The Betrayal of Maggie Blair - By Elizabeth Laird Page 0,127
at last I slept.
***
Perhaps because they had been too afraid to help Uncle Blair when he had been imprisoned in the Edinburgh tolbooth, our hosts overwhelmed us with their hospitality. Cousin Thomas insisted on making new suits of clothes for each of us, fussing over which of his best woolen stuffs to use. He measured us and did the cutting out himself, before setting his apprentices to do the stitching. Cousin Sarah sent for the apothecary, who shook his head over Uncle Blair's hands, though he commended me for the use of burdock. He made up a salve but predicted that the fingers would never recover their full sensitivity and agility.
"You'll be able to steer a plow and grasp a scythe," he told him. "It'll be just the fiddly things that'll give you trouble, but your good lady, I'm sure, won't mind doing up your buttons for you."
I could tell that Uncle Blair was longing with all his being to start the journey home to Ladymuir, but even he had to admit that he wasn't strong enough to walk the distance. He submitted with as good as grace as possible to a few days of Cousin Sarah's nursing, though he was sorely tried by the interminable talk of French silks and Italian velvets that flowed from Cousin Thomas. Fortunately, after a day or two, word spread of his presence in Bells Wynd, and a succession of plainly dressed kindred spirits found their way up the narrow stairs to visit him. They exchanged news eagerly of friends who were still in prison, on the run, or banished, and they spoke severely of those who had given in and taken the Test. There was much talk of the great lords of Scotland, the hangings of the covenanting leaders in the Grassmarket, and most of all of the new King James.
"A papist king!" one would start, shaking his head. "He's set up an idolatrous altar in the palace at Holyrood not a mile from here!"
"There's a picture in it, so I've heard," another would add, "of a dove that's supposed to be the Holy Ghost. If that's not blasphemy, I don't know what is."
"Monks droning out masses..."
"The Beast of Rome..."
"The sorceries of the harlot pope..."
I didn't follow it closely, but I pricked up my ears at the news that Mr. Renwick was still free, still gathering the faithful out on the hillsides, preaching, praying, and dodging the Black Cuffs, who were still in hot pursuit. The memory of him confused me. I could resurrect the flutter in my heart when I thought of his smile and something of the exaltation I had felt as he preached, but I resented, too, the trouble his presence had brought to Ladymuir.
I offered constantly to help Cousin Susan, but she wasn't used to another woman in her kitchen and drove me away.
"Run up to the Luckenbooths', dear," she said, as if I was still a child. "A young girl likes a bit of finery. Here's a penny to spend."
I refused the penny but was glad to go out into the street. There was someone I wanted to see.
The steps down to Mistress Virtue's dungeon were more heaped with refuse than ever, and to my surprise the door was shut. I knocked on it, but no strident voice shrieked out an answer. I stood, wondering what to do, when a window opened above my head.
"Gardy loo!" came a cry, and I jumped aside as a chamber pot was emptied over the spot where I'd been standing. As the hand holding it disappeared back inside, I called up, "Excuse me!"
A woman looked out.
"What do you want?"
"I'm looking for Mistress Virtue. Her door's shut."
"She's dead," the woman said shortly. "And good riddance," and she pulled her head back in and slammed the window shut.
A pair of ragged boys had followed me down the steps, their hands held out to beg.
"No point asking me," I said. "I haven't got any money."
They scowled.
"Old Virtue, a friend of yours, eh?" said one of them. The other one chanted:
"Virtue, Virtue,
Dirty old hag,
Penny for a rag,
Sold her soul,
Died in a hole!"
More children appeared, and I was starting to feel uneasy. I backed up the close to the safety of the High Street.
"A witch!A witch! Died in a ditch! " they yelled after me.
Passersby were stopping at the noise and peering into the close.
"Old Virtue used to live down there," said one.
"Was she really a witch?" said another. "I often wondered."