The Hanging of Margaret Dickson (11 page)

‘Enjoying the scenery?'

Maggie turns around, her face flushing a shade of deep ruby claret. ‘You startled me,' she says, removing her hand from her hot skin.

‘I'm sorry. I didn't mean to frighten you.'

Bells ring in the distance as her eyes return to a courting couple, lost in the throes of passion. ‘I've never seen anything like that before.'

‘It's perfectly natural,' he licks his lips.

‘For dog or swine perhaps, but not folk – and in plain view for all to see.'

The gentleman's eyes widen and sparkle with mirth. ‘You are quite the innocent, how delightful.' He pauses and pulls a gold fob watch from his jacket. ‘Anyway, I must bid you farewell. I have business at the coffee house.'

‘What is your business, sir?' Maggie doesn't want him to go.

‘My business?' His expression is one of amusement. ‘Oh, this and that, my dear. I suppose I do what most gentlemen do to pass time away: I gamble away my inheritance. Good heavens, you are the most desirable thing but that dreadful smell,' he coughs into a handkerchief.

‘Tis the fish,' she shrugs and points to the pail. Maggie can't take her eyes off him. He's utterly fascinating to observe, his manner and speech so different from common folk.

‘Of course, of course,' he repeats and moves towards her, one smooth finger tilting her chin backwards so that he can peer at her face. ‘Beautiful.'

‘Despite the muck and stench?'

‘I could tell you were a beauty through six layers of dirt,' he adds with a fixed look.

Maggie's canny. She bends at the knee and bows forward to allow him a splendid view; her eyes face the floor then flicker upwards at the very last moment to meet his eyes.

‘That's very kind of you to say so, sir. But I'm taking up too much of your time and so I'll be on my way.' She turns to walk away.

‘Maggie,' he walks after her, blocking her way. ‘I've been frightfully rude. Allow me to introduce myself. I am Alexander McGregor. I am very pleased to meet you, Maggie.' He holds out his hand.

She pauses for a while before taking his hand. ‘It's a pleasure to meet you, Alexander. But now I really should be on my way.'

‘But I simply must see you again,' he demands.

‘I'm very busy, sir. I have a family and my fish to sell.'

To Maggie's utter amazement, he dips at the knee in an elaborate bow and brings his soft mouth to her hand, kissing it as if she's a lady. If the fishwives could see her now, they would pee themselves with laughter. She shakes her hand away, suddenly ashamed by their coarseness and filth.

‘Please allow me the pleasure of your company again?'

‘I don't know. Perhaps…'

‘Until we meet again. I will not take no for an answer, Maggie.'

The sound of the widow's cane tapping on the wattle and daub wall is by far the most vexing noise.
Tap, tap
goes the cane as Maggie crosses the room, wiping sleep from her eyes and stubbing her toe on a wooden toy.

‘All right, I'm coming,' Maggie screams, thinking how much she'd like to stick that cane up the widow's backside. ‘Stop banging the damned cane,' she whines as she opens the door to usher the old woman inside. ‘The bairns have just gone back to sleep so be quiet.'

‘It's the middle of the day and don't curse. Your poor wee mother will turn in her grave.'

‘Midday? Surely not. The sun's not even over the brae.'

The widow clucks. ‘Been up since the crack of dawn, I have, unlike some. My poor feet are killing me. I bring gifts, a chicken for the pot and a parsnip.' The widow's brows knot together, her face scrutinising the vegetable in her hand. ‘Look at that, Maggie; it's like the shape of a man's…'

Maggie pushes her towards the fire and smiles. ‘Aye, a fine maypole that is, Widow. Put it to the side, I'll save that for later.'

‘Maggie, you're a wicked girl. Anyway, have you heard the news?'

Here we go
, thinks Maggie. It's no wonder the widow's always getting into trouble, spreading gossip and causing trouble. And so Maggie says: ‘No, I've better things to do than listen to idle gossip. Sleeping for instance, that's a more enjoyable pastime.' Maggie pulls a face.

‘Nonsense, lassie. What woman can't resist a bit of gossip?' says the widow, slapping her warty forehead. ‘You know the brewster woman from near the Old Roman Bridge?'

‘There are lots of brewster women. Which one?'

‘You know – the one with the bad leg and red hair. Well she was beaten by her husband for drinking too much of her own strong brew. And do you know that farmer at Inveresk? Peculiar fellow, you know, the one with the wife who looks like she has a beard. Well he's been caught interfering with his cows again.'

‘Hah! You've seen his wife? I don't blame him,' Maggie laughs.

‘Oh, Maggie, that's shocking talk.'

‘Well, she's a right sour-faced cow.'

‘Cow? You said cow and he's been...' Widow Arrock cackles and then covers her mouth, suddenly ashamed of her jesting.

Maggie pats her on the arm. ‘I did hear something.'

The widow's ears prick up like a ravenous hound. ‘What did you hear?'

‘About a Quaker. Have you heard? Near Haddington, I think. He wouldn't let folk graze their animals on his land. So they flogged him and cut through his tongue with a red hot poker.'

‘Did he have a family?' the widow enquires.

‘Aye, banished.'

‘That's a sad business.'

‘Have you seen my father?'

Maggie fixes her eyes on the widow, watching the widow's face turn crimson and her lips purse together. A moment passes before she replies.

‘Aye, I have seen him, Maggie and he's a devil as always.'

‘Where did you see him?'

‘I caught him coming out of the manse one morning tucking his shirt in. He's been dallying with one of the minister's daughters again.'

‘Again?' Maggie sucks in her breath. ‘And they're both so young, surely not?'

The widow clucks her tongue. ‘Aye, well when your father's concerned nothing surprises me. I gave him a right tongue lashing, I did. But he told me to mind my own business and assured me that he was merely trying to educate the lasses, making them think for themselves instead of following the flock, whatsoever that means.'

‘Was he drunk?'

Widow Arrock laughs. ‘Hah! Of course he was drunk. Your father's always drunk. God knows how he does it. Even when folk think he's sober, he's half-cut. Never been any different since the day he moved here from Temple. Your mother told me he stayed sober long enough to secure a cottage and then slowly drifted to his old ways.'

‘No one can accuse him of not knowing how to have a good time,' Maggie shrugs.

‘He drove your poor mother to her grave.'

‘Now that's not true. She was ill and nature took its course. It was God's will.'

‘All right, all right, I'll mind my own business. Some things are best left unsaid,' whines the widow as she reaches for her wooden cane.

‘Aye, they are. Thank you for the chicken.'

‘You're welcome, my lovely.'

The widow places one hand on the table, putting her weight on it before bending her knees. ‘My, I'm getting old.'

***

More often than not, before Maggie reaches the High Street, a barrage of hucksters and forestallers hinder her way. But with brute force she pushes and nudges her way through them, eager to reach her destination.
Nearly there
, she thinks, a pain in the pit of her stomach as she sprints along the wynds. A cross-road looms ahead, the palace grounds clearly visible beyond. But before she reaches it something prompts her to stop in her tracks and stare up into the sky.

Against the backdrop of a leaden grey sky, a gibbet creaks back and forth in the wind. A pale woman stands beneath it, waiting to catch his bones. Maggie closes her eyes to block out the eerie
spectre – the image of a decomposing man, birds feasting on his rotting and putrid flesh.

***

The air smells of rain. Soon a fine drizzle covers her face, washing away the grime and filth. Without thinking she walks to the pleasure gardens and then the coffee house, but the fine gentleman is not there. With drooped shoulders Maggie walks towards the fish market and sets down her creel. Along the way, the lassies at the fruit market cheer her. They're as bawdy and vulgar as the fishwives and always have a funny tale to tell. Creel empty, she heads away from the fish market and crosses the street, proceeding downhill towards Anchor Close. There's a little tavern there by the name of Dawney Douglas where the rich folk are said to frequent. Outside, a small group of gentlemen sit playing dice.

***

Sir Alexander McGregor recognises her immediately. It's the beautiful peasant girl, with huge breasts and dark eyes.

‘Look at the jugs on that wench,' remarks one of the gaming men, sucking in his stomach to reduce his portly frame.

‘Cecil, do you really think the act of pulling in your stomach would make her interested in the likes of you? You're fat, bald and have rotting teeth… and then there is the wart on your nose,' Alexander scoffs.

‘Mercy. A girl of her class would find a leper attractive. Remember that whore in Paris while we were on the grand tour? She looks just like her, don't you think?'

‘She's not a whore,' declares Alexander. ‘She's a fishwife.'

‘Same thing. Although whores smell better,' sneers Cecil.

‘Really, Cecil? You're an incurable buffoon. Run along to the cockfight or the bear-baiting will you, good chap.' Alexander springs to his feet and beckons to the girl, ignoring the men's guffaws as he takes her small hand.

***

They travel by horse and carriage, and for the most part Alexander holds his vinaigrette sponge to his nose. Maggie realises it's because of her fishy smell, but he insists it's because he has a cold. The carriage comes to a halt. Alexander opens the door and points to a grand building outside.

‘Here we are. This is Queen Mary's bath house. And do you know, Maggie, Queen Mary is rumoured to have bathed here in a bath of sweet white wine?'

Maggie couldn't care less, but nevertheless nods her head. She takes his hand and steps out of the carriage. To her mind the building resembles a tolbooth but as he guides her up stone steps that lead to a second floor, she's pleasantly surprised. At the top of the stairs, amidst tapestries and a wood-panelled corridor, they're greeted by a maidservant. Alexander immediately takes charge, barking out orders in a commanding tone.

‘Bring us some food at once and have someone make up a fire.' He turns to Maggie. ‘Do you need a maid to assist you in removing your clothes?'

‘Whatever for?'

‘But you must need assistance with your stays?'

‘They fasten at the front.' She smiles and wonders if he wants her to disrobe now in front of the maid.

As Maggie decides whether to disrobe or not, Alexander pushes open a door to reveal a wondrous sight. Beyond the entrance is a magnificent tiled room; in its centre a magnificent octagonal plunge bath, hot steam rising off its surface.

Maggie gasps. ‘It's beautiful! So this is a bathhouse. Can I get in it?' she asks, removing her plaid.

‘Of course.' He gestures towards a small changing screen.

Behind the changing screen there is a mysterious door. She bends to peek though the keyhole, but someone has stopped up the hole so that the view is obscured. Maggie's heart thumps in her chest as she removes her soiled clothes; soon she is completely naked behind the screen. She peeks out at the bath again; a tall man-servant has entered the tiled room. He has shiny brown skin the colour of rich coffee, and upon his head is a bright coloured scarf. Maggie watches in awe as he places a small white block and a drying cloth on the edge of the water.

***

A sweat breaks out on Alexander's face as all his blood seems to rush to his groin as he waits for the peasant girl to emerge from the screen. Never in his life has he felt so aroused, like a randy groom on his wedding night. His breath catches in his mouth as she materialises before his eyes, a naked voluptuous goddess, like one of the tantalising Lely paintings in his father's study.

‘Aren't you coming in?' She plunges into the water, takes the soap and inhales its floral scent.

He shakes his head, unable to take his eyes from her. ‘Later.' He smiles and notes that she's completely at ease with her nakedness.

‘After you've bathed, enter the room next to the changing room. It's behind the screen.'

Maggie laughs and splashes, rubbing the soap into her body in a deliberately sensual manner. Steam rises around her, obscuring her figure into a misty haze. His eyes narrow and work harder to see the shape of her body, and then suddenly she emerges in front of him, floating on her back so that her hair fans around her in a dark halo.

The tingling returns, at the top of his thighs and spreading to the tip of his desire. The girl is like a precious flower unfolding her petals to a scorching sun, waiting to be plucked. Before long, he can bear it no more. With a sense of urgency he bends on one shaky knee and signals for her to come to him, holding out the soft cloth in open arms.

‘Hurry,' he says stretching out his hand.

For just a moment she stands naked before him, every inch of her body covered in water droplets, giving her skin a glossy sheen. It pleases him the way she stares at him with those flashing eyes, and for an instant he wonders whether to take her there, right now on the cold wet floor. But he picks her up instead and throws her over his shoulder, carrying her off to his secret nest.

The room's sultry; a fire rages and crackles as Alexander edges her backwards onto a four-post bed. How tempting it is to enter her now to satisfy his wants and desires, but he's a patient man, and with a beauty such as this, he will be sure to take his time. However, it's more than he can endure as he binds her soft wrists with scarlet silk, such torturous exquisite agony. The very act only serves to heighten his impatience.

‘Drink this.' He lifts her pretty head to place a crystal glass to her lips. ‘Spanish fly.'

‘Spanish fly?'

‘It enhances the senses.'

‘What for?'

‘No matter. Just drink it,' he commands and watches her eyes widen. ‘There will be nothing but pleasure and just a little pain.' He picks up a candle and drips some wax onto the tips of her nipples.

‘Stop. I don't understand.'

‘I think you understand very well, Maggie.' He kisses her then, his tongue forcing its way into her mouth as he opens her legs wide.

And then Maggie begins to understand.

***

The bed's like something from another world, as though it was made for a giant or to sleep a dozen or more people. It has four wooden posts carved with chubby-faced cherubs and heavy brocade drapes that sparkle with shiny threads. She removes the scarlet binds and sits up in the bed; Alexander lies beside her, gasping for breath.

A beautiful ornament sits on a nearby sideboard. Maggie can't be sure, but she imagines it to be the naked figure of a king or a god with a tall crown perched upon his head. Beneath the figure are four white unicorns rearing into the air, their nostrils flaring like savage beasts.

‘What is that?' Maggie enquires.

Alexander catches his breath. ‘It's a present for my parents. It's a sugar sculpture. The entire object is made from sugar.'

‘They're going to eat that?'

‘No, no, it would make them quite ill. There are metal wires holding the whole object together. It's not edible.' His eyes crease at the corners in amusement.

Maggie shifts and reaches for her clothes. How's she to know that the damned thing is made from sugar? Her cheeks flush a deep red.

‘My dear, you cannot leave now.' He pats the bed.

Maggie ignores him and picks up her clothes. ‘But I must, sir. It's late and I must be getting home.'

‘What a pity. I wanted to see you pin up your hair – I must see that pretty neck free of grime and filth. You've such beautiful hair. How
I loathe those ridiculous lice-ridden wigs. No matter how many times I send them to the nit-picker they come back crawling with damn mites.'

‘Why do you wear them then?'

‘Fashion my dear – why else?'

‘I prefer you without it,' she runs her fingers through his closely cropped hair. ‘Makes you look much younger.'

‘You are a darling. But you see a wig is like a status object. Big wigs are worn by important and privileged men.'