The Blood And The Barley

by Angela MacRae Shanks

  Jamie maintained a well-mannered grace regardless of the ill-concealed speculation and hostility around him.

  ‘Come away to the fire and take a dram,’ said Grace, clearly mystified at his reception.

  ‘Thank ye.’ He inclined his head to her, but his eyes sought Morven out, engaging her more deeply, and she felt a twinge of conscience at the hurt she saw there.

  ‘I'll be fetching ye a drop barley-bree,’ she murmured and hastened away to get it. On her return, she found young Dugald McHardy, an inquisitive wee lad of around five years, standing in front of Jamie, staring in fascination at his patterned brogues. Such fine footwear was rarely seen in the glen. Squatting, the lad reached out a hand to touch.

  ‘Dugald!’ scolded his mother. ‘Come away from there. What did I tell ye?’

  Dugald’s blue eyes widened.

  ‘Dugald!’ And he was gone. Scooped up and hastily bundled away. The boy's mother, Eilidh McHardy, could be heard chastising him severely in Gaelic.

  Jamie took the vessel Morven thrust at him and sat down heavily. ‘I’d not thought on them setting so firm against me.’

  ‘’Tis aye their way wi’ strangers,’ she admitted. Then troubled by the regret in his voice, added, ‘Never heed it, they'll come around once they get to ken ye better.’

  He nodded and turned away, bestowing a tight smile on Sarah, who’d come to sit beside him in the heather. Sarah touched her drinking cup to his and leaned to whisper something into his shoulder, a gesture Morven found touchingly intimate. She turned away to find Rowena.

  The widow was standing by the bothy, a heather basket filled with leaf and branch at her feet. This formed part of the rite of offering. Morven joined her, and between them they emptied the basket, strewing boughs of birch and rowan around the fireside and adorning them with sprays of ling and cowberry and the delicate leaflets of twinflower; a rarity of ancient pinewoods. Lastly, Rowena drew a hollowed stone from the basket and whispered a few words over it before placing it in readiness by the fire. ‘Mebbe you could gather up the bairns,’ she said, ‘and then I'll make a start.’

  When she returned with the troop of reluctant children, Morven was brought to an abrupt halt by the sight of her father standing over Jamie. They were talking in an earnest but grave manner, Jamie seated and looking up. Jamie's back was toward her, but she had a perfect view of her father’s face. His jaw was clenched, and there was such a look of wretched resentment in his expression that her heart gave a lurch. He placed a hand on Jamie's shoulder, then with a curt word stalked away, his shoulders hunched about his ears. She shepherded the children to Rowena, then hurried to Jamie's side, dropping into the heather.

  ‘What did my da say?’ she whispered.

  He looked at her in surprise. ‘He thanked me.’

  ‘Thanked ye?’

  ‘Fer saving ye from the flames.’

  Speechless, Morven sat back. Trawling the gathering with her gaze, she found her father with Donald Gordon, yet he was very much on his own. There was an air of bleakness about him, undefined yet as solid as a gable-end. He hawked and spat into the heather and Morven's insight was gone; her da looked as he always looked, surly and aloof. She turned back to ask Jamie more, but he silenced her with a swift movement of his hand; Rowena was preparing to speak.

  Widowed in her thirty-seventh year, Rowena Forbes was a woman in the mid-stream of her life, yet there were few signs on her of the passing of the years, little evidence of the grief she'd borne, or the rigours of a life eked out on a parcel of impoverished upland moor. Nor had the years dulled the fairness of her face. ’Twas said by some that the bloom on her was uncanny, even devil-sent, yet to Morven, her friend shone as vital as a pearl among pebbles.

  Smiling, the dark-eyed widow clapped her hands for silence. ‘Come away and welcome all.’ Her eyes swept above the heads of the gathering to light, for a lingering moment, on her nephew an inch or two above the rest. There was a flush on her cheeks, and beneath the white three-cornered kertch she wore, her eyes shone bright with perception.

  ‘I dinna pretend to speak wi’ our Creator,’ she began. ‘That's fer Father Ranald, and I'm certain he does it well. Yet I hold, as do ye all, that we give up the age-auld customs of our folk at our own loss. This land is nae ours by right of deed or paper, yet by our blood and bones, we are the nurture of it. In our names, dug on ageing chapel-stones, we’re charged to hold it safe. In honour of our fathers, links, each one o' us, in a chain that winds back into the mists of auld.’

  She had the attention of every man, woman, and child. Not a hair stirred. Glancing sidelong at Jamie, Morven recognised the spell upon him. Rowena had long held the power to enthral and, watching her weave her spell, Morven shivered, feeling the casting of its threads.

  ‘Nowhere in deed or title is found our claim to these high glens,’ she continued. ‘’Tis in the holding o’ this land in our hearts that we do claim that right. In the turning o' the sod, in the ache of muscle when a long day’s reap is done. And in the knowing of each rise and hollow, each tree that shapes the forests of our hame. ’Tis only then, when honour and respect are given, when the land is imprinted on our verra souls, that we may be provided fer.’

  She picked up a bannock from the pile Morven had made earlier and broke it in two. ‘If we keep alive the customs that served our fathers well, then they’ll serve us as well.’ She whispered a few words over the offering, then looked up, her eyes seeming to engage with every soul gathered. A tremor ran up Morven’s spine.

  ‘Accept thee our offering, o fox,’ she said in a voice that carried clearly to all, ‘and spare us our lambs.’ She tossed one half of the bannock over her left shoulder and into the fire, where it sizzled and caught alight. ‘Accept thee our offering, o eagle.’

  At length, when she’d made offerings to each of their adversaries, including carrion crow and exciseman, which she plainly viewed in the same light, she smiled and turned to Morven. Morven handed her a staved wooden vessel filled with fresh milk, then glanced around, aware of eyes lancing into the side of her head. Sarah blinked and looked back at her mother, leaving Morven with an odd cold feeling.

  ‘Ever we must bid na daoine sìth to bear us no ill,’ Rowena said in a voice rich with the lilt of the Gael. ‘If we live in harmony wi’ the folk o’ the sìtheans, then these hills will sustain us all.’ Bending, she poured some milk into the hollowed stone. ‘Accept thee our offering, guidfolk, and spare us our milch cows.’ She piled more bannocks by the milky offering, careful to place them cross-side down and cause no offence. Suddenly her back stiffened, and her head came snapping up. Alarm flared in her eyes. Morven heard it too, the muffled thud of hooves ringing on the heather of the glen below.

  Alec was first on his feet and darted to the rocky shelf, flinging himself down and crawling, lizard-like, to the edge. He gestured frantically for silence. The gathering sat motionless; a herd of deer in the archer’s sights, breath stilled in their throats. Rowena dropped soundlessly to the ground, and Morven became aware of the crackling of the flames beside her and the tell-tale smoke that spread in a plume above her head. There came a pressure on her forearm, and she looked up into Jamie's bewildered face.

  ‘What is it?’ he mouthed.

  ‘Excise, mebbe dragoons.’

  ‘But what is it we've done?’

  ‘The whisky.’ She nodded at the keg still sat by the bothy door.

  One of the ponies, perhaps sensitive to the tension in the air, whinnied suddenly, a great piercing gust, followed by the others in answer and a volley of what seemed like earth-shattering sounds rent the air. There came shouts from below, followed by the unmistakable sound of horses being spurred up the hill at a furious pace.

  Alec came sprinting through the heather. ‘The Black Gauger! Wi’ two others.’

  ‘Redcoats?’ Malcolm was on his feet now amidst a sea of confusion.

  ‘No, cottars from Balintoul.’

  ‘Help me get the keg inside the bothy!’ />
  Craigduthel helped Alec and her father roll the whisky inside, but there was neither time nor opportunity to hide it. Three mounted men charged their midst, scattering bairns and beasts before them. There were shrieks of terror as mothers scrambled to snatch bairns out from beneath the thunder of iron-shod hooves, while the leader, a powerfully built man with thick whiskers and clad in a black lum hat and tailed black coat shouted for them all to keep still. Morven found herself wrenched from behind, dragged backwards and thrust behind a sizeable rock.

  ‘Forgive me.’ Jamie was breathing hard beside her.

  Together they craned their necks, scouring the fray for their kinfolk.

  ‘That's McBeath,’ she hissed. ‘Thon strapping great bull of a man wi’ the pistol.’

  McBeath had drawn his mount to a halt by her father and now brandished his pistol in Malcolm’s face. Malcolm stood his ground, feet planted wide in the heather, ruddy face dark with rage.

  ‘Well, well, Delnabreck. Having a wee celebration, were ye?’ The exciseman leaned from the saddle and used the barrel of his pistol, pressed beneath Malcolm's chin, to tilt the crofter's head back.

  Malcolm gave no answer, but at the touch of cold metal his nostrils flared wide, and he fixed the exciseman with a murderous stare.

  ‘These are your pastures, are they no?’ Deliberately, the exciseman fingered the sword that lay against his left leg.

  ‘’Tis common land.’

  ‘Used by you? To pasture your beasts?’

  Malcolm’s jaw tightened. ‘’Tis so.’

  The gauger’s grin widened but failed to reach his eyes. He swivelled his head and scanned the rag-tag gathering, then sat back and gestured to the hirelings with his pistol. ‘Search the bothy.’

  They leapt to it at once, dismounting and ransacking the neatly ordered hut. Within moments they rolled out the keg, and the exciseman's lips parted in triumph.

  ‘Whatever have we here?’ He slid from the saddle and picked up a discarded drinking vessel, bringing it to his nose. His grin widened. ‘Unless my nose deceives me, and it rarely does, a drop illicit whisky. Seize it!’ he ordered, gesturing to the keg. ‘And you,’ he turned back to Malcolm, making little attempt to contain his elation. ‘Are under arrest.’

  The reddening of her father's face was all that betrayed his fury, yet Morven felt his rage as keenly as did every man, woman, and child there gathered. ‘God, Da,’ she breathed. At her side, Jamie reached and gripped her shoulder.

  A length of rough-twisted hemp was produced, and the sharper faced of the two hirelings advanced on her father with it.

  ‘Let him be!’ Alec leapt forward to prevent his father being taken. The hirelings were upon him in a heartbeat, cursing and grappling to pinion his arms. One of them dealt Alec a chopping blow with his pistol, catching him across the shoulders, and Malcolm bellowed his rage.

  McBeath squinted scornfully at Alec. ‘Well, well, if it's no the MacRae whelp. At the family business, too, eh? Take him as well.’ And he jerked his head in Alec's direction.

  ‘The keg's nae theirs,’ said a gruff voice.

  Morven twisted her head to see. It was Donald Gordon of Craigduthel, his aged face a little greyer than usual.

  ‘The whusky's mine,’ he said in a flat but authoritative voice. He rolled his shoulders in a dismissive shrug. ‘I brocht a drap along fer the ceilidh. Delnabreck there doesna do the whusky any mair.’

  At Malcolm's scowling look, he lapsed into Gaelic. ‘Never heed, man, let the black divil think it mine, that way he’ll nae touch ye. I've paid him his price, and nae doubt he’ll be after more o' that.’

  ‘Yours?’ McBeath turned on Craigduthel, squinting suspiciously at the weathered face beneath the black-crusted bonnet. Belonging to the rolling green hills of the Borders, the exciseman had no knowledge of the Highland tongue and considered it primitive in the extreme. ‘Is that so?’ He flicked his attention back to Malcolm and lifted one brow, waiting.

  ‘Aye,’ Malcolm muttered at last. He returned the exciseman's stare. ‘’Tis Craigduthel's keg, nae mine.’

  A nerve twitched beneath one of the gauger’s eyes. There was an abnormality there – Morven remembered Rowena calling it a squint – and he blinked, breaking his stare. He shifted his gaze back to Craigduthel. ‘Well, Donald.’ He tossed the drinking cup aside. ‘That's different. I'll no be seizing your keg.’ He laughed lightly, although it was evident he still carried himself like a primed pistol. ‘Leave things be!’ And he pounded Donald soundly on the back.

  ‘Why isn’t he taking it?’ said Jamie.

  ‘Craigduthel pays him. To let his whisky through wi'out trouble.’

  ‘A bribe, ye mean?’

  ‘Some say fifteen shillings an anker. The Black Gauger's as rotten as a pile o’ dung. Da would never pay him; he'd sooner run him through.’

  Jamie made an odd sound in his throat.

  Some spittle had flown from the exciseman’s mouth, and he wiped it away with his sleeve. His expression had soured, and he grimaced at the white-faced folk, perhaps drawing some compensatory satisfaction from their fear. Grace was ashen-faced and held William by the hand, while wee Donald was pressed into her skirts. There was no sign of Sarah, but Morven's heart near missed a beat when she saw Rowena.

  The exciseman's gaze fell on her at the same moment, and he started, staring at her. Thinking the exciseman distracted, Rowena had scrambled to the fireside and was hastily salvaging what she could of the trampled offering. McBeath mounted and nudged his horse toward her, his gaze fastened upon her face. As he drew closer, he looked down at the hollowed stone; it still held its milky offering and beside it sat the pile of offered bannocks.

  ‘Witchery!’

  Rowena straightened and regarded the black-clad figure with disdain. ‘Nae witchery.’ She picked up a bannock, turning it over to reveal the cross marked plainly on one side. ‘We're all Christians here.’

  ‘Papists,’ he sneered, glaring around the gathering. ‘I see what’s astir here.’ His eyes flicked back to Rowena, and he shifted his mount a little closer, his nostrils widening as though he meant to breathe her in. ‘Ungodly work. Blasphemy. False idols.’

  Rowena looked up with raised brows. ‘Ye see all that, do ye?’ She looked directly into his eyes, one of which roved wildly. ‘Then mebbe ye need to tame that unfettered eye.’

  With a hiss, he drew his sword. The blade whirred in the air; before Rowena could blink, its point was pressed against her throat. Jamie started forward, and Morven gripped his shoulder.

  ‘He'll nae harm her,’ she said quickly. ‘Nae wi’ all these watching.’

  Rowena's face was calm, her dark eyes inscrutable, and against the girth of the exciseman’s sword, her neck appeared as slim and graceful as a swan. With admirable dispassion, she raised her hand and gripped the cold steel of the blade, then pushed it deliberately away.

  ‘We honour the land of our fathers,’ she stated. ‘In the same manner our fathers did, and their fathers afore them.’ Turning her back on the mounted figure, she continued to replace her birch and rowan boughs.

  ‘I'll lay odds McGillivray knows naught of this,’ snapped McBeath. ‘I believe,’ he narrowed his eyes and spoke to the back of her head, ‘’tis time I acquainted the factor with the heathen goings-on here.’ He said no more but left Rowena to imagine the rest. Flicking the reins, he turned his mount's head and with a creak of leather was gone, leaving his hirelings to scramble after him.

  ‘Are ye harmed, aunt?’ Jamie's voice was hoarse with shock.

  ‘I'm fine.’ She brushed his concern away with an airy smile.

  Jamie stared after the men, little more than dark blemishes now against the tapestry of the land. ‘So, that … I can scarce call him a man, that wretch is the one ye call the Black Gauger? ’Tis he should be in fear o’ the law fer drawing his sword against an unarmed woman.’

  ‘Aye,’ said Alec. ‘But that'll never happen.’

  Morven shivered, chilled by the
malice of the man, and searched for her father. He was sitting atop the offending whisky keg, his livid colour receding, and was pumping Donald Gordon by the hand.

  ‘But fer you, Craigduthel,’ he told the old crofter. ‘I'd be on my way to the gaol. Ye'll take a dram with me? Alec! Whisky fer oor friend here!’

  Grace sobbed softly to herself, and her eyes followed Malcolm as a puppy would its master. Yet Morven knew she’d make no show of him in front of their neighbours.

  With the tension gone, the hill-folk soon rallied themselves and, aware they could now make merry without fear, set to the festivities with fresh vigour. Morven found a cup pushed into her hands.

  ‘’Twill steady yer nerves,’ Jamie told her. And she found, sipping at the liquor, that it kindled a soft glow inside her.

  Alec inflated his pipes, and, winking at Hal McHardy, struck up a lively tune. As if waking from a dream, folk tapped their feet in time while others rose to dance. Hal, shaking his head in feigned reluctance, joined them on his fiddle and in no time the gathering rollicked to the foot-stamping sound of reel and jig.

  ‘Would ye … wish to dance with me, d’ye think?’ Jamie was at her shoulder.

  She smiled reluctantly, but before she could say aye or nae, he’d pulled her up and, throwing her a reckless grin, was burling her through the heather at an enthusiastic pace. For all his size, he was an accomplished dancer, surprisingly lithe and highly attentive to her. She sensed every eye upon them and felt herself flush. It was more than curiosity that drew so many stares. His sheer presence was hard to ignore. Yet glancing around, it seemed every head was bent to its neighbour, every gaze furtively focused on them. The heat of his hands on her waist seemed to radiate to her cheeks. ‘Twas uncomfortably hot. A disturbing memory of leaping flames returned, and she pushed him sharply away.

  ‘Are ye alright?’ He tried to take up her hands again to recommence the dance, but she clasped them behind her back.