The Blood And The Barley

by Angela MacRae Shanks

  The exciseman’s mouth clamped shut, his jaw clenched so tightly his head shook, and he looked again at the bed. His gaze fell on the faery charm still tied around his wife's neck and he recoiled with a sharp hiss.

  ‘Witchcraft!’ He reached out a hand to touch the tiny charm, then snatched it away as if it scorched him. ‘What did you do to her?’ he choked. ‘What wickedness did you work with that foul effigy?’

  ‘’Tis only a charm. Fer her protection.’ Rowena bent to untie the tiny bronze.

  ‘Protection?’ He grasped one of her hands and forced it up to the light. ‘From a woman with blood on her hands?’ He thrust her hand away and circled the bed, halting to stare at the bundle of soiled and blood-soaked linen half hidden beneath it.

  ‘By all that’s holy! I see what's been done here. Murder it is, and by uncanny means.’

  ‘’Tis nothing o’ the kind,’ Morven protested. How to make him see that, though? ‘The charm was fer yer wife’s protection and … and it wouldna have been decent to leave her like that, bloody and all.’

  Unmoved by her protests, the gauger levelled a murderous glare in Morven’s direction.

  ‘Yer wife bled to death,’ Rowena said softly. ‘I’m so verra sorry. But ’tis what can happen when a woman is brought to childbed so often, and wi’ each labour so verra close upon the last.’ She frowned apologetically and pressed her lips together. ‘Her womb was simply too weak to compress the bleeding vessels …’

  McBeath gaped at her. ‘You’re blaming me?’ he choked. ‘You’ve the gall to censure me! To question my … my personal relations with my own wife? Lord, but ye’re brazen!’

  Unconsciously, Morven had backed up hard against the iron of the bedstead, but with a stab of admiration, saw that her companion stood her ground, defiant and collected.

  Desperately, she cried, ‘I swear to ye, sir, yer wife’s death was nae Rowena's doing. She came here to help her, even knowing ’twas likely useless, that yer wife was beyond her help.’ She wrung her hands, seeing in his cruel expression a blank refusal to consider any judgement but his own. ‘She’s the most gentle-hearted and selfless of women, I know of none finer. The most Christian –’

  ‘Christian!’

  ‘Bless ye, lass,’ murmured Rowena. ‘But I speak the truth as plainly as I see it. And see it as ’tis so.’

  The gauger appeared thunderstruck. ‘The words of a known witch!’ he choked. ‘Uttered to conceal her guilt. To deflect it onto another. Onto the innocent.’

  ‘Not so!’ Morven cried. ‘Dinna dare call her that!’

  McBeath turned savagely on her. ‘D’ye think I didnae hear what you were saying when I first found ye?’ He grasped her by the upper arm, viciously pinching her skin. ‘I heard ye plotting. You planned to take the child for yourselves – for her devilish purpose.’ His face was close now; she felt the hot sweatiness of him, could smell his breath, overlaid with liquor.

  ‘I dinna ken what ye mean.’

  ‘Had it lived, you’d have taken the child, used it for devil knows what fiendish purpose.’

  ‘Ye’re hurting me!’ But he merely gave her arm another vicious twist.

  ‘Let her be, Hugh, please – let her be.’ Rowena spoke calmly, and he loosened his grip a fraction, more in surprise that she’d used his first name, Morven sensed, than for any other reason. ‘This is atween you and me. Ye ken it as well as I. The lass has no part.’

  He surveyed Rowena in quivering silence, then rasped, ‘Aye, you and me. We’ve unfinished business.’ He whirled on his heel and propelled Morven across the room. Her feet skidded on the polished floor, and she writhed to free herself, but his grip was fast on her arm, impossible to dislodge.

  ‘Get out!’ he roared. ‘Get ye gone from here!’

  She twisted to catch a glimpse of Rowena’s face, silently pleading for guidance. The widow nodded, a minute acknowledgement that she should do as the exciseman bid, but her face was rigid with fear.

  For an instant, Morven thought he’d hurl her down the stairs. He dragged her to the landing, wild-eyed and panting, then thrust her forcibly from him.

  ‘Get out! OUT!’

  She didn’t wait to argue the point, but clattered down the stairs and ran, her heart hammered hard against her ribcage, down the long hallway. She burst from the house, almost tripping down the stone steps, and blinked in the brightness. Outside it was a balmy day. She blinked at the brilliance, the blue of the sky marred only by a few tails of high cloud riding the warm air. The grass on the bank opposite moved a little, stirred by a gentle breath, and a low rumble drifted up from the hubbub at the foot of the brae. ’Twas another world.

  Sobbing, she gathered up her skirts and sprinted down the earthen road. But what to do? Get help, but how and from where? The Balintoul Inn was the first building she came to, its chimney belching smoke, a trail of ponies tied outside. It was strictly men-folk only. Men and women of loose morals. Her father would likely commit murder, but that hardly mattered now. She shoved the door open and stumbled inside.

  A grubby hand clutched at her sleeve and she whirled around, disorientated by the clouds of tobacco smoke, the reek of pot-ale, and the press of faces leering at her out of the gloom. An ugly heavily-whiskered face grinned at her, displaying a single brown tooth.

  ‘Have ye a spare hour or twa, ma quine?’ A filthy hand tugged at her bodice.

  ‘Get away!’ she snapped, pushing him off.

  ‘How much?’

  ‘I need help!’ She pushed her way further into the room.

  ‘Oh, aye? I could help a’right. What was it ye had in mind?’

  ‘I’ll help ye out o’ yer gown!’ guffawed another.

  She shuddered; the inn had been a mistake. Turning to go, she lashed out at the drovers blocking her way, ruthlessly elbowing them aside.

  ‘Morven! Wait, Morven!’

  Incredibly, it was Ellen MacPherson who squeezed her way through the press, her face white and pinched-looking. There were two men with her; a red-haired lad little older than Morven herself and an older man with a kindly face.

  ‘Thank heavens ye’re alright!’ Ellen's voice rose shrill above the general rowdiness of the inn. ‘I heard the gauger come hame and kent there'd be trouble. When he made straight fer the stairs, I ran fer my man and this here's my lad, Angus.’

  Morven could’ve kissed the woman. ‘I'd to leave Rowena with him,’ she blurted. ‘And him in a towering rage, claiming she’s murdered them both. What he means to do I dinna ken, but ’tis something fearful.’ She clutched at the older man’s sleeve. ‘Will ye come back to the house wi’ me, sir? Help me get her away?’

  ‘I'll come back to the hoose wi' ye!’

  A chorus of bawdy cheers followed this ribald remark, but the man nodded without a murmur and led the way out.

  Ellen waited outside in the courtyard for her sister returning with the silvered water while Morven and her men-folk stormed the exciseman's home. From the foot of the stairs, they could hear an eerie sound. A keening that chilled Morven’s blood. No words, just a harrowing wail abruptly choked off. The two men exchanged a look and charged up the stairs.

  When Morven reached the doorway, Ellen’s men-folk were grappling with the exciseman, attempting to haul him over to the hearth, as far from Rowena as they could. He bellowed his rage, struggling furiously, his face livid with angry blood.

  ‘He’s getting awa’ from me, Da!’ shouted Angus, and his father dealt the exciseman a swift blow to the groin, doubling him over. Angus quickly pinioned the gauger’s arms behind his back.

  ‘’Tis fer yer own good, man,’ grunted the older of the two, though plainly he’d derived considerable satisfaction from the blow himself and delivered another for good measure. ‘Whatever’s she done, this isna the way.’ He stepped back and motioned for his lad to stand the exciseman up. ‘And ’tis hardly the place fer it,’ he added, glancing uneasily at the lifeless figures on the bed.

  McBeath glared at him, wheezing, his
face purple, the sinews of his neck taut and straining.

  Rowena was sat at the edge of the bed, rocking back and forth, staring dazed-like. Her face looked deathly. On seeing Morven, a thin wail erupted from her lips. Morven helped her up, then had to support her weight lest she crumple back down again.

  ‘Did he hurt ye?’ she whispered. ‘What did he do?’

  Rowena shook her head, a ghastly expression on her face.

  ‘Take her home,’ cried Rob. ‘’Tis a sorry business, but whatever he believes has plainly tipped him ower the edge.’

  Quickly Morven bolstered Rowena under an arm and led her stumbling from the room. The exciseman heaved and strained in the grip of the two men, glaring at them. Defiantly, she returned the glare, twisting her head to maintain her challenge until the very last moment.

  CHAPTER NINE

  The early chill of the day had lifted, and the sun shone warm on Jamie’s back. He straightened and eased the ache in the base of his spine, then began piling the rocks he’d cleared onto his aunt's hand-cart. The rain clouds threatening since dawn had come to nothing, and he shaded his eyes as he looked up to the misty foothills of the Cairngorms.

  The beauty of the place could still catch him unawares, could tighten his chest, and he stopped to breathe-in the rugged grandeur of the place. There was a timeless quality about Strathavon, a remoteness certainly, but it was far from the Godforsaken land some believed it, and instinctively he considered it home in a way Inverness had never been. Here, among the heather-clad hills and ancient birk and pinewoods, he could take his fill of life and let it feed his soul.

  He briefly closed his eyes, feeling at peace, then looked around at his kinswoman’s scrape of land. There was still much to do. He must grow more oats to see them through the winter along with the new crop, potatoes, which was still viewed with suspicion by most in the glen. But first, he must clear more land, put heather and whin to the plough and break the granite backbone of the land, then unearth it to build dykes. As he worked, he thought over possible sites for his whisky-making. A safe location was needed for his bothy, a place no-one would think to look. The secret place Morven had taken him to was perfect, but ’twas hardly fair to push her father's generosity further. And he knew not whether to trust the man.

  Bending, he drove his spade under a half-buried rock, pressing his entire weight onto the spade and rocking it from side to side until, at last, the ground relinquished the mass and he could roll it away. The ache in his spine returned, although he carried another more private ache within him. This was entirely separate from the agony of losing his family. The bitterness of that, of finding no-one to blame, no-one to hold accountable, save God, was less raw now, although the sorrow was as profound as ever. ’Twas hard to understand, he doubted he ever would, but the Lord had chosen to take them and leave him untouched. God’s will, the priest had said, nae his fault, though he’d believed it was for a time.

  Only the private hurt was another matter. This he had caused. His thoughts turned to her now, unbidden, as they did at almost every opportunity. Whenever he thought of her it was always the impression of a young cat that sprang to mind, the fluid grace, the instinctual caution, sensitive to any threat, yet self-contained and direct. He lifted the edge of the rock up onto the front of the cart, and, squatting beneath it, managed to lever it up until he could slide it to rest with the others. Rubbing his eyes, he pressed into the tense flesh at the bridge of his nose. He’d taken advantage. And nae content with that, he’d then insulted – nay, accused – her father wi’out thought or proof. Morven had needed comforting, had been angry and vulnerable, yet had he done that? Had he gentled her fears? Hardly. He’d seen an excuse to touch her, kiss her, and been unable to stop himself. And then foolishly maligned her father, disclosed what he should not have done, riling her further.

  He began to dig into the earth once more. She was the most fascinating woman he’d ever known. Indeed she captivated him so much he could not stop from looking at her, discovering each time something new that drew him further under her spell. Perhaps ’twas her directness that disarmed him so, for when she looked at him, he felt as if he’d come home, did belong again. Yet she was young and vulnerable, and his yearning to protect and keep her safe was so strong, he sensed it frightened her. For she was loyal to a fault, he knew that now, perhaps to his cost. ’Twas but another part of her that drew him.

  Only, to hold her. Lord, to touch her skin, feel her small and tender against him. And her mouth …. He groaned and turned to attack the ground once more. ’Twas unforgivable. She’d given him nothing but friendship, even when he shamefully spilled his heart out, she’d given him no encouragement. Likely been horrified. The ache in his chest deepened. He worked furiously at the ground, waiting for the ache in his muscles to lessen the more private hurt inside. Her friendship was precious, far too valuable to misuse. Only, was it nae right to tell her the truth? To warn her about her father? His da would have said so, what would his mother say? He wished he knew.

  A cloud of midgies closed in, and he swiped at the air above his head. He’d nothing to offer Morven even given she felt the same, and plainly she did not. She felt beholden to him, and likely despised feeling so, for she was her own woman and clearly made her own choices. He’d never made mention of that night of flames, but the indebtedness was there between them, a ghostly presence, one he could never seem to exorcise, no matter how hard he did try. And here in this place, he was still an outsider. Whispered about. Held in distrust. The instrument of their undoing? He sincerely hoped not.

  As he remembered, there’d been superstitions aplenty in Inverness too. Father Tobias, the old priest who’d taught him to read, had declared superstition a religion of feeble minds. Yet belief in the supernatural ran deep here. Naught to do with feeble minds, just simple reliance on traditions handed down through the ages, and ’twas mighty difficult not to be affected by it all.

  He drank from a leather flask, savouring the sweetness of the spring water. At Tomachcraggen, they drew their water from the Tobar Fuar, the cold well, a haunt of faeryfolk he’d been told on Tomachcraggen land. Here, three springs brought ice-cold water to the surface from rocky underground deposits, each tasting remarkably different. Sarah had explained the springs were said to cure blindness, deafness, and lameness and were watched over by a guardian spirit and this accounted for the difference in taste. She’d been sober about it, though he’d known ’twas all meant to impress him. She liked to do that; to try and shock him, to appear worldly, though beneath it all he sensed a confused young lass and felt for her.

  Sarah could be difficult, ‘thrawn’ Rowena called her, and his aunt fretted over her. She’d no father and a purported witch fer a mother, nae wonder she was difficult. Sarah had need o’ some steadiness in her life. She needed a father. ’Twas his duty to guide her, to listen to her as an older brother might, nae a father. He could never be that.

  Looking around, he regarded the forest of tree stumps left from his woodcutting work of a few days ago. He’d need to dig them all out – every one. The land was needed. He caught sight of a small figure making toward him. William, was it? He squinted into the sun, warmed by the thought of William's company. The lad was likeable in a quiet way. But no, had Rowena nae sent him and Sarah to the dominie that forenoon? The schoolmaster was in the glen again teaching the glen bairns their letters. He followed the progress of the figure, perceiving a certain reluctance, a preoccupied air to the figure's movements.

  As the figure came closer, he realised with a jolt it was Rowena, but a diminished almost hunched Rowena barely recognisable as the spirited woman he held in such regard. She winced at his scrutiny, and he felt a twinge of conscience. He’d thought her uncommonly quiet the night before, only he’d been sunk in his own thoughts too. After finishing the second run of spirit through the still, he’d worked long on the land, giving himself up to the work, numbing himself with it, and returning late and too weary for anything but sleep. He’d se
en her ashen face and troubled eyes but paid little heed. Now he was shocked at her appearance. Her face was drawn and lined, her eyes over-bright with the quick darting movements of someone deprived of sleep, and there were dark circles under them.

  ‘Rowena!’ He dropped his spade. ‘Ye’re unwell, ye –’

  ‘I'm nae unwell,’ she said grimly. ‘But I would speak with ye. Nae here, though. I need the feel of the forest about me and to know na daoine sìth, the faeryfolk, will hear me and may help.’

  He blinked in bewilderment, but she merely nodded and gestured for him to follow her. She set off toward Dun Sìthean.

  ‘Has something happened?’ He glanced sidelong at her, matching her steps over the ground he’d cleared. Her face was drawn and pinched, but when she turned to look at him, her eyes burned fiercely.

  ‘Something ill. Isobel McBeath and her infant are dead.’

  In the shock of the moment, all he could think of was Morven. ‘And ye were there – you and Morven? ’Twas his wife ye were called to yesterday?’

  She gave a brief nod.

  ‘God’s teeth! What on earth made ye do such a thing?’

  ‘Isobel did.’ She frowned at him. ‘Never would I forsake her. Though … though she was beyond my help.’

  ‘But,’ he croaked. ‘D’ye nae see how this will look? The gauger might believe ye were involved in their deaths, maybe even responsible.’ He puffed his cheeks out, struggling to grasp the enormity of this.

  ‘Aye, ’tis what he believes, but it’s what I ken of him that matters now, and what I must do wi' that knowledge.’

  She refused to be drawn further until she reached what she called the sanctity of Sìthean Wood, and one look at her closed countenance told him it was useless to coax her. She was trembling, but he sensed not from fear. ’Twas perhaps anger, or something even more disturbing.

  From the western slope of Dun Sìthean, the hill of the faeries, a small track led into a dense wood. The wood seemed dark and impassable and overly silent. Jamie had seen the path before and wondered who could have made it. It led from the wood to the oddly rounded summit of the hill with its crown of pine trees and then ended. Yet it was clearly well used – hard-packed with no covering of deergrass or bracken. He’d never observed anyone enter that wood and had never felt inclined to do so himself. There was something forbidding about the place, but it was clearly where Rowena was headed. Too disturbed by her revelations and anxious to know more, he didn’t question the wisdom of her actions but silently followed her.