The Hanging of Margaret Dickson

The Hanging of Margaret Dickson

THAMES RIVER PRESS

An imprint of Wimbledon Publishing Company Limited (WPC)

Another imprint of WPC is Anthem Press (www.anthempress.com)

First published in the United Kingdom in 2013 by

THAMES RIVER PRESS

75–76 Blackfriars Road

London SE1 8HA

www.thamesriverpress.com

© Alison J. Butler 2013

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced

in any form or by any means without written permission of the publisher.

The moral rights of the author have been asserted in accordance

with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

All the characters and events described in this novel are imaginary

and any similarity with real people or events is purely coincidental.

A CIP record for this book is available from the British Library.

ISBN 978-0-85728-347-4

Cover design by Sylwia Palka

This title is also available as an eBook

The maidservant drops to her knees in the attic room. There is little time and so she must begin. A tallow candle illuminates her pale face as she crawls beneath the box-bed; she inclines her head to the side and places her candle upon the floor. With a grunt of pain she inches forward. Her hands dart and flutter like trapped birds in a cage, not an inch is left unexplored. Soon a finger brushes against something soft and a small cry escapes her lips. The item sought is just within reach, and so she stretches and scoops it into a bundle to hide beneath her plaid.

A moment later, she descends the stairs. Fear burns her throat and threatens to choke her. She treads quietly, one hand against the wall to lighten her weight. Her breathing is laboured, as though a great weight is pressed hard upon her chest. For a moment she pauses to catch her breath. At the bottom of the stairs, the maidservant tiptoes through a cobwebbed corridor, into a sea of liquor-glazed eyes. All around her, the last of the tavern's stragglers scream and cavort, and so she takes care to avoid them and their one-handed assaults. In haste, she weaves and side-steps through them, holding her breath against their fetid odour until she reaches the scullery.

Beside the hearth is a wooden pail. A fire snaps and hisses, she moves towards its hot flames, basking in the warm glow. Smoky peat burns her eyes; she rubs them and looks left then right, all clear, not a soul in sight. In one swift motion, the maidservant throws the bundle into the pail and lifts it from the ground. For a while she stands there weakening at the knees, as if her bones have turned to mush. The moment passes, a door swings open and a shadow falls upon her cheek. Quick as a flash, the maidservant hides the pail behind her back and turns around. Her eyes follow Cook as she squeezes her fat rear through the scullery door, red-faced, arms full of filthy pots, a mangy dog close to her heels.

‘What ails you?' Cook begins to scrape slop from the pots into a huge bowl.

The maidservant feels a hot flush shoot up her whole body. She tries to open her mouth to speak, but the words won't come out. After a while she tries again. ‘Whatever do you mean? Nothing ails me. We're low on water; I'll fetch some shall I?'

‘In this weather? Have you lost your senses?'

‘No matter. Won't be long.'

Cook shakes her head and returns to her dirty pots.

With the pail safe in her hand, she exits the tavern and marches past kirk, downhill towards the river. Before long, the sparkling water is visible, its long snaking trail sheltered by twisted trees and naked branches stretched out like bony limbs. Beyond the foliage, the icy river seems to call to her, and so she obliges and follows its winding track to the promise of solitude.

The air is crisp and bitterly cold. The woman sucks in her breath through clenched teeth as her nostrils sting. Thousands of ice crystals descend from above, falling upon her lashes and nose, causing her to tilt her head backwards to the leaden sky. With arms open wide, she rotates in the flurry, mouth open so that snowflakes melt on her hot tongue, and every drop of colour evaporates from her face. The bleak landscape blurs, her ears begin to ring. She looks for something to lean against but there is nothing. She is weak, a sickly sweat covers her forehead, and as her hearing fails, her legs buckle as white turns to black.

The maidservant opens one eye, the one not frozen shut with ice and tears. She lies on her back upon the powdery snow, fingers and face blue. For just a moment she fancies she's in heaven, and that an angel has come to collect her.

The maidservant gasps: ‘The pail.' She doesn't know if she has the energy to sit up, her throat is swollen and her heart pounds in her breast. As she pushes herself off the ground, she sways unsteadily on her feet towards a glimmer in a hedge. In the centre of a frosty bush, a handle protrudes from dead leaves. With her hand outstretched, she plunges it into the frozen hedge, curling her fingers around the pail, but it is stuck. She pulls harder, in the process disturbing a nesting bird, sending it spiralling aloft in an explosion of white feathers. 

Shadows lengthen on the riverbank. The maidservant shivers and exhales misty clouds into the air. One small hand wavers over the pail, deciding whether or not to pull out the bundle. Tentative fingers curl under the fabric to unravel the precious bundle; she can hardly bear to look. A fully formed child lies within her arms, its tiny head covered with fine golden hair. His eyes an odd shade of purple-blue, like a wild flower.

The maidservant is numb now. The water catches the fading twilight and she walks towards it as though in a trance. At the riverside, she lifts the tiny body and holds it over the ice-cold water. Arms outstretched and muscles taut, she maintains this position till her arms twitch and burn, no longer able to bear the weight. Hot tears roll down her frozen face as she sinks to her knees and places the baby boy farther beneath the reeds, her eyes taking on a faraway look, as though looking beyond the objects around her.

Folk travel from all around to sup at the Ten Bells Tavern, and not just for the frothy ale or riveting conversation. Most come to gawp at the innkeeper's wife and get a glorious view of the biggest jugs in Temple. Many a woman turns up at the tavern come sundown to drag her husband home, but not before casting a scathing glance at the main attraction.

Duncan Dickson sits at the rear of the inn, slumped behind a barrel, mouth wide open, snoring like a pig. The doors to the drinking house open and close like a barn door in a gale. At some point two link-boys scamper inside, dressed in ragged clothes, both of them covered in filth and dust. The younger boy limps, dragging his stick-thin leg behind him, a pitiful sight as the famine has left its mark on him. Their eyes search the room and widen at the sight of Duncan, the easy prey. The tallest boy conjures a plan while twitching his head in the sleeping man's direction.

‘You empty his pockets while I keep watch.'

‘Nae, I'm not doing it. You do it. He reeks. Probably peed himself,' the smallest boy wrinkles his nose.

The taller boy ignores his brother's protests and pushes him towards the drunkard.

‘What if he wakes up?'

‘Just do it and be quick,' the eldest boy raises a hand to slap his sibling with all his might.

The younger boy yelps, the blow snapping his head backwards. Tears of humiliation roll down the lame boy's face. He wipes them away with the reverse of his hand and grimaces back the tremor on his lips before searching the man.

‘Nothing,' the boy shrugs at his older brother. ‘He's got nothing.'

‘We'll take his shoes then. If we're going to eat tonight we need a torch to light a gentleman's way and that costs money. We can pawn them.' He points at the shoes. ‘And stop crying. Do you want to end up in a molly house?'

Like soldiers they drop to the floor to tug at the drunkard's feet, the stench that comes off him causes the youngest to turn a shade of pale green. They manage to take one shoe when a fierce highlander lunges at them from nowhere.

‘Run, Angus. Run!' the eldest boy squeals like a piglet and grabs his little brother's hand. They flee carrying just one shoe before the highlander boxes their ears.

***

‘Duncan!' the highlander screams into the inebriated man's ear. He repeats his friend's name twice before pouring the contents of his tankard over his head.

Duncan comes to, wiping the ale from his sopping head. ‘What did you do that for?'

‘You've been robbed, you idiot. Two beggar boys. If we go now we'll catch up with them. Give them a good hiding.'

‘Nae,' Duncan slurs. ‘It's not their fault. Leave them be, Johnny. They're a creation of society; the damned gentry making criminals of the poor. God knows, it's a wonder they're alive after the dearth.' Duncan wobbles on his stool, one eye closed as he rummages through his pockets. ‘I've got no money.'

‘You've spent it no doubt.'

‘Aye,' Duncan looks over towards the bar. ‘Seen the view?'

Johnny nods and twitches his head at the innkeeper. ‘She's good for business mind, but I don't envy him. All those men drooling over my wife's charms would vex me something rotten. What's up with your eye?'

Duncan tries to focus. ‘Nothing, there must be something in it.'

Johnny looks him up and down and sniffs the air. ‘Lord above, Duncan, you stink like a day old chanty. Have you been sleeping in a privy? You're a disgrace man. Isn't it time you took heed of some wise words, “wine is a mocker and beer a brawler; whoever is lead astray by them is not wise”? You should pay attention in kirk and be a good Christian man.'

‘Spare me the zealous nonsense and buy me a drink.'

Johnny shakes his head. ‘I will not. When did you last see Ann?'

‘Ann?'

‘Yes. Ann. You know – your wife?'

‘We had another quarrel a few days ago and I've not been back since. She's a shrew. You don't know the half of it. Anyway, I'm parched. Have you got a few coins for me? I need a drink.'

‘Nae.'

‘One for the road?'

‘Get your hat.'

***

Two rowan trees flank Duncan's cottage, their warped branches stretch across the turf roof, as though to protect the inhabitants within. Johnny glances at Duncan ahead, walking his crisscross walk, made even more peculiar by the fact that he only wears one shoe. The sky is overcast and Johnny's keen to be inside, but not here – not near Ann.

Outside the cottage, Duncan cowers under the shadow of the rowan tree. Suddenly the orgy of drinking finally catches up with him, and he opens his mouth and unleashes a bellyful of vomit onto the floor. Johnny groans and points him in the direction of the door. But the prospect of entering his cottage and facing his wife is too much for Duncan, and so lacking in courage he clings to Johnny till they are safely inside.

The room is dark. Johnny half walks, half carries Duncan across the room, dropping the drunkard into a chair. Only then does Johnny dare to look at Ann's face. His eyes widen, her face has never looked like this in his mind; she has aged since he saw her last. He sighs and remembers how they met. The famine brought them together. The recent great dearth has caused many a highlander to venture miles from home; in droves across the Stirling Bridge to trade food. Most exchange excess dairy produce for Lowlanders' meal and Johnny's no exception. And so, this is how he became acquainted with Ann, long before she fell for the fine-looking Duncan.

The highlander glances at her from the corner of his wet eye, every so often her eyes flash with melancholy, tangible proof of her miserable existence. Johnny wipes his face, life is cruel he thinks. Why is it that Ann withers while Duncan matures like a fine wine? If only things could be different. Johnny inches forward, moving to the back of her as she toils, he leans over her, but not so far as to allow her to see his face, which is sickened with regret and something else – perhaps sorrow. She bends around to meet his gaze but he won't permit it, and therefore he twists his body around to face a dying fire, and thus the moment passes.

Ann claps her hands together and rubs them for warmth. ‘So he's drunk again?'

Johnny nods. ‘I found him at the Ten Bells. I can't stay long, lassie – I've work to do.'

Ann nods her head. ‘The fire's low. I'll fetch more peat,' she ignores Duncan and directs her speech to Johnny.

‘Duncan?' Johnny elbows his friend in the ribs.

‘Ouch. What did you do that for?' says Duncan.

‘Ann shouldn't be carrying a bucket of peat in her condition!'

Duncan turns in his wife's direction, his watery eyes settle on her swollen stomach. ‘Just fetch half a bucket, Ann.'

Johnny chokes and his eyes widen. ‘You're jesting?'

‘Nae. Why?' Duncan asks.

***

The child came a week later. Ann gave birth alone. Her husband could not be found and so there was no one to send for the midwife. Nevertheless, somewhere within the desert of Ann's black heart, a bright shining star gave her hope, for her child was as bonny as a mid-summer sunset, a baby girl with chestnut hair, thick lashes and the tiniest nose. Ann named her Margaret, but in time she would come to be known as Maggie.

One year later, true to form, Duncan missed the birth of his second child, a son named James. It was the last straw for Ann and a defining moment in their matrimony. Ann, a pious woman at the best of times, sought divine guidance. The kirk elders (in their desire to be rid of the drunken profligate, Duncan) were more than happy to assist them. And therefore, with the parish's support, they moved to Musselburgh, known as ‘The Honest Toun.' They settled near Inveresk, a cold and rough land near the coast of the Firth of Forth. It was a land of gardeners, farmers and fishermen, and if none of these professions were to Duncan's satisfaction, there was always the nearby coalmine or saltpans. They departed at dawn, with the children wrapped up warm and testimonial of characters safe in hand. For a whole day they travelled by foot and hay-cart and together they left the horror of famine behind.

***

If truth be told, Duncan has to bite his tongue while the landowner talks down to him like lord to vassal. In consolation, Duncan devotes half of his attention to the gudeman's pretty wife, who snatches every possible opportunity to cast a swooning glance in his direction. While Duncan, his wife and children stand in rags, the shovel-faced landowner preaches to them in a new broadcloth coat, worsted stockings, silver buckled shoes and a silly little hat. He wastes no time in laying down conditions of verbal tack, thereby tying Duncan to the landowner on a short term lease.

‘Is there a cottage…?' Duncan pretends not to notice the landowner scowling at having been interrupted.

‘Yes, yes, yes. It has land on the in-field to sow oats or peas, and a kale yard. You'll be required to help with the ox team.'

‘Is that all?'

The landowner grins and reveals yellow-brown teeth. ‘I might need a man to help clear the middens once in a while, and there's a problem with foxes.'

Duncan nods, but deep down seethes inside. That's all he needs, chief shite clearer and ghillie. He hopes he won't be labouring morning till night, with no time for drinking and women. The landowner and peasant shake hands and the deal is done. Duncan smiles at the comely gudewife and tips his hat.

With the landowner now out of sight, he's alone with Ann, at a loss for words. What does a man say to a sullen wife with a face like thunder? He closes his eyes and imagines finer things, a woman's naked foot, long silken hair, pouting full lips. Without much enthusiasm he opens his eyes and searches for the figure of Ann. She stands beyond the run-rigs towards sloping ground, as if contemplating the labour yet to be done. Duncan sighs, the sad reality is, life for all but the privileged few is cruel, brutal and often short. These fields will claim their blood and strength. This is their lot. Duncan walks towards his wife, and as he does so his chest fills with air, and a deep sigh escapes his lips as a tentative hand reaches out towards her. She declines it.

‘We can make progress here, Duncan, let's not waste this opportunity.' Her face turns towards the hills that swell to higher grounds. ‘No more whoring, no more drinking or we'll lose everything. You've James and Maggie to think of now.'

Duncan's face tilts up to the sun, his eyes darting left and right to all four corners of the sky, as though searching for the right words. ‘I cannot agree to that, wife. But I will work the land and keep us in home.'

Ann nods, her eyes flicker with emotion. ‘Couldn't you try?'