She remained at the window, looking vacantly down on the High Street as she spoke. ‘I can’t think upon it. I can’t let my mind dwell upon it. No mother should know such pain! How can God allow such butchery? How can God let a mother suffer as I have?’
‘He didn’t suffer long. I have Rosehaugh’s assurance.’
She continued in a trance-like voice. ‘I’m left with nothing.’ She turned to look out of the window again. ‘I hate this stinking city. I miss the view of the hills from my own chamber.’
MacKenzie nodded. The mountains of his native Ross-shire had a special place in his memory.
‘Mordington is abroad, fighting in wars I don’t understand,’ she continued. ‘I try to avoid thinking about the present. I can’t do it for long. My son’s portrait haunts me.’
MacKenzie observed a small picture of Alexander Stuart opposite the window.
She suddenly dropped to her knees and howled. ‘How could he do this to me? Why would he wound me so?’
MacKenzie went to her, helping her back to a chair where she sat staring down at her hands. At last she spoke. ‘I can understand that he might’ve done it to spite his father, but why would he destroy the life of his loving mother?’
‘The young are transported by the strength of their beliefs, madam. We can’t change their minds. When did he convert?’
There were tears on her cheeks as she spoke softly. ‘I heard three years ago. The news was like a knife thrust through my heart. I knew others were doing likewise; even some of the great men in the land were turning to the old faith to seek favour with the King. But the thought that my only son served Antichrist was too much to bear.’
Scougall shared her terror of a conversion in the family. He could not imagine that his twin sisters would turn to Rome, but Satan could tempt the Godly. He resolved to warn them when he saw them next.
‘For a long time I heard nothing apart from an odd letter,’ she continued. ‘I wondered if he had left Scotland for good as a few were sent from France. I feared I would never see him again. Then after a long silence of over a year, another arrived. It declared his love for me, but proclaimed that God had told him he must do a great deed to further the cause of the true religion. I wasn’t to worry. All would be well.’
She turned her face towards them. MacKenzie saw that she was still a fine-looking woman. She must have been a rare beauty in her youth. She would make a comfortable bedfellow for a widower.
‘Although I was relieved to hear from him, I felt a great weight of foreboding. I sensed he was lost to me for good. I sobbed in my chamber and contemplated ending my life. But I was still a mother. I had to travel to Edinburgh where the letter was posted. I’d try one last time to persuade him. I’d keep trying to turn him back to me. But when I got here, I heard Kingsfield was slain and Alexander taken to the Tolbooth. This is how he repays me!’
‘I hear one of the priests is beaten by the mob,’ she continued. ‘It’s only what he deserves. I hope the other suffers under Rosehaugh as my son did. And the rest of the Papists in town – I’ve heard Seaforth’s brother is fled to the Highlands!’
Scougall wondered what she would have said if she had known MacKenzie’s daughter was betrothed to him. ‘Your son isn’t the only convert to Rome, madam. It’s a tragedy afflicting many families,’ he found himself saying as he thought of Elizabeth.
‘The divisions caused by religion are absurd – and they call themselves Christian,’ said MacKenzie. ‘Alexander swore under torture no one told him to kill Kingsfield.’
‘Someone planted the idea in his head!’ she said bitterly. ‘He was a gentle man. He was not a killer. Somebody drove him to do it.’
‘Do you have any idea who might have done so?’
‘I know nothing of the company he kept since he was lost to me. Everything was a secret. He lived in the shadows. As I said, a couple of letters came from France, another few from London.’
‘Can you remember where in France?’
‘I’ll check when I return home and let you know, if you think it’s important.’
‘There are other Papists in Edinburgh, madam,’ Scougall proposed timidly. ‘There’s a college of Jesuits in the Abbey.’
‘He told me nothing about his associates.’
‘Is there anything in his letters that might provide a clue?’ asked MacKenzie.
‘They are all vague, full of his new-found happiness, love of God and delight in serving the true Church. There’s much about transubstantiation and his love of the Mass. Perhaps you might find something in his papers on the table there. He left little else except that foolish confession.’
‘I tried to dissuade him from publishing it, but his mind was made up.’
‘Your notary might examine them. A few debts are outstanding. You have my authority to settle everything. I’d like the business completed before I return south. I must plead before the council to have his body taken down from the West Port, so I may have him back for proper burial. I want a place where I can talk to him, overlooking the hills where he played happily as a boy.’
‘May I recommend caution, madam,’ interjected MacKenzie. ‘The fever against Papists burns more ferociously each day. The wheel turns towards Presbytery. Make a formal request to the council, but don’t pursue it vigorously. Once events have come to a head, I’ll take up the case. Quiet determination will prevail above protestation. The council will not make any decisions at the moment – everything is paralysed because of the political situation. The Court of Session doesn’t sit and business has ground to a halt because of the invasion. I’ll do all I can to have his body returned to you.’
‘He’s not a traitor! The thought of his body impaled on the city gates is appalling! Why in God’s name do they place him there? He was persuaded to do it by others!’ She broke down in tears again.
MacKenzie rested his hand on her shoulder. He saw her son swinging from the gibbet and felt an overwhelming sympathy for her. But Stuart had shot a man in cold blood. He had been punished for committing murder, even if encouraged by another.
‘You’ll get him back. He’ll be buried in the kirkyard at Mordington. Be assured, we’ll do all we can, madam. I suggest you travel south as soon as possible. The rabble grows stronger each night. They’ll soon turn their anger on those related to Papists.’
Scougall thought of Ruairidh laughing with Elizabeth during dinner at The Hawthorns. He was an arrogant soldier who had converted to further his career. He wondered if his love of his new religion would drive him to kill for it.
20
Conversation in Parliament Square
MACKENZIE STOOD BENEATH the huge equestrian statue of Charles II outside the Session. The King’s elder brother was represented as a Roman Emperor on horseback, laurel wreaths around his temples, a baton in his right hand. But Charles II was no emperor. MacKenzie had kissed his hand at court in London in 1663. Charles was affable and amusing although duplicitous. In those days Lauderdale ruled the roost in Scottish affairs. The King hated the country because he was forced to sign the Covenant at his coronation. He had never returned to his northern kingdom. Who would have thought that his brother James would become King and make such a botch of it?
As the Session was not sitting, Parliament Square was quieter than usual. He nodded at a few lawyers of his acquaintance. At last the corpulent figure of Archibald Craig waddled towards him. He knew Thirlsmuir’s man of business by sight.
‘May I have a word, Mr Craig?’
‘It’s nae every day the Clerk of the Session wants tae speak with me.’
MacKenzie noticed Craig’s skin was greasy. His small round nose was sweating like cheese.
‘Might I have a few words in private?’ MacKenzie addressed him as if he wanted to talk about a point of law.
‘I’ve a meeting tae attend, sir. I’m late already.’
‘It’s about the death of your master.’
‘I’ve already made a statement tae Mr Stirling. I’ve naet
hing mair tae say on the matter. On whose authority do you act? I thought you were a servant of the Session, nae an arm of the Crown Officer.’
‘I’ve been asked by Stirling to delve deeper into the killing as the Session is risen. The case has caused much consternation in government circles.’
‘Rosehaugh should be shaking in his boots,’ Craig scoffed.
‘It must be a grave shock for Pittendean?’
‘It sets back the affairs of oor family. The Earl is auld and his eldest son has nae appetite for public life. James is a soldier in distant lands. It has damaged oor plans.’
‘Your plans,’ MacKenzie repeated.
‘Thirlsmuir was destined for great things. Did you hear him speak in the chamber?’
‘I heard him once or twice.’
‘He was glorious there – men were wont tae listen tae him. His lordship wants his speeches published for posterity.’
MacKenzie reflected that they would make a dull volume. It was difficult to convey the power of oratory on the printed page. ‘Where do the family stand at this juncture?’
‘I’ve naething tae say tae you about politics, sir. I’m only their man of business. I dealt with the mundane issues.’
‘I’ve heard you were much more than that, Mr Craig.’
‘I only serve the family of Pittendean.’
MacKenzie moved forward, forcing Craig back towards the plinth of the statue, towering over the small clerk, who was forced into a corner at the side of Parliament House. ‘Tell me about the day of his death.’
Craig was annoyed to be penned in, but MacKenzie would not let him through. At last Craig spoke: ‘I met him in the Royal Coffee house at three o’clock. I left about four and returned tae Pittendean House. There’s little mair tae add. The Papists are responsible for the murder. Thirlsmuir saw through their treachery.’
‘Why would they kill him in such a manner?’
‘They serve Antichrist, do they not? Is that nae enough? They slay women and children in cold blood. Have they nae done it often in Ireland and France? They wouldnae hesitate tae kill in the most brutal manner.’
‘How were relations between Thirslmuir and his older brother?’
Craig ruminated for a while before answering: ‘the Earl would be the first tae admit his eldest son is a strange fish. You only have tae spend a few seconds in his company to see that. But he’s a harmless fool. All he wants tae do is… hunt.’
‘Will he not benefit from having his brother out of the way?’
‘I see the direction you take me doon, Mr MacKenzie. I’m sure Glenbeath played nae part in his brother’s death. He couldnae kill a goose. The sight of blood disturbs him.’
MacKenzie straightened his back and his tone altered, the smile disappearing from his face, his affability melting to coldness. ‘Why were you in Niven’s Wynd with Thirlsmuir just after four o’clock on the day of his death if you returned to Pittendean House as you said?’
Craig tried to remain calm, but he was clearly shaken and weighing up what to say. ‘I was nae there, sir. As I telt Mr Stirling, I returned tae my chamber to attend tae business. In the evening I was in the Targe Tavern with friends. They’ll vouch for me.’
‘We have a witness who saw two men. One was tall and handsome. the other short and fat.’ MacKenzie wanted to get under his skin. Sometimes you had to play the scoundrel to flush one out.
‘Your witness is mistaken. I wasnae there. There are many short fat men in the city.’
MacKenzie’s demeanour altered again. He smiled urbanely. ‘Thank you, Mr Craig. Pittendean said you’d provide a list of his creditors and debtors.’
‘I’ll attend tae it as soon as I hae time, sir.’
MacKenzie gave him a friendly tap on the shoulder. ‘If only the King would call a parliament so the nation could air its grievances,’ he added provocatively, waiting to see what the response might be.
‘We’re agreed on one thing. But I fear he’ll nae do so. This will only be solved by force of arms.’
21
Golf on the Links
SCOUGALL COULD NOT remember a time when he did not have a golf club in his hands. His father and mother did nothing to encourage him. Indeed his mother viewed the game as a sin; not among the first rank, like fornication, theft or murder, but a sin nonetheless. Spending too much time on the course was a waste of time when you could be earning money or worshipping God. His father did not swing a club often, but his grandfather, also called David Scougall, who he was named after, was one of the finest golfers in the east of Scotland. He had no doubt inherited his skill from him. If there was a place where he was at ease, where he was himself, and not some other feeble creature, it was on the Links. He might be a tongue-tied fool in society, but on the course he spoke articulately with his clubs and there were few who could drive as far.
‘Thank you for meeting me, John. Can it only be a few weeks since we sat together at The Hawthorns. I presume you’ve heard the news about Ruairidh?’ said Seaforth as he stepped out of his coach. Two heavily armed retainers clad in plaids dropped down from the back and remained in close proximity to him.
‘I’ve only heard what’s spoken on the street,’ replied MacKenzie sternly as he placed his ball on the first tee. ‘He was flushed out of a Papist den by the mob. He’s suspected of complicity in the murder of Kingsfield.’
MacKenzie swung in an inelegant fashion, the club stopping for just too long at the apex, but he made good contact. ‘It’s not the kind of news a prospective father-in-law wants to hear about the man his only daughter is to marry.’
Scougall felt awkward to be in their company. It was surely a private matter between them, although he observed smugly Seaforth’s mediocre shot, hit with a violent hook. His game appeared as misguided as his religious position.
‘My brother had nothing to do with the killing. Stuart was known to him, but the fool acted alone. Ruairidh will be safer in Brussels or Paris for a time. Tell Elizabeth she can’t see him until things settle down.’
Scougall took his lead scraper and drove solidly down the middle. The ball came to rest a good sixty yards ahead of the others.
‘The King’s position grows weaker by the day,’ said MacKenzie as they headed off down the fairway. ‘The mob grows more vehement each night. We must put the marriage on hold, my lord. It would be unwise to make hasty decisions at this juncture.’
‘Ruairidh’s sorry for not being honest with you. He converted in the Low Countries after wrestling with his conscience for months. I believe the match is still a sound one.’
‘Has it anything to do with furthering his career as a soldier under a Papist King?’ asked MacKenzie, anger bubbling underneath his cool exterior. A Gaelic proverb came to him: Faodaidh fearg sealltainn a-steach an cridh’ an duine ghlic, ach còmhnaichidh i’n cridh’ an amadain. Anger may look in on a wise man’s heart, but it bides in the heart of a fool. They were wise words. He tried to conquer his feelings.
‘I believe not. He lived a dissolute life before. Now he’s a reformed character.’
‘A dissolute life?’
‘He was prone to… the table… and the bottle.’
‘And the whore?’ added MacKenzie.
‘He’s a young man, John. He’s sowed his wild oats. Who among us can say he hasn’t done so? I’m sure even Mr Scougall has strayed from the path of righteousness occassionally.’
Scougall was appalled by the suggestion. He did not gamble and had never visited a whore. He had perhaps imbibed too much wine on occasion and once drank a large quantity of whisky from which he suffered greatly the next day. That was hardly a dissolute life. ‘I believe I’ve not, sir,’ he said in a pathetic manner.
‘Now he’ll be answerable to a higher power,’ added Seaforth.
MacKenzie wanted to shout out what a scoundrel he was. But Seaforth was his chief. Kinship was a trap as well as a source of succour. ‘Did you know he had converted, my lord?’
‘I’m sure you’ll not u
nderstand, being an irreligious man. The Catholic religion brings great peace for a convert, like returning home after years of exile. It’s worth risking everything for.’
Scougall could not believe the hypocrisy of the vain fool. He almost applauded as Seaforth fluffed his second shot, sending a huge divot into the air. The ball came to rest only ten yards away.
‘We’ve been misled,’ said MacKenzie sternly.
‘It can’t be helped. My King’s a Catholic. I owe obedience to him as God’s anointed on earth. To oppose him is a mortal sin, not a small one like misleading a cousin.’
MacKenzie had to smother his ire. There might be grim satisfaction if he could engineer an end to the match. Elizabeth would be heartbroken, but saved from ruin. Another husband could easily be found.
Seaforth played his third shot, his ball bouncing along the fairway and coming to rest thirty yards away.
‘Where’s Ruairidh?’ asked MacKenzie as he approached his ball.
‘I assure you, he had nothing to do with Kingsfield’s death. The Catholic brotherhood came together to pray. Kingsfield’s name was never mentioned. The priests were harmless men of God, not plotters. One has paid sorely already. The other is taken into custody to be tortured. The remaining priests in the city plan to leave as soon as they can.’
‘What does he make of Alexander Stuart?’
‘He thinks him a foolish fanatic.’
‘What of the death of Kingsfield?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Who’ll benefit from it?’
‘Not the Papists in Scotland, John. Their position is weakened. Perth and Melfort are furious. Kingsfield was an arrogant oaf with enemies on his own side but we Catholics were better off with him alive.’
‘Who might benefit among the Presbyterians?’
‘A warrior is removed from the fray before battle is begun. Those vying for leadership will be rejoicing; Queensberry and Pittendean for example, but also those who are not Presbyterians such as Hamilton, who lurks in London, and Atholl.’
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