The Highwayman's Curse (17 page)

W
ith darkness almost fallen, we set out, riding three abreast, with the voices of the men and Jeannie ringing in our ears as they wished us good fortune.

“And if ye meet wi' Douglas Murdoch himself, use your pistols on him and run him through wi' a sword for good measure!” cried Red, with glee.

Thomas had said something to Calum, perhaps to tell him to take care, and his son had nodded. Calum had then swung himself into his saddle with vigour. I suppose he was glad to have something with which to take his thoughts away from his sister, and to prove himself worthy to his father.

The moon was full that night, a perfect circle hanging low in a near-cloudless sky. Silver light drenched the land around us and the inky waters of the sea to our left. To our right, black hills leaned against the sky.

I kicked my horse forward and Calum had to urge his pony hard to keep up with us.

As we cantered into the night, relief at leaving that place grew into excitement. I looked across at Bess as we rode and she returned my look with a full smile. At that moment, perhaps foolishly, I believed I might persuade her to come with me after this night's work was done. Adventure ran in her blood and now it made my heart beat faster too.

Once we reached the road, we travelled westwards, making for a particular spot which Calum had said would suit our needs. Wordlessly, we cantered along the road. This, I knew now, was the road newly built by the soldiers, taking travellers from the east all the way to the far west coast. It amused me to know that it was the hated redcoats who had made our travel easier.

The chill wind could not pierce my good coat, and the clean kerchief round my throat gave me extra warmth. I was aware of every breath, every sense, every feeling. As we passed a small copse, the bitter scent of fox came to me and an eerie warning bark followed it.

We continued west. We knew not when Douglas Murdoch's men would pass, but we knew from Mad Jamie that it would be well after dark. Red had snarled something about the man being suited to the devil's hours.

Could we trust Mad Jamie? I had asked this earlier and had been told that he would not lie to us – his grandfather had been Old Maggie's cousin. “He's family,” Thomas had said. And his information came from one of Douglas Murdoch's men, a friend of Jamie's who, like many of them, had little love for his master.

Family. For a moment I had almost smiled.

Now, I hoped that we could indeed trust Mad Jamie.

We rode on, deep in our own thoughts, straining our eyes and ears in case we might see or hear something to fear. And it was as I tried to discern anything over the sound of our own horses' hoofs on the rocky road that I did indeed hear something else. At first, I thought it might be the echoes of our hoofbeats, but very soon I realized that it was not. I pulled Blackfoot to a halt, urging the others to do the same. They too had heard it.

More hoofbeats. Coming from ahead of us. Hurriedly, we moved off the road and into the shelter of some trees. I leapt from my saddle, flinging the reins to Bess, and, taking the pistols from my belt and half cocking them, moved carefully towards the road. Keeping myself hidden in the shadow of a tree, I peered into the night.

It was a single rider. On a small pony. He came closer. I strained my eyes. Was it someone we need fear? Who would be riding at such speed, alone, after dark?

The rider's legs and elbows flapped as he kicked his pony wildly. The pony's feet flew and soon I could hear the snorting of its breath.

“It's Mad Jamie!” cried Calum, as the pony flashed past. He was right. And if it was Mad Jamie, he could have information for us.

What made him ride now with such frantic haste?

“Jamie!” called Calum, and we left the trees. I leapt onto Blackfoot and, still fumbling my feet into the stirrups, followed the others in pursuit of Mad Jamie. But he was afraid and kicked his pony to ever greater speed, thinking perhaps that we were villains who meant him harm.

If his pony had not stumbled, I know not how long it would have taken us to catch him. But stumble it did, sending Jamie over its shoulder. He clung briefly to the animal's mane and neck but was unable to stop himself slithering to the ground. His pony, meanwhile, hung its foreleg loosely – it was lame.

When Jamie saw that it was only us, he gibbered with relief and almost cried as he tried to tell us what he knew. He had indeed been riding to meet us, with terrible news. His overlarge mouth spluttered, with too much spittle and too little control over his tongue. It took some moments more before we could understand exactly what he was trying to tell us. But, in the end, it was all too clear.

Douglas Murdoch had captured Iona and Robert as they tried to take a boat across the Solway. His son had tried to fight with him and in his fury Murdoch had carted him back home and locked him in the tower, thinking that some days without food would bring him to his senses. And as for Iona? Well, as for Iona, she had been taken away to be punished. And Mad Jamie feared for her safety – Murdoch's eyes had gleamed with more than anger, said his informer.

“Where?” demanded Calum now, fearful for his sister, no matter what she had done. “Where have they taken her?”

Mad Jamie shook his head, his eyes staring, snot hanging from his nose. His hands flapped as though he would shake away his terror.

Calum turned to Bess. “We must find her! We can no' leave her!” His love for his sister was clear. He seemed to have forgotten all his anger at her desertion of their religion. This I was glad of. But what would that matter, if Douglas Murdoch had taken her away to do something terrible to her?

How would we ever find her? She could be anywhere.

And then the truth hit me, a kick in the stomach.

I knew where Iona was. I knew it with the clarity of sharpened steel. I knew it with the horror of gunshot. I have had fear like that in a nightmare; but this was not a nightmare. This was real.

I knew where Iona was and why. And it was not simply a guess. There was a reason why I knew, and why only I could have known.

Trying to keep my voice level, I turned to Calum now, and to Mad Jamie. For either of them might be able to answer my question. “Where is the tide now?” Neither of them answered, confused by what I asked. “The tide!” I repeated. “Is it rising or falling?”

After a moment's hesitation, Calum answered. “'Tis rising.”

“Then go back to the farm. And hurry! Tell them what has happened and make them open the trapdoor! I'll meet you in the tunnel.”

Calum looked at me, his understanding slowly dawning. “God damn them to Hell! No! Ye canna be right!”

“I am right. I know – more than you think. There's no time to lose. Bess, follow me. Hurry!”

“I'll come wi' ye!” Calum was already gathering his reins, turning his pony.

“No! Jamie's pony is lame and you would not wish Bess to go back alone – you must go. Hurry!”

“She is my sister – I should go to her.”

“You shall – along the tunnel. Meet us, and show us the way. Tell your family what has happened and that they must have blankets ready.”

“What? Tell me what's happening!” Bess demanded.

Calum answered her, seeing the sense in my arguments. “Go wi' him, Bess. Will knows where Iona is! And for God's sake, hurry!” And with that, Calum kicked his pony and galloped back along the road with Mad Jamie following on foot, leading his lame pony.

A thought came to me of a sudden. “Jamie!” He stopped and turned, his face eerie in the moonlight. “When you reach the farm, send someone to the cliff path, to fetch our horses. Do you know where I mean?” He nodded and set off again. I could only pray he would remember.

Without further questions, for which I was grateful, Bess followed me as I set off. At first, we travelled in the same direction as Calum had, but very soon we took the turning off the road and onto the track towards the cliff.

And as I rode, desperately trying to recall what the track was like, not certain if I would know when to swing to the right and go down the cliff path, I could not help thinking of that tunnel with the fountains of water smashing against the rock face, that narrow tunnel, that tiny beach, the incoming tide. And that iron ring set into the side of the cliff. I could not help thinking of the way Old Maggie's mother had died, slowly drowned by the rising water.

But most of all I could not help thinking of the words I had read, roughly written on that piece of paper, in the box with the snake; words that I had burnt, intending that no one should ever read them, that no one should ever feel the chill that they sent down my back; that no one should ever know that Douglas Murdoch was truly evil. I had kept them to myself in order to preserve a kind of peace, or at least to stop more bloodshed.

But it had all been to no avail. Now surely there would be certain death: Iona's. And the words were still etched in my memory.

“Curst be the lass, like the wumman drest in white. In such a way shall death tak her by drooning. An' then will there be nae mair. So be oor curse.”

It must not be!

B
y moonlight we rode, the path a pale ribbon in front of us. A curlew wheeled and mewed its reedy cry overhead. I had no fear of curlews.

We could be seen, I knew. If anyone chose to watch our progress, the ground here was flat, with little cover of trees, and anyone could be watching. I tried not to think on this. I thought only of keeping to the right path, and of the sound of our horses, Bess's and mine, as they galloped willingly beneath us. We were Iona's only hope and we must not fail her now.

I turned to shout to Bess, the wind whipping my words away. “Take care – the path goes down the side of the cliff. Be ready.” She nodded, her lips tight shut, her face rigid with effort.

Just in time, I saw the place where our route must turn. Sharply to the right we swung, and slowed as the path rapidly descended. If I had been full of fear the first time I rode this way, I was the more so now. Though not for myself, but for Iona.

For some moments, the only sounds were of our horses' hoofs dislodging stones, stones which fell with sickening speed and then silence as they tumbled into empty air. Once, Blackfoot stumbled, and I lurched forward, clinging grimly to his mane, but I righted myself and we continued without slowing again until we came at last to the bottom of the path.

The tide was, indeed, rising. In truth, there was scarcely any beach remaining. We must leave the horses there. Once the tide had risen fully, there would be nowhere for them to go.

Bess asked me no questions. She must have understood that there was no time, and trusted that I knew what I was doing – though I confess I knew little enough. We dismounted and sent the horses back up the path, with firm slaps on their rumps. They were unwilling to go, standing looking at us as though to ask why we had brought them there. But we could not pause to consider them.

The strip of beach still uncovered by the tide was perhaps three or four paces from the water's edge to the cliff, in parts more and in parts less. There was no time to lose. “Follow me!” I urged Bess and we ran along this narrow strip. At one point the rock face swelled outwards, and here already the waves lapped hungrily at its base. We splashed through shallow, tugging water.

Now there was no turning back. Within moments that place would be deep with swirling sea. I tried not to think of the horses. They must find their way home. Or Jamie would send someone for them. We would find Iona in time and carry her up the passageway and the horses would be waiting for us at the farm.

How could I hope for so much? How could I not accept that Iona was probably dead, that perhaps we too might drown in those tunnels, that our horses would be lost to us, perhaps captured by Murdoch's men? I know not, merely that I could only hope.

Something rushed through my body, urging me on, forcing me to hope, lending extra speed and strength to my legs. I would not give up!

And now, dodging the nipping teeth of the waves, I could see the overhanging darkness of the cave. Moonlight did not enter here and at first I struggled to discern the back of the cave or the entrance to the tunnel.

Bess was close behind me. I could hear her quick breathing. We both held our bags above our heads, protecting the contents from the water. We would need the wicks of the tallow candles to be dry, for without them we would have no light at all in the tunnel – if we even managed to reach it.

Ahead of us here, the beach sloped downwards, so that the tide had already entered the main part of the cave. Where we stood now, as each wave receded, the water was at ankle depth. As each icy wave rushed in, our legs were soaked past our knees. I gritted my teeth against the clawing coldness. Pressing ourselves close to the rock face, we clung to each other and tried to stay upright as each wave passed. It was impossible not to gasp. Already we were shivering, soaked up to our chests by spray.

But I held onto one hope – that Iona had not drowned. If she was standing upright, she could not have done, I believed. The water was not deep enough. I called her name now, peering into the darkness, still struggling to make any speed through the water.

“Iona! Iona! We're here!”

No reply came. Only the sucking and spitting of the sea, and the whishing of a growing wind.

We forced our legs through the waves, close to the cliff face, with the water getting deeper as the sands sloped further downwards. With a jarring pain, my foot hit an unseen rock and I stumbled. At the same moment, a wave crashed into me and I lost my footing. I managed to stand upright, but another wave hurled itself at my face. Water entered my mouth as I gasped and my eyes stung with the salt. And I knew, in an instant, that the contents of my bag would be soaked and useless. But Bess's bag was still dry, or its contents would be. I would not think of failure. For failure would spell Iona's death, and perhaps ours.

Strangely, from that moment I felt no cold. A surprising warmth began to suffuse my body, my skin losing its feeling, my mind losing its fear. I thought only to find Iona and the tunnel and safety. Never had the smoky, dirty cottage seemed so desirable. Never had I wished so much to see the swarthy faces of Red and the others.

“Come on!” I shouted to Bess, more for my sake than hers. I firmly placed one foot in front of the other, gripping Bess's arm with one hand and any protruding rock that I could find with the other. By now, my eyes were used to the near-darkness of this cave and so it was then that I thought I saw Iona.

Yes! There she was! I could discern her small shape, slumped forward, against the cliff face at the back of the cave, where the swirling water was at its deepest, tugging at her waist.

My heart leapt. The water had not reached her face. She had not drowned. We pushed forward, further into the cave.

When Iona's family saw the terrible punishment she had suffered from Douglas Murdoch, then surely they would forgive her? Blood was surely thicker than water, and love stronger than hate.

“Good God!” cried Bess, still holding her bag above the water. “What have they done?”

We reached Iona as the waves snarled and crashed around us. I gripped the iron ring for balance. “Hold tight!” I called to Bess. The sea could beat us yet. She gripped the iron ring above Iona's head and between us we supported the girl's limp body as I took the knife from my belt and began to saw against the ropes that bound her.

I suppose a part of me noticed her coldness, her dead weight as she slumped. I suppose I saw that she made no response, no movement, no sign that she knew we were there. But I could not bear to think what that might mean.

Only when her ropes were cut and she fell forward into my arms, did I try to rouse her. Only then did I fear for the terrible chill of her body. Her face was close to my ear, her head lolling on my shoulder. No breath could I feel, no warmth from her mouth, no beating of her heart against mine. And her skin – how icy it was, how lifeless.

I shook her. Another wave hurled itself at us, stronger, angrier now.

“Hurry!” shouted Bess above the hollow roaring of the sea and the moaning of the wind in the cave. “The tide is rising fast! Where's the tunnel?”

“Over there!” I shouted, pointing towards the opening, a few paces further round the rock face. I lifted Iona until she was hanging over my shoulder, and pulled myself through the water. Bess grabbed my arm and pulled me too. Between us, we reached the opening.

The tunnel mouth gaped in front of us. It spelt safety. Yet, what terrifying safety! I remembered with what brutal power the waves had spouted through the passageway. I had been told how quickly the sea's strength would force them through the narrow opening. But there was no time to think on that now. The waves rushed in and out, now covering the ground underfoot, then swishing back, spitting shells and shingle and seaweed. The tunnel floor was higher here, the waves slapping only at our ankles and knees, but each wave seemed to shoot into the opening with greater power. There was no time to lose.

Iona was a dead weight over my shoulder as I stumbled as fast as I could into the tunnel entrance. The ground sloped sharply upwards here, for which I was glad. Although my breath rasped in my chest, I had the strength of three men that night. Goaded by the waves behind me and by terrible fear for Iona, I would not slow down. I could hear Bess behind me.

Climbing steeply up the steps hewn into the rocky floor by man and water, very soon we were above the waves, though I knew they would continue to rise, and quickly. Yet, at that moment, I believed we could climb faster than they.

But I had not counted on the darkness. Within moments, we were in pitch blackness. I stumbled, cutting my hand on the sharp floor and grazing my elbow. I felt Iona's body crash against the side of the wall.

We could not go on. We needed light. I stopped. Bess's voice came through the darkness, reading my thoughts.

“Wait!” she gasped. “I'll light a candle.” I gently placed Iona on the ground, lowering her body as carefully as I could. Not knowing what else to do, I slapped her hands together, pinched her cheeks, called her name. She did not stir. I wanted to believe that she was merely in a faint, that she had swooned through cold, or fear.

I feared that this was not the case.

I could hear Bess fumbling with her flint, striking it several times, many times, against the tinder. It must have been damp too, despite her best efforts. God was not on our side and I knew not why.

But suddenly, with a rasp, a spark became a tiny flame, lighting the wick of the candle that Bess held carefully on the tinder. Quickly she shielded it with a hand and I watched the flame grow. Once the lantern cover was round the candle, it would not go out, not unless a wave covered it.

It was at that moment, in that flickering light, that I saw the worst thing of all. On the side of Iona's head, between the strands of hair, was a small, perfectly round hole, blood encrusted on its edges.

Trepanning. Douglas Murdoch had trepanned her skull.