MacGregor

by Peter John Lawrie

Chapter 5

  The Same day: a little later

  Rob's mother Mary entered the room. "Rob," she said, "Grissel has been taken unwell. She has sent for me to come to her."

  Rob started, his wife Grissel, younger daughter of Graham of Drunkie was pregnant with their first child. They had been married only in April of this year. There had been opposition from her parents, who had entertained higher hopes for their daughter than a Highland cateran, though they took care not to call Rob that to his face. Grissel had been depressed. Her pregnancy made her sick and she complained Rob spent more time at Glen Gyle with his father or on his business than with her at Stronachlachar. On this occasion Rob had been away for a number of days, herding the cattle out of the hill pastures, and then collecting the notary. Grissel had been upset when he had left.

  "What is the matter with her?" Rob questioned his mother. "It cannot be her time yet."

  "I know no more than the message which Alasdair brought," she replied "You had better find garrons for me and for Catriona as well as yourself." Catriona acted as the midwife, but Mary took an interest in the health of the community and was well practised as a midwife herself.

  Rob led the small party out into the driving rain. He was on foot, leading the two garrons on which his mother and her assistant sat. The rain hammered on their plaids. They splashed their way between the whins, choosing a line above the sodden fields where the slopes at the foot of the hillside levelled out. Rob struggled waist deep through the normally quiet ford of the Glen Gyle Burn, urging the garrons on. Onwards they splashed, through the curtains of rain, to the settlement known as the Dow of Glen Gyle. The many small burns that normally drained harmlessly down the slope of Maol Mòr into the loch were all in spate. Each of them was an ordeal to cross. It was normally possible to reach Stronachlachar in much less than an hour. In this weather, it took twice that before the clachan came into sight. The largest dwelling was Rob's own house with its outhouses around it. Nearby were another two inhabited houses. At the entrance to his own, Rob helped his mother and Catriona off their garrons and into the house. His mother told him to wait until she called him.

  Through the open door the wind howled. The house, in common with most others, had formerly had a byre for the animals at the lower end. His wife, used to the better conditions of her father's house had found this little to her liking. Rob had built a separate byre building and, in fact, had completed this only a few days before setting out on his father’s business. He began to lead the first of the garrons through the door into the former byre which had been to the right, on the lower side of the house sloping towards the loch. Only then did he remember the new byre. The garron balked as he stopped. He forced it to walk, unwillingly, backwards through the narrow door, out into the rain again. He pulled the wickerwork door closed behind him, the hide covering slapping wetly in the gale. He soothed the recalcitrant animal and led it, with the others over to the new byre. The interior was dark, natural light percolated through in places at the eaves or penetrated through the low door as Rob led the animals in and tied them to the rail along the wall. He removed the panniers from their backs and provided them with hay. Rain dripped through the roof, though perhaps no more than could be expected in this downpour. He stood at the door of the byre looking out into the rain.

  Thoughts had been crowding through his head as he worked in the byre. It had been an uncommunicative journey from Glen Gyle House. Indeed it had been barely possible to converse in the howling wind and driving rain as they had made their way in single file. Married life had not been quite as he had expected it. Grissel seemed a creature of moods, perhaps she had been homesick for Drunkie. Their relationship had been improving, he had thought. There had been a high of expectation leading up to the wedding in April, but the wedding night had been a let down, for Rob at least. Grissel had barely spoken to him. She seemed to expect him to do all the talking. He must have offended her in some way because she had turned her back on him. She had lain silent, facing the rear wall of the new box bed which he had built for her himself. It was newly dressed tim­ber, with no gaps or holes to allow the draught in. He had travelled to Doune for curtains and a mattress cover. He had obtained feathers in place of the usual straw for filling the mattress. An embroidered counterpane had cost him the price of a good stirk from the merchant. Yet Grissel had not commented on all this. He had felt hurt. There had been a silence between them that there had not been before - during the courtship. Unsure of her mood and feeling unsure of himself as well, he had climbed into the bed beside her. She had not moved. He had held her by the shoulders. He could feel her trembling. Gently, as he thought, he had pulled her towards him. She lay silent, resisting him. Why was she like this? He had done nothing to her to deserve this behaviour. His hands, perhaps more aggressively than he had intended, had pulled her round and sought her under the linen shift she wore. As his hands roamed he realised she was crying. He had stopped - perplexed. He had asked her "What is wrong with you? Why are you crying?" She mumbled an answer he could not hear. He felt anger well up within himself. He wanted to hit her. No, he wanted to love her. He did not know what he wanted. He had got out of the bed and stood naked in front of the fire, his back to her. After a few minutes he took a gown from the press and put it on. Then he took out a bottle and glass. Disconnected thoughts had rushed through his mind. The women at the inns on the drove road through England had thought him man enough. Had he made a mistake? He thought this woman, no, this girl, had been agreeable to his pro­posal of marriage. She must have been because her father had opposed him. Her mother had secretly been in favour he thought, but unable to cross John Graham, one of the under-factors to Duke of Montrose, a self-important man who had ideas for his younger daughters which went beyond a drover and Highland cateran, even if he had been second son of Glengyle.

  Rob stood at the door of the byre thinking back to those days in June. At least it had been warm then. He had sat by the fire, refilling his glass more than once. His mood alternated between wrath and perplexity. He had felt her hand on his shoulder. She had asked him to come back to bed and then as he tried to make love to her once more she had pushed him away. "Talk to me," she had said. What was he to say to her? He could talk to her about the farm, about droving, politics, the house, but none of these things seemed to Rob to be what Grissel would want to hear. He could not think what he should say. That had been a long night. Sleepless he had lain silent beside her, knowing she had been awake too. The next day the atmosphere had been difficult. Grissel had been well trained by her mother in domestic matters. She had bustled around the house, with a brittle false gaiety, rearranging the house. Rob's mother had helped him complete the interior before he brought his bride here. Rob thought everything had been just as it should be. Grissel hadn't. After a few days of tension, Rob's anger had come upon him. Grissel huddled in the corner, weeping. He had gone over to her and after a few minutes, unsure what he should do, he put his hand on her shoulder. She had looked at him through her tears. He found himself apologising, begging her forgiveness, but he did not know what it was he was asking forgiveness for. He had carried her over to the bed and now, at least she had not resisted him. She lay under him, unmoving. He had rolled off and once again, could not think. The days had passed. Rob had worked with his followers, completing the outhouses, and laying in peat for the winter. His father had called on him to perform tasks that had taken him away for several days at a time. Grissel had seemed to be happier. Rob had perhaps become more communicative as the tension between them reduced.

  It had been at the end of August. Rob had been to Dunblane with messages from Glengyle. He came into the house and found Grissel retching. He tried to comfort her, though she had angrily accused him of neglecting her. Her behaviour seemed to Rob to have become even less rational. She would not let him touch her. Then, she sobbed all the more when he tried to leave her. He had to hold her in his arms. Just that. Rob was perplexed. Finally, he was able to leave the house
to take the replies to his father's messages back to Glengyle. While there he had told his mother, reluctantly, about Grissel's behaviour. Mary had travelled back to Stronachlachar with him. The two women had sat and talked together for hours, it seemed. He had no idea what it was they had talked about. They had gone silent when he was near, so he busied himself outside.

  Before she left, his mother had explained to him the Grissel was preg­nant. Grissel herself had not known. "Look after her," his mother had said. "Talk to her more."

  Perhaps, he thought, their relationship had got better after that. He still had little idea of what he should talk to her about. She was a good housekeeper, and she cooked well. Her belly had thickened noticeably, and the bouts of sickness had gone away. When he had left her, he had felt more positive than he had since their wedding. Still though he felt there was a reserve between them.

  His mother was standing at the door of the house, beckoning to him, her voice barely audible over the howl of the wind. He ran over, splashing through the standing water. His mother warned him there was little more that could be done. In the house, Catriona the midwife, sat by the blazing fire. She looked weary. His mother led him past the fire. Wraiths of peat smoke hung among the rafters. Black drops oozed through the bracken thatch running down the underside on to the wall top. Grissel lay in the box bed. She was pale. Sweat gleamed on her brow. She looked at Rob, but did not move. A small bundle lay, completely wrapped beside the bed. He took her hand. She continued to look at him silently. He felt her pulling him, feebly, towards her. He laid his head on the pillow beside her. She spoke, barely audible. "Say you love me, Rob," he heard her say. "Grissel," he hesitated, "Grissel, mo graidh, - I love you - don’t go." He was tongue-tied. She was silent. After a few minutes, he felt his mother's hand on his shoulder. "She has gone, Rob. There is nothing more we can do."

  Rob was in a daze. He was unable to think or do anything. He sat and gazed into the fire. There were people moving around him. He was barely aware of them. Several days must have passed. His father was beside him. Gently Glengyle led his son outside. The weak late autumn sun shone through the haze. A crowd of men and women stood in silence around the house. Some of the men went into the house and came out with a box on their shoulders. Rob felt hands on his arms. They were marching, a crowd of men about him. The keen wind blustered. Why had she been taken? What had he done? Glengyle still supported him, as the funeral party stopped at the small walled cemetery overlooking the Loch. Rob looked into the blackness of the earth, as Grissel's mortal remains were low­ered. Glengyle's piper played a coronach.

  Another few days passed. Rob was aware of the bellowing cattle and the yells of the men herding them. His father was beside him. He was aware of the cattle dung splashed on his lower legs and of the strong smells and the noise. They marched along Loch Earn towards Crieff. Glengyle had most of his men stretched out for several miles before and behind him. As well as driving his own beasts he also had the animals paid to him in mail by the tenants of the Lennox and Menteith. He had purchased a drove from Loch Fyne that had been brought over the drove road from Glen Falloch through Glen Gyle. The herds of Balquhidder had merged into his own. The great Crieff Tryst was a vital annual meeting, not just for the ready cash it brought but for the excuse for meeting with friends of the cause and observing its enemies.

  Most years Rob was thrilled by the excitement of the Tryst. As Glengyle's son, of course, he usually played an important part in the proceedings. Perhaps negotiating some of the sales, or guarding the gold and bills of ex­change for which the animals were exchanged. This year he was hardly aware of the proceedings.

  "Come man," urged his father, "You are like a beast to be driven, yourself. This grief is understandable, but it is private. It is not yourself that you should be sorry for."

  Rob lifted his head and glared at his father. That had struck home. He felt his anger rise again and subside as fast. He felt so much more for his wife of just a few short months now he had seen her buried than he did when he had her.

  Glengyle was speaking again, "You cannot live your life in regret. Whatever you did or did not do is gone and cannot be brought back. Alasdair needs help at the head of the drove. Go you and bring those kyloes back."

  A number of animals had taken the opportunity of easier land rising from the loch side after the narrow pass by the water's edge. Rob, almost automatically, increased his pace to a loping run, bearing a little up the hillside to head off the breakaway.

  Now the ground was becoming easier, the work increased. The track was barely demarcated and the frequency of minor breakaways increased. Rob found little opportunity for his mind to dwell on his loss. By the time they stopped for the night on a piece of open land half way between Comrie and Crieff, Rob felt less overwhelmed by his loss, and was able to sleep, wrapped in his plaid on the cold ground. Seeing Rob asleep, Glengyle excused him from his watch duty over the surrounding mass of cattle.

  The next day dawned and they soon reached Crieff. Glengyle, an expert cattleman, broke the drove up into more manageable groups of animals. He delegated men to each and commanded them to take their stances where the buyers could evaluate their purchases. Soon he was deeply involved in haggling, switching between Gaelic and Scots.

  The weak October sun was setting. The black mass of animals, previously a heaving sea of cattle in all directions, was thinning, showing patches of trampled mud and grass as droves left the ground. Some travelled, perhaps, only as far as Falkirk with unsold beasts. Others were on their way over the border to England. Glengyle had instructed many of his men to take cattle South on behalf of the agents who had purchased them. In addition to the payment for the beasts, he had taken the price of the drove south too. His sporran was stuffed with guineas and bills of exchange. The weight of guineas though was lessening as he handed out money to the drovers for their maintenance.

  Finally though, Glengyle stood near the Market cross of Crieff with a dozen men of his following. Rob was beside him, as a tall slim man of distinguished appearance spoke with Glengyle. This was James Drum­mond, Duke of Perth in the Jacobite Peerage. The titular Duke was feudal supe­rior of Crieff and the surrounding area and drew a substantial income from a levy on the beasts sold at the tryst. Their discussion was not about the day's sale or the Earl's levy. The Duke advised Glengyle on the present state of affairs regarding the cause, and asked him to sound out some of the other prominent chiefs present in the village, who were thought to have favourable views towards the Stewarts. Some of Perth's own followers, dressed in hodden grey with long staffs as their only weapons eyed the Highlanders uneasily. The Tryst was the scene of much unruly behaviour especially now that the many Highlanders with unwonted wealth in their sporrans crowded into the inns and temporary drinking booths, anxious to spend.

  Much later that night, Rob woke, his head throbbing and his throat parched. Glengyle had disappeared, he knew not where, on affairs of state. His father had dismissed him, leaving Alasdair with him. "Enjoy yourself," he had said on parting, leaving instructions as to where they should meet in the morning. Rob did not feel much like enjoyment, but the black despair had lifted. He and Alasdair had found space at one of the temporary luckenbooths, drinking indifferent claret but hardly caring about its quality. Around them women giggled and screamed. Men laughed and danced in the shadows cast by guttering torches. It was harvest time for the villagers and others from as far as Perth and Stirling, anxious to share in the annual bounty, fleecing the drunken Highlanders. In every dark corner could be heard, if not seen, the grunts and cries of feral coupling. The sounds of argument were followed by the clash of metal on metal, and the cries of injured men. The Duke of Perth's watchmen ran here, there and everywhere, their torches casting fitful illumination on indescribable scenes.

  The light glimmered in the east as Alasdair, though almost as inebriated himself, assisted Rob along the track. The mud, churned up by the hooves of thousands of beasts, sucked at their ankles as they left
the village. They found patches of slightly firmer ground, with rocks threatening their ankles at almost every unsteady step. As the day dawned they met up with an apparently sober Glengyle, his sporran still safe, though many of his men had fared less well. The sun was well into the sky before he gave up on the last few missing men. His party was much smaller than before, taking account of those who would be travelling south this morning. Not all of those expected had come out of Crieff yet. He knew the Duke of Perth's court would not be unduly severe on his men, at least this year, so leaving a small party of the Balquhidder men to wait for the stragglers, he led the remainder homewards.

  As the evening came upon them, Glengyle and his party reached the Kirkton of Balquhidder. Many left them here to go on to their homes. Glengyle and Rob, along with their remaining followers turned southwards to the House of Dalanlaggan to seek accommodation for the night with Alexander Stewart of Glenbuckie. Glengyle had to settle with Glenbuckie for the beasts he had collected earlier on the way to Crieff, and perhaps discuss some more sensitive business too.

  Rob's pounding head had cleared somewhat on their march. An inadvertent tumble into Loch Earn while on the march had helped. The brisk pace the party had maintained all day had helped to dry his garments. Now though, he felt tired, sitting beside the fire in the crowded room. A corner of the warm room, wrapped in his plaid was to be his bed. Glenbuckie's unmarried sister Jean had busied herself during the evening, ensuring the guests were comfortable. Rob had known Jean Stewart, in a distant sort of way, for many years. She had sat beside him and expressed her sympathy for his recent loss. Rob had looked at her, perhaps noticing her properly for the first time. He had thanked her, and complimented her too on her efficient handling of the unexpected crowd of guests. Rob noted her figure admiringly, guiltily too, as she moved between the kitchen and hall.