Lady Magdalen

by Robin Jenkins

  ‘You’re never going to forgive me, are you, for staying away so long?’

  ‘I have not said so.’

  ‘No, but it is in your face now and it is in your face in that painting.’

  ‘Why did you stay away so long?’

  ‘What a rash question! Do you really want me to compare the glories of Europe with the dreariness of Kinnaird?’

  ‘Your two sons are here in Kinnaird.’

  He winced and closed his eyes. She recognised in him then the youth who had written romantic poetry and dreamed of overcoming all the evil in the world.

  ‘So they are. Fine little fellows. I was too rough with them.’

  ‘So you were.’

  He opened his eyes. ‘And with you too. I’m sorry. My mind is, I confess, in a state of disorder. I have been ill used by despicable men. Bear with me.’

  After he had eaten, he was to go to her father’s study and give an account of his travels. She had not been invited.

  ‘I too would like to hear about your travels, James.’

  ‘So you will, more times than you might wish. We travellers are all compulsive braggarts.’

  ‘How did the King receive you, James?’

  He shook his head crossly, as if shaking off that impertinent question like a fly. ‘That is no concern of yours. I mean, politics is a grimy business. I would not want you besmirched by it.’

  He was not being honest. In his present mood, yes, he did believe politics dirtied the soul; but that was not the reason why he wanted her kept out of it. She was not intelligent enough; that was why.

  Would he, she wondered, in some agitation, want to sleep with her that night? Would he assert his right? If so, had she a right as his wife to ask him if he had slept with other women while he was away and, if he admitted it, had she still another right to refuse to let him sleep with her, at any rate that very first night of his home-coming? But what if he took his revenge by spurning her on all other nights? What, then, would happen to their marriage and her hope of that little girl who was to be her companion when James and his sons went off to war?

  For the rest of that day Montrose kept aloof from his wife and sons. He sent a written message, short and rather stiff, that he was tired; tomorrow, after a night’s rest, he would be better able to comport himself as devoted husband and father.

  When she explained to the boys, they were relieved. They needed time to prepare themselves. Today’s reunion had been too sudden and overwhelming. They asked many questions.

  ‘Is Father angry with us?’

  ‘Why should he be angry with you? You have done nothing wrong.’

  ‘He said we were milksops. What is a milksop?’

  ‘He just meant that you were very young.’

  ‘I’m nearly seven and James is five.’

  ‘Well, that’s very young.’

  ‘Is he a soldier?’

  ‘No, he isn’t. There would have to be a war and no one wants that.’

  ‘James and me want it. Don’t we, James?’

  But James’s nod was hesitant.

  ‘Then you’re both very foolish. In a war people get killed.’

  ‘Only bad people,’ said John.

  ‘Who told you that?’

  ‘Mr Henderson.’

  Sometimes the chaplain gave them private religious lessons.

  ‘He said that God wanted good people to win, so He has bad people killed.’

  ‘I’m afraid He has good people killed too.’

  They looked at her at first with horrified incredulity and then, as they remembered she was only a woman, who knew nothing about war, with pity and tolerance.

  ‘If he’s brought me a sword,’ said John, ‘for a present, I hope it’s a real one that I could kill rabbits with.’

  ‘You’re too young to have a real sword.’

  ‘No, I’m not. Maybe James is.’

  ‘No, I’m not,’ said James, ‘but I wouldn’t kill rabbits, I would cut off the heads of thistles.’

  ‘What do you hope he’s brought you, Mama?’ asked John.

  ‘I haven’t thought about it.’

  ‘Would you like a silk dress? A blue one, like the lady in the painting.’

  ‘Yes, I would like that.’

  But next morning, when Montrose brought out the presents, there were no real swords and no blue silk dress. The boys, however, were delighted with their suits of armour, made of silver inlaid with enamelled red roses. They had been made for the sons of an Italian duke, said Montrose, and were considered works of art: the silversmith had a famous name. Even Francis Gowrie would approve of them.

  ‘But I see you don’t, Magdalen.’

  ‘Mama doesn’t like things that have to do with war,’ said John.

  ‘They’re beautifully made,’ said Magdalen.

  Montrose helped his sons to put them on. They fitted well enough. In great excitement the boys stalked about, glittering in the sunshine. The roses looked like blobs of blood.

  ‘This, my dear, is for you.’

  It was a small book.

  ‘A Bible. In French. As you can see, it has been much used.’

  But by whom? There was a fragrance off it. Men as well as women used perfumes but this surely was feminine. Had some woman given it to him, some lover? His signature was scrawled across the frontispiece. The flyleaves were written on too; he did this with all his books. There was a strange drawing of roses with thorns and a cross. There were also, intertwined, the letters J, M, and E. James Montrose, yes, but whom or what did the E represent? That French lady, whoever she was? Had the Bible been hers? If so, was his giving it to Magdalen a gesture of contrition or of contempt? She would not ask now or ever. Perhaps one day he would tell her.

  He read aloud one of the sentences he had written. ‘ “Honor mihi vita potior.” “I prefer honour to life.” ’

  ‘What do you mean by “honour”, James?’

  He was taken aback. In the early days of their marriage, they had played chess together. Sometimes she had baffled him by some move so shrewd that he had thought it must be accidental. This question was such a move.

  ‘Only a woman would ask that. Every man of breeding knows instinctively what honour is.’

  ‘You should be able to tell me then.’

  ‘It can’t easily be put into words.’

  ‘Why not?’

  He was still checkmated. ‘It is too subtle a concept. I might as well try to explain the beatings of my heart.’

  ‘Women’s hearts beat too. Do they have honour?’

  ‘Good God, yes. Everyone knows what a woman’s honour is.’

  ‘Does it consist only in her keeping herself pure and so not bringing disgrace on her husband and family?’

  He scowled. ‘What is all this, Magdalen? You have become quite the little philosopher.’

  ‘I have had a long time to think about these things.’

  ‘What else could a woman’s honour consist of? By their very nature, women are not exposed to the strains and temptations of public life.’

  Like all men, he thought he knew everything there was to know about women, those simple creatures, but the truth was he, like them, knew very little. She remembered his poems, full of neatly worded compliments but empty of true insights.

  ‘One might say that women are to be envied,’ he said. ‘At Kincardine your chief concern will be to finish your tapestry.’

  Did he mean to insult her? Perhaps he did not realise that he had insulted her.

  ‘And you will have the garden to plant with flowers. It has been badly neglected, I believe. And the household to manage. Useful and honourable tasks.’

  This time she was sure that the insult contained in the word was intended.

  ‘Shall I not also have my children to look after?’

  ‘Certainly, though I intend to hire a tutor for them. They must be brought up accustomed to manly pursuits.’

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘Riding, hunting, fencing,
archery.’

  He then turned from her and gave his attention to the boys. They responded gleefully. He was already their favourite. Her they merely loved, him they worshipped.

  2

  THAT AFTERNOON, WHILE Montrose was at the stables arranging for the removal to Kincardine and watching John and James make good their boasts of being expert and intrepid riders – even if their mounts were small ponies – Magdalen’s father came to her room to offer her some advice. He found her working at her tapestry, with Janet’s help. He sent Janet away. Magdalen kept on sewing, adding to Christ’s foot.

  ‘At Kincardine,’ said her father, smiling approvingly, ‘you will be kept busy with many similar useful tasks.’

  ‘Yes, Father. So James has already told me.’

  Something in her tone made him look sharply at her. There was more than the usual innocence and submissiveness in her face.

  He spoke sternly. ‘Chief among them will be to take care of your husband.’

  ‘And of my children.’

  ‘Yes, of course.’

  ‘James is going to hire a tutor for them. He says I have turned them into milksops.’

  ‘Be fair. Most fathers want their sons to be trained in martial arts.’

  ‘Most mothers do not.’

  ‘There you show your youth and inexperience.’ And also, he could have added, that peculiar singularity – was it retarded development or godliness? – which had so often exasperated her sisters and puzzled him. ‘Most mothers, I would say, are proud of their soldier sons. Patriotism is not confined to the male gender, I hope.’

  ‘Like honour?’

  ‘Honour?’

  ‘James and I had a discussion about honour.’

  ‘You know, Magdalen, your mother had opinions too but she wisely kept them to herself. Never once in all the years we were married did she contradict me, though there must have been times when she must have thought I was wrong.’

  ‘But, Father, isn’t a wife meant to be a helpmate? Is it not her place, laid on her by God, to advise her husband if she can?’

  Was she, this slight girl of 21, making fun of him? And of all men who domineered women? He had met many couples where the woman was by far the more intelligent of the two and yet, because of custom, was expected to say nothing while her husband spouted nonsense.

  ‘In domestic matters only,’ he said, rather feebly.

  ‘Should she just stand by in silence even if she is convinced that what he is doing or is about to do will destroy him?’

  ‘ “Destroy him”? Upon my soul, you use strong words. Yes, she should, nonetheless. Sitting at home among her children, how can she be in a position to judge her husband’s actions? Her first consideration must be the success of her marriage. You will have more children, my pet. There will be girls among them. Let them be your life’s work and your abiding delight.’

  ‘Yes, Father.’ She added a few more stitches. ‘How did the King receive James in London?’

  Her father frowned. ‘Has he not told you himself?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Then evidently he does not want you to be told.’

  ‘I jaloused that. Is he going to give up politics, as he said in the letter?’

  ‘That was not to be taken seriously. Do not doubt it, Magdalen, your husband will play a prominent part in his country’s affairs. He will not be left alone, even if he should wish it. Those opposed to the King’s policies would dearly like to recruit him to their cause.’

  ‘Can it ever be right, Father, for subjects to take up arms against the King, even if they think he is acting like a tyrant?’

  She asked so ingenuously and yet it was so very pertinent a question, one that would vex men’s minds more and more as the King’s encroachments grew.

  Ideally, the King should rule for the good of the whole country and, to that end, surround himself with wise and impartial counsellors. Unfortunately, the present King was sly, devious, and autocratic, his advisers venal, sycophantic, and incompetent. Honest men, like Southesk himself, who wished to give him their loyal support, might have to compromise their principles or abandon them altogether, and so be no longer honest. There would be much changing of sides, many charges of apostasy.

  He was not prepared to explain all that to a young woman of 21, even if she was his beloved youngest daughter. So he got up, rather abruptly, and left.

  3

  HER FATHER WAS right. Magdalen did find plenty at Kincardine to keep her usefully occupied. First, though, she had to overcome homesickness. She missed, unbearably, scenes near and far that she had known and loved all her life, from the hills in the distance to the large rowan in the garden on whose trunk were carved the initials of all her brothers and sisters. Kinnaird too had been surrounded with pleasant fields and woods, whereas Kincardine had barren moors all round it while the castle itself was begirt with tall pines that, especially on dull wet days, seemed to harbour malignant spirits, unlike the rowan which had kept them away, or so tradition believed.

  She had to get to know and win the trust of servants who, to begin with, were just that, servants, and not old friends like those at Kinnaird.

  A deputation from the kirk session of Auchterarder, men twice or three times her age, came, caps in hand, to say slyly that they had heard that at Kinnaird, young though she was, she had dispensed relief to the poor of the parish. Would she be so gracious as to take charge of it here too? She suggested that they should apply to her husband. It was the earl, they said, who had sent them to her.

  The village dominie, Mr Blair, a worried-looking young man in threadbare clothes, was also passed on to her by James when he came begging for equipment for his school and, more diffidently, a few extra merks of stipend for himself. He divulged that the minister of the parish, Mr Graham, was opposed to any increase in the dominie’s pay. Schoolteachers must be kept in their proper place, which was well beneath that of ministers. Magdalen liked the meek modest young man and promised him what help she could.

  She tackled all these tasks bravely, though she was soon pregnant again and suffered badly from morning sickness.

  James was now a more considerate, more adept lover. Had she to thank a number of French and Italian ladies for that? She did not mind, nothing would matter if only it was a girl this time. Nightly she prayed for one. She had a selection of names ready. Katherine was not among them but Lilias was.

  Her unhappy sister-in-law had at her own request moved out of the castle into a small secluded cottage on the estate. There she lived alone, her two children having gone to stay with their Aunt Margaret in Dalhousie, where it was much more comfortable and they were spared their mother’s lamentations. A stream with deep pools flowed past her house and James was afraid that she might drown herself in one of them, but Magdalen felt sure that the hope of Colquhoun’s return one day would keep her alive. If she heard that there were guests at the castle, she would walk with bedraggled clothes and unkempt hair to assail them with questions about her husband. This was a painful embarrassment to James.

  He too kept himself busy, reading, writing, thinking, hunting (often accompanied by the two boys) and entertaining visitors, mostly from Edinburgh, with some of whom he had long private conversations. One was the famous Earl of Rothes, who arrived one day with a company of gentlemen.

  Rothes was then the most popular man in Scotland because of his championing of the Presbyterian cause against the King, but he did not strike Magdalen as being at all devout. It was his other reputation she was reminded of, that of a flirtatious charmer. It was said by his detractors that, when he found the comely rich heiress he was always on the look-out for, he would at once retire from the ecclesiastical fray and settle down to live in sybaritic comfort, probably in England, where such an heiress was more likely to be found than in poverty-stricken Scotland. His appearance was striking, hair black as coal and face white as milk. It was rumoured he had a consumption and, indeed, coughed a great deal: in spite of which he was very good comp
any, with frank and witty comments on the leading men of the day, not excluding those in his own party.

  One evening, when the discussion was again about the King’s threatened encroachments, with James the most passionate in opposition to them, Rothes, cool as ever, said, with a smile at Magdalen: ‘That is all very well, James. But is it worth civil war? Is there anything on God’s earth that would justify the killing of Scotsmen by Scotsmen?’

  ‘Surely there is, John. Scotsmen who join in with the English to subvert their country’s constitution and rob their Kirk of its rights are traitors and deserve to die.’

  Rothes was amused. ‘But, James, is not war a gamble, with the winners taking all, including the heads of the losers? Yours is much too handsome to end up on a spike above the Tolbooth in Edinburgh.’

  Magdalen remembered how her father had once, in grim jest, prophesied that fate for James.

  But James would not have it that war was a gamble. It was a noble crusade, or ought to be, and those in the right would always prevail if they had enough faith in themselves and their cause.

  Magdalen noticed Lord Rothes’s henchmen exchanging winks. Did they, in his absence, mock James’s youthful idealism? Like many others, they would wait to see how the situation developed; if not to their advantage, they would back out. James, though, man of honour, if he gave his word, would keep to it, even if it led to his destruction. If she could, if he would listen, she must find a way to warn him.

  ‘But surely, James,’ Rothes was now saying, ‘if history teaches us anything, it is that right prevails only when it is supported by superior force?’

  ‘No, sir. There are enough instances in history of right prevailing not because of superior force but because those who fought for it were willing to die to the last man.’

  ‘Willing to kill, do you not mean? Wars are won by killing, not by dying. One of the damnedest things, you know, is that one’s opponents, stubborn scoundrels, will never admit that their cause is vile and give it up. Even on the gallows they are prepared to argue that they were in the right. I shouldn’t wonder if, when they appear before their Maker, their first words are indignant justifications. A man can always be persuaded of the errors of his ways if he is alive, never if he is dead.’