapped itself round my mind. The man carried himself with a haloed air of righteousness. He was so sure, so filled with faith, that I could not argue with him.

I felt lost, adrift on an empty sea.

Almost, for a strange moment, did I believe him. I thought he must be right – he spoke with such power, and he was a man of God, a minister. I must be wrong, I, no more than a boy. It would be so easy to believe him, to trust such a strong voice, a voice that claimed all God's power behind it.

And yet, I knew the minister was wrong. I would not believe him, however strongly he spoke. For I knew, deep down, that he was indeed inspired by hate, even if he hid it behind a minister's robes. I could not change what he thought, but I could believe him to be wrong. In my heart.

For did not the Bible also say, “Blessed are the merciful: for they shall find mercy”?

I had seen what hatred caused and I knew that there was another way – of love, and friendship. Why did it matter how one worshipped God?

But these people would not see it. The men all turned from me and walked into the dwelling. They believed their minister, without doubt or question. It was as if they swaddled themselves in his black cloth, hiding in the dark security of his word, believing it to be God's truth.

I did not go with them. I stayed alone.