“Or until they are all dead!” retorted Red.
Jock passed a hand across his forehead. He seemed to stumble a little. Red took his arm. “Ye should sit,” he said, casting a glance at Thomas, who turned away. Jock shook his son off.
“Dinna fuss o’er me!” he said. But he went slowly into the dwelling nevertheless, followed by the rest of us. And he did sit down. His face was the ashen hue of a weak sky. His body seemed a little slumped, his back no longer straight and strong.
He reminded me of my father’s hounds: when the pack leader weakened and aged, it would try to keep the appearance of strength. It would snarl more, pace about in front of his followers, its hackles rising more often. A pack leader must seem strong, or the successors will move in.
Now the conversation seemed to be over. Jeannie called me and Bess to see the dwelling she had made ready for us to share with the old woman. Iona was there, her cheeks pink with effort. They had washed the blankets, for which I was much relieved, and now they flapped wildly on a rope strung outside. A fire crackled in the hearth and a large pan hung from the crook handle, steam rolling from it. The table was scrubbed clean, and on a platter was bread. Stools were ranged around.
On the fire sizzled several fish, hissing and spitting, sending a delicious smell around the room. “Mouldy caught them for ye,” explained Jeannie. “He likes nothing better than to spend his days watching fish bite.”
Something else lay on the table: our pistols. The bags of shot and powder were beside them. Our swords I saw leaning against the wall.
It seemed that we were expected to stay. I looked to Bess, and saw the pleasure on her face.
Iona was speaking. Her cheeks were pinked and her eyes shone as she took the pan off the heat and poured the steaming water into a large bowl. “I thought ye might like to wash. In warm water,” she added proudly.
She was right. But I wished to do so without her there, watching me. Now Jeannie added her voice, looking at me first. “We have found some clothes – Calum’s will fit ye.” Now she turned to Bess. “Ye are taller than Iona so I have set Old Maggie to make a skirt from one o’ mine, but she’s no’ quite finished. For a bodice, I think Iona’s will fit.”
“Thank you. You are very kind.” And Bess took the garments which Iona now held out to her.
They all looked at me. Of course, I was to leave. At one end of the room, a strip of coarse material hung from a beam, all the way to the ground. I could have gone behind this, but I did not wish to listen to their women’s chatter.
Somewhat irritated, I left. I wanted to talk to Bess, to see what she thought. Surely she did not wish to stay? I knew her to be unpredictable, sometimes impulsive, and that she was different from me, but what was there to keep her here?
As I walked from the door and across the yard to the stable, I could hear their feminine laughter.
Where did I belong? Not here, I was sure, not among these people. And yet, not among my own either. Frustration grew in me, a feeling of being caught in a small and airless place.
Chapter Twenty-Three
It seemed I would not have a chance to speak properly to Bess that evening either. We all ate together: steaming crab, the sweet, chewy flesh ripped from inside the claws with our teeth; some salty cabbage, which I thought not so pleasant; along with a dark bread, which was nourishing and malty, and oozed with soft butter.
After we had eaten, Bess began to talk once more to Old Maggie, who gave answers which sometimes seemed to make sense and at other times not. Every now and then, Bess touched her arm, and once she smoothed the hair on the old woman’s forehead.
I moved away.
Thomas called me to sit with the men, and this I did. But I had to fend off their questions. They wanted to know more than I had told them the night before. I had told them that Bess and I lived as robbers of the highway, but not how we had met. Nor did I tell them this now – I did not wish them to know that Bess had almost killed me and that all I had learned about survival had come from her. Nor did I wish to tell them about my wealthy family, though from their questions I think it must have been obvious. I suppose my accent gave me away. I told them that I would not go home, could not, and that my home was far away. It was all they needed to know.
They did ask me a little about my church. I knew not what the right answers were and so I said simply that I knew my Bible and always put my trust in God. They appeared very satisfied with this. I had already seen Iona copying lines from the huge black Bible – kept on the chest which covered the underground passageway – and I had seen Jock sometimes touch it as he passed, as if for reassurance.
And so they seemed to overlook my educated voice, and my Englishness. I suppose that that did not offend them over much, since they were of Hanoverian persuasion, and hated the Jacobite Highlanders more than they did the English. I think they neither liked nor hated me for my roots. I was not, at least, what they hated most: soldier, Catholic, or reiver.
Besides, I believe they so strongly wished that Bess and I should lend our strength and numbers to them that they minded little where I was from. They knew we were on the wrong side of the law, and the right side of God, and that was enough for them. They knew now that we had rescued Tam, and that I had saved his arm. That, too, made us their friends.
Jock appeared to have recovered from whatever had made him ill earlier, though he ate little and breathed somewhat heavily.
They drank no whisky at that time. Just some ale which, from its watery taste, I think had little potency. Red stood leaning against the wall, carrying in one hand a stout wooden club with pieces of metal sticking out from one end. He repeatedly hit the palm of his other hand with its stem. I think he looked forward to any fighting that might occur. Mouldy and Billy took turns to stay outside and watch the track for anyone coming.
Then Thomas took something from where it hung high on a wall. I had not noticed it before. It was a violin. As he took it in his left hand, his rough fingers curling easily round the strings, I thought of Bess and how she had used to play the cittern. Until it had been burnt along with everything in her cottage.
When he began quietly to pluck the strings and to turn the tuning pegs, I saw Bess twist quickly to see. Her eyes lit up, and the more so as Thomas took the bow and began to play a tune, one which was mournful and yet, at the same time, quick and full of life.
“May I try?” she asked, when he had finished. Jeannie and the men looked at her. Only Iona and the old woman did not. Iona was stitching something and she did not stop now. Old Maggie did not notice, I think. She was away in her own mind.
“My father taught me to play the fiddle,” Bess said, taking the instrument and letting it settle comfortably under her chin. “I have not played for many a year. I know not if…” She fingered the strings a little, getting the measure of them. She took the bow in her other hand, her fingers curling round, finding their place, and then she hesitantly drew it across the strings, moving the fingers of her other hand as she did so. And a passable tune came from the fiddle, a tune which grew in confidence as she found its voice.
After a few lines of the tune, while everyone in the room looked at her, she lowered the fiddle, and passed it back to Thomas, who smiled and then, imperfectly at first and then with more confidence, began to play her tune as though he already knew it, which I think he did not. Now, a little shyly in this company, Bess began to sing some words. Very soon, I saw that these were her own words, new words. She must have worked them in her head since hearing Old Maggie’s story, because that was the story her song told.
When she was not robbing rich travellers on the highroads, Bess was a ballad seller. She created songs, telling the tales of events and lives. She had written a ballad about Henry Parish’s death and we had made copies of it and passed them to everyone we met in Henry’s town. We had taken no money for this ballad, wanting only that the world should know of the horror and injustice of his passing.
My Grammar school education and m
y tutors had taught me that the ballad seller’s craft is inferior to the great poems of the classics. But as soon as I had heard one of Bess’s ballads for the first time, I had felt the great power of its music and poetry. She could turn a man’s life or death into words that touched the heart and mind and a listener would not be the same after hearing them. And this she did now, while I watched her, and watched the faces of those around us as she told of the death of Old Maggie’s mother.
I remember only snatches of her verses. She sang of the white dress, the child’s tears, the cold spume of the sea relentlessly rising. But I remember well the refrain, a refrain that settled in my head and came to me again over the coming days.
The cruel men laughed as the cold tide rose,
While fire burned bright in the martyrs’ eyes,
Nor tender years nor yet old age
Could halt the heartless soldiers’ rage.
Now when the curlew cries, my friend,
We summon that fury once again,
And ne’er before the end of years
Shall we forget a martyr’s tears.
Old Maggie sat with her arms folded round her, hugging herself, shaking her head softly as a tear fell along the cracks in her face. And when Bess had finished, and everyone clapped and slapped their thighs in admiration, Old Maggie beckoned her over and took her hands in hers.
In a quavery voice, but clear, she said, “I am glad ye have come, child. Ye bring new blood tae us. We need new blood. Tae start again. Ye will produce guid sons, strong sons. No lassies. The lassies are curst.”
Iona turned her shoulders away but I saw her lips tighten and twist. I could not blame her.
Bess laughed. She tossed her black hair back. It was clean now, and shining from much time spent combing it earlier that day. It fell in spirals about her neck. The locket glinted in the hollow below her throat. Her bodice – Iona’s – was a little tight, nipping her waist; the skirt was the new one that Old Maggie had stitched that very afternoon, coarse and heavy, of cheap material. I could see Calum watching her, without speaking, just watching her. His face was slightly pink, but this was perhaps the firelight and the warmth.
“I have no plans for babies, Maggie!” said Bess, squeezing the old woman’s hands. “Will and I are not…”
“No,” said Old Maggie. “No, foolish lass. I talk o’ Calum. Calum should be married soon and ye are a pretty thing. And Calum’s fair o’ face hisself, is he no’?”
A snort of derision came from Red, still leaning against the wall. He muttered something, but I know not what. Thomas rose to his feet, pushing his stool back with a clatter. “Well, ye’ll no’ have her and that’s for sure!” and he stood before Red, pushing his chest out. They were of the same height, and as broad. Their faces were inches from each other, their eyes blazing, their lips apart.
“And who’s to stop me?”
“I am.” It was Bess – standing tall herself, fury on her face. She dared put her hands out and pull the two men apart, before Jock, too, intervened and settled his sons down. “I am not yours for the choosing,” she said, coolly.
Red smiled, his large frame relaxing against the wall again. “Dinna be afeard, lass! I’d no’ dare! Ye’re o’er strong for me!” At which she, too, smiled.
At first, I was pleased that she said she was not theirs for the choosing. I thought she was choosing neither Red nor Calum. But then I understood: she was looking only at Red. She did not address her remarks to Calum. I looked at him more closely now. And although I did not think him to be fair of face, with his sullen expression, his hair over his eyebrows and his mouth overlarge, yet what did I know of a girl’s preferences? Had she not seemed to be easy in his presence? Could it happen that Calum would turn her heart?
If he did, surely she would not choose to stay here with him? But why not? And would I mind? I had no feelings of that sort for Bess, had I? And yet we were together, she and I. We had faced death together. Calum could not say that.
I knew Bess’s story and she mine. She knew of the corruption of my father and I had heard of the tragic death of hers. She had let me watch her as she threw crocuses into a waterfall to remember her parents’ murders at the hands of the redcoats. I had seen her sadness. And her fury. She had witnessed my shame when my father had hanged an innocent man. Together we had watched Henry Parish shot dead and we had picked crocuses for him too.
Calum could never mean anything to her. I would not believe it.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Of a sudden, I had a need to go outside, to breathe fresh air. Telling them that I would take my turn watching, I left the dwelling. Mouldy stood there, puffing on a pipe, and I bade him to go inside.
A half-moon dropped its milky light across the landscape. The vast sky, dizzying above me, was flecked by stars on this clear night. Not a breath of wind ruffled the air and the sweet smell of tobacco lingered, hanging there.
I went to check the horses, to make sure they had food and water. As always, my heart lightened with their warm, musty breathing, their tangy smell, their trust.
As I walked back again some moments later, Bess was coming out of the dwelling. She said she would join me, so we both went towards our own cottage and I waited outside while she fetched her cloak. Then we walked together, watching for any men or horses approaching along the track. But the night was empty and quiet.
“I have wanted to talk to you,” I began.
“I too,” said Bess, turning to me. “I wanted to say thank you, for bringing us here. You were right, to help Tam, and to take the risk. These are decent people, with honour and loyalty. They suffer, like all the poor, yet they have made us welcome…”
“How can you say that?” I demanded. Anger flared in me, from so many hours of wishing to say what I felt, of hiding my frustration at this place, these people. “How can you say that these are decent people? These are smugglers, good for nothing. Fighting each other and their enemies. They almost killed us!”
“They do what they can, what they must. Who will help them if they do not help themselves?”
“But what kind of life is it? You would not wish to stay with them, surely? They live from day to day in fear. What are we doing even now? Watching for marauders who wish to steal a young girl! What kind of a life is that?”
“It is not what you are used to, of course,” retorted Bess. “But it is a life! It is not without honour and reason. I would gladly stay, at least for a while. Besides, they need me – to go through that passageway. They need us both, to protect Iona. You would wish to do that, would you not?”
Would I? Of course, I did not wish Iona to be taken or to suffer. But would I lay down my life for her?
Bess continued. “We could make a good living, Will. Think on it! They will give us our share and, who knows, we could still ride out of a night and rob the rich carriages as they pass. We need not stay for ever, not if we do not wish to. But we have a place to stay now and we are welcome. For now, I wish to stay.”
“And Calum?” I asked, trying to keep a bitter edge from my voice.
“What of Calum?” I was not looking at her so I did not see her expression but in her voice I thought there was amusement. A slight hesitation before the name, perhaps even a rolling of it on her tongue.
But I could not ask her further. I did not know how to say it. Or perhaps I knew how to say it but did not wish to hear the answer.
A scuttling in the grasses by the corner of the chicken shed made us look in that direction. We walked towards it, each with a pistol before us. But we saw the shadow of a small creature darting off – a rat perhaps, nothing worse.
No wind ruffled the grasses. No owls called. No persons were passing by, no carts at this time of night. Only in the distance the soft shushing of waves on shingle and the occasional faraway curlew crying.
I needed to say something to break the silence. I wanted to say we should not stay, to persuade her to come away with me, but I was afraid that she would not.
“She is so filled with anger. Such ancient anger.”
Bess was shaking her head as she said this and I thought I understood her meaning. And so I replied, “Yes, and she should forget her anger. It has poisoned her, made her mad, I think.”
“She should not forget her anger! How should she forget? You know what the soldiers did to her and her mother. To forget would be to betray them.”
“But she has carried her hatred for near eighty years! What good has it done her? Sent her mad and brought her only bitterness.”
“Jeannie said Old Maggie cannot remember what she had to eat yesterday but she can remember every breath of that awful day. Such is the power of her anger! That such evil deeds should never be forgotten. It is only seven years since the redcoats murdered my parents and I wish never to forget. Because that would betray them. And that I will never do.”
And now, at last, I realized what had brought back Bess’s spark, her old passion for life – it was hatred and anger. That was what she breathed. And it was Old Maggie who had rekindled it. Old Maggie, whose ugly venom seemed to me distasteful, repellent, and yet to Bess like something else entirely, something she might call honour, justice.
I knew not what to say. I had thought I understood her hatred, respected it even. After all, I was no stranger to anger of my own.
But now I had begun to think that revenge is not the way. Holding onto anger is like keeping a thorn inside oneself – it will turn to poison.
Perhaps I was fortunate because I had settled the score with my father and brother. But Bess, too, had surely settled her score? She had killed a redcoat in cold blood. She had finished Henry Parish’s work for him, by taking money to his bereaved mother and by ensuring that his death was remembered in song. But then the redcoats had burnt down her cottage, destroyed all her possessions. Did she now need revenge for that? And what then? When would it end?
The Highwayman's Curse Page 10