The Blood And The Barley

by Angela MacRae Shanks

  ‘And ye suppose me to have some about me?’

  ‘No, no.’ He ceased pacing only long enough to wring his hands. ‘Ye can get some from the kirk. Take it from the font if need be. Tell the minister I sent ye, he'll no question it, only hurry man!’

  ‘I've the mounts to see to.’ Jamie made no attempt to move and still less to conceal his contempt as he watched the exciseman's face twitch with agitation.

  ‘The horses can wait, damn it! Can ye no see my life's in mortal danger?’

  Jamie swept his gaze around the room. ‘There's many a thing I see, but evidence that yer life’s in danger isna one o’ them. Yer decency now, yer moral behaviour, aye, that I see is plainly in question. As is yer sanity.’

  If the frightened maid he’d seen fleeing the house had informed Jamie a freak tempest had just laid waste to McBeath's home, he would likely have believed her. The room was lit up like an altar, candles burning on every surface, cabinets and cupboards raided to find them, and although it was only late afternoon and the day fine and clear, every window was shuttered and draped, the front entrance barricaded with chairs. Bizarrely, the drawing room was ringed with a wavering line of coarse salt and a great heap of it was spread across the threshold.

  Gawping at him, McBeath plucked a flask of whisky from the dresser and took a desperate swig. ‘I need holy water. ’Tis to protect me from that … that …’ He shuddered, and a thin wail rose in his throat.

  ‘From what? Surely ye dinna believe thon frightened lass? ’Twas plain she was trying to evade arrest.’

  ‘But there was substance to what she said. She knows things. Uncanny things. Things it isnae possible fer her to know without being a disciple of …’ McBeath dropped into a chair, shaking his head. ‘I’ll no name Him fer fear of bringing evil upon myself.’ Bunching a fist, he pressed it briefly to his mouth. ‘But if only I’d an inkling, I'd never have touched her.’ He lifted the flask and allowed half its contents to gurgle down his throat.

  ‘What are ye so afraid o’? What dark deeds did she mean, and if only ye'd known what?’

  ‘What she is. What she can do. I always believed the Forbes woman was the sorceress.’ He got to his feet and wiped his mouth with a trembling hand. ‘And so she is. That woman’s cursed me near twenty years.’

  Jamie looked around at the richness of the surroundings and thought of Rowena's meagre cottage. ‘Ye dinna lead the life o’ someone that's been cursed. What kind o’ curse?’

  ‘One that means I’ve no issue to follow me, no lineage to mark my passing through this world. Another two weeks and I'd be free of it. My life's no been my own since the matter with the witch's brother near twenty years ago.’ He lunged at Jamie, gripping him by the forearm. ‘Bring me the minister then. If ye'll no bring me holy water, bring me the minister, he'll protect me.’

  Jamie rocked back on his heels. The witch's brother – ’twas his own father! He shoved McBeath away. ‘I need to know more.’

  ‘And then you'll help me?’

  ‘If I judge ye need it, then aye … I might.’

  The exciseman drained the last of the whisky, choking as the spirit scorched the back of his throat, and pulled another flask from the dresser. ‘’Twas on the Ben I saw it first.’ His speech was beginning to slur, his eyes widening as he recalled the horror of it. ‘A great grey shape –’

  ‘Nae that! Tell me of the curse. And the matter with the woman’s brother.’

  ‘A mere misunderstanding,’ McBeath replied glibly. ‘I was to wed Rowena Innes, but her brother didnae approve. He poisoned her against me, put forward another, a mere cottar, Duncan Forbes, a muck-the-byre, and she took him in my stead.’

  ‘The brother told ye he did this?’

  ‘No, no, but I could tell.’ He licked his lips with a flick of tongue. ‘Folk say reivers took her brother’s cattle, paupered him they say, and so the factor had him evicted from Druimbeag, and never did she see him nor his wife and bairn again.’

  ‘Reivers, eh? And was it reivers?’

  ‘Well, aye, though they did take a deal o’ convincing.’

  ‘Ye mean ye paid them?’

  ‘And a pack o’ thieving cut-throats, they were.’

  Jamie’s face darkened, a pulse beginning to pound in his head.

  ‘Since then my life’s been blighted by the woman.’

  ‘Blighted? How blighted?’

  ‘After she married I also took myself a wife. Only her curses brought the death of the bairns she bore me and now ’tis my wife she’s done to death. I'm left wi’ nothing. Nothing, that is, I hadnae before – an unnatural craving to take my pleasure with the witch-woman. A craving that's been in me twenty years, though I know her to be wicked and unwholesome.’

  ‘If ye're such a bull,’ Jamie said through clenched teeth. ‘There’re women aplenty at the Balintoul Inn. Take yer fill there and forget this witch-woman.’

  A tic appeared at the corner of McBeath's deviant eye, a nerve in his cheek twitched. ‘This burning's no natural. Nothing will douse it. She's put a curse upon me.’ He calmed his errant nerve with a trembling hand. ‘’Tis the kind o’ curse that makes me burn with the wanting of her. Even though I ken she’s unholy, I’ve sinned to have her.’

  Jamie gripped the back of a chair, sensing the kernel of a confession forming. ‘How,’ he asked, ‘have ye sinned?’

  The exciseman’s eyes dulled momentarily before taking on the look of a hunted animal. ‘’Tis as the witchling said. Dark deeds.’ He staggered across the room and pitched into a chair.

  Jamie could hear the catch in his own voice as he asked, ‘Had ye a hand in making her a widow?’

  The question hung in the air, then the exciseman leant forward, jaws rigid. ‘Every soul close enough to her to afford protection, I have removed.’ He bared his teeth. ‘To set her apart, make her vulnerable to me.’

  Jamie gasped. ‘And her husband, how did he die?’

  ‘’Twas on the road. Guiding a trail o’ garrons loaded wi’ illicit whisky. Duncan was a smuggler – every man did know it.’

  ‘But how did ye ken where he’d be to catch him?’

  The gauger grinned so wickedly, Jamie recoiled. ‘’Tis almost the best part. Ye see he was betrayed – by one o’ his own.’

  ‘By another smuggler? And ye did kill him in cold blood?’

  Sobering, the gauger blinked and sat back, conscious, perhaps, of how much he’d already revealed. Remembering the predicament he found himself in, his face puckered. ‘But there’s naught douses this burning, fer what can douse the fires o’ hell?’

  Jamie stared hard at him.

  Slumping forward, McBeath clutched his head in his hands. ‘Fer pity’s sake man, will ye no bring me the minister before whatever wickedness that lass was summoning finds me and brings me torment?’

  ‘’Tis yer own guilt and lust does that.’

  ‘Fer pity’s sake, man!’

  ‘Do ye mean to confess yer sins to him?’

  McBeath threw Jamie a look, one that conveyed his assistant had clearly lost his mind.

  Softening his voice, Jamie relaxed his stance a little to become more coaxing. ‘What, then, is to happen in two weeks to free ye o' this curse?’

  The exciseman drew a deeper more satisfied breath, his nostrils flaring. ‘I'll wed her. Bind her to me by the vows she holds dear. To honour and obey. I'll break her that way, or I'll see her removed from Strathavon for good.’

  ‘All this to bed the woman?’

  ‘Aye! Now go to the kirk and bring back the minister!’

  Jamie moved to the door, then looked back at his employer, his dark eyes full of scorn. ‘I'm a Catholic,’ he reminded him stiffly. ’Twould be a wicked sin fer me to go there.’ At that, he turned on his heel and stalked from the room, leaving the exciseman to gape after him.

  ***

  Among the many advantages his profession bestowed, Samuel Dearg found the wearing of a powered wig most agreeable. As a law agent, the wearing of a
wig was expected and not only elicited a degree of respect from the somewhat uncouth inhabitants of provincial Elgin but also kept his balding head warm. The stout little scribe had his reputation to consider, and God only knew there were penniless unfortunates aplenty in town bent on abusing his good nature. Frowning, he looked across at the young Highlander sat opposite him, instinctively judging the man to be different in some way. This man’s respectful good manners owed nothing to the wig, he thought, but came rather from an inner grace.

  It was a peculiarity of his, but Dearg liked to think he could glean more about his clients from their manner and bearing than from what they actually said. James Innes possessed the lilting rhythm of speech of the Gael, something his peers in Edinburgh would recoil from, but Dearg found nothing in the least bit underhand about the striking young man. Indeed, he read nothing at all in Jamie's taut face that alarmed him, but rather felt drawn to offer his help.

  The trouble was, even if the young man's story was true, and, he reflected, it likely was, there was little could be done. He removed the wig and placed it on a pate-shaped mould on his desk. As was often the case, he was conscious of the other man's luxuriant dark locks and of his own rather obvious shortcomings in that direction but recognised such matters would likely be irrelevant to a man such as this. Frowning, he glanced over the notes he’d taken during his discourse with the man.

  The Highlander leant forward in his seat. ‘So, will the law help me?’

  Dearg adjusted his spectacles. ‘I would very much like the answer to your question to be yes, Mr Innes. But in truth, I fear there’s little I can suggest.’

  ‘He all but confessed to me.’

  ‘A part confession only, given under unparalleled circumstances. It would seem unlikely Mr McBeath would repeat such a folly.’

  Frowning, Jamie dropped his gaze to the polished wooden floor. ‘Without the proof o' my aunt's ring, aye, but I thought, what wi' McBeath having the ring in his possession –’

  Dearg nodded; seldom had he taken less pleasure in shattering a client's assumptions. ‘I can foresee two difficulties. Firstly, Mr McBeath would need to be apprehended with the ring in his possession –’

  ‘Aye, he does wear it around his neck.’

  ‘Yes, yes.’ Dearg raised his hand and nodded with a little frown. ‘And it would require to be identified by your aunt, of course. But I see nothing to stop Mr McBeath from merely stating he’d bought the ring or been given it by some intermediary. At the very least, it would be his word against that of your aunt.’ He paused to awkwardly shuffle through his notes. ‘I fear that as the widow of a known smuggler, your aunt's evidence would be deemed flawed and therefore inadmissible.’

  Jamie blinked at the scribe. Without doubt, Rowena was one of the most honest and honourable individuals he’d ever met. The thought of her character being compared to the exciseman’s and found wanting was beyond comprehension. He opened his mouth to protest, then snapped it shut. Plainly Dearg had more to say.

  ‘I fear the second difficulty, however, is perhaps the more insurmountable of the two. You see, if you were to bring your allegations to the sheriff here in Elgin, he would likely refer you to your local Justice of the Peace, a Mr William McGillivray of Inchfindy Hall.’

  Jamie groaned. ‘But the man’s corrupt. McGillivray’s the duke’s factor and holds no love for me or my aunt. Is there no other course open to me, Mr Dearg?’ He studied the law agent’s face, feeling a sick sensation churn his innards. ‘The factor’s in cahoots wi’ McBeath. Between them, they've a stranglehold on every crofter and smuggler in the glen.’

  If there was a way of gaining justice for Rowena, the law agent would surely know of it. Jamie searched Dearg's face for signs that the fastidious little man was at least taking him seriously. In the pale eyes behind the spectacles he observed a sharpness of wit that he warmed to, but with a sinking sensation, he also detected an air of genuine regret about the man's softly rounded face. He swallowed. ‘Only a matter of days after coming to live with my aunt, McGillivray condemned us both as mischief-makers.’

  ‘I see.’ Dearg dipped his quill into the well on his desk and made a further addition to his notes. ‘Most unfortunate.’

  While Jamie waited on the edge of his seat, Dearg opened a drawer of his desk and removed a carved wooden pipe and a small knife. Frowning, he began to pare small blackened flakes from the bowl of the pipe.

  ‘You see,’ he said, his frown deepening. ‘If you could convince an officer of the Black Watch of your suspicions, you could perhaps have your man arrested. But I just cannot envisage any Black Watch officer being convinced of Mr McBeath's guilt. As you’ll be aware, the dragoons work closely with the officers of excise assisting them in raids. He’ll be well known to them all, and, as such, will certainly be viewed as above reproach.’

  He blew gently into the bowl of the pipe and a flurry of black shavings pattered onto his desk. Scooping them up, he dropped them into a small receptacle. ‘On the other hand, having given a false name to the Board of Excise, I’m afraid you will most assuredly be discredited.’

  ‘I dinna care about that. I no longer intend to work fer the gaugers. I've learned all I can from that guise.’

  ‘You misunderstand.’ Dearg looked up through his spectacles. ‘When I say discredited, I mean you will not be believed.’ He frowned at the pipe and laid it back on the desk, unlit. ‘If you can lie about your name, it will be assumed that you can lie about other things too, including perhaps a rather obvious attempt at ridding your glen – a known haunt of smugglers – of its resident excise officer.’

  Jamie stared at him. For the first time during their meeting, the scribe felt the full force of the Highlander's presence, intense and somewhat unsettling, focus upon him. A muscle rippled along the younger man's jaw, and he swallowed hard. Dearg sensed the man was attempting to maintain mastery of his anger and bitterness and had no wish to vent it where it was not deserved.

  ‘I do not wish to appear callous, Mr Innes,’ he said hastily. ‘But to point out how this may be construed. It’s my belief you should think carefully before you proceed. I advise you to leave this well alone. It would be unwise to provoke the authorities, for I fear they could merely turn this around and construct a compelling case against you, yourself.’

  The young Highlander appeared not to hear his words. He swayed in his seat and stared at the swirling dust motes riding the warm air of the office. ‘A case fer what crime?’

  ‘For supporting and abetting smugglers – a crime viewed in a very grave light. If, let us say, you were to find yourself in front of William McGillivray, whom you've intimated dislikes you, then a lengthy gaol sentence would seem likely.’

  ‘And ye think I care about myself?’

  ‘No, I don’t believe you do. You strike me as a man of courage and decency. But what use are courage and decency to your loved ones when those admirable qualities of yours languish in gaol along with your good self?’

  Jamie glanced sharply at the scribe but could see no trace of mockery in the man's face; he read only pity and understanding in the watery eyes, and somehow that chilled him more than anything.

  ‘Then I've failed.’ He dragged his gaze from the scribe and looked over the little man’s shoulder and out of the dormer window behind him. From the window, he could see the corbelled stairtower and spire of Elgin's tollbooth, dark against the morning sky. Its parapet and crowstepped roofline housed a clamour of squabbling rooks and its walls, blackened by wood-smoke, held the dregs of Moray's humanity – thieves and killers, the evil and the immoral, the corrupt and the witless, and, he didn't doubt, the innocent.

  ‘That remains to be seen. But you’ve nothing material for the law to use against this man you describe so graphically, so … chillingly. He is too powerful and too protected, and you,’ Dearg smiled a little regretfully, ‘have made too many enemies. You didn’t honestly believe the Collector here in Elgin would be gratified to learn you’d deceived him?’
>
  ‘I didna think –’

  ‘Believe me, Mr Innes, it would be wise to drop this now before he learns the truth.’ Dearg fingered the well-loved contours of his pipe, a gift from his late mother, and hoped he’d not crushed the spirit and resolve of the young man but had instead saved him from senselessly sacrificing himself. Nevertheless, he imagined the sheer latent energy of the man would be none too easy to quell.

  ‘I understand the dilemma your aunt finds herself in,’ he went on. ‘But you’ll not help her by going to gaol yourself.’ He rose to his feet and extended a hand to Jamie. ‘Good luck, Mr Innes. And my regrets I could be of such little service.’

  Once the young Highlander had respectfully shaken the proffered hand and taken his leave, Dearg reached into his desk drawer once more and drew out a bottle of French brandy and a single glass. He poured himself a sizeable measure and swallowed it down neat, then rose to the window and watched Jamie, a tall upright figure, cross the High Street and stare up at the tollbooth for a moment before collecting his mount from McBride's stables. There was a black bundle tied at the rear of his saddle, clothing of some sort. He watched the Highlander toss it on a pile of refuse and dung and then ride away.

  It was at times like this, he sincerely regretted not following his brother into mundane employment in the woollen mills of the borders. There his impotence would rankle less. He donned his wig again, lest anyone think him grown soft, and with a resigned sigh returned to the pile of paperwork on his desk.

  ***

  Twice Jamie passed the ring cairn and reached the massive shattered walls of Drumin Castle on its strategic bluff at the north entrance to Strathavon, and twice he turned back for Elgin. Twice the crumbling ivy-strangled fastness scowled down accusingly at him, and he stumbled down the slope to look upon the Avon, strengthened here by its confluence with the Livet, and watched it surge scornfully by. At nightfall, he camped on the haughland of the river near Ballindalloch and gave his footsore pony some rest. But he received little rest himself. His head ached, his thoughts dirled in a head grown weary of thinking and, restless, he could not decide what course to take. He shivered under his plaid and went through the choices again and again.