Bitter Magic Page 14

  Bessie crinkled her face into a smile. “Tis a lovely poem, dear.”

  “It’s from the play about this very castle called Macbeth. I found it in Aunt Grissel’s library, but please don’t tell Mother or Mistress Collace, as they might disapprove. It doesn’t have a Christian theme.”

  “What kind of story is it, then?”

  “A gruesome tale about the ancient kings of this land, and how they betrayed and murdered each other. How ghosts came back to haunt the living, people cursed one other, and witches cast spells.”

  Bessie sighed. “Not so different from our times, then.”

  “Oh, but, Bessie,” Margaret protested, “we have our faith and our kirk now. And we Covenanters fight for truth and for God, not for greed and power.”

  Upon hearing her own words, Margaret paused to wonder. Was this really true? There had been so many battles and so much bloodshed in recent years—throughout her lifetime, in fact. How could people say they were fighting for truth and God when they were killing? According to the Bible, killing was a sin. It was murder. It went against God’s law.

  And now Henrietta. Thank the heavens she was home. But what had happened to her at the MacDonalds’ camp?

  They drove into the courtyard at Kilrock, and there stood the new tower. Higher than the house, the square edifice formed an ell and dominated the courtyard. Kilrock had been created by the same architect who had designed Cawdor Castle, but it was smaller. Like the Campbells, the Roses were an ancient clan, but not so rich and powerful.

  Henrietta was expected to marry George Campbell, the son of Sir Hugh, Laird of Cawdor, so that the families combined would be more powerful, and Henrietta always smiled dreamily when George’s name was mentioned. Would anything be changed now?

  The carriage bumped along the road into Kilrock Castle, wending through fields of rye and oats. Kilrock, on level ground, unlike Inshoch, sat in soft countryside, with fields framed by spring-blooming trees. Resting above the River Nairn, the castle boasted gardens and walks with unusual trees, like the Monkey Puzzle and a strange twisted oak. As children, Margaret and Henrietta had run in and out amongst them, giving them names like “the Octopus,” the “Stout Elf,” and “the Tickler.”

  The day was sunny and bright, and as they approached, the stone walls of the castle looked almost cheerful against the green of the trees and blue of the sky. Henrietta’s real home was the manse at Nairn, where her father, Hugh, was the minister; but she and her mother stayed at the castle now for extra protection.

  Margaret gathered her skirts, stepped down from the carriage, and pulled her cloak around her shoulders. She had put on her finest blue satin gown with the embroidered bodice today, to honor Henrietta and show respect to the Rose family after Henrietta’s ordeal. In the courtyard Margaret twirled around, letting her skirt flare out a bit. This deep shade of blue was flattering, Bessie had said, to her pale skin and dark hair. Everything should come right on such a perfect day.

  Two guards came from the door and stood at attention.

  Ben Buchan stepped down from the carriage. “The Lady Margaret, daughter of the Laird of Park, to see the Lady Henrietta,” he announced.

  From the door came two lady’s maids who quickly ushered Bessie and Margaret into the castle: through the great hall with its noble portraits and aroma of baking bread, down a corridor, up a set of narrow stone steps, and into the chamber where Henrietta lay in bed. Her mother, Lady Anne, sat beside her in a chair.

  Lady Anne’s shoulders were hunched and tense over Henrietta, who appeared tiny and frail as she lay still under the bedclothes. She stared up to the ceiling of her bed canopy and glanced without expression at Margret and Bessie as they entered and sat in proffered chairs.

  Margaret bit her lip. What could she say? The friend she knew was lively and sparkling . . . not this bleak-looking lump in the bed. She pulled her chair closer and took Henrietta’s hand in hers. Henrietta’s eyes filled with tears, and she turned her head away.

  “My dear friend,” Margaret said. She and Henrietta were the same age and had been friends since they were children, but they had always been protected from the fighting and violence of these gruesome times. Now the violence had come to them . . . to Henrietta.

  Margaret looked at Lady Anne, whose light brown hair fell in loose locks across a worried face, so different from her usual welcoming smile. Henrietta turned and slowly sat up. Her face was almost as white as her nightdress, and her hair hung loose and limp.

  Margaret swallowed. “What happened?”

  Lady Anne shook her head. “She rode her horse out to the strand.”

  “You know my horse, Michael,” Henrietta began.

  “Of course—Michael, the stallion with spirit, Saint Michael the archangel,” Margaret said, trying to bring some cheer into Henrietta’s eyes.

  Henrietta’s ashen face lifted in a wan smile.

  Lady Anne wrinkled her nose. Like Margaret’s parents, she and Mister Hugh did not believe in saints.

  “You stayed on the strand to walk in the sunset,” Margaret said. When she looked at Henrietta, she couldn’t stem the tears any longer. “But I’ll never forgive myself for leaving you there.”

  Henrietta stared bleakly at the canopy ceiling. “If you had stayed, they would have captured you, too.”

  Lady Anne shook her head again. “You lasses are no longer children, and you have been told how dangerous these jaunts and hijinks are.” Henrietta pressed her lips together and looked about to cry again.

  “I had just dismounted from Michael when they swooped in,” Henrietta said. She sank down under the mountain of bedding and jutted her chin out defiantly.

  “MacDonalds,” Margaret whispered.

  “Yes, the roughest lads I’ve ever seen, and they smelled terrible! Like sweat and dung and clothes that had never been washed.” As silent as she had been until now, Henrietta spilled the words out in a tumble. “They pulled off my snood, and my hair flew about. They rode me to your castle, where they took all the cattle and the grain, and then up the mountains to the south, where they had a kind of camp hidden in the rocks, and they—” She stopped, and her whole body squeezed together into a hump like a baby. “I can’t say it.”

  Lady Anne sat on the bed, her head bowed, shoulders heaving as she wept silently. “At least some of the English soldiers are good Christian lads,” she said, sniffing. “They found the camp and captured the villains.”

  “And brought Henrietta back,” Margaret finished. Lady Anne nodded. Margaret wouldn’t boast about her own part in this or mention the dashing lieutenant. Perhaps she would tell Henrietta later.

  Bessie, who had been standing aside and listening carefully, now moved up to the bedside and took something out of her gown. “My lady, this herb is known for the easing of this kind of pain.”

  Lady Anne looked up with a puzzled expression.

  “And there is a special charm, for this wound is one we have known in the farmtown. When the English came from the Battle of Auldearn, they took no mind of the people, and ravished our lasses as they pleased. But the wound can heal, and the soul can heal, as well.”

  Lady Anne sighed and stood up. “Please, say the charm, Mistress Wilson.”

  “I’m sorry, my lady, but my power is not so great as that cunning woman in our farmtown, a Mistress Gowdie,” Bessie replied.

  “Isobel Gowdie?” Margaret cried out. “I thought you disapproved of her!”

  “She is a cunning woman, a wise woman, and a storyteller. She has the power to heal with her magic and her charms, but she also has the power to harm, and a cunning woman can be dangerous. But when you seek her out for healing, she is obligated to help. That is the natural law.”

  “I have heard that cunning women can heal when the leeches and physicians, can’t,” said Lady Anne. “In fact, the doctor who
came to heal my husband of the ague bled him so much that he nearly died.”

  “That’s all he knows,” Bessie sneered. “Bleeding.”

  “I wish we had known of Mistress Gowdie then. But now,” said Lady Anne said in a most authoritative manner, “we must call this cunning woman to come.” She stood up with her belly protruding, as she, too, was expecting another child.

  “We will bring her to you,” Margaret declared, and bent over the bed to hold Henrietta in her arms. “My dearest friend.” Henrietta smiled weakly, but turned her head away, again retreating into silence.

  The horses were ready to gallop. They stomped and snorted as Ben Buchan brought them out from the stable. He seemed barely able to control them, but Margaret knew Mister Buchan was a skilled driver, and she had no fear as she stepped into the carriage.

  Bessie’s face registered consternation, but Margaret was excited and called out, “Let us see how fast they can go! I’m ready to fly!” She knew not why she was feeling such exhilaration after she’d just seen her dear friend laid so low. One shouldn’t be so happy when Henrietta was ill, but perhaps it was because Henrietta was back, and she would heal.

  Margaret herself was not ill; she was well and alive, and feeling the thrill of living. “Faster!” she called to Mister Buchan, laughing at the expression on Bessie’s face, which was a look of amusement rather than the disapproval she had expected. And then both Bessie and Margaret began to laugh, not knowing why. The more they tried to suppress and compose themselves, the harder they laughed. The carriage rattled and bumped as it bounced along the road. The two women looked away and held their mouths, but then one of them would look back, and then the other, and a giggle turned into a laugh and then a shriek.

  “Ho and arrête!” a command roared from outside the carriage. A flash of redcoat. The horses hurtled to a stop. The carriage jerked and halted.

  Red-faced and laughing, with tendrils of hair falling over her eyes, Margaret thrust her head out the window. There, on his black steed and holding the carriage reins, sat Andrew Massie, his coat unbuttoned and posture easy, sandy hair sweeping across his face. He was completely at ease, as if he and his horse were one being, in rhythm with the sky and the undulating hills behind him. He looked at Margaret, whose hair and bonnet were in disarray, and smiled.

  “Oh!” She clutched her head, humiliated to have been seen in this state. “You again!” she cried in her most outraged tone of voice, “What are you doing?” She was completely flustered, so drawn to him, but angry now. How dare he smile?! These condescending redcoats.

  “Rescuing you from a tumble, my lady.” He laughed.

  “Rescuing me? My driver knows every inch of this road, and we were just having a bit of a frolic!” She retreated back into the carriage and folded her arms against her chest. But then she shook herself and thrust her head out the window again. He was still sitting there on his horse, a sweet smile on his face beneath his wide-brimmed hat, his leather jerkin unlaced. “But I must thank you for rescuing my friend!” she said. “She is home, thanks be to God, and recovering well.” Still flustered, Margaret tried again to push back the hair that had escaped from her bonnet. “Thank you, Lieutenant Massie.”

  He bowed and tipped his hat, and Mister Buchan smiled at Margaret from the driver’s seat. The horses snorted, impatient to be off. Margaret let out a strangled kind of giggle, then quickly pulled herself back into the cab and closed the curtain. As the carriage rolled, she dropped her head down onto her lap. “How could I behave so?” she cried. “He’ll think me a flibbertigibbet!” Bessie stroked her back.

  Andrew. A lovely name.

  Chapter 25

  Margaret saddled Miranda and leapt up onto the saddle—sidesaddle this time, as befitted a lady. She spread her skirts decorously over her legs and boots. The groom and stable boy were mucking out the stalls and did not pause or look up when she left the barnyard.

  Bessie had said that Isobel was dangerous, but how? Surely Margaret would have heard something about it. And Henrietta, too, had implied that Isobel might be evil. But Henrietta hadn’t even met Isobel. Isobel was a healing woman with the intent to do good, and Bessie, though she seemed to disapprove of Isobel, had also said cunning women were obligated to help when someone asked.

  Margaret would ask.

  She crossed the road, barely visible under the sand, and rode onto what used to be the path. Miranda was accustomed to walking on the shingle, so it was no trouble for her. Soon, she broke into a trot, and the pair rode along the ridge toward the farmtown. They proceeded down into the farmyard, where the sand was deeper, and slowed down.

  Loud, arguing voices were emanating from Isobel’s hut.

  “Ye’ve done it now!” a man was shouting. “Raised the wind to ruin us all!” A woman’s high voice screeched an angry stream of Gaelic.

  Margaret heard a loud thump and another voice, Isobel’s this time. “Ow! Ye nasty cur! Son of an evil beast! I curse ye to be drowned at sea!”

  “Ye’ll not be using yer evil curses on me!” Another wallop. A black-haired head emerged from the door hole, then a long black beard. Red-faced, Hugh Gilbert straightened to a towering height, glanced at Margaret, and stomped away.

  Next, a disheveled-looking young woman burst out of the door hole and shouted, less to Margaret than to the world in general, “She done it! She raised the wind and ruined us all!” And she, too, strode away across the yard. In short order, three children came out and scattered, running in different directions.

  Was that woman blaming Isobel for the sandstorm? How strange, Margaret thought. Were these people, as her mother had said, really “riddled with superstition?”

  Margaret dismounted. Should she go into the hut? “Mistress Gowdie?” she called softly.

  She heard a faint voice. “Aye, lady. Come.”

  Margaret tied her reins to a post, bent down, and stepped inside. She heard a moan. On the other side of the fire pit lay a heap of dress and wild blonde hair. Isobel raised her head.

  Margaret knelt down beside her. “Mistress, are you hurt?”

  Isobel raised her head, revealing a bruise on her cheek and a swelling that almost obscured her eye. Margaret leaned in closer, gingerly wrapping an arm around her. Isobel inclined her body into Margaret with a sigh. Such sadness, such a pity, that this extraordinary being had to be subject to a brutal husband. What could she do? Margaret stayed still, and both were quiet. She couldn’t rescue this woman from her downtrodden life any more than she could change the violence and killing in the wars, but she could offer comfort.

  Isobel pointed to the entryway. “My basket.”

  Now accustomed to the dark room, Margaret found the basket and brought it. Isobel rummaged through it and removed a small bottle. She opened it and poured something onto her hand, then rubbed her face and muttered words that Margaret could barely hear:

  The lith to the lith, till all took nith;

  Our Lady charmed her dearly Son,

  With her tooth and her tongue, and her ten fingers;

  In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost.

  Isobel stood up now and gestured for Margaret to follow her outside. In the yard, Isobel walked up to Miranda. “A fine one, ain’t ye, m’dear?” she said, stroking the horse’s neck.

  She turned to face Margaret, and Margaret started.

  Isobel’s face was clear—no swelling, no bruise, no redness.

  “But,” Margaret stammered, “your face—? The charm—?” She could say no more and could only gape at Isobel.

  “Aye.”

  Margaret let out her breath. “You really are a healing woman.”

  “And you are a good woman, Lady Margaret.” Isobel took Margaret’s hand, and Margaret felt herself blushing to feel this new closeness with a woman so different from herself.

  Isobe
l straightened and stepped back. “What brings you here today?”

  “A similar matter . . . a matter of healing. But first, I must thank you for helping us find Lady Henrietta.” Margaret went to her saddle, took ten pence out of the saddle bag, and handed the money to Isobel.

  Isobel quickly tucked it into her bodice. “And how fares the Lady Henrietta? Is she to home?”

  “Yes, she is home, but she fares poorly. Her mother, the Lady Anne, begs for your presence, that you would come with a charm to heal her.”

  “She was raped then, was she?”

  That word again. It came like a blow, and Margaret stepped back.

  “Ravished by the MacDonald lads?”

  Margaret lowered her head. “No one has said so. But she was hurt, and in other ways, too.” She didn’t know for certain, as no one had spoken about the violence Henrietta had experienced. It had all been communicated in lowered eyes and shaking heads and tears, leaving Margaret to fill in the details with her “wild imagination.” And of course, she had done so, seeing Henrietta stripped and beaten and violated in all kinds of ways.

  “I’ll go to my kist.” Isobel stepped back into the hut. When she reemerged carrying her basket, she looked at Margaret through lowered lids. “This will require a special charm, and it may take some time.”

  “The Lady Anne will pay you well.”

  “And I’ll call on the fairies.”

  “The fairies help, too?”

  “Oh, aye! They add to my power.”

  “Power?”

  “Power to heal and power to harm,” Isobel said proudly.

  Margaret shivered. She should not have come into this house. Her father hadn’t said it recently, that she must not cross the threshold of “that poor wretch . . .” but he had, with a look of fear, told her to stay away from the farmtown. Not that he would have called it fear. He would probably have used a word like “perspicacious” or “decent” or “not according to the Lord.” Her father was a pious man and wanted to keep her safe.