“Aye, the end o’ Scotland as a nation. Scotland’s Parliament was disbanded an’ Scotland was swallowed up intil England.”
“How sad.”
“Aye, but the Scots had only their ain lords an’ leaders an clan chiefs tae blame, always fightin’ amongst themsel’s. They ne’er realized fit they were givin’ away one step at a time through the years, until it was too late an’ they woke up tae realize they’d given away the whole o’ Scottish independence one wee concession after anither.”
“But I thought there was a Jacobite uprising that almost succeeded.”
“Aye, but it came later, in 1715.”
“What happened then?”
“By that time, William o’ Orange was deid an’ Anne was queen. Fan she deid in 1714, when the English lords made a German fae Hanover king o’ England, Scotland, an’ Ireland. The indignity o’ a foreigner on the throne in place o’ the rightful Stewarts became e’en greater in Scotland. George I was a man wha couldna e’en speik the English tongue an’ had ne’er set foot in England. That’s fan the Jacobites rose under the earl o’ Mar an’ James VIII sailed frae France tae reclaim the Stewart crown in place o’ the German George.”
“You sound like a Jacobite yourself!” I said, laughing.
The old man was thoughtful and quiet a moment, then slowly nodded. “I believe in right,” he said. “I’m nae Catholic, an’ I’m nae rebel an’ I hae nae ill will toward England. But the fact is, James VII was the rightful king according tae law, nae William o’ Orange. That made his son, James VIII also the rightful king, nae George I. The Stewart line was the rightful line o’ the monarchy, an’ still is—nae a Dutchman, nae a German. Gien that makes me a Jacobite, perhaps ye be in the right.”
“I am still confused,” I said. “Who is Bonnie Prince Charlie?”
“He was the next heir in line tae the Stewart throne—the son o’ James VIII, the grandson o’ ousted James VII. That’s why he was called the prince—he was son o’ him the Jacobites saw as the rightful king. When the uprisin’ o’ 1715 failed, then Jacobite hopes rested on the prince.”
“Did he make an attempt to take the throne back, too?”
“Aye, he did—in 1745. That’s when the third Jacobite uprising took place. Prince Charles sailed fae France an’ landed in the western Heilands an’ rallied support among the Heiland clans. Afore long he had a huge army an’ marched south intil England. An’ he was almost successful in retakin’ the English throne. He came jist sae close. His army marched all the way tae Derby.”
“What happened then?”
“What ye must remember, lass, is that Bonnie Prince Charlie was only twenty-four at the time. He wasna a skilled general. He was jist a romantic figure that captured a’body’s imagination. But as a leader o’ an army, the fact was, he was jist a lad. Wi’ a mair skilled man in charge, they might o’ succeeded in puttin’ the Stewarts back on the throne. But the puir bonnie prince made one blunder after anither an’ the hale uprisin’ was doomed fae puir leadership. When the English Duke o’ Cumberland raised an army tae stop Charlie’s march toward London, instead o’ fightin’, Prince Charlie turned aroun’ an’ retreated back tae Scotland. What advantage he had was lost right then. His army was tired an’ hungry an’ demoralized an’ began tae disintegrate. As he went the duke’s army grew stronger an’ Charlie’s army shrank. Cumberland chased Charlie a’ the way up England an’ a’ the way through Scotland until finally there was nae mair place for Charlie tae run an’ maist o’ his army was gone.
“The twa armies finally met outside o’ Inverness on the great moor o’ Culloden. As a general, puir Charlie kept blunderin’ an’ blunderin’. He’s the romantic hero o’ Scots ballad an’ sang, but Charlie wasna muckle o’ a hero at a’. The puir lad was o’er his head. His bad decisions cost thousands o’ Scots their lives. The Duke o’ Cumberland ran roughshod o’er Charlie’s army like ’twas child’s play, an’ sent them fleein’ a’ through northern Scotland, wi’ the duke an’ his men chasin’ an’ killin’ an’ massacrin’ all o’ Charlie’s men they could fin’. ’Twas a dreadfu’ thing, as bloody an’ fierce an’ inhuman as Glencoe. Charlie may hae been foolish, but the Duke o’ Cumberland was ruthless an’ evil. The Scots hae ne’er forgiven him for the senseless blood he shed long after he had the victory won. My ain ancestors fought for the prince an’ had tae flee for their lives.”
“What happened to Prince Charlie?”
“He fled frae the battle an’ went into hiding. He was hid in ane place after anither, wi’ the duke’s men chasin’ him through the Heilands, wantin’ naethin’ mair than tae run him through wi’ their swords. But finally he escaped by night in a wee boat across tae Skye, an’ fae there back tae France, whaur he lived oot his days.”
“Hmm… over the sea to Skye,” I said softly. “And after Culloden, there were no more Jacobite uprisings?”
He shook his head. “Nae mair. ’Twas the end o’ it. King Geordie in England an’ the English lords, they were determined tae crush a’ Scottish hopes after that. They outlawed the kilt an’ the tartan an’ the bagpipes.”
“Outlawed them!”
“Aye. ’Twas the lowest time in a’ Scottish history. The Scotland o’ the past was deid. Fit the English couldna kill was Scottish pride an’ the spirit o’ the Celt. It couldna be killed, no matter fit they might du. In the words o’ the Savior, they might kill the body but they cudna kill the soul. But after that, the soul o’ Scotland didna come oot in battles an’ uprisings an’ rebellions, but rather in poem an’ sang an’ ballad. Burns an’ Scott gave a rebirth tae Scotland’s heritage wi’ the pen instead o’ the sword.”
The small cottage fell silent. I took another sip of the tea in my cup. It was cold. I hadn’t realized how long I had been sitting there!
“I think I ought to go,” I said. “I don’t want to take up your whole day, and—”
“Dinna ye fret aboot my day!” Mr. Bain laughed. “Back when I was a younger man an’ had fifty head o’ Heiland coo tae look after an’ crops tae tend, I may hae been a mite concerned wi’ my wark. But in this modern age o’ social benefits, e’en an auld crofter like me gits his wee pension ilka month. I live simply an’ hae nae wants. The Lord’s been aye gude tae me. Sae when ye visit Ranald Bain’s croft, ye need hae nae worry aboot me. An’ I hope ye will visit again. Be welcome onytime, an’ as often as ye like.”
“Thank you very much.” I smiled. “I have enjoyed myself immensely. And you have given me much to think about! Maybe I am beginning to understand the words to some of the songs I play. Now I want to visit some of the places like Glencoe and Stirling all over again.”
I stood up. As I began making my way toward the door, I glanced about the interior of the cottage. We had been sitting in a large room, where the table stood sort of between the kitchen at one end and a sitting room at the other. I now saw that the sitting room was in the shape of an L and extended around the protrusion of a wall, leading to that portion of the house where I presumed there were bedrooms. For some reason this time I walked around the table in the other direction from which I had entered. Looking into the interior of the cottage, I was now able to see partway into the far L of the sitting room. What I saw there took my breath away.
I gasped and half ran toward it.
“What is it, lass?” said Mr. Bain, rising and following me, having no idea what could possibly have caused such a response in me.
“It’s a harp!” I exclaimed, slowing as I approached. “A beautiful Scottish harp.”
“Aye,” said Mr. Bain, coming up behind me, still not understanding what the fuss was all about.
“Why it must be… what, fifty or more years old,” I said, reaching out reverently to touch it. I didn’t recognize the wood, but it was light in color. The shape, too, was unlike anything I had ever seen… old, classic, Celtic. Most of the strings were still in place but loose, some dangling and not even attached to the soundboard on the bottom. Others were frayed from age. “It�
�s wonderful!”
“Actually ’tis a mite older than that,” he said. “’Twas my gran’father’s, an’ I’m thinkin’ it came tae him fae his father.”
“When was it last played?” I asked.
“I couldna say, lass. I remember my gran’father strummin’ it an’ singin’ the auld Burns ballads. He was the bard o’ the Bains an’ played an’ sang for the laird. But it’s nae been played mony a year syne that I recall, no by me or my Maggie.”
“Well, it might actually be that having strings on it all this time is what saved it.” I continued to examine the old harp. “Do you mind if I pick it up?”
“Nae at a’.”
I looked it all over and ran my eye along the soundboard. I saw no sign of cracks or warping.
“Why div ye say bein’ wi’ strings saved it?”
“Because the tension of the strings actually holds the wood together. Harps don’t last indefinitely like violins and other stringed instruments. You rarely find a hundred-year-old harp in such fine condition. Oh, I would love to hear what this lovely instrument sounds like!”
“Ye seem tae hae mair than a passin’ knowledge o’ the harp an’ its workin’s.”
I turned back toward him and smiled. “I play the harp,” I said. “I have one almost exactly the same size—though of course much newer—down in the village where I am staying.”
“Hae ye noo! Ye’re a harper?”
I nodded.
“Then I would aye love tae hear ye make yer music on this one. My gran’father called it his auld mither, though I ne’er kennt why. I think it had tae do wi’ a favorite book o’ his. I might e’en dust aff my auld fiddle.”
“You play the fiddle?” I said, now expressing my own astonishment.
“Aye.”
“That’s great! It would be such fun to play together.”
“Bein’ a bard, my gran’father played a’ the instruments—box an’ fiddle an’ tin whistle, though no the pipes. ’Tis his fiddle, too that I play, an’ ’twas him that taught me. The fiddle he called his auld wife. But can onything be dune for the puir thing?” he added, looking down at the harp.
“If you would like me to, I will put new strings on it and we will find out.”
“Aye, I wud!”
“Then I will bring up a set of strings.”
“Weel, Marie Buchan, I see ’twas the hand o’ God that led yer steps tae me this day. Ye had made an auld man happy indeed. Whan ye’re gone, I may jist get oot the auld wife an’ remember the baroness o’ Nairn an’ her frien’ Gow for a spell.”
“I would love to hear you play,” I said.
“Gien ye dinna mind, lass, what I’m feelin’ in my hert this day I maun let oot alone. ’Tis a matter o’ the hert, ye ken. ’Tis my way o’ makin’ worship in my soul.”
I smiled and nodded.
“I understand perfectly, Mr. Bain,” I said. “It is exactly the same with my harp. Sometimes I have to be alone when I play. The music is too deep, it doesn’t feel the same with someone else listening.”
“Aye. But we will join the sound o’ oor strings one day.”
“One day soon, Mr. Bain. I promise.”
I walked toward the door of the cottage, then turned back again. “Thank you for everything,” I said. “I enjoyed myself more than I can say.”
“Fan ye come agin, gien I’m no here, I may be oot ae place or anither, jist gie a loud ring o’ this bell here, ye see, abune the door.—Ye can fin’ yer way doon tae the village?”
“I’m sure I can,” I said, smiling and reaching out to shake his hand.
“God be wi’ ye, lass, till we meet again.” He leaned forward and kissed me on one cheek, then on the other.
“Good-bye, Mr. Bain,” I said.
As I returned down the hill I recalled the warnings Tavia Maccallum had given me. She was obviously mistaken about there being only one house on the slopes of the Bin. I was certainly glad I had not encountered the crazy man she had told me about.
Chapter Twenty
Face-to-Face
A prince can mak a belted knight,
A marquis, duke, an’ a’ that:
But an honest man’s aboon his might,
Gude faith he maunna fa’ that!
For a’ that, an’ a’ that,
Their dignities an’ a’ that,
The pith o’ sense, an’ pride o’ worth,
Are higher rank than a’ that.
—Robert Burns, “A Man’s a Man for All That”
Another surprise was waiting for me back in the village.
When I reached my cottage again later that afternoon, weary from the long walk but happy and aglow from the day’s experience, I found an envelope on the floor beneath the mail slot. Since it had no stamp, it obviously had not come by post but had been hand-delivered. I stooped down to pick it up. It was the same monogrammed envelope: A T R.
That brought me suddenly back to reality!
I’m afraid my first reaction was pretty caustic, especially as I remembered everything Mrs. Gauld had told me about Gwendolyn.
You can forget it if you think I’m going to play for you again, Mr. A. T. R.! I said to myself. Not even for two hundred pounds! What is it with you, anyway?
I tossed the envelope on the coffee table and tried to ignore it. I read awhile, dozed, then played my harp, then checked my string supply to see if I had a complete extra set. I always carried some with me because strings could break without warning. But if I strung Mr. Bain’s harp with my extras, I would have to order another set quickly. I went through my papers and files to find the number of a harp maker in Ballachulish I’d heard of. I could call the next day to order a set.
It wasn’t until some time later, after I had taken a shower and settled in for the evening and was heating up a can of Baxter’s Highland Broth for supper, that I remembered the envelope.
I retrieved it from where I had tossed it and opened it. There was a card identical to the other. By now my agitation from first seeing it had subsided. I assumed it was probably a thank-you note equally impersonal to my reception at the castle.
I was certainly not prepared for what I read inside!
Dear Ms. Buchan,
Please forgive my liberty in contacting you again, and for making no appearance yesterday. Rest assured that your music was appreciated more than you might imagine. Forgive me also for presuming upon your kindness a second time, but it would give me great pleasure to meet in person the woman whose music has already meant so much to me on the two occasions I have been fortunate enough to hear it. Would you consent to coming to the castle tomorrow, Thursday, for lunch? Your reluctance under the circumstances would be understandable. In the event, however, that you will agree, I will send Nicholls round to you at 12.30. You may either accompany him, or communicate your disinclination at that time.
I am,
Sincerely yours,
Alasdair Timothy Reidhaven,
Duke of Buchan
I set the envelope down thoughtfully. This was certainly unexpected! A dozen thoughts ran through my brain—why to accept, why not to accept. And of course Gwendolyn sat right in the middle of those thoughts. I wasn’t going to miss my visits with her twice. The way things stood at this moment, my loyalties were with her, not this duke who had such an odd way of doing things. I found myself getting irritated at him again. Why would I want to go? And what was he talking about—the two times he had heard me?
When the next morning came, however, I woke up thinking about what I ought to wear. Why shouldn’t I accept? I thought. I didn’t really know anything about the man. Maybe Mrs. Gauld wasn’t even right about Gwendolyn. She also tried to warn me about ghosts and dark powers and spooky stuff like that and I didn’t believe a bit of it. Her reliability as a purveyor of information wasn’t all that high. The connection between Gwendolyn and the duke might be nothing but “auld wives’ tales.”
There was no doubt the man was strange. Keeping himself cloistered away in
a castle like a hermit. Inviting people to come play for him, then not showing his face.
But if he hadn’t wanted me to see him when I was playing, that was his right. He had paid for the performance. I was working for him. He could do as he liked. What business was it of mine if he happened to be socially challenged?
I would go. As for what to wear, it totally went against the grain to wear the same outfit a second time so soon. But I only had one really nice dress with me. The duke hadn’t seen it. Nicholls probably wouldn’t notice. The lady would, of course, but she didn’t strike me as the type who would blab it about that I wore the same dress every day. So if I wanted to look my nicest, I had no choice—the blue and yellow it was.
I was sitting and waiting by the window at twelve-fifteen. Luckily I hadn’t seen Mrs. Gauld in two days, though she was probably watching my every move.
The man called Nicholls drove up in the black BMW at twelve-thirty on the dot. I walked out the door and toward the street. He nodded as I approached and opened the door for me. He didn’t look as if he had expected me to convey a disinclination to accept, as the invitation had said.
Without my harp as a crutch, my security blanket, I was more nervous than the day before. Yet the familiarity of the exercise—the car appearing in front of the house, Nicholls and his old-world formality, the drive out of town and through the countryside, the long entryway through the trees, the first sight of the castle, then pulling up and stopping in front of the door—it had a calming effect on me simply because I had been there before.
I think, too, it had begun to dawn on me that this was a special thing. From the sound of it, I took it that most of the people in the village had never been to the castle. Here I was on my way to a second visit in three days. This was an experience to savor.
I didn’t even try to shrink down out of sight when we passed Mrs. Gauld’s bed-and-breakfast leaving Port Scarnose. She was nowhere to be seen, though I had visions of her peeping out from behind her curtains. Today I didn’t mind. Let her eat cake if she didn’t like it. In spite of what I’d heard, and even in spite of the peculiarities of my first visit here, I couldn’t help myself—I was enjoying this. I’d come to Scotland to have an adventure, and I was having one!
Angel Harp: A Novel Page 14