Free The Highwayman's Curse by Nicola Morgan

your grandmother ready for bed. She will sleep here wi’ us tonight, no’ alone in her own cottage. She needs her sleep, do ye no’, my love?” And Old Maggie nodded. As Jeannie carefully climbed off the bed, avoiding the sleeping Tam, Billy came from the group huddled at the other end of the room and walked towards us, his huge frame rolling, and yet with perfect balance and ease. Gently, he took his grandmother beneath one arm, while Jeannie took the other, and they led her slowly from the dwelling.
    Jeannie was a woman who would do what needed to be done, I could tell. Such women, I see now, hold the world together, while men rip it to pieces with their wars and their false justice, always claiming God as their guide.
    Why could my mother not have been as strong as these women? But the women of my mother’s sort, high-born and soft, were worse than any man, for they did nothing, only took their easy lives and thought of no more than scent and silk and servants. This I had come to understand.
    Tam, meanwhile, began to stir, groaning. I went to him, not knowing if this was the whisky or a worsening of his condition. He opened his eyes and groaned again and gagged. I turned him gently so that he lay on his side, his good arm, and I reached for a tankard and held it by his mouth. He gagged again, but at first nothing came from him save thin, bubbling spittle. And then, indeed, he did vomit a little, as I held the tankard by his mouth.
    It was the whisky. He would suffer a sore head in the morning but he would not die. Now I dared hope further that we would be safe. As I stayed by him, reassuring him and adjusting the cloths where they bound his arm too tightly, Bess turned to Iona, who had returned from outside with a large jug of water. Calum was still away and the men sat and talked quietly at the other end.
    â€œIona, what did Maggie mean about the women being cursed?”
    Iona did not look at Bess but her answer was clear enough. “She is mad, aye she is. She says I’m cursed. Well, I am no’! She does no’ even care that her husband died today!” She did not cry, but her eyes were bright and I thought tears were not far away.
    â€œIona!” Jeannie was back, leading Old Maggie, with Billy helping. They had, I suppose, been out to the latrine and were now going to put the old woman to bed. “Where’s your heart, Iona? She doesna understand, ye ken that well.” Iona’s face clouded.
    â€œAye, I understand,” said Old Maggie. “He drowned at the stake, for he would no’ repent.”
    Iona looked away with a slight shake of her head. For a moment I thought less badly of her. What did she have to look forward to in this place? She was surrounded by madness and filth and men who drank whisky in quantities and the best she could hope for was to marry into another family who might be no better.
    â€œIona, take our guests to the well and the latrine. And then find them some blankets. We should sleep soon.” Wordlessly, Iona took a long metal stick, pierced it through a clod of peat from a pile, lit it in the fire, and walked out with no more than a glance at us. We followed. I carried the tankard of Tam’s whisky-reeking vomit. I, too, would do what must be done.
    It was by now nearly dark but it seemed early to be going to bed. However, I would not argue, tired as I was. Still my head thumped slightly behind my eyes.
    I breathed deeply in the fresh twilight air as we walked across the yard, our way lit by the blazing peat torch. Curlews called above us and the smell of the sea came salty and dry.
    â€œTell us about Old Maggie. Why does she say you are all cursed? You don’t believe in such things, do you?” I asked.
    Iona spoke freely now, outside, away from the undercurrents of anger inside. Still she did not look at us and there was an edge of bitterness to her voice. “When I was wee, I used to. I used to dream o’