The Betrayal of Maggie Blair (31 page)

***

The clatter of a bottle dropping to the stone floor woke me a couple of hours later. I lay bewildered, not knowing where I was, staring with fright at the two enormous black shadows flickering across the ceiling. I turned my head and saw that they were cast by Mistress Virtue and Tam, who were sitting with their heads together by the fire, cups in their hands and an empty bottle rolling by their feet.

"Where did you get this money from, you old sinner?"

Mistress Virtue was holding a coin up to the light, squinting at it.

"You don't want to know, my dear."

"Oh, I do, Tam. I do."

"Well, then, it fell from a gentleman's pocket in all the turmoil at the city gate this evening. What could I do? If I hadn't caught it, someone else would have done so. But don't tell the girl. An awful tight conscience she has in these sorts of things. And she's been living with the strictest Presbyterians this past year."

Mistress Virtue tucked the money away in a hidden pocket. I closed my eyes. I didn't want to know about Tam's crimes.

"Is she one of them fanatics? Does she hold with all their nonsense?"

I listened for Tam's answer.

"My Maidie? No! She's a sensible one. She'd lay down her life for a friend, but not for some minister's rant about the rights and wrongs of who rules the kirk."

I bit my lip, half ashamed that what Tam had said was true.

"But you have to wonder at them, when all's said and done," Tam went on. "Stubborn! It's not the word for it. They hold to their beliefs unto death. Did you hear about the two women in Wigtown? They wouldn't take the oath, so off they were bundled, down the beach at low tide, and tied to stakes. Up comes the water, slowly, slowly, covering their feet, and then their legs, and then their bodies, and at last their heads. One was just a young girl. The people kept saying to her, 'Give in, give in, you silly wee fool,' but she wouldn't. She stood there, singing away, till the water filled up her mouth."

I felt goose pimples rise along the length of my body and had to cover my own mouth with my plaid to stop myself from crying out. Tam shook his head, sighed, and took another swig of his bottle. "Crushed bones, lopped ears, turned out of their farms and houses—and all for the sake of a word or two! Fools, the lot of them, if you ask me."

"Fools and worse," growled Mistress Virtue. "They've set the whole nation at each other's throats and brought the English soldiers in to persecute us. Who are they, to think they're so perfect? They've done their share of executing and ambushing and murder. You know what they shriek when they go in to fight the soldiers?
'Jesus and no quarter!'
It doesn't make it any better if you sing psalms while you're drawing blood."

Tam belched, and Mistress Virtue yawned. They drained their cups and lurched to their feet. I heard them settle themselves in different corners of the cavernous room, and then I turned over and fell back into a deep sleep.

***

Edinburgh by daylight was less alarming than Edinburgh by night, but I still had to stop myself from clutching at Tam's arm as we stepped up from Mistress Virtue's gloomy cellar into the racket of the crowded High Street. Among the brightly colored coats and gowns, the immense wigs of the men, and the long curled locks of the ladies, I felt as out of place as a dull brown sparrow in a crowd of squawking jays. The working women with their pails of milk and fish for sale might have been as poor as I had always been, but they looked smarter than me and sharper, fast in their speech and quick in their gestures.

They'll be laughing at me,
I thought.
They'll be thinking I look stupid.

I needn't have worried. In Rothesay or Kilmacolm, a stranger was never ignored. Curious eyes would be on them, and they would be greeted and questioned by everyone. I pinned a half smile to my lips and prepared responses to the curious inquiries I was sure would come, but to my surprise no one noticed me at all. Eyes slid past me. People called out to each other over my head. I might have been one of the dogs that lay and scratched themselves against the wall of the massive stone building that stood right across the road.

"What is it, this big place?" I asked Tam.

"The tolbooth, dearie. A grim old pile of stones, eh? I should know. I've passed a night or two in it myself. A good thing your uncle's off and away up in the countryside, wouldn't you say?"

The sinister fortress, with its small barred windows and heavy iron-bound door, made me shiver. I heard again the clang of the prison door in Rothesay as it slammed behind Granny and me and felt the clammy chill of its dripping walls against my skin.

I looked up toward the building's high roof. It took me a moment to recognize the blackened and grinning balls jammed on top of poles as heads that had once belonged to living men. Tam heard me gasp and looked up too.

"Are they Covenanters, Tam?"

He pulled at my hand.

"Come away from here. How should I know who the gentlemen are? Leave them to the crows. Let's go up the town and look at all the sights. A little caution, that's all we need, in case there are some who might be more pleased to see me than I am to see them."

I forgot to be self-conscious as we walked up Edinburgh's great street and felt even less so as I noticed, among the bright clothes, some plain brown coats and simple gray gowns like those my uncle and aunt wore. One of the Puritan men even bowed at me gravely, and I felt comforted, in an odd way, as if I'd received a sign from Uncle Blair.

"When are we starting out for Dunnottar?" I asked Tam. "How long will it take us to get there?"

He looked dismayed.

"Maidie, we've only just arrived in Edinburgh! This poor old man needs a little time to rest and recover himself. Old Virtue will keep us a day or two longer. She'll feed us well and set us up."

"And give you too much whiskey," I said severely. "How are we going to pay her?"

It was mean of me to ask, I suppose, when I'd heard him talk about the purse he'd stolen, but I knew Tam. If I gave him the chance, he'd settle down happily in Edinburgh to drink away all the money, and I'd never get him to help me find my uncle.

Tam had looked confused for a moment, but he recovered at once and waved an airy hand.

"Virtue won't ask us for money. She's an old friend. Heart of gold. You wouldn't believe it, Maidie, but she was as beautiful as a spring morning once, before her husband caught her with—well, never mind that—and threw a pan of boiling oil at her face."

"Is that how she became so scarred?"

"It is. And there's a good lesson in that, as your minister friends might say. It's best not to nag a fellow. You might make him lose patience and drive him to violence."

I couldn't help laughing at the neat way he'd got the better of me.

"You'd never be violent to me, Tam, I know that, however much I nagged."

"No more I could, darling, but don't try me, eh?"

"But what about Uncle Blair?" I said, serious now. "Think of him, Tam! He might be starving and ill. He might be dying!"

Tam gave a gusty sigh.

"Oh, aye, well, you're right. We'll have to go on and pursue the man. But one more day, eh, Maidie? Just give me another day."

"Tomorrow's Sunday, anyway. Uncle Blair wouldn't want us to set out on a journey on the Sabbath day. We'll go on Monday. Agreed?"

But Tam didn't answer. He was looking over my shoulder. I thought for a moment that he had seen an old persecutor and was about to dive off down the nearest wynd. Instead, his mouth opened in a grin.

"Here's a thing! What a stroke of luck! It's Mr. Bannantyne himself, if it's not his ghost or his twin."

I spun around. Coming down the High Street toward us was a short, red-faced man in a blue coat. It was easy to see, from his wig to his buckled shoes, that he was a gentleman, but as he came nearer, I noticed that his cravat was old and torn and the heavy cuffs of his coat were frayed, with buttons missing. He was deep in conversation with a tall spidery man, all dressed in black, who was carrying a leather satchel under his arm.

Tam stepped out into their path and bowed, flourishing his dreadful old bonnet.

"Laird Bannantyne!" he said. "You won't remember me, but I'm a fellow countryman of yours. From the Isle of Bute!"

Mr. Bannantyne frowned, then nodded, and a grim little smile tightened his lips.

"A Buteman, indeed. I'd know that from your accent. But I do remember you, as it happens. And I remember that fine trout you poached from my stream. Or was it a salmon? Not to mention the hares and partridges and goodness knows what else of mine that ended up in your cooking pot."

"Oh no, Mr. Bannantyne. You were good to me that day, and I repaid you in kind. I never poached from you again."

He looked so sincere that even I believed him.

"I'm glad to hear it," Mr. Bannantyne said dryly. "But I have business with my lawyer. If you would step out of our way—"

"Business!" cried Tam. "That's the very word. This young lady has some business with you, sir. Maggie, tell Mr. Bannantyne."

He drew me forward. I stood blushing like a fool, tongue-tied, not knowing what to say.

"Her name's Maggie Blair," Tam said helpfully. "Her father was Danny Blair, the drover who used to take your cattle from Keames to Dumbarton."

"Stop! This is outrageous!" A thunderous scowl was dragging Mr. Bannantyne's brows together. "How dare you, sir? How many more impostors are going to come crawling out of Bute? I'll have you taken up, the pair of you." He turned a furious face to the lawyer. "What punishment does the court impose for fraud, Mr. Shillinglaw? It's severe, I hope. Don't you ever, either of you, dare to approach me again, or, by God, I'll have you!"

He stalked off, the curls of his chestnut wig bouncing in indignation against his shoulders.

"What was all that about?" I said, bewildered. "What put him in such a temper?"

Mr. Shillinglaw coughed, and when he spoke, his voice rattled in his long throat, which was as pink and raw as a plucked chicken's.

"Mr. Bannantyne dislikes to be imposed upon," he said, "and so do I. Good day to you."

"Stop!" Tam darted to block his way. "I know you! You're wee Timmy Shillinglaw, from Kilmichael on the west of Bute. Your daddy was murdered, poor fellow, by the Highland hordes when they came raiding. Don't you know me, Timmy? I'm the piper who played the lament at the good man's burial. You were crying so hard I thought your little eyes would pop out."

The lawyer, who was as tall and thin as a birch sapling, rocked on his feet, recovered himself, and poked his head forward, frowning at Tam.

"Maybe you are who you say you are," he said huffily. "I don't remember. In any case, 'wee Timmy' is not the name I'm known by in Edinburgh. Mr. Shillinglaw is a more common form of address for a Writer to the Signet at the Court of Session."

"Aye. Quite right. So it would be," Tam said, looking abashed. "My memory of that sad day and of your noble father carried me away. It's a long time, after all, since you left the island and became so fine a gentleman. But since we're old friends, in a manner of speaking, do please tell me why Danny Blair's daughter is a sight so upsetting to Mr. Bannantyne?"

"Firstly," said Mr. Shillinglaw, ticking his point off on one stick-thin finger, "Danny Blair had no living children at the time of his death, as you well know. And moreover"—he ticked off the second point—"this is the second young woman to claim that honor and to approach the Laird of Keames to settle on her a debt that he owed to her father."

His words struck me like a dash of freezing water.

"What are you saying? That I'm not my father's daughter? I know my mother died when I was born, but my daddy was mine! I remember him throwing me up in the air. He wouldn't have done that if I wasn't his, would he, Tam! Tam?"

Mr. Shillinglaw wagged a finger at me.

"You can't deceive me, young woman. When Daniel Blair died, Mr. Bannantyne wrote a letter to the farmer at Scalpsie Bay, who also owed the man some money, asking him if he knew of any heirs to whom the debts to Mr. Blair should be paid. The farmer answered categorically that Mr. Blair's only child had died along with its mother at the time of its birth, and that consequently no debt was still owed."

He glared at me triumphantly. I could say nothing. Mr. Shillinglaw's words were spinning around my head like leaves tossed in a whirlwind. They settled only slowly to form a pattern that I could understand.

"The farmer at Scalpsie—that must have been Mr. Macbean. The letter Annie found and read—it must have been the one from Mr. Bannantyne. Mr. Macbean lied about me when he wrote back, so that he could keep the money. And Annie, she pretended to be me so she could steal it for herself !"

Mr. Shillinglaw pursed his lips, shook his head, and turned his back on us to stride on up the street. I felt a rush of rage so great I hardly knew what I was doing.

"Wait!" I shrieked. "You! Lawyer!"

He quickened his pace. I raced after him and grabbed his arm, forcing him to spin around.

"I've been tricked, swindled, lied to, stolen from, and insulted. You can tell Mr. High-and-Mighty Laird Bannantyne that he can keep his stinking money. But if he gives a groat—one
groat
—to Annie, I'll tear that stupid wig from his head and rip it to pieces. And if anyone ever again dares to tell me that my name is not Margaret Blair, and that Daniel Blair of Ladymuir was not my father, or that Mary Wylie was not my mother, I'll—I'll..."

I couldn't go on. Sobs had cut my voice. People were staring at me, and a crowd was starting to form.

"Come on, Maidie, come away," said Tam, taking my hand. "We don't want all the loons of Edinburgh knowing our business."

I let him lead me away through the crowd, but I turned back to glare at Mr. Shillinglaw. He was standing looking after me, frowning.

My cooling temper left me feeling sick and shaky. By now, I knew to expect any trickery and meanness from Annie, but the revelation that Mr. Macbean had sent false information to Mr. Bannantyne set painful new thoughts running through my head.