‘Och, Hamish, look how it eats as dainty as a fairy wi’ two sticks!’ cried the old woman. And she laughed, suddenly hearty and fearless. ‘Just as I told ye, ’tis no witch at all, ’tis naught but a wee lassie! What were ye frichtening me for?’
Bruce McLennan and Peony stayed at the cottage while his leg healed. He champed and seethed with impatience. But secretly Peony was in no hurry to leave.
The old woman had taken a fancy to her.
‘Poor wee’un, she’s been clemmed, and not just for food,’ she said shrewdly to her son. ‘She’s been taken frae her mither too young. She’s fair starved for a bit o’ love.’
The young man grunted. He was more interested in the man. He had a look about him of someone of importance. Surely there’d be a reward for helping him.
One night when his mother and the strangers were asleep, the young man got up quietly and went to investigate the man’s packs, which were stacked in a corner. He opened them cautiously by the light of a candle, watching all the time the big man’s sleeping shape. Inside one he found a strange object wrapped in clean linen. It must be something precious! He carefully took it out, laid it on the floor, and unrolled it a little. As the shining red stuff suddenly spilled out like blood from a wound, he snatched his hands away as if they might defile it, sat back on his heels and stared at it. It was something rare, something almost magical.
At first he was scared to touch it, but after a few moments of just looking at the way its folds caught the candlelight with subtle gleams and glints, he first stroked it very lightly and then, growing bold, lifted it on the palm of one hand and rubbed it between his blunt fingers.
It was the most beautiful cloth he had ever seen. If his mother could see it, all her superstitions would revive – she would say it was fairy-stuff, woven by the tiny fingers of the Little People. At the same time, as a woman, however old, she would not rest until she had it for herself.
‘As a man might kill for a sheet of gold,’ Hamish thought, ‘a woman might for this. She’d gi’ her heart for it, too.’ His brain, dulled by drudgery and poverty, was suddenly afire with images of taking his sweetheart this fancy bundle as a betokening gift. But how could it happen? Glancing at the stranger, whose temper he had already seen many signs of, he could see no way, and with a heavy, silent sigh, he wrapped up the silk and stowed it as it had been before.
‘Aye, but I was richt,’ he said. ‘He’s a rich man for sure. None else could afford such fine stuff.’ And he crept back to bed with his mind full of hopes.
Peony tried not to be a trouble. She helped where she could around the cottage, and slept curled up by the fire. She tended her master, and made him his tea. He would let no one else dress his wound. The old woman’s heart was touched by her devotion. She thought secretly that Peony might be the stranger’s daughter by some foreign woman.
One night after their supper of rabbit stew, watching Peony washing the pots, she suddenly gave way to her motherly feelings. She scooped the child on to her lap and began to croon to her.
Peony hardly knew what was happening. When her own mother had taken her on her knee it was only to rewind the bandages on her feet, tighter than before… At first she instinctively stiffened and even struggled a little. But the old woman’s body was warm and soft, her arms were tender. Peony felt as if a great need in her had been satisfied. She nestled against the old woman, and fell asleep like that. The old woman sat with her, rocking, singing softly, dreaming of her own children, when she was young.
Later she carried Peony to her own bed and they slept cosily together under some rough woollen blankets. In her sleep Peony dreamed she had reached Nirvana, the Buddhist heaven, a place of celestial comfort and peace, where there were no more needs or wants.
Chapter Seven
The delay in getting home put Bruce McLennan into a bad temper.
As soon as his leg would take any weight, he told Hamish to cut him a walking stick and began to shuffle around the room. He ordered the old woman about, and roared at her. She was not frightened of him, but she was angry. How dared he, after all they had done?
‘Why d’ye let him speak to me like that!’ she scolded her son. ‘Why d’ye no’ tell him to show some respect?’
‘Be quiet, Mither. Harsh words break nae bones. I know what I’m about.’
That night when McLennan had fallen asleep, the old woman tried to talk to Peony.
‘Your master is a cruel, hard man,’ she said.
‘Hard man,’ repeated Peony sadly, nodding.
‘So why d’ye stay wi’ him?’
Peony couldn’t answer at first. It was such a difficult question. But at last she said, ‘I belong him.’ Then she nodded. Yes, that explained it.
‘Is he your father?’
Peony stared at her, remembering her dream. ‘He buy me,’ she said.
The old woman reared back her head, shocked. ‘Och, that’s terrible! How can a Christian buy a wee’un? I tell ye what. I’ll hide ye. I can say ye’ve run off. Then when he goes, ye can stay here wi’ us,’ coaxed the old woman. ‘We’ll take care of ye, won’t we, Hamish?’
Hamish said, ‘Don’t be foolish, Mither. It’s my thinking he’s some laird. He can help us or harm us. We must do his bidding and not anger him or steal what’s his.’
The old woman hugged Peony to her side. There were tears in her eyes. But she said no more. She knew her place – her son was master.
McLennan watched the softness between Peony and the old woman with growing unease. It made him angry to see Peony treated as a child of the house. He was afraid she’d want to stay with these people, that their kind treatment might make her rebellious, or at least discontented, and that thought enraged him. But there was nothing he could do without making it appear, even in his own eyes, that the child mattered to him.
One day he went outdoors for half an hour, to try how his leg would manage on rough ground. When he came back in, he noticed a strange smell. He looked around, and there were Peony’s clothes, smouldering to acrid ashes on the fire, and there was Peony, shyly standing before him in a plain but neat full-length dress made of dark brown homespun wool, and a small sheepskin jerkin. McLennan got a sharp shock at the sight of her, for the clothes made her no longer look like a Mi-ki slave, but – almost like a Scottish girl. Almost like—
‘What’ve ye done to her, woman?’ he barked.
‘I’ve dressed her in new, clean clo’s, and about time, too!’ the old woman retorted tartly. ‘’Tis time she was dressed like a proper lass.’ Seeing his face darken, she began to coax him. ‘Look how bonny she is, wi’ her lovely black hair all smoothed and her pretty face full o’ smiles!’ And, indeed, McLennan saw through narrowed eyes that Peony could hardly hide her joy in wearing a new dress – a dress! She had never worn a skirt in her life, but girl-like she knew how to move in it, and she shyly picked up the fullness on each side and did a little turn to make the cloth swish.
‘How d’ye expect her to do her work – or ride – got up like that?’
‘I made her a skirt she can ride in. See? It’s full, I didna skimp.’
‘If you can sew a skirt, ye can sew trews. Make her some trews!’
The old biddy dropped her eyes and muttered, ‘It’s no’ decent to dress her as a boy.’
‘Do ye presume to teach me decency, now? Show some respect for your betters!’
The old woman faced him. ‘Mr McLennan, excuse my boldness, but to my thinking, ye’ve been abroad for too long. Perhaps ye’ve forgotten how to live a civilised life. I’m not saying ye’ve no religion, God forbid, but it’s no’ right to buy and sell folk, or to treat a wee’un as if she weren’t but half-human. Look at her. Only look! She’s a child, sir, as it might be one of your own—’
But that was too much for McLennan. ‘Be silent, woman!’ he shouted at the top of his voice, as if to blast her words away. She shrank back, alarmed. He reached out and grabbed Peony and almost threw her against the cottage wall in his co
rner of the room. ‘She’s mine and I’ll use her as I see fit, with no interference from you or anyone, do ye understand me?’
Momentarily defeated, the old woman fled the cottage and did not return until she thought the man’s temper had had time to cool. ‘He’s a brute and half-mad,’ she thought. ‘He’s no’ fit to have a child go near him!’ More than ever she longed to rescue Peony, but how? ‘I canna,’ she thought hopelessly. ‘I canna. God help her.’
There was now more tension than ever in the cottage. One day, McLennan caught Peony shyly offering the old woman some tea in one of his own cups. He rose up, and shook his stick.
‘You dare to steal my tea!’ he roared. ‘You touch a drop and I’ll knock your thieving grey head off your shoulders!’
This was past bearing! ‘Keep your brown watter!’ she cried, and emptied the cup on the earth floor. She would rather have thrown it in his face. ‘’Tis no drink for a Christian! If ma Hamish heard your abuse, he might do some knocking himsel’!’
McLennan, taken aback at her sudden fierceness, backed off, grumbling. But that night the old woman saw him strike Peony across the face and threaten her with worse if she showed any more signs of ‘forgetting her place’. She saw then that her growing fondness must be curbed, for the child’s sake.
Hamish was away on a mission for McLennan – to buy him a horse. After a week, he came back. He had been to considerable trouble and expense. He was more sure than ever that his visitor was important, and he was anxious to please him. But he was apprehensive as he rode home, leading the new horse over the moor. The only horse he’d been able to find for him was old and sway-backed.
McLennan hurried out of the cottage when he heard the horses coming. He took one look, and flew into a rage.
‘Are ye trying to insult me? Do ye expect me to ride to my castle on an old nag like this? Do ye no’ ken who I am?’
‘I do not,’ said Hamish. ‘Who are ye?’
‘I am Bruce McLennan, Laird of Kinbracken! If ye dunna give me the respect that’s due to me, I will make ye pay for it, never fear, when I come to my ain place!’
Hamish would have liked to throw him out of his house. But he thought of the red silk, and instead he said, ‘I’m sorry, sir. I didna know. And I’m sorry the horse isna to your liking. He was the best I could find. And,’ he added, ‘as for paying, I paid for him masel’. Will you kindly pay me back?’ And he named a sum of money.
McLennan was so angry he lashed out at the young man with the stick. But this unbalanced him. He fell over on the floor and lay there cursing loudly.
The other three looked down at him. It was Peony who went to his side. He used her to lever himself up from the floor, clutching her so tightly she was bruised. She helped him to the bed and he lay down on it, calling for whiskey. The young man, sullen and uncertain, gave him some from his precious store, while his mother scowled furiously. Later that night, when his mother had gone to bed, the young man crept over to McLennan.
‘If the horse isna good enough for ye, ye could buy mine. No’ for money. I thought—’
‘Well? What did that giant brain of yours think?’ sneered his guest.
‘If it happened ye had… anything valuable about ye… from abroad, maybe, y’know, something of the worth of a good horse, which he is, we could maybe—’
‘Go on,’ said McLennan very quietly. It was a dangerous quiet, but Hamish didn’t know that.
‘Strike a bargain.’
There was a long silence and Hamish felt sweat break out on his upper lip.
‘Ye’ve been in my pack, ye sneaky young whelp,’ said McLennan in the same controlled undertone that betokened fury held in check. ‘If ye’ve so much as laid one of your mucky peasant’s fingers on ma silk, I’ll thrash ye to within an inch of your worthless life!’ His voice rose abruptly to a bellow.
Hamish would not give way. He knew McLennan was no match for him. ‘I did look, I own it, but I never besmirched it! My offer holds. Gi’ me the see-ulk as ye call it and take ma good horse and let’s part friends.’
McLennan put a rein on his temper. This sheep-herder was not worth it. Give him his silk? Have him sleep in silken sheets? The idea made him laugh aloud. ‘Keep your nag,’ was all he said. And rolled over and went to sleep.
A few days later, McLennan decided his leg was better. He ordered Peony to pack his belongings and load the old horse, and made Hamish help him on to its back.
Peony was lifted on behind him. She didn’t look back at the old woman, who was standing in the low doorway. She didn’t want to see her crying. Peony tried never to cry herself, but now the tears pushed at her throat and her eyes stung with the need to shed them.
Hamish, feeling angry and cheated, stood in front of the horse and held the bridle, as if he would stop McLennan from leaving.
‘Have ye naught to say to me?’ he muttered.
‘Aye, I have,’ replied McLennan loudly. ‘And it’s this! Let go the beast’s head or I’ll beat ye to the ground!’ He raised his whip.
Hamish looked into his red, angry face and saw that he meant what he said. He shrank back. McLennan brought out a single sovereign and flung it on the turf at Hamish’s feet. ‘Stoop for it!’ he said contemptuously. The whip came down on the horse’s rump. It jumped sideways. Peony clung on, all her fear coming back to her.
She buried her face against her master’s plaid. She never even waved back to the old woman; she dared not release her grip. The horse galloped clumsily away. Bruce McLennan shouted at it, and belaboured it. He cursed Hamish as he rode, for not buying him a better horse.
Behind them in the cottage doorway, the old woman wept and railed at her son. ‘Did ye see how scared she was? Puir mite, puir lass! I would ha’ cared for her, I would ha’ loved her like ma ain! Och, Hamish, your greed closed up your pity so ye wouldna let me keep the lassie, and now here y’are, left with naught at the end but a sliver o’ metal and his insults to chew on. It serves ye right! I’m sore afeared the brute’ll be the death of her, puir wee thing!’
After only two hours’ journey, the wild rider began to see landmarks that he knew. His excitement grew almost unbearable. He was nearly home! An hour more and he would see if the chest of the King’s gold he had given to Master Douglas had been well spent.
He lashed the horse without pity. He never gave a conscious thought to Peony. But he knew she was still there, behind him. He could feel her warm against his back, her arms tightly around him. She was clinging like a monkey, as he’d ordered. This felt right to him.
At last the sweating horse came on to a hill. Bruce McLennan drew rein. He stood there with his brand-new plaid blowing back, and caught his breath.
He could see it! There it was! Across the valley on the next crag, his castle – his castle – stood up against the sunset. It was just as he’d imagined! A great black shape, with towers and battlements, and below it, a large cluster of thatched houses, enclosed by a palisade, where none had been before. All due to him, there was a giant landmark, and a living settlement full of people who owed him absolute loyalty. That castle would stand forever, a monument to his power and wealth. A sight to fill an enemy or a stranger with fear, with awe, with envy. No one would dare to come against him now!
‘My castle!’ he breathed. ‘Now I’m a true laird and none can say otherwise!’
Peony opened her eyes and peeped around his body. She saw the black shape on the opposite hill. It looked like a monstrous toad, squatting there, a toad with four horns. To him it was a dream made real. To her it was a nightmare place. It filled her with a sudden, quailing sense of foreboding.
Bruce McLennan gave a sudden loud laugh of triumph, and struck the horse. It went down the hill fast, blowing and kicking up clods, its big front hooves sliding as it tried to control its descent. Once on the flat, it crossed the valley at a gallop. He rode through the new village thunderously, bringing the people to their doors. He could hear them calling to each other, ‘The Master! The Master’s bac
k!’ He knew that on the battlements of his castle, the watch would see him coming.
He slowed to a trot along the dirt track between timber-framed houses, shops, orchards and little plots that had not been there when he left, filling up with pride. People were running to line the way, the men touching their foreheads, the women curtseying to him, the children wide-eyed. He passed finally his own old house, now the village hall. Next to it, a little church had been erected with a steeple and a bell. He thought of the devout days of his childhood and for a moment regretted that there would be no fine, high-ceilinged chapel with stained-glass windows to give his castle dignity and call God to his side. But for what? He refused to house or praise a God who, in his hour of greatest need, had abandoned him.
He reached the moat. The drawbridge at the end of the high ramp was being hurriedly lowered with a loud rattle of chains. He could imagine the scurrying and scampering, as of so many disturbed mice, inside the castle as dozens of stewards and maids, menservants and grooms, guards and cooks roused themselves to prepare for his homecoming.
As his horse’s hooves stamped up the ramp and clattered hollowly across the drawbridge, the great portcullis on the other side of the moat was raised. Yes! Yes! It was all exactly as he had planned!
As they passed along the narrow passage between the U-shaped gatehouse towers, Peony gazed up at the shadowy timbered roof. She told herself not to be afraid. It was only like going into another life, just as Li-wu had said.
Chapter Eight
Bruce McLennan rode his horse into the inner ward.
The castle was all around it. Its stone walls rose up blackly. The four towers stood against the darkening sky.
When he looked about him, he felt as near to happiness as he was capable of. Everything was the way he had wanted it. It looked just like the plan he had scratched on the slates for the master builder, three – or was it nearer four? – years ago.
The Dungeon Page 6