The Highwayman's Curse (11 page)

I
was on my feet in an instant. Quickly, Bess was beside me, a candle in her hand. Old Maggie was thrashing about behind her curtains but before we could reach her, a figure had climbed out. It was Iona. Standing in her shift, looking frightened.

“What are you doing here?” Bess and I demanded together.

“How long have you been here?” I added.

Iona shook her head. “I canna remember.”

“You had everyone fearing for you!” exclaimed Bess. “Your father and brother have gone in search of you. Red, too. They saw a horseman.” Iona looked startled – worried, I supposed, for her family riding off into the night.

“Why were you here?” I asked again.

“I… Mebbe I was walking whiles asleep. I canna remember anything.” She rubbed her eyes and shivered. I moved to fetch a cloak for her. Bess, meanwhile, went to comfort Old Maggie.

As I put the cloak round the girl's shoulders, I saw her troubled eyes. She shivered with more than cold.

And I knew why. Or I knew a part of why. Though I could not begin to guess the rest. I spoke quietly so that Old Maggie would not hear. But Old Maggie was railing and cursing and pointing wildly at Iona, while Bess tried to calm her. I did my best not to listen to the words. “I curse their heid an'…”

“Tell me the truth, Iona,” I said softly, turning her shoulders to look at me. She twisted her face away but I held her firm.

“'Tis the truth. I've walked whiles sleeping afore.”

“Our door was bolted,” I said.

“A window is open,” she said. And it was. I had not noticed, as the shutter was almost closed, but when I went to it now I saw that the catch was off. I cursed our carelessness, though it was impossible to imagine a man climbing through such a small space.

But I had some extra knowledge, which she could not have known I had. “You were not here when we left to search for you. I know. I opened the curtains of Old Maggie's bed to see if she was asleep.”

And now her eyes looked the more afraid. Her lips began to move but no sound came out. There was bad trouble in her, and I knew not what it was. She glanced at Bess and the old woman but they took no notice of us. And now Iona turned to me. “Please!” she whispered. “Please, dinna give me away! They would kill me if they knew! Please!”

I thought she exaggerated. Why would they kill her? Had they not ridden out by night to save her, to find her and bring her home safe? Did they not plan to kill Douglas Murdoch and his men rather than hand her over? She was a silly girl to be so afraid.

“Why were you in our cottage? Why did you not return to your own bed?”

“Ye all stood close to the door. Ye would've seen. But this door was open and I slipped in.” Still she shivered. But her voice had the air of truth.

Old Maggie now was calm. Bess stroked her forehead as she lay there. Still she muttered and when she saw Iona again she scowled.

“I'll take Iona and show the others she is safe,” I said now. “Someone will need to ride after the men.”

“But…” said Iona.

“Come with me,” I said firmly, and took her arm, guiding her out of the cottage. Some clouds had begun to cover the sky and the moon was not visible now. As we slowly picked our way like blind men across the yard, she urged me again and the tremor in her voice was no pretence.

“Please, dinna tell them I was no' there afore! Please! Ye dinna understand! They will kill me!”

I did not believe her words, but I believed her fear.

“Then tell me where you were.”

“No!”

“Then I cannot help you.”

“I was … I was wi' … a lad. We love each other!” she blurted out.

I laughed. It was the way she said it. But she was serious. I saw it in her eyes and the way they sang with the truth of her words.

“And they will kill you for that?” I asked, in jest. Surely they would be happy? It could be new blood for their group. Perhaps it would help Old Maggie think the better of her if she settled down and made a marriage for herself. She was not too young for her family to think of such things.

But a small doubt crept to the edge of my thoughts and just before we came to the door, I repeated my words, though more softly this time. “They will kill you for that?”

“Aye,” she said, simply, her voice fragile. Could she be right?

And then, as I rapped my hand against the door to the dwelling and called out that I was there, I understood suddenly why she thought they would kill her.

The boy she loved worshipped God in the wrong way.

But surely, this would not be enough for them to want her dead? I could not believe it.

I
needed to know more, much more, but there was no time now. The door was hauled open and there were Jeannie and Mouldy. Billy stood behind. With a cry, Jeannie spread her arms and took Iona to her. Her words tumbled over each other.

“Oh, thank the Lord ye are safe! Where have ye been? Oh, how afeard I was!” Then she looked at me, her eyes bright with tears above Iona's flame-red hair.

“She was asleep in Old Maggie's bed,” I explained. “She must have come there in her sleep.”

“Aye! Aye! I mind she has walked while sleeping once afore, but just into the yard and we found her standing there. But the door – was it no' bolted fast?”

“Perhaps she came in when I left for a few moments. I did so more than once. I had some stomach pains.” I did not look at Iona's face as I lied for her. But I was angry with her, angry that I found myself in this position, lying for a silly girl who would cause nothing but trouble.

And yet, why should she not love whom she wished? Why should it matter how the boy worshipped God?

But I would rather she did not love him. It would be the cause of endless trouble. And although perhaps she exaggerated when she said they would kill her, yet surely ill would come of it.

Could I persuade her to leave this boy alone? If I could make her fear the results of her love, then perhaps she would change her heart.

Yet why should I mind? I did not care for her overmuch. She was like the froth on waves, without strength or substance. Pretty, of course, with that river of tumbling red hair, and eyes the colour of sea moss, and her cheeks with their sandstorm freckles, but a girl to be looked at and not listened to. A silly girl, not worth the fuss.

But I felt sorry for her, trapped as she was by walls not of her own making. This dangerous love was not of her making either. And by loving someone forbidden by ugly rules, did she not show spirit? Was she not, in her way, fighting against the terrible hatred of Old Maggie and the others?

So, was she not right? And strong and brave?

And as Iona disentangled herself from Jeannie's embrace, and as Jeannie began now to scold her for the trouble she had caused, the girl looked at me. I saw her eyes then, and there was no fear in them at all. With a small, tight smile, she thanked me without words and I knew then that I would continue to help her.

Because I pitied her, yes. But also because I believed she was right to love whom she wished to love.

I did not like these people and their hatred. They were poisoned by it and if Iona was strong enough to fight against such poison, then she deserved my help.

W
e slept no more that night. Mouldy had ridden fast to tell Thomas and the others of Iona's return. It surprised me greatly that he managed to catch them, but I learnt that in such times they used a system of signals, using fires on a hilltop, or lanterns, or burning peat brands, and sometimes by imitating the call of curlews – though they might regard these birds as traitors, yet they would use them.

They had not reached Douglas Murdoch's place, for the fleeing horseman had led them in a different direction, and then they had lost him. And so they had returned, and were now full of joy at Iona's safety.

I wondered if they would be as pleased if they knew the whole truth.

Soon a raw morning light spread across the sky and daylight brought much activity. All of us had our allotted tasks: cleaning, repairing, cutting wood, preparing food. I cleaned out the shed where the horses were. This was a task I had no need to undertake at home, having always had servants to do such things for me. Throwing filthy straw onto a pile with a pitchfork, sweeping the floor and washing it down with many buckets of water from the well, was pleasant work indeed. Good, honest work. Having only the horses for company made it all the better and soon my tiredness began to fade.

The ponies were in a large sloping area behind one of the cottages, enclosed by a ramshackle wall. The two cows were outside the wall, untethered, grazing on what they could find, though the grass did not look plentiful yet and the ground was marshy in parts. One cow swung its full udders; the other cow seemed smaller, younger, and followed it as though it was the larger one's calf. I let the horses into the field, and watched in pleasure as I saw them run, kicking their heels in play, twisting and turning as they enjoyed the spring weather. The ponies began to gallop with them. At the bottom of the slope, they turned and galloped back towards me.

Iona came from round a corner, walking towards the place where the cows were. She wore a dark green skirt and bodice, a clean fawn-coloured apron round her waist. She did not see me there and I simply watched her as she took a slim, bendy stick and flicked it at the cows, driving them expertly into the yard and towards the byre. She made clicking noises with her tongue, and they seemed to understand where she wished them to go. I watched her guide them into the byre.

Wishing to talk to her, I hesitated for some moments, then went after her. As I reached the doorway, my shadow fell across her line of vision, and she looked up. For a moment, there was nothing, and then came a small smile, though perhaps a worried one.

“May I watch?” I asked. I did not particularly wish to watch. I wished to speak to her, but I did not know quite how to begin.

She nodded.

The farm cat, a sleek ginger creature, well fed on mice and birds, stirred from its place on a patch of straw warmed by the rays of sun through a window. It got to its feet, stretching, and came to rub itself against Iona's feet.

Reaching for the small stool, she settled it behind her, positioning herself close to the larger cow, spreading her skirts so that her feet were wide apart. The beast towered above her, its bony rump swaying slightly. With expert hands she grasped the udders and began to pull downwards, one hand at a time, and within moments spurting streams of milk fell noisily into the bucket. Rhythmically she did this, leaning forward, her hair like an armful of autumn bracken hanging down her back, loosely bound in a piece of cloth.

“There is little milk left,” she said. “Her calf is growing older.”

“When will the calf produce milk?”

She laughed. “Never! It's no' female!” My foolishness made me blush. “He will go to market later, for meat. And then we can buy another cow in calf or we can get this one wi' calf again and sell her milk.”

She squirted a little milk at the cat. It jumped, but immediately set to licking the creamy liquid from its chest, purring as it did so.

“Last night,” I said, to change the subject, and because I had no wish to talk of cows. “I need to know everything. Otherwise I cannot help you.”

She looked fearfully over my shoulder. “Shh!” she whispered.

“There is no one here,” I assured her. Bess and Jeannie had gone to the nearest town – Wigtown, they said – to buy provisions, with Billy driving the cart. Jock was resting, his head paining him again. I could see the others outside, two mending the roof of the chicken shed, another chopping logs, another making rope. Calum was sharpening knives on a whetstone near the yard entrance. I remained standing in the doorway, where I could see them.

“I must know. If I am to keep your secret. Who is the boy and why can you not tell anyone?”

She hesitated in her milking. The cow turned round to look at her and stopped chewing its cud. She resumed. The cow returned to its chewing. Iona did not speak, though she opened her mouth to do so but perhaps could not find the words. “Where did you meet him?” I asked, thinking to loosen her tongue with a lighter question.

“Some months past, when I was in the town. It was no' difficult and sometimes I would see him at the market. I had more freedom then and it was no' difficult, until the trouble grew worse between the Murdochs and our family. And now, we meet in secret, and not often.”

“And would your family have been so angry that you loved a boy?”

She looked up then and something tightened in her face, though she continued with the milking.

At that moment, I knew that I was right. “He is of another religion, is he not? A Catholic, or from the church of bishops – I have forgotten what you call it.”

She nodded, biting her lip. “The Episcopalians,” she muttered.

So, I had been correct. I wished to say it did not matter. But I knew enough to know that it mattered here. I could only try to persuade her to forget him.

“This will bring only danger and sadness,” I began. “Think how angry your family will be. It would be better for you to forget him.”

She shook her head. “But I love him,” she said, her voice somewhat petulant.

“You can love again.” What did I know of this? Of course, I had felt my heart beat faster at the sight of a pretty girl, a stirring in me at the call of red lips or soft eyes, but I had not met a girl who destroyed my reason as love is supposed to do.

But Iona had something else to say.

“There is more. Ye wished to know it all. And when ye hear it, ye'll believe Old Maggie – I am cursed.”

I waited.

“His name is Robert Murdoch. He is Douglas Murdoch's son.”

Then indeed did I feel the chill of fear. Though I did not understand fully the intricate hatreds of religions, the wrongs dealt through the ages, the pendulum of punishment and anger, yet I knew well the warring between these people and the Murdochs.

Now, too, I feared for myself. For if Jock and Thomas and Red and the others later discovered that I had known, that I had shielded her, what then would happen to me?

Yet, how could I tell them? What might they do to Iona?

There was no choice: I must hold this knowledge to myself.

What if Douglas Murdoch learnt of it? Perhaps he did not hate her religion as much as her family hated his? After all, he had planned to take her, for what purpose I knew not. It might be better for her to be taken by them. Could she then live with them, perhaps marry this lad and be happy?

Sensing a glimmer of hope, I asked her. “If Douglas Murdoch knew of this, what would he do? Perhaps he would not be as angry as your father would.”

She stared at me. “Douglas Murdoch would rather his son were dead than wi' me! Ye have seen my father and my uncles when his name is mentioned. 'Tis the same for them. And worse, because he is rich and to him we are nothing more than dirt. He would take me for his servant, no' his son's wife, and it would go ill wi' me. So they must no' hear of this. Ye must tell no one! Promise me!”

“I will tell no one,” I promised, quietly. “But they killed your great-grandfather, the old shepherd, did they not? Can you forgive him for that?”

“Robert hates their violence,” she retorted. “As do I hate my family's violence. He had nothing to do wi' the killing, and if he had, I wouldna forgive him. I loved my great-grandfather. He loved me, and he always tried to stop Old Maggie railing at me. Now he's gone and no one will take my side.” She wiped the back of her hand across her eyes and took a deep breath.

“Now, tell me I am no' cursed!” she said, her eyes bright. She stared at me with defiance. I said something – mere words. Clumsy, muttered nothings. She just tightened her lips and looked away with a shrug.

Was she cursed? Perhaps so. And in truth, she believed herself cursed. Her family, too, seemed to think it.

A thought came to me. These people trusted so strongly in the curse, that they were merely waiting for something terrible to happen to Iona, the only girl left in the family. They did not wonder if it would happen, but just waited for when it would. But is the future set down already? If it is, then why do we concern ourselves with how to act or what is right?

If fate, or God, has already decided what will happen, then can anyone be blamed for anything?

This could not be the way of it. God judges us on what we do – the Bible had taught me so. But if the future is set down, we cannot choose what to do. And if we cannot choose anything that we do, how can God rightly judge us?

And if the future is not laid down, then a curse can have no power. If fate had not decreed that Iona would suffer a terrible fate, then she might
not
suffer a terrible fate.

Perhaps a curse only has power if we believe in it. If we fight against it, we may turn the future to a different outcome.

Perhaps that is what hope is for. I knew the story of Pandora. When disobedient, curious, interfering Pandora let all the evil into the world by mistake, only Hope was left.

And so I could hope. But I could act, too – act to protect Iona from danger. Because it seemed to me that Iona, by falling in love with a boy from a different religion, was the only one not poisoned and trapped by endless hatred.

This was something I could do to fight against all that Old Maggie stood for: hatred, anger and revenge. And in their place put something better.