The Hanging of Margaret Dickson Read Online Free PDF

run away for sure.’
    Together, Patrick and Maggie chase the piglet around the yard while James looks on with folded arms trying not to laugh. It takes them a good while before the pig is caught, and by the end of it Maggie’s hair is a mess and her clothes are spoilt. It’s not the best beginning to their first day of walking out, but nevertheless Maggie is determined to make up for the shaky start.
    â€˜Come in. Come in. Mind your head.’
    Maggie conceals a smile as he bumps his forehead on the crumbling doorframe.
    As Patrick steps inside, a couple of hens run over his feet and from the look on his face they’re not a welcome sight.
    â€˜Don’t mind them. They’re roosting in the rafters and only come down for a while.’
    â€˜Come sit by the fire, Patrick,’ calls James and pats his hand on a stool. ‘Maggie, take his coat.’
    The room’s smoky. A pot of broth bubbles away on the hearth and the smell is delicious. Patrick takes a seat near the fire and nods to James. If he’s nervous he does not show it and in truth he seems right at home. As Maggie takes his coat he removes a bunch of wild flowers concealed from within the fabric and smiles. A pleasing scent mingles with the smoky peat air.
    â€˜Thank you,’ Maggie says and with a flick of the wrist she throws the flowers to the side, thinking the pig can eat them later.
    An awkward silence descends upon the cottage. Maggie stares at her humble home, suddenly seeing it through Patrick’s eyes. Not a pane of glass graces the crumbling wattle and daub walls, and the only light comes from fire or rush light. Any smoke escapes from a crude hole in the roof. But this is home, somewhere to eat and somewhere to sleep.
    â€˜Shall we?’ Her eyes glitter with mischief as she holds out her hand to return his coat.

    ***

    They walk hand in hand along winding tracks, their route pock-marked with the hooves of horses and dumb beasts. Maggie sniffs the pungent air, Beltane fires burn in the distant hills in celebration of the return of summer. For a while they walk in silence, past ancient dry stone walls and sodden ditches, and soon they reach an old castle ruin. A burn bubbles and gurgles nearby; its crystal waters trickling over smooth stones. A sparkling light reflects on the water’s surface, casting a hazy glow on the two figures as they embrace near the water’s edge. Maggie closes her eyes as fervent hands seek the cap that conceals her hair; her long tresses cascade around her shoulders. She shivers and tilts her neck backwards to look at the handsome fisherman. His eyes are rimmed with pale lashes and the bristles on his face do not match the colour of his hair.
    As he leads her to the burn her heart thumps in her breast. All of a sudden her one and only desire is to run from this place and never return. He’s immersed in the water now, waiting for her to join him; tradition demands that she mirrors his actions. And yet, all the while an image fills Maggie’s head, an image of a fine-looking young priest, forbidden, out of reach, and thus more desirable. And so, it’s with much trepidation that Maggie Dickson drops to her knees in the water to join hands with Patrick, to seal their fates forever.
    â€˜Will you marry me, Maggie?’
    â€˜Aye.’
    Her heart sinks as she stands on her tiptoes to kiss him. What have I done? she thinks, but as his soft lips press hard on her mouth, Maggie becomes much altered and consumed with desire. As blood courses through her veins, he pulls away.
    â€˜We must wed in haste. I don’t want to lose you to another man.’ His eyes narrow.
    Maggie reaches out to soothe him, already aware of the jealousy that lies dormant within him. ‘Well I want a real shindig of a wedding, with pipers and fiddlers and dancing. And, Patrick, can the new minister wed us?’
    â€˜Why the new minister?’
    â€˜He helped me after my mother died.