The Betrayal of Maggie Blair (28 page)

"It's because he was with Mr. Renwick," said Dandy Fleming, who had come all the way over from Whinnerston carrying an offering of a meal, with the kind compliments of his mother. "Anyone connected with such a great preacher is given special treatment. All the important ones have been taken off to Edinburgh."

He spoke as if this ought to be a matter of pride.

"Edinburgh!" Aunt Blair repeated faintly.

I'd heard of Edinburgh, of course. I knew that it was a place of power, where lairds and kings and great men of all kinds sat in state, sending out cruel decrees to tax and persecute the poor people of Scotland. Tam had been there once, playing his pipes for money. He'd told me stories that I hardly believed about buildings so tall they reached to the sky, and nobles wearing velvet and silk. He'd managed to stay for a month or more, his earnings keeping him fed and constantly drunk, and then he'd been taken up as a vagabond and thrown out of the city.

I shivered at the thought of Uncle Blair being imprisoned in such a dreadful place. I felt again the kindness of his hand gripping mine as he'd sat so calmly on the top of Windyhill, waiting for the dragoons to come up and take him away. A lump came into my throat as I remembered the affection in his voice.

"What's the news of Mr. Renwick?" asked Ritchie. "He got away all right, didn't he?"

"Aye." Dandy grinned. "He skipped across to Dunoon. What a man! There's no danger that stops him. It was a good job you did that day, Maggie. Ritchie's been boasting of you right and left, how you sent the dragoons off on the wrong track."

I was unused to praise, and it warmed me through.

It was only later, as I went down to the stream with buckets to fill, that I let rise to the surface a kind of resentment that had begun to grow in my head.

It's all very well for Mr. Renwick. He doesn't have a family or a farm to lose. It must be a kind of adventure for him.

And then I remembered how the young preacher had sent me reeling with the glow of his smile, and how his presence had seemed to light the room, and his words had penetrated my heart and quivered there. What was it he'd said? "
His banner over me was love, and he fed me with apples, and comforted me with wine.
"

Yes,
I thought, leaning down to scoop water into my bucket,
oh yes, yes.
And I repeated to myself,
I give. I give.

Something in the stream caught my eye. A shoe, washed down by the current, was wedged between two stones. I fished it out. It was a woman's shoe, solid and heavy. Its owner must have run out of it in her desperate haste to flee from the dragoons after Mr. Renwick's preaching.

The horror of the attack came back to me, and with a spurt of anger I flung the shoe into a clump of gorse on the far side of the stream.

"Why?" I said out loud. "How can it be against the law to meet out in the hills and sing psalms and read the Word of God and preach sermons? What ever is wrong with that?"

I heard Uncle Blair's voice in my ear.

"The king and the great men around him desire in their wickedness to remove God from his throne as head of the kirk and put themselves in his place. And we must resist them, Maggie, or be traitors to him, and to Scotland, and to ourselves."

Could I ever care for the cause as much as Uncle Blair did? Would I give up everything and even risk death?

I knew the answer.

"No," I whispered, ashamed of myself. "No."

The knowledge frightened me. On the Day of Judgment, when I stood before almighty God, he would curse me, like Mr. Renwick said, and cast me into everlasting fire for failing to keep the faith.

But I would suffer anything for a person I loved,
I told myself.
Perhaps that would be enough. I'd be ready to die for someone who really loved me.

I picked up the two full buckets and began the long trudge back up the slope toward the farm. I saw Ritchie ahead. He was talking to Davie Barbour, and his hand was on Davie's shoulder, as if to comfort him.

Something's happened,
I thought, my heart sinking, and I hurried up to the farm.

My aunt's raised voice came out of the kitchen door as I hurried in.

"Dorcas, the poor soul! And the children! Ritchie, if they've done such a thing to Mr. Barbour, whatever will they do to your father?"

"They've executed Mr. Barbour," Ritchie told me quietly. "Hanged him. For being a rebel and a traitor because he refused to take the Test."

"What Test? What's the Test?"

"Don't you know? The oath of allegiance. They make you swear that the king is the head and ruler of the church, and you have to say 'God save the king.' You used to have to pay a fine if you wouldn't say it, but now the penalty is death."

"You mean they hanged Mr. Barbour just because he wouldn't say all that?"

I could hardly believe it.

"And they'll hang your uncle too, you'll see," Aunt Blair said bitterly.

"Mother, you don't know that." Ritchie touched her gently on the shoulder. "Mr. Barbour was executed in Glasgow, where they've all gone mad with rage against us. They might not be so severe in Edinburgh."

She stared at him, misery in her face, and said at last, "It's not knowing that's the worst. It's the dread of waiting for news."

***

Things had been bad at Ladymuir before we'd heard of the death of Mr. Barbour, but a grimmer depression descended afterward. I missed the company of Grizel, who had been sent back to her family to save on wages and food. Her absence meant more work for me, but even though I did my best and never rested from morning till night, I couldn't please my aunt. She found fault constantly, and her eyes seemed to follow each mouthful that I took at our meager mealtimes as if she resented the food that her children might have had.

Ritchie rode out early one morning and came back looking pleased with himself. He strode into the kitchen and put a clinking pouch of coins on the table in front of his mother.

"From the Laird of Duchal," he said proudly. "I asked him to lend us the money for the rest of the fine, and he gave me a bit more too for Father. You need money when you're a prisoner, he said, if you want to eat enough to keep body and soul together."

"You borrowed this money from the laird?" Aunt Blair said anxiously. "Ritchie, how are we ever to pay him back?"

"We will. After the harvest. It's what Father said to do." I heard a new note of authority in Ritchie's voice. He was the man of the house now and was taking charge. "Anyway, the laird's in no hurry. He's a good man of the Covenant himself. He spoke so admiringly of Father. You'd have been proud to hear him. The real question is, if Father needs this money, how are we to get it to him?"

Aunt Blair shook her head so vigorously that Andrew, who was in her arms, set up a wail.

"No, Ritchie," she snapped. "You're not to go to Edinburgh. You'd be arrested before you were well on the road out of Kilmacolm."

Ritchie nodded.

"I know. But we'll have to do something, Mother. We have to get this money to him somehow."

I knew at that instant what I had to do, and the thought was so frightening that it made me shiver.

I would go to Edinburgh. I would take the laird's money, find my uncle, and give it to him. I'd discover if there had been a trial and if he was in prison or awaiting execution. I'd use any trick to free him. And I'd bring him safely home to Kilmacolm.

I went out into the yard, thinking furiously.

I could be a boy again, like on the drove. No, that wouldn't do. I was too noticeably a young woman now, and, anyway, a boy was more likely to be stopped and questioned. I could pretend to be a servant girl, like Grizel, making her way home after losing her position.

I was still furiously thinking when I went to bed that night, and I lay for a long time, trying out one fantastic plan after another, while the little girls slept snuggled close up beside me, snuffling in their dreams.

Weeks went by, turning into months, and all the time we became hungrier and more anxious, while my inner turmoil grew. There was still some time to go before the harvest could be brought in to fill the storeroom again, and I could hardly bear to look at the pinched faces of the children. Aunt Blair wouldn't touch the laird's money.

"It's for your father," she snapped one day, when she saw Ritchie eye it longingly. "If we're in need, think what it's like for him."

I kept out of my aunt's way as much as I could. All the time I dreamed of how I would travel to Edinburgh, rescue Uncle Blair heroically from his dungeon, and bring him back in triumph to Ladymuir and how everyone would love me for it, and forgive me, even Aunt Blair—for being the cause of Annie's coming and her betrayal.

Once, after Aunt Blair had scolded me for taking a second oatcake, I almost started off toward Kilmacolm on my own, but I knew I'd never reach Edinburgh. I would have starved to death or been arrested as a vagabond long before I'd walked half the distance.

And then, early one morning, as I was rooting about in the barn, hunting for eggs, someone cleared his throat right behind me. I jumped and spun around.

"Tam! Where have you been? What are you doing here?"

He had the humble, servile look of a dog afraid of a whipping.

"Why, Maidie, I came to see how you were doing. I crept in last night when you were all in bed and slept here with the cows. I came because I heard what happened to your uncle, and—anda boutA nnie."

"Yes," I said bitterly, wanting to punish him. "No thanks to you for all that, Tam. I knew as soon as I saw her that she'd bring trouble here, but not even I thought she could be so wicked."

"I know, I know." He saw that I wasn't going to scold him anymore. He pushed his hand up under his filthy old bonnet and scratched at his head, looking a little happier, then began to pick a few wisps of straw off the front of his tattered coat.

"You'll be interested to hear, maybe, that that fine soldier of hers has got rid of her already. Less than a week she had, queening it around Sorn Castle. He threw her out in the middle of a rainstorm."

"Good," I said vindictively. "I hope she died of cold."

He shook his head again, looking solemn at the thought of it.

"Tam!" I stared at him. "You're not—you
can't
still be sorry for Annie! Not after what she's done! Tam, you haven't brought her here again?"

"No, no!" He shuddered. "I never want to see the girl again. If I'm lucky, I never will. She found herself another rascal straightaway. One of those flouncy military fellows, his red coat all covered over with shiny brass buttons and leather straps and whatnot. He's got more feathers on his hat and more silver braid on his cravat than that bully Dundas, so I guess Annie thought she'd done well for herself after all."

A shadow fell at the door, and Ritchie came into the barn. His brows twitched together as he recognized Tam.

"You're back, then," he said dryly. "Alone this time, I hope."

Tam twisted himself into a knot of writhing humility.

"Oh yes, indeed, young man. I came to tell you how very sorry I am for your trouble. I never knew what that girl would do! If I'd had any idea, I'd have cut my right hand off rather than bring her here."

He thrust out his scrawny arm as if to prove he was sincere. The sleeve of his coat, worn to strips of rag, fell away from it, and I was shocked to see how thin he was, his bones seemingly held together by nothing more than their casing of skin.

Anger died out of Ritchie's face. I could see he was torn between pity and contempt.

"Well," he said at last, "it wasn't your fault, after all, but we're in a bad way here, thanks to that girl." His eyes brightened as he looked down and saw a little bulge in the pocket of my apron. "Did you find any eggs, Maggie? The children are crying for their breakfast."

"Breakfast!" said Tam, a slick of spittle gathering in the corner of his slack old mouth. "Now there's the finest word I've heard in a long time. My insides are stuck together with hunger."

I could see that Ritchie was torn between his natural generosity and the knowledge of how little food there was for his family. Generosity won.

"You're welcome to share what we have," he said as willingly as he could.

But suddenly I had seen what I had to do, and I shook my head at Ritchie.

"We've no time for breakfast. Tam's come to take me away. I'm going to Edinburgh. I'm going to try and see my uncle and help him if I can. I've still got my father's silver buckle. I'll sell it to pay my way. And then I'll find a way to send you news."

Tam's mouth had dropped open, showing his few crooked blackened teeth.

"Wait now, Maidie. I never came to take you away. It's a bit of rest I'm needing. The road's a hard place for an old man."

"I can't help that," I said mercilessly. "You can't stay here, Tam, anyway. There's no food—this family's practically starving. You're taking me to Edinburgh."

He stared at me, aghast.

"Edinburgh! It's an awful distance to Edinburgh. And how are we to live on the road? Walking's a hungry business."

"We'll find a way," I said firmly.

Ritchie was biting his lip and frowning at me.

"I can't let you do this, Maggie. It's too dangerous. Traveling without a permit's forbidden. You know that."

"Then we'll keep out of people's way," I said impatiently. "For goodness' sake, Ritchie, I escaped the executioner in Bute and found my way to Ladymuir on my own. Surely I can get myself to Edinburgh! Anyway, you don't know Tam. He's spent a lifetime creeping around Scotland, making himself invisible. He knows how to keep himself out of harm's way. He's so clever. He's always been able to get me out of trouble."

Tam simpered, looking foolishly pleased. Then his face dropped and he shook his head mournfully.

"It's not what I had in mind, Maidie. A little rest, that's what I'd hoped for. A little time to gather my strength."

"But I
need
you, Tam!" I cried. "I can't do this on my own!"

He shook himself and sighed.

"I never could resist you, darling. Not since you were a tiny little thing. What's that buckle of your father's worth, do you think? Would it stretch to a little whiskey now and then along the road?"