The Betrayal of Maggie Blair - By Elizabeth Laird Page 0,73

over his shoulder. "All mounted! Seven or eight of them. With an officer at their head!"

Chapter 21

Seven men riding seven horses may not sound like a great crowd, but when we all spilled out of the house and saw them filling the yard, it seemed as if a whole regiment had come upon us. Their coats were as scarlet as spilled blood, their cuffs as black as beetles, and the eyes under their broad-brimmed hats were hostile and intent, like cats on the hunt. They didn't try to rein in their horses, but let them mill about nervously, and the clatter of hooves and the jingle of bit and bridle was as threatening as drums of war.

"Where's the man Blair?" said one. He looked grander than the others, with a silk sheen on his sash and silver brocade trimming his hat. I guessed he was an officer.

"I'm Hugh Blair," said Uncle Blair, gently detaching Nanny, who had been clinging to his knee. "And by what name may I call you?"

"Dundas, lieutenant of His Majesty's dragoons, though that's no business of yours."

The man was handsome, I suppose, in a cold way, with his long, high-bridged nose and piercing eyes. I had never seen such magnificence of dress before, such rows of polished buttons or such richness of lace edging on the cravat that foamed in a white cascade from his neck.

"He's come for the fine, Hugh, for non-attendance at the kirk," I heard Aunt Blair whisper. "Just give him the money."

The lieutenant hadn't heard her. He was nodding at two of his men. They leaped down from their horses and drew their swords. As the blades hissed from the scabbards, my stomach clenched with fright, and I found I was clutching at Grizel's arm for support. But the men went into the barn opposite the house, and a minute later we flinched at the bang as they kicked open the door of the storeroom.

"What are they doing in there? What do they want?" Aunt Blair cried out, thrusting Andrew into my arms and starting forward. Uncle Blair held her back.

"Keep calm, Isobel. Trust in the Lord, who is our strength and shield."

"Spew forth Scripture as much as you like, Covenanter," Lieutenant Dundas said with a sneer. "But listen to me." He put his hand inside his coat and pulled out a piece of paper. "I have a warning for you—and for everyone here. If you don't heed it, you will be sorry. As sorry as it is possible to be." He paused, looking around to check that all eyes were on him. "It concerns the traitor, the rebel, the bringer of terror, the so-called preacher James Renwick."

A grunt of anger came from Mr. Barbour, and I saw that his face was reddening. The lieutenant noticed it too.

"Who's this? Another damned covenanting Presbyterian, I suppose."

"Stephen Barbour of Barnaigh," Mr. Barbour said stiffly. "What do you want with James Renwick?"

"I shall be delighted to tell you." The lieutenant held up the paper, but I was watching, rigid with horror, as the two men who had gone into my aunt's storeroom appeared again, kicking in front of them one of her precious cheeses. They aimed for the stinking dung heap in the corner of the yard and crowed with triumph as the cheese sank into the filth.

The other troopers were guffawing in approval.

"...the vagabond Renwick," Lieutenant Dundas was reading. "A pretended preacher ... cast off obedience ... the most damnable rascal..."

Aunt Blair was holding her hand to her mouth, stifling whimpers of distress, as the men approached the well. They were unbuttoning themselves, winking back over the shoulders at their whooping comrades. Lieutenant Dundas smiled with satisfaction when he heard the faint splash of his men's urine hitting the pure water of our well and waited until they had buttoned their breeks. Then he raised a hand to silence his soldiers and began to read again.

"The words of our gracious sovereign Charles, king of Scotland: We command and charge all of our subjects that none of them presume to provide the said Mr. James Renwick, rebel, with meat, drink, house, or anything useful to him; or to communicate with him by word or letter or message in any way whatsoever, under pain of being guilty of the same crimes, and being pursued to the terror of themselves and others."

"Crimes! What crimes?" burst out Mr. Barbour. "How dare you sit there, man, on your high horse, and cast judgment on a true servant of the