‘But if folk had all stood-fast against him? Refused to pay?’
‘It mighta worked, I suppose. I think some thought it a fair-enough arrangement though, and went along.’ She paused, choosing her words carefully. ‘Your folk didna, though. And neither did mine.’
‘And this is from where his dislike stems?’
‘No, ’tis something deeper. He’d been here near a year when he waylaid yer granda and yer da on their way to the coast wi’ a sizable consignment. He demanded passage money, but yer granda refused. What money he had was needed fer paying rent and feeding his family. Only, McBeath was fair taken wi' Rowena – even now I believe she’s a great beauty – and said he'd not be bothering the Innes smugglers again if he could only have her fer his wife.’
Jamie’s head snapped up. ‘The gall of the man!’
‘Yer da was enraged. The notion of selling his sister fer the right to smuggle unhindered, and to a gauger no less, fair raised his blood. He drew his dirk, demanded satisfaction fer the slight on his family. But yer granda was a canny man and said Rowena was free to choose her own match, only he'd be needing to ask her himself.’
‘Did he truly believe she’d accept him? A young beauty bartered like a pouch o’ snuff!’
‘’Tis my belief even now he considers himself a princely catch,’ she said dryly.
‘So, when Rowena turned him down –’
‘He wasna best pleased.’
Jamie sat back, searching, she sensed, for some way to convey his disgust without scandalising her.
‘When she married Duncan, he was enraged. Couldna conceive why she’d choose a common cottar when she could have a respectable officer o’ the Crown. But they were devoted, as ye ken, and this riled him still further.’
‘So, he’s a spurned man, eaten wi’ resentment?’
‘I dinna pretend to understand the man, but ’tis my belief he still cradles this injury. Has nurtured it ower the years. ’Tis possible he loved Rowena once, or at least the notion of her as his wife, who can say, but what regard he once had has soured. ’Tis now a poison that eats away at him, fer he still wants her, I believe. But fears her too.’
‘Fears her? He calls her a witch. A harsh word – a dangerous word – for a woman who merely followed her heart.’
Morven gave a little nod. ‘Only he calls her a witch ower the bairns he's lost. He believes she's cursed him to die childless.’
‘He actually believes she’d do such a thing, even supposing ’twere possible?’
She exhaled scornfully. ‘He doesna understand Rowena, is all I can say. Though … since Duncan, I believe she struggles wi’ herself a deal more, nae to blame the man, nae to hate, fer hatred has never been a part of her.’
‘No, I see that. ’Tis plain his claims are born of wounded pride. Held wi’out a thread of truth!’ He rose to his feet and cracked his head on a branch of the roof.
‘Plain to us.’ She curbed a smile at his fierce loyalty. ‘But nae to all who listen to his ravings. If ye've finished braining yerself,’ she added, ‘ye can help drain off the worts.’
He held a small barrel in place for her while she loosened the plug at the base of the mash-tun and drained the sweet infusion through a heather filter, then refilled the caldron for her from the surging burn.
‘We'll need to boil it up again,’ she said. ‘Each batch of malt will give two mashings and the spent malt, draff it's called, will feed Rowena's cattle ower the winter.’ They sat down to wait for the brew to boil again. She could feel his eyes upon her.
‘How many infants did ye say he'd lost?’
‘Eight. So far.’
He blinked at the enormity. ‘And she's not of a strong disposition, his wife, nae likely to bring a healthy babe into the world, this time or any other?’
‘Wi’ Rowena's help perhaps, but he'll not let her near his wife. Nor will he allow the poor woman a rest from the strains of childbearing, such is his desire fer a son. ’Tis … ’tis the way of some men, I believe.’
He looked curiously at her, and she dropped her gaze to the pungent cauldron that steamed and foamed between them. ‘With each babe that died, he's become more suspicious, looking fer signs of witchery on the wee bodies. He was enraged when the last bairn died. ’Twas a little ower a year ago.’
Jamie groaned. ‘And now his wife’s to have another child. Or not, as is more likely the case.’
They sat in silence, listening to the muffled thunder of the falls and the malty brew gently boiling with softly erupting plups. When Jamie spoke again, there was an edge to his voice.
‘This man, I feel fer the loss of his children, but he should seek solace from the Lord, not a perverse revenge on my kinswoman.’
‘I believe, perhaps, he canna help himself.’
He stared hard at her, then blinked slowly and turned his head a fraction, staring out at the dark-stained walls of rock, sodden and weed-streaked. ‘My father’s dearest longing was to return here, to Stratha’an, to see his sisters again, and Duncan. He spoke of Duncan often, held him in the highest regard. He yearned to see Druimbeag one last time and would wish me to protect Rowena. I wish that too. I’m part of a family still, thanks only to her. All I wish now is to protect her and what’s hers.’
At his words, powerful sensations swelled in Morven’s heart, and she was lost for what to say, struggling to put the sensations into words. She merely nodded, staring at him.
He rose and came to kneel before her, taking up her hands. A tremor ran up her spine.
‘I give ye my word, here and now.’ He lifted her hands and folded them within the rough warmth of his own, locking eyes with her. ‘I swear to protect my kinfolk. No more of my kin will be forced from this glen. I swear to you, I’ll not allow it.’
Later, she could not recall how it happened. But in an instant, she was pressed against him, held tight as though she was more precious to him than the kin he spoke of, the thud of his heart loud in her ears. He bent his head and said something, an oath perhaps, and she arched her back and twisted herself free, glaring at him.
‘Forgive me,’ he stammered.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Following Jamie’s startling behaviour, Morven was much preoccupied. She lay awake at night puzzling over it. His passion had taken her breath away, frightened her in truth, though hadna seemed unfitting, somehow. Only the manner he’d chosen to show it. She supposed the urge that prompted him had been born of the moment, a fleeting thing, aroused by his great desire to protect his kin. She swung the bundle of food up over her shoulder. He'd apologised for the liberty he'd taken, ’twas best to forget it, likely he'd done so already.
From the doorway, she looked back at her mother. ‘I'll be away now. I told Jamie I'd meet him at the bothy, but he'll likely wait fer me at the top o’ the gorge.’
‘Fine, lass. I've something I would tell ye, though.’ There was an odd catch in Grace’s voice. ‘Ye can spare me a minute, aye?’
She nodded, giving her mam an odd probing look. Something was changed about her, but she couldn't quite put her finger on it. Her face was as thin as ever, yet her eyes cradled a secret glow, and there was a strange air about her she couldn’t place. ‘What is it?’ she asked cautiously. ‘Has something happened?’
A rosy blush pooled at Grace’s throat and spilled onto her cheeks. ‘Aye, something's happened.’ She broke into a smile. ‘I'm to have another bairn.’
Morven stared at her. Her mother’s last two pregnancies were marked by twin crosses in Strathavon chapelyard. Pitiful, unfinished infants. The pain and toil of bringing forth those tiny souls had near taken her life.
The smile faded from Grace's face, and lines of anguish replaced it. Her eyes pressed Morven to speak, to show some sign of having heard her news.
‘God, Mam. ’Twill kill ye!’
A shadow of old grief clouded Grace's eyes, and she seemed to recede into herself, crushed by disappointment. ‘I thought ye'd be that pleased. Another wee brother or maybe
even a sister, God willing.’
‘I am pleased … just, ’twas a shock. But I'm fair delighted.’ Morven attempted a smile, but her face refused to comply, mirroring instead her horror. This did explain a few things. But her mam wi’ child again? She’d not even considered such a thing. Her mam was in her fortieth year; she’d thankfully assumed her childbearing years behind her.
‘Are ye all right? I mean, do ye need me to stay? Do anything fer ye?’ She ran her gaze down over the wasted body.
‘No, no. Off ye go and meet Jamie.’ Grace wore a wounded expression. She picked up the milking cog. ‘Yer da says we'll have a lass fer certain this time. He says I'm stronger, sure to have a healthy bairn.’
Morven clenched her teeth. What manner of man would continue to press his seed on a woman too weak to bear his children? Could he nae keep his filthy urges to himself?
‘He knows, then?’ At her mother's questioning glance, she smoothed the cutting edge in her voice. ‘What … what about Alec and the boys?’
‘I told Alec and yer da the other day when ye were at the bothy. Fair delighted yer da was, went to the Craggan to celebrate. I'll nae be telling the lads till later, ye ken what they're like. They'll be expecting it to arrive any minute. I wanted ye all to myself though, thought mebbe we could look out the cradle together.’ Her voice dropped wistfully. ‘I expect ’tis in the byre.’
Morven's mouth was dry as chaff, but she nodded and summoned as sincere an expression as she could muster. ‘We'll do it when I get back. I promise.’ She stared at her mother for a few more moments, then stepped out into the brisk morning air and crossed the heath at a half-run.
The urge to weep and weep and scream to the heavens of her father's senseless lack of self-restraint rose like a spate in her throat; it near choked her, and she cursed and damned him to hell. Every ghastly detail was forever etched in her memory. How could it be any less for him? Thirteen she'd been the first time, old enough to know her mother's life hung in the balance.
She’d stared at the door to her parent's bedchamber for hours, willing it to open and her mother to call her to her side. But it remained sealed hour after lingering hour, time dragging, the air in the cot-house grown tense and suffocating. Inside the tiny chamber, Rowena plied her skills and charms, allowing no-one entry lest they sap Grace's strength. At length, her nerves frayed, Morven scooped up wee Donald and blundered out to wait with Alec in the yard. Only a year her senior, Alec took her cold hands in his and tried to rub some warmth into them.
All day, her father worked the crop rigs, eight-year-old Rory close by his side. When darkness came with gory streaks of red staining the evening sky, he sat by the fire, a keg of whisky at his side, and drank himself into oblivion. Morven watched him and fought down her own panic. Every muscle in his body stood rigid, and he drank with quiet savagery.
The night stretched endlessly, until, at last, bowing to Rory's pleading, Rowena allowed them in to see their mother. Grace’s hair was stuck limply to the blankets, and her breath whistled through lips clamped tight with pain. Unable to speak, her eyes pleaded for release while she writhed endlessly biting her own hand to stifle her cries. Wordless, they filed out again. Morven's swollen heart filled her throat, and she wondered bleakly how Rowena could bear to watch such suffering. Closing the door behind her, Rowena addressed Malcolm with grim determination.
‘If she lives, there can be no more bairns. D’ye understand me?’
His shoulders sagged, and he looked at her with the cold heat of self-hatred blazing in his eyes. ‘Will she live?’
‘’Tis God will decide that, nae me, I can make ye no promise. The bairn willna draw breath, though.’
He nodded as if they’d struck some diabolical bargain and turned back to his drink. He seemed unmoved.
Rowena prepared a faery charm at the fireside and greased her hands with mutton fat. She closed the door grimly behind her. It could have been little more than a quarter hour that passed, yet it was the longest stretch of Morven’s life. The sounds that came from behind the door chilled her blood, and, wringing her hands, she found them wet with tears that slipped unchecked down her cheeks. Dimly, she recognised Alec's voice praying through the torture of the screams.
At last, stony-faced, Rowena carried the bloody bundle away. The child was a girl, only half formed. They buried her in the chapelyard the next day. Over the following weeks, Father Ranald called often, preparing Grace for a likely meeting with her maker. Yet with Rowena's tireless ministrations, Grace slowly returned to them, weak and spiritless but alive. Despite Rowena's warning, she suffered an almost identical ordeal the following year, and another bundle of unformed MacRae flesh was buried in Strathavon chapelyard.
Morven slowed her pace. She could see Jamie waiting for her by the dark gash that was the Lochy Gorge and curbed her rate to a walk. Her breathing was ragged, and her hands shook. Her fury still simmered beneath the surface, a cold needle of dread fuelling it along with an image of her father's surly face.
‘Ye shouldna wait fer me here,’ she said curtly. ‘If the gaugers see ye, they'll wonder what ye're about, and they'll soon sniff us out.’ Her voice was stiff, and she could hear the coldness in it.
‘Forgive me, I didna think.’
‘No, but ye must if ye wish to outwit the Black Gauger as much as ye say ye do.’
He blinked. ‘I thought to help ye with the climb.’
‘’Tis me that's here to help you,’ she reminded him.
She was halfway down the rock-face, scrambling resolutely from ledge to slippery ledge, the bundle of food gripped in her teeth when his mystified reply reached her. ‘I've never forgotten that, nae fer a minute.’
She winced and dropped onto the ledge at the opening to the bothy. She thought of his arms around her the last time he came here, that bold impulsive embrace. A man he was, like her father. He'd be taking what he wanted and to blazes with the rest.
He dropped down beside her in a fluid movement, and she spun around and ducked into the dark fume-filled bothy. The worts had been fermenting for three days. The aroma hit them immediately, its pungent notes intoxicatingly familiar.
‘Phew, it's ripe in here. Smells more like a brewery.’ He laughed lightly, untouched by her dark mood, though she could feel him studying her with a puzzled concentration. ‘It's finished, is it?’ He bent over the fermentation cask, examining the froth-topped wash with interest.
‘Aye, but dinna breathe-in ower the cask. ’Twill knock ye on yer back.’ Fermentation was a violent business, producing clouds of noxious vapour; she knew from experience exactly what it could do.
‘It does all this by itself, then? Ye can just leave the cask fer a day or two to be getting on with it?’
His innocent questions prompted an involuntary scoffing sound to escape from her lips. Over the last three days, she’d kept a watchful eye on the process, returning to the bothy often to beat the foaming liquid with a birch-wood switch to prevent it from overflowing. Ignoring him, she said, ‘’Tis ready fer the still now. Let's be getting on with it.’
He made no movement, but she could feel him assessing her with an air of hurt confusion. ‘Something's wrong. Ye're angry with me.’
She met his eyes at last, though no more than a glance. ‘There’s naught wrong’.
He reached out and gripped her by both wrists, the touch bringing her head snapping up. ‘There’s something. Ye must tell me.’
‘Aye, there's something!’ She wrenched her hands away, blazing him a look. ‘Only it hasna a docken to do wi' you!’
She was conscious of him tensing. ‘I shouldn't have done it. I thought mebbe ye felt the same, but,’ he swallowed, ‘’twas unforgivable.’
His expression was so stricken and contrite, so very earnest, her anger began to evaporate. ‘What are ye havering about?’
‘I shouldna have seized ye – embraced ye like that. I've thought o’ little else, but ’twas wrong of me.’
She felt a sudden urge to la
ugh; a great gushing release of tension, yet the eyes that regarded her were heavy and wretched. ‘Have ye naught else to occupy yer mind?’ she quipped. Then, seeing him wince, added more lightly, ‘I've thought of it too. Ye did take a mighty liberty.’
‘I know. I caused offence, and rightly so, I can make no excuse fer my actions.’
‘Offence? Nay.’
‘There's no need to indulge me, I see it in yer face, ye've not the guile to hide it. Ye're still angry now.’
She pressed her eyes shut, suddenly weary. Despite what he said, her anger had left her, his mistaking of its source perhaps dousing the last of its embers and she shivered, a chill in her flesh. It was cold in the bothy, the walls running with the drip of stale steam. She felt the shock of her mother's news cut into her heart, prompting a fearsome trembling. Groping, she found an upturned anker to sit down on and clasped her hands in her lap to keep them steady.
‘I’m nae angry wi’ you. I spoke harshly…’ She shook her head, feeling guilty. ‘But it wasna you brought on my anger, ’twas another did that and…and some fearful tidings.’ She gave a little shrug. ‘’Twas only an embrace atween us. I've forgotten it already.’ That was hardly true, but it seemed the thing to say.
He stood with head bowed but brought it up a fraction as she spoke, studying her from beneath dark lashes. He’d clubbed back his hair, and the fine down on the nape of his neck was illuminated by the crisp light from the bothy opening. He seemed young and vulnerable, the air of authority he wore fallen away and the sensitive young man beneath exposed.
‘I'm so verra cold,’ she said, and a fit of shivering rocked her.
He shrugged off the woollen shortcoat he wore over his belted plaid and held it out to her. ‘May I?’
She nodded and let him wrap the garment around her, then he rubbed her icy hands the way Alec had done all those years ago. His own were warm and work-roughened, but gentle in what they did. She felt a lump rise in her throat. Happed in his coat, she watched him kneel and set about building a fire. He kept quiet as he struck sparks from the flint and blew on the tinder-dry curls of lichen, but glanced up at her continually. His expression was grave and more than a little puzzled. When he was done, and the kindling crackled aglow, he worked peats and fir-cones into the pile to raise as much warmth from it as he could.
The Blood And The Barley Page 10