The Hanging of Margaret Dickson Read online

  ‘Wake up, lassie. I’m not going any further. It’s time to get out.’

  ‘Are we in Newcastle?’ Maggie rubs the sleep from her eyes.

  ‘No. This is Kelso.’

  ‘Kelso?’

  ‘Aye, Kelso. If it is England you want you’d better find another cart.’

  ‘But where?’

  ‘Not my problem, lassie,’ he says and walks away.

  ***

  Snowflakes fly into Maggie’s eyes like burning sparks, her ears are frozen solid. She tries to ignore the cold, but as the ice crystals crunch beneath her feet, she can hardly feel her toes. The wind presses against her face, pulling and tearing at her so that her eyes and nose smart. She pauses by the water edge, through watery eyes she can just make out a market town. An old fisherman tips his hat as she passes by. It’s nearing dark, and Maggie doesn’t want to spend it out of doors – so she calls out to him.

  ‘Can you tell me how to get to the town across the river?’

  ‘That’s no town, lassie. That’s Maxwellheugh, a small village. There be no bridge to it though. But there be a good ford that way.’ He glances at her shoes. ‘How good are your boots?’

  ‘Well, they’ve seen better days. But a bit of cold water never hurt anyone.’

  The old man shivers. ‘Don’t get your feet wet in this weather, lass, unless you can help it. You’ll catch yourself the death of cold.’

  Maggie turns and walks in the direction he points. The ford is not a good one. But she has no choice, she must reach the village. So, she straightens her feet and holds both arms out at her side at shoulder height. Across the rocks she balances, one foot at a time. Her progress is slow, and then she wobbles as a stone crumbles beneath her. It’s a shock when she hits the water. The temperature is ice-cold, and it is as though a thousand needles are plunging into her feet. To make matters worse, a sharp stone tears through her heel, but she walks on, ignoring the pain. At the river’s edge she pours out the water from her boots and winces as she places them back onto her feet. In a daze she approaches the town, her body crying out for warmth as her feet shuffle through a blanket of white snow.

  A small cluster of dwellings loom ahead. Only one of them brightly lit. Maggie’s breath billows out like white clouds as she stumbles towards it. Was there ever a more welcome sight? The door’s heavy, she hasn’t the vigour to push it open. She collapses against it and almost falls to the floor, and then to her relief someone opens the door.

  ‘Sorry miss,’ a fat man passes by, tipping his hat.

  Maggie enters the tavern, unsteady on her feet, her whole person sprinkled in snow. A tall fair-haired woman approaches her with a puzzled expression, but Maggie’s passed caring, all she wants is to warm herself by a blazing fire.

  ‘For the love of God, what are you doing out on a night like this? You look chilled to the bone, child. Come – sit down and warm yourself by the fire. My name’s Isobel Lidgerwood, I’m the wife of the innkeeper.’

  Maggie nods and follows her to a raging fire, feeling so light-headed she might fall.

  ‘Thank you. You’re very kind.’

  ‘No trouble at all. You’re not alone are you? Surely not. A bonny lass like you.’

  ‘Aye, I am quite alone.’

  ‘No chaperone?’ The innkeeper’s wife glances at the door.

  Maggie shakes her head.

  The innkeeper’s wife smiles, revealing surprisingly white teeth. ‘Take a stool by the fire, lassie. You look chilled to the bone, did I say that already? Silly me, I forget what I say and repeat myself over and over.’ She calls over to a tavern wench, ‘bring us a couple of drams, Moll.’

  Maggie basks by the fire, enjoying its warmth, pointing her wet boots to the hearth so that steam rises off them. ‘Thank you for your kindness missus. I got wet crossing the ford. My boots are soaked and I think I cut my foot. I just need a place to stay for the night. I’ll be no trouble. I’m on my way to Newcastle to visit my aunt.’

  The woman turns to Maggie, her eyes like saucers. ‘Hush child. You must call me Isobel. Now stay here by the fire and keep warm, you’re awful pale. Let me help you take your boots off and take a wee look at that foot.’

  Maggie slumps backwards, her elbow resting on another stool. Isobel takes a look at her heel, turning it this way and that, and all the while Maggie’s stomach rumbles as the smell of delicious food wafts in from another room.

  ‘It’s just a scratch. But no doubt sore. How did you do it?’

  ‘I slipped crossing the ford.’

  ‘You foolish girl! What were you thinking walking about in weather like this? And what are you staring at, Angus McDonald? Put your tongue back in your mouth. Haven’t you ever seen a bonny lassie before?’

  ‘He’s curious, no doubt. Me being a stranger.’ Maggie shrugs her shoulders.

  ‘I don’t think it is that dear. Have you come far, lass? You must be hungry from your travels. Do you want something to eat?’

  Maggie knocks back her dram and wonders which question to answer first, in the end her stomach decides for her. ‘I’m famished, missus.’

  ‘Please call me Isobel. And you have come from?’

  ‘Musselburgh, near the Firth of Forth. Do you know it?’

  ‘Not heard of it. Jedburgh and Kelso are as far as I’ll go.’

  A bowl of broth is pushed in front of her. Maggie devours the lot, it is absolutely delicious. Maggie’s never tasted anything so good. ‘Is that meat in the broth?’

  ‘Aye, Adam slaughtered a pig earlier. He’s got some fine breeding stock. Have you tasted pork before?’

  Maggie laughs. ‘Never, I’m from fisher folk. We hardly ever eat meat, can’t afford it.’ Without appearing to be impolite, Maggie allows her gaze to travel around the room. Everything is so wide and welcoming in the tavern. There are plenty of comfortable seats, two hearths, and numerous rooms with wooden furnishings. In almost every area there are large torch lights, and they flicker from crude brackets on the stone walls, casting peculiar shadows onto the floor below.

  ‘It’s a pleasant tavern isn’t it, lass? You must stay here for as long as you like.’ Isobel pats her hand. ‘We have a large scullery for cooking and cleaning and several rooms above for staff and guests. I have a box-bed in one of the rooms; I’ll show you if you like.’

  Maggie is at a loss what to say. Her eyes feel heavy, as though there’s grit in them; she rubs at them with clenched fists but the action only makes them feel worse. Isobel holds out a hand, she takes it gladly and rises to stand.

  ‘How are you feeling now?’

  ‘Middling.’

  ‘Good, now come with me, lass.’ Isobel signals to one of the tavern wenches. ‘Pass us a candle and hold the fort.’

  The corridor is narrow and there’s an absence of torches. The silhouette of Isobel’s trim figure is just visible as she climbs a steep staircase, her tallow candle flickers and sputters, giving off an evil smell. One of the wooden steps is loose and in a state of decay, Maggie stumbles on it and near twists her ankle.

  ‘Careful, lass. You’ll know every step by the end of the morrow.’

  As they reach a hallway, Maggie is seized with apprehension, and as she searches in her pocket for some coins, she looks at the innkeeper’s wife with sleepy eyes, while Isobel herself looks at her with bewilderment, as if not understanding how a young woman such as this could be travelling alone.

  ‘This is the room,’ Isobel opens a door.

  ‘It’s beautiful. Is that a box-bed?’

  ‘Aye, lassie. You’ll no doubt find it cosy. It has a fine mattress stuffed with wool and when you close the doors it gets very warm.’

  Maggie takes a closer look. The room does not have much in terms of furnishings. But there is a chair and what appears to be a large wooden cupboard, closed on all sides by panels of oak. There are two hinged doors and a bed clear off the dirt floor by four short legs. In front of it is a large oaken chest, no doubt for storing bedding, clothes or linen.
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  ‘Thank you kindly for giving me a bed for the night. I am very grateful. ’ Maggie holds out a coin.

  ‘Put your money away and get some sleep. I’ll be along to see you in the morning. Sleep well, oh and there’s a lock on the door – be sure to lock it, there are other lodger’s here and well you can never be too careful.’ Isobel bids her farewell. But before she’s even out the door she turns on her heel and laughs to herself. ‘I can’t believe it.’

  ‘What?’ Maggie yawns, trying her hardest not to close her eyes.

  ‘I never asked your name.’

  ‘Maggie. Maggie Dickson.’

  ***

  Isobel Lidgerwood tugs her husband’s jacket again.

  ‘Leave me be, woman. Can’t you see I’m busy?’ He fiddles with a wooden barrel, lifting and turning it around as if it’s light as a feather, and all the while he glares at his wife with an exasperated expression.

  ‘But Adam, I want to tell you about the girl. You know the one that arrived earlier. Can’t you just stop for just a moment?’ Isobel stands in his way now, interrupting his work.

  ‘What’s all the fuss?’ Adam bangs down his tools, puffs out his cheeks and curses. ‘I’ve laboured here too long, and I’m not done yet. What is it, woman? I’ve work to do. Didn’t I tell you that I’m busy?’

  ‘A lass just walked in, Adam, all covered in snow – with no chaperone.’ She tugs on his jacket again. ‘Did you hear me, Adam? She’s all alone.’

  ‘Aye, and what’s so strange about that? She’s probably a gipsy sorner, or a beggar.’

  Isobel shakes her head and wrings her hands together. ‘No, Adam. Not this one. You’ve got to see her. God’s truth, she’s a bonny one, grand for business, mind. Folk will flock from all over Kelso to see a pretty fresh face, and we need a new serving maid since Bessie left.’

  Adam shivers as though someone’s danced on his grave. ‘Hah! Pretty faces bring nothing but trouble, woman. We don’t want any of that here. Does she look strong? The last woman, Bessie was it? She was weak as a kitten.’

  Isobel folds her arms over her modest bosom. ‘Aye, well this lass is not weak I can tell you. She looks strong as an ox and sturdy like, and her hands are worn. She’s done plenty of work for sure. You should see the size of her arms, Adam. She must have shifted some weight to get such big muscles. And that’s not the only thing that’s big about her. She’s got a fine pair of...’

  ‘Has she now? You’re a meddlesome jade, Isobel. Always thinking of business, aren’t you?’ He ruffles his wife’s fair hair and pulls her to him to give her a wee kiss.

  ‘Get off me, you daft beggar. You’re all bristles.’

  Adam wags a finger at her. ‘I’ll give her a try, Isobel. But if there’s any trouble, she’s out on her ear. Do you hear me?’

  ***

  Maggie climbs into the box-bed, closes the door hinges and then opens them, and then sneezes as a quantity of dust wafts up her nostrils. She lies back on the bed, stretching out her arms and legs on the soft mattress before turning onto her belly. The mattress smells of mildew and soft earth, and once the bedding is wrapped around her, she’s snug inside.

  Maggie peers into the dim light. Along the wall is a long trailing shadow, like a great slippery serpent riding crescent-shaped waves. The shapes dance and glimmer on the wall and for a while she watches them until her breathing becomes shallow, till finally she succumbs to a deep and restful sleep.

  Maggie’s in that most peculiar place between stirring and slumber. She can hear a knocking noise, but she can’t be sure if it’s reality or a dream. Before long, there’s no question she’s awake and so she pushes open the door hinges, climbs out the bed and steps into the dark. But who could it be at this hour? And why didn’t they leave her a candle? She fumbles in the dark for her plaid, hands grasping around until she feels the familiar fabric to gather around her.

  ‘Who is it?’ she enquires.

  ‘It is I, Adam Bell, the innkeeper,’ a gruff voice replies.

  Maggie unlocks the door. A middle-aged man stands outside; in each hand he carries a candle.

  ‘I was sleeping.’

  ‘Sorry to disturb you.’ Adam sucks in his stomach and hands her a candle, with his one free hand he runs a hand through what is left of his hair. ‘It’s the wife. She told me to fetch you. Said something about you wanting to work the night, for food and board?’

  ‘There must be a mistake,’ Maggie shakes her head and frowns. She examines the man before her; he’s rotund and as big as a bear.

  In the candlelight his eyes are dark like sea coal and his hair is coarse and wiry. ‘I’m only staying a night. I have money to pay for the room.’

  ‘But it’s blowing a blizzard outside. Have you anywhere else to go?’

  ‘Aye, Newcastle.’

  ‘You’re miles from there, lass. You must stay here for a while, there’s no hurry is there? We’re happy to have you here with us. We need an extra pair of hands, mind. We’re busy since the other tavern burnt to the ground, it’s those thatched roofs see. I warned them but they wouldn’t listen.’

  ‘Haven’t you other serving wenches?’

  ‘Aye, but we need an extra pair of hands.’

  Maggie suspects it’s a lie, but his eyes are so appealing, and she can sense his distress at disappointing his wife.

  ‘We’re short of maidservants, you see. The last one left in a hurry. Let’s just say she got herself in a delicate state.’ He pauses for breath and holds out a parcel. ‘This is for you. The wife told me to give it to you.’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘A dress.’

  ‘I have a dress. Why does your wife wish me to have it?’

  ‘She wants you to wear it. It’s fancier than the one she said you were wearing.’

  ‘How observant of her. Do you want me to wear it now?’

  ‘Not right now, for heaven’s sake,’ he blushes. ‘My son’s a tailor and so if it doesn’t fit, he’ll alter it for you. Please put it on once I’ve gone and come down the stairs.’

  ‘As you wish.’

  ***

  Maggie sets the tallow candle on the oak chest and allows her plaid to fall onto the wooden chair, safe from the damp floor. The dress is of middling quality, with both legs she steps into the rustling fabric and bends over double to pull on the garment. It’s a tight fit and flattens her breasts like two oatcakes, but with a little adjustment she lowers the bodice so that her breasts spill over.

  In a little while Maggie descends the stairs. The pace of work is fast, but in comparison to her life as a fishwife, serving ale and victuals is like child’s play. Maggie thrives in the boisterous atmosphere, and the rude and eloquent speech she employs as a fish hawker comes in more than handy.

  Meanwhile, as Maggie labours over sweaty workmen, travellers and cottars, she notices Isobel and Adam observing her with appraising eyes. And by the look on their faces they appear to be more than happy with her crude charm. From across the room, Maggie gives them a little wave and returns to serving of ale. Nothing is ever too much for her and she’s never fazed, and best of all she never complains.

  As the night comes to an end and the last of the customers loiter behind, there’s still much to do. And so, Maggie clears away pots and tankards, wipes down tables and washes a small patch of tiled floor. The fires need banking and so she fetches a poker and pushes the fuel together, and by the time she’s finished her face and hands are smudged with ashes.

  ‘Is it still snowing outside?’ Maggie asks Isobel.

  ‘Aye, it’s quite a snowstorm out there, can’t see your hand in front of your face. Don’t you be thinking of going abroad in this weather, Maggie, you’ll freeze to death.’

  A young woman interrupts the conversation; she has a look of Isobel, flaxen-haired and blue eyes.

  ‘May I be excused, Mother. My feet are hurting and I can hardly stand.’

  ‘Have you met my daughter, Maggie?’

  Maggie shakes her head.r />
  ‘This is Margaret. She’s been helping with the food tonight, giving Cook an extra pair of hands.’

  Maggie holds out a hand to Margaret. ‘Pleased to meet you, Margaret. I’ll be sure to remember your name.’

  Isobel’s blue eyes gleam in the soft firelight. ‘There’s William, my son, to meet too. He’s apprenticed to a tailor. But he visits from time to time to lend a hand.’

  Maggie nods but she’s so worn-out she’s not really listening. The smoke from the fire scratches at her eyes, she yawns and stretches out her arms, causing her bosom to nearly pop from her dress.

  ‘Better get William to alter that dress.’ Adam points a thumb in her direction, his face reddening with embarrassment.

  Isobel punches her husband playfully on the arm ‘She looks beautiful in the dress, nothing wrong with it if you ask me.’

  ‘The dress needs some adjustment.’ Adam’s word is final.

  That night, despite her weariness, Maggie has trouble sleeping. And in all honesty it’s not because she misses her children, or her husband for that matter. In truth, it’s the salt sea air she longs for and the sound of a thunderous sea clashing against rocks.

  ***

  It’s nearly noon when Maggie eventually wakes in the strange attic room, horribly disorientated, and trying to figure out where she is. The tiny windows in her room are all covered in frost, and beyond the glazed panes a whiteout reflects the winter sun, brightening the darkened room. Maggie turns over onto her side and feels a foot in her back; she jumps with surprise and lets out a small squeal, taking the homespun blankets with her.