Yet she sensed ’twas more than McBeath's threats that sickened Rowena. Her friend was accustomed to being branded a witch, she’d said so herself. ’Twas something else. Something grave. But who could she confide her fears in? Not her da. She picked up a pinecone and threw it into the air, watching it arc down and bounce off a rock with a resounding thud. He wouldna care one way or the other. She could speak to her mother about most things, barring her father, but with her mam poorly and carrying another bairn, she daren't risk worrying her. And it wouldna be right to trouble Sarah, nae about her own mam. Jamie, then? She dismissed the blaggard. ’Twould need to be Rowena herself, if she would speak.
She brushed off the pine needles and bits of dry bark clinging to her skirts and returned with the water, heedless of her mother's questioning glance at the length of time she’d taken to fetch it. Once the chores of the day were done, she headed to the bothy where her da had stashed fresh sacks of malt for her to turn into whisky.
The bothy felt cold after the warmth of the open air and smelled sourly of damp ashes. As she bent to clear away the remains of the fire, she gave a little start, her gaze falling upon a strange sight. Set to stand upright and enclosed in a ring of evenly sized pebbles, she found a clutch of harebells arranged upon the fire-cairn. She blinked. Faeries’ thimbles they were known as, dainty mats of leaves bearing tiny blue dangling bells. On rare occasions, she would find them growing in clefts in the gorge, and always they did charm her. But these had been put here. Plucked from their hollow with some end in mind. They were meant to signify something, or were mebbe an apology of sorts.
She knew well who’d left them, and the thought didn’t altogether warm her. Jamie’s claims about her father felt like a barb twisted into her flesh, and that barb held more than one thorn. For in the secret reaches of her heart, she did doubt her father too. The bond between them was one of blood, of kinship, and there was none stronger. Yet her father’s hostility toward her learning from Rowena was a mystery, one that shamed her, for something was changed between her father and Rowena, she’d long sensed it and knew Rowena did too. But what Jamie claimed was foul and scurrilous. The imaginings, nay, the ravings of a stranger, one who’d likely damn them all just as Achnareave foretold.
She snatched the posy from its altar and flung it to the ground, scattering the pebbles and bringing the heel of her boot down upon the delicate flowers, crushing them into the ground. Quivering with rage, she sank down beside the desecrated offering. She sat there for a time, breathing hard, but her rage soon ebbed away, and she found herself shivering and confused.
She rose and lugged the mash-tun through from the cave and began filling it with water. In the morning she’d speak with Rowena and hopefully would find some answers. She thought fleetingly of her father’s unjust command to stay away from the widow and dismissed it out of hand.
***
Morven woke early the next morning, the raucous cries of sparrow chicks in their nest beneath the eaves drawing her from a shallow sleep. She lay a moment, imagining the frantic jostling in the nest. Another half-hour or so of oblivion would have been welcome, but the events of the last two days would not allow it. Rising, she smoothed down her shift, trying to press away the outward signs of her restless night.
Alec was still asleep, a tuft of brown hair all that showed of him above his pile of blankets, and there was no sign of life from her younger brothers either. Both still slept in their shared pallet by the fire. Her mother's face was peaceful, her body sheltering in the lee of the great mound her father created beside her.
She dressed quickly and poked the fire into life, fuelling it with fresh peat. It was never allowed to go out, except at Hogmanay when a fresh fire was kindled to welcome in the New Year. It began to hiss and spit loudly, threatening to rouse the rest of the household. It was still early, the greyness of dawn seeping through the gaps in the stone walls and beneath the door. Better not to awaken anyone, she needed to see Rowena first before the tasks of the day drew her away. Cupping her hands into the pail of water by the fire, she splashed her face, a rash of gooseflesh breaking out on her body, then quickly brushed her hair, twisting and tying it up out of her way.
She stole a quick glance at her father. His hairy shoulder protruded from the mound of blankets meant to be covering both him and her mam, and a fleeting frown furrowed her brow. His presence unsettled her. He rarely slept at the shieling in the summer months, preferring to stay at Delnabreck and tend the crops, but now the sowing was complete, he’d returned to the high pastures with Alec and Rory. It wasna right to resent yer own da, yet part of her did. Turning away, she rummaged for her arisaid, then, remembering she’d given it to Rowena, picked up her boots and tiptoed out.
The morning was cold and damp, the heavy rain of the night now thinned to a fine drizzle, and a dawn mist rose pearly grey against the purple of the heather. The sky was still laden, rain clouds banked atop of each other their greyness tinged with streaks of dawn, and the air was heavy with the scent of damp earth. The eaves were dripping, and a cold droplet slithered its way down the back of her neck. Shivering, she pulled on her boots and picked her way through the puddles and mud to the ponies.
She would take one of the other ponies and leave Shore to rest, perhaps Fergan, her father's black gelding. She spoke soothingly to him in Gaelic, trying to calm his nervous snorting, and enticed him over with some sweet cicely roots. A powerful garron, she ran her hands over the smooth plains of muscle beneath his wet flanks and felt the solid bulk of his shoulders, but he was nervous of any but Alec or her father. A sense of sudden urgency quickened her pulse, and she checked her rough breathing before her strange panic overtook the pony.
The garron accepted her, and she quickly bridled him and guided him, bareback, down the slope of Carn Odhar, avoiding the jagged rocks of the hillside and the dark shapes that emerged from the mist with an indignant moo. Less sure-footed than the bay, Fergan was inclined to be rash, but she kept him in check, not sharing his enthusiasm to run free but dreading an injury to her father's favourite pony.
As they came within the bounds of Tomachcraggen land, she saw sizeable stretches of newly cleared ground. Arable land was scarce in Strathavon, though hill pastures abundant, and much of the soil here was almost useless. Littered with great slabs of ancient granite, it was impossible to work it with a plough, and the surrounding forests and moorland soon encroached. Yet peering through the mist, she saw the stumps of many newly felled trees and great cairns of rock awaiting removal while the heathery undergrowth had also been cleared away. Jamie, she thought.
At the crofthouse, there was no sign of either of Rowena's two ponies, but a thick column of smoke rose into the damp air from the single chimney; plainly someone was up and about. Without her thick arisaid, the drizzle had soaked through her clothing, and she felt chilled to the bone. She dried her face as best she could and tied Fergan to the water trough. Standing at the door, she felt an inexplicable nervousness and tried to swallow it away, though a sense of misgiving persisted.
Sarah opened the door, her pale eyes widening at the sight of her neighbour dripping on the doorstep. ‘Morven. There's naught wrong, is there? Ye're half drowned.’ Not waiting for an answer, she held the door open. ‘Come and warm yerself.’
The room was dim, potions and powders cluttering the window ledge and only the weakest glimmer of daylight managed to penetrate the gloom, yet it was clear Sarah was alone.
‘Yer mam's nae here?’ Sarah could be good company, wickedly quick-witted at times though less so since her da died, but Morven needed to speak with Rowena.
‘They left early.’ Sarah removed a bundle of dried herbs from the chair nearest the fire, indicating Morven should sit. ‘Her and Jamie.’ She sat down in the chair opposite. ‘And William’s up at the shieling, so ye’ll have to make do wi’ me.’
She gave Morven a half-hearted smile and turned to warm her hands at the fire. ‘Mam said she'd go as far as the ford at Fodderletich wi
’ Jamie and then come hame.’
Morven looked blankly at her. ‘Fodderletich? Jamie’s going northwest, then? To …?’
‘Aye, did he nae tell ye?’
‘No. Yer mam didna mentioned it either.’
‘I thought one or t’other would've told ye,’ Sarah said, puzzled. ‘Ye being so close to them both. But Jamie's going back to Inverness.’
‘But …?’
‘Back to where he came from.’
‘But he comes from here. Whatever d'ye mean?’
‘I mean he plans to bide in Inverness now. He misses the sea and the hurly-burly o’ the auld town – he misses his old life. He didna tell ye?’
Morven felt herself go cold. Why would he keep that from her? It could hardly have been a sudden decision. And why leave now? ‘When did he … decide this?’
‘I'm nae rightly sure. Yesterday, I think. I thought he'd have said.’ Sarah frowned, evidently trying to find some explanation for this. ‘But he seemed to make his mind up real sudden-like, and then was terrible anxious to be away.’
Stunned, Morven sat back. It hardly seemed possible Jamie would leave like that, wi’out a word. ‘Ye’re certain of this?’ She studied the girl’s face, a look of extreme scepticism searing the air between them. ‘He doesna intend coming back to Stratha’an?’
Sarah’s pale eyes moved to meet Morven’s darker ones. ‘Aye, ’tis what he said. We all tried to make him change his mind, God knows we need him, but he was set firm on going.’
‘But, I thought he meant to stay and help yer mam wi’ the croft?’
‘We thought that too.’
‘He seemed that fired-up about it … learning the whisky-making. I dinna understand.’
‘Nor me.’ Sarah chewed her lip. ‘I ken he thought folk here didna like him; they were surly to him. He thought they didna want him here. That might've made him want to go, I suppose.’
‘Aye,’ Morven conceded. ‘Few here trust him.’
‘But I wonder myself if there was maybe not a lass involved,’ Sarah said half to herself. ‘Someone he left in Inverness. I mean, is that nae why most young lads do anything? I dinna ken,’ she added hastily. ‘But ’twould explain it, no?’
Morven stared at the girl. In her mind, an image of Jamie took shape; his face close to hers as he cradled her, his jaw tight with emotion, dark eyes aglow. She felt again his fingers on the back of her neck as he guided her mouth to his, and she breathed again the scent of him. ‘I care fer ye,’ he’d said. And like a fool, she’d believed him. Now she saw him holding some other lass, some nameless beauty, looking at her just as tenderly, bringing his mouth down on hers. Her eyes stung with sudden tears.
She blinked them away, along with the image, and struggled to gain mastery of herself. He couldn't have said those things, kissed her the way he did, nae if he cared fer another. He thought too much on his honour fer that. Or did he? Could he have done those things? A man he was, like her da, were they nae all much the same?
‘Ye liked him, didn’t ye?’ Sarah said softly.
Morven had no answer, and stared back mutely.
Sarah rose and poured out a draught of ale and silently offered it.
‘How did yer mam take it?’ Morven managed. Rowena had been that proud of her young kinsman, that keen to help him; on top of everything fate had thrown at her, she was bound to feel crushed now.
‘Bad, I think. But ye ken what like she is; she'd not let on, not wish to worry us. It seemed fer a time there all would come right fer us at Tomachcraggen, but now …’ She sighed. ‘Now I dinna ken what's to become o' us.’
Morven swallowed down a mouthful of ale. ‘I'm heart-sorry,’ she offered, knowing how useless were her words. How could he abandon Rowena like that? After giving his word, swearing he'd allow no more of his kin to be forced from the glen, how could he then callously abandon them? And to steal away wi’out even saying his farewells, like some lily-liver skulking off in the night.
Sarah looked at her with a strange light in her eye. ‘Ye ken, it might've been something Mam said that made him go.’
Morven refocused on the girl.
‘I dinna ken.’ Sarah shook her head. ‘Just something I thought on now.’
‘What’s that?’
‘He might’ve been angry wi' her – wi' Mam. They were speaking of something when I came in from the byre the other night. Jamie seemed riled and Mam looked right funny, like she was sickening fer something and she went away to her bed. I thought mebbe that birthing she went to, the gauger’s wife, I thought mebbe it hadna gone well and she was grieving.’
Morven felt a cold finger trace along her spine.
‘’Twas the next morning Jamie told us he was going. William was fair heartbroken; he's been up at the shieling ever since. Mam was real quiet about it, but she said she’d go with him as far as the ford and Jamie agreed. I heard him say though, ’twould make nae difference. He was going anyhow, and she'd brought it on herself.’ She frowned. ‘What he meant I dinna ken, but I thought he wasna best pleased with her.’
The blood left Morven's face, then flooded back as sudden comprehension hit her. Rowena had doubtless told Jamie of Isobel's death. Likely he'd seen her return dishevelled from Balintoul. He maybe even knew more of what happened in that room, and what was said, than she herself did. And fearing McBeath’s reprisals, like some spineless rat, he’d chosen to leave the glen before they could be carried out!
Her breath came in angry spurts now. He'd no wish to be associated with his aunt, not now ’twas likely she’d be seized by the authorities, put under examination, mebbe even condemned as a murderess. She reeled at the thought. He was afraid to stay, likely thought they’d all be put out anyhow. She’d thought Jamie honourable, driven by love and respect for his kin, when all along he’d been plain gutless.
Sarah was still watching her, waiting for her interpretation of Jamie’s strange words. She looked young and vulnerable, and there was now a trace of alarm in her eyes, prompted, Morven imagined, by the expression on her own face. She struggled to restore some calmness to her features while inside she reeled.
‘I’m sure he wasna angry.’ She attempted a reasonable tone. ‘He’d no reason to be. Yer mam showed him nothing but kindness, was a true kinswoman to him. Doubtless, he just … missed town life,’ she suggested lamely.
Sarah nodded, looking thoroughly wretched.
‘Can ye tell yer mam I'll speak wi’ her later?’ She needed time to think. It hardly seemed possible she’d misjudged Jamie so badly, but what else could all this mean? Morven felt a stab of guilt at leaving Sarah alone, so obviously miserable, but her head was spinning. ‘The morn mebbe. Aye, tell her I'll speak wi’ her the morn.’
At the door, Sarah handed Morven a thick woollen bundle carefully folded. ‘Ye'll be needing this,’ she said. ‘’Tis yours, I think?’ It was her arisaid.
The rain was much heavier now, sheeting down in icy blasts, and the wind had picked up. She happed herself in the woollen garment and ran through the puddles of the yard to where Fergan stood, braced against the elements. Looking back through the downpour, Sarah made a forlorn figure in the doorway.
Morven stopped only once on her way home. As she came again on the piles of rock cleared from the ground around Tomachcraggen, she slid from the garron's back and gave savage vent to her anger and disgust sending the rocks rolling in all directions with her boot. Through the rain and mist, she saw another cairn a short distance away and, cursing Jamie Innes to hell and damnation, gave vent to her fury there too.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
The following day, Mass was held in the glen’s makeshift chapel. For the past eighty years, the Catholic faith had been outlawed in Scotland, and even attending a Catholic service carried the penalty of banishment followed by death should the offender return. As Morven filed into the little blackhouse that functioned as a place of worship for the many Catholics of the glen, she glimpsed Rowena sitting at the back. William and Sarah were at her s
ide; Morven scoured the interior for Jamie, but sure enough, there was no sign of him.
‘Something wrong?’
She shook her head at her mam's innocent question, wincing at the pain the movement produced at her temples. A sleepless night had done nothing to alleviate her confusion, and her nerves were raw. She’d spent it re-examining everything minutely, objectively, but come morning knew only one thing – she wasn’t objective. She’d little wish to make sense of it all, for the only sense she could see was shameful. She longed to believe in Jamie, had hoped he’d be in chapel today sitting tall beside Rowena as he’d been at every Mass since he came to the glen. His absence was almost painful, so significant was it.
Twisting in her seat, she watched Rowena from the corner of her eye. Her friend’s face was pale and tense, her lips moving over some private prayer although the Father had yet to begin the liturgy. Outside, the rain still fell, and her kertch was stuck limply to her hair, droplets of water clinging from the corners.
Her gaze flicked to Father Ranald, a spare little man gentle in manner and bald save for the wisps of white hair that ringed the back of his head. He made his way to the altar and then indicated with his hands that they should all be silent for the Penitential Rite. The Latin words were delivered with solemnity and respect, the rising and falling pitch of his voice betraying his Gaelic ancestry while also revealing something of his benevolent nature.
The Blood And The Barley Page 16