Lady Magdalen

by Robin Jenkins

  Not an artisan or servant then.

  ‘I’d better tell you, for you’d never guess. The dominie, Mr Blair.’

  Magdalen was astonished and not pleased. Mr Blair was a graduate of St Andrews University and his father had been a minister. He was in a class well above Cissie’s. Surely he should be aiming higher than an illiterate maidservant however bonny. He was so serious too, while she made fun of everything.

  ‘He wants me tae gang tae Dundee tae meet his mither. If she approves o’ me then we’ll get mairried. But I don’t ken that I want tae mairry him. No’ because I think he’s too guid for me, even if he can write Greek and I can hardly write my ain name.’

  ‘What are you trying to say, Cissie?’

  ‘When he fin’s oot aboot me and the gentleman, for somebody’s sure tae tell him, he’ll still want tae mairry me. That maks me want tae bre’k his hert.’

  ‘Because he loves you so much you want to break his heart? That’s a strange thing to say.’

  ‘It’s because I think I love him and I dinna want tae.’

  In that case, better for them both if the marriage never took place. All the same, Magdalen would have liked to have the wedding in the castle, with all the village invited: so much more joyous than preparing for war.

  Cissie got up. ‘Weel, I’d better get back tae the kitchen.’

  Back to the dish-washing, the scouring of pots, the scrubbing of tables, the sweeping of floors.

  ‘Mind you,’ she said, at the door, ‘I’d try tae mak him a guid wife.’

  6

  LORD ROTHES’S EMISSARY, Mr Robert Murray, minister of Methuen, a quiet scholarly man, came to Kincardine a few days later and lost no time in removing James’s last doubts as to the propriety of opposing, by arms if necessary, a king driven to despotic acts through the influence of malignant favourites. The Lord’s blessing, if the insurrection was on His behalf, was assured. Mr Murray cited instances from the Scriptures. He urged James to hasten to Edinburgh so that he could play his part in the debates, negotiations, and preparations. If he delayed too long, opportunities, such as political and military appointments, might be missed.

  All that was what James wanted to hear.

  Soon after the minister’s visit he set out for Edinburgh. At that time the capital was indeed a wasps’ byke which the clumsy interventions of King Charles had overturned. He just could not understand why he, the King, answerable only to God, should not appoint bishops to oversee the Scottish Church, if that was what he wanted. The Scots might not like it but that was beside the point. Their duty as subjects was to comply even if it meant their having to jettison dogmas and prejudices. For peace and Christian unity to be restored to the country, all that was needed was for the King’s edicts to be heeded and obeyed. To him it was incredible, not to say humiliating, that the Scots should keep on sending relays of representatives to London, assuring him of their loyalty and devotion while at the same time in Edinburgh and other towns dissidents gathered round Mercat Crosses vowing defiance and rebellion. If he persevered, surely they must come to their senses and acknowledge how contradictory and contrary their behaviour was.

  Instead of coming to their senses, they went, in the King’s view, totally mad. On 23 July 1637, in the High Kirk of St Giles, when the dean, Dr Hanna, started to read from the new liturgy, as the King had ordered, the large audience, nobles in the galleries and commoners below, immediately protested, the former with well-bred restraint but the latter with plebeian fury. Bibles, stools, and insults were hurled at the unfortunate dean and a riot ensued. Finally the kirk had to be forcibly emptied and the doors locked. Out on the streets any prelate unlucky enough to be recognised was in danger of being seized and hanged.

  Though the mob’s violence disgusted Montrose, he did not give up his allegiance to the anti-bishop, and therefore the anti-King, faction. He soon became one of its leaders, buzzing as angrily as any. Once, from the top of a beer barrel, he harangued a large crowd, causing Lord Rothes to jest that one day he might find himself addressing a much larger crowd from a much higher position. He was voted to be one of the five nobles on the Commission to negotiate with the King and, in February 1638, was among the first to sign the National Covenant in Greyfriars Kirkyard. This, though dedicated ‘For God and the King’, was inevitably seen by the latter as downright defiance; the former’s approval was taken for granted. Some senior Presbyterians, among them Magdalen’s father, called for caution but their advice was angrily rejected by the majority, among whom Montrose was the most outspoken.

  Convinced that only force would subdue the treasonous Scots, the King began to make preparations for war.

  The Covenanters were likewise employed. Arms were bought. Envoys were sent to Germany to recruit among the Scots mercenaries there. Noblemen hurried home to fortify their castles and conscript their tenants. None was more energetic than Montrose, now a colonel.

  Magdalen’s father kept her informed. ‘I am afraid,’ he wrote, ‘that James has become one of the hottest heads among the malcontents. I shall not vex you with an account of what took place between him and me at the recent General Assembly in Glasgow Cathedral. Enough to say that, though manifestly in the wrong, he chose to pick a quarrel with me in that public place and used some intemperate language. I would shrug my shoulders and leave him to his fate if he was not my favourite daughter’s husband and the father of my grandsons, and also if I was not convinced that he has perversely chosen the wrong side since he is at heart much more Royalist than Presbyterian and will discover that too late when he has become irretrievably committed. No doubt there will be a great changing of sides and back again in the course of the forthcoming conflict, but James’s sense of honour is such that, when at last he realises that he has chosen wrongly, he will still persist and then be in the tragic position of fighting for what he no longer believes in. This would leave him disillusioned, embittered, and vulnerable. I entreat you, therefore, my love, when he returns home to drum up soldiers among his tenantry, to use all your influence to keep him with you for as long as you can. When a man is in doubt as to where his true duty lies – and what honest man is not, in these bewildering times? – surely it is not dishonourable to stay at home with his family, helping his country, not by taking part in sterile debates or a useless and ruinous war, but by putting his estates into good order. I hear rumours that James’s are already encumbered with debt and hardly able to afford the expense of fitting out and maintaining any considerable body of militia.’

  7

  WHILE THOSE TURBULENT events were taking place in Edinburgh with, as the participants thought, the fate of the kingdom at stake, life went on in Kincardine in a quiet uneventful way, or so it would have seemed to a passing stranger, who would not be aware of the various local dramas: such as, for instance, the betrothal of the dominie, Mr Blair, to a maidservant, Cissie Baxter, now the speak of the parish, as indeed was also Cissie’s winning her way into the great gentleman’s feather bed. It was generally agreed that, if she married the dominie, she would make his life a torment, and it was hoped that his lordship, the earl, or, in his place, her ladyship, would forbid the marriage.

  One Saturday afternoon, when the dominie, bespectacled and knock-knee’d, with his pockets stuffed with books, arrived at the castle to see her ladyship, John Galloway, the gatekeeper gave him a lewd but friendly grin. Like every male in the parish over the age of puberty, not excluding, if truth be told, the 70-year-old minister, Galloway often day-dreamed of having Cissie himself in a feather bed, he wearing a white silk nightshirt (such as Lord Rothes had worn, according to report) and Cissie wearing nothing at all.

  It so happened that afternoon that Lady Magdalen was not feeling well. There was a sharp pain in her womb. Dr Muirkirk had been sent for. She was terrified of losing her daughter. She found it difficult therefore to be as patient with Mr Blair as she should. She had concluded that he ought not to marry Cissie but instead some older more respectable woman, perhaps the widow of a
schoolmaster or minister, who would see to it he was well fed and decently clothed. Besides, his wishing to marry an ignorant, immoral, and sensual girl like Cissie suggested his unfitness to be a teacher of young children, as it seemed some parents were complaining. Some of the jokes being told about him and Cissie had come, in watered-down versions, to Lady Magdalen’s ears.

  That afternoon she was ready to cut him short. She would not forbid the marriage because she did not think that she, or James, or Mr Graham, or anyone, had a right to do so, but she would let him know that she did not approve of it. Was she to some degree prejudiced by her own not very successful marriage? She asked herself that and shrank from answering it.

  She was quite taken aback, and thrown into remorseful confusion, when he began to talk, eagerly, not about Cissie and himself, but about two of his pupils, a boy and a girl, John Reid and Mary Ranald, who were so exceptionally gifted that they deserved, in his opinion, to be sent to University. He knew this was not possible in Mary’s case but perhaps a place could be found for her in some nobleman’s household as a kind of governess to small girls. As for the boy, if funds could be found to award him a scholarship, the University would be pleased to accept him once they were given evidence of his abilities: already he could tackle mathematical problems beyond the reach of the dominie himself. Mary’s father, a tenant farmer with a few stony acres, might be unwilling, for he had an ailing wife and needed Mary at home to look after her brothers and sisters, but perhaps he could be persuaded by her ladyship. John’s father, on the other hand, though only a tender of pigs, was proud of his son’s talents and would make sacrifices to give him the chance to cultivate them. It was not uncommon for the sons of poor men to attend Scottish universities and rise to eminence. In John’s case, unfortunately, there was a difficulty: he was a very diffident boy, too easily discouraged. It was a pity he did not have Mary’s spirit.

  Magdalen was more interested in the girl. She could well be found a position as child-minder or nursemaid, but she would have to be personable and well-spoken, as well as clever.

  ‘The girl,’ she said, ‘how old is she?’

  ‘They are both twelve.’

  ‘What is she like in appearance?’

  He hesitated. ‘She is beautiful.’

  That was more than Magdalen had expected or wanted. Not coarse-featured would have been quite enough. Few noblewomen were likely to take into their employ a girl of low birth who outshone them in beauty.

  ‘Is she uncouth in her speech?’ As so many of the village children were.

  ‘She can speak very well when it is necessary.’

  What paragon was this, clever, spirited, beautiful, and well-spoken? Did such flowers sprout on middens?

  ‘Can you bring her to see me, Mr Blair? And her father too.’

  ‘Yes, my lady. Shall I bring John and his father too?’

  ‘In their case, I think we should wait until my husband comes home.’

  ‘When do you expect his lordship?’

  ‘Any day now. As you may know, Mr Blair, there is danger of war. My husband will have more important matters on his mind than a village boy’s education.’

  ‘I want myself to ask his permission to marry.’

  Suddenly she felt faint. There was a roaring in her head: was it of cannons? She smelled smoke: had the castle been set on fire? She heard screams: men were being butchered, women raped, and children kicked aside. James was in the midst of it all, exulting.

  She heard the dominie say, anxiously: ‘Are you all right, my lady?’

  Then Janet came rushing in and ordered the dominie to leave. The birth, now imminent, might be the death of her young mistress, without fools like the dominie causing her extra stress.

  8

  TWO DAYS LATER, when James came home, he had little time or inclination to take an interest in parochial affairs; among which he seemed to include her pregnancy, for though, as he hurried to and fro, he did ask her how she felt, he hardly waited for an answer. There was always some messenger to be received, another to be sent out; important visitors to confer with; recruiting forays to be made (taking John with him in spite of the boy’s susceptibility to sore throats); recruits to be drilled and instructed; and the forthcoming campaign to be planned. He was realising his boyhood ambitions. Only on the battlefield would he be happier. So Magdalen thought, with some bitterness.

  He designed for himself a uniform that would suit the rank of colonel and also of general. The jacket was bright red, so that his men could easily see him on the battlefield and be given heart. It also meant, Magdalen pointed out, that he would just as easily be seen by the enemy and become a target for their cannon and muskets. That was a risk, he said cheerfully, incidental to high command. When she asked him how it was that, though he was only 27, he was about to be made a general, when there must be a number of noblemen among the Covenanters a good deal older, he replied that perhaps he was the only one foolish enough to put up with the expense, vexations, and rivalries, but she knew it was more likely to be because he had, now more than ever, such an uncanny belief in his destiny that even those who did not like him – her own father, alas, was one – could not help being impressed. No one doubted that he would prove to be a bold and resourceful commander. Corpses scattered about battlefields would give him no pleasure but they would give him no pause either.

  Magdalen made no attempt to dissuade him but once she said to him, quietly but resolutely, that women like her, who stayed at home and gave birth and looked after their families, contributed more to the country’s weal than politicians, soldiers, or ministers. He hardly listened, for he was reading some papers, but he nodded, not because he agreed with her but because he wished she would not bother him with such nonsense, harmless though it was, in the same way that he sometimes did with John and James.

  She did not ask him what was to be done about his sister Lilias or Mrs Nicholson or Cissie and the dominie or the dominie’s prize pupils. He did not see fit to discuss with her what he would have called the great issues of the day, so perhaps this was her way of retaliating, but she had another worthier reason. She wanted to make those decisions herself. She was a woman now and had learned a lot about people in the past year or two.

  Once she asked him if he would stay at home until the child was born. It would depend, he replied, on the political situation at the time.

  He asked her to do him a favour. Would she sew a piece of blue ribbon on to his bonnet? He intended to have all his soldiers wear such a ribbon. It would be the badge of the Covenanters’ army.

  He could have had many others to do it for him. Was asking her his way of saying how sorry he was for having neglected her in the past few weeks?

  She felt like refusing. Why should she, even in so small a matter, assist him in his military life? It would be like showing approval or acceptance of something she abhorred. But she subdued her pride and meekly obeyed.

  She sewed on the ribbon one evening as they sat by the fire, with the wind roaring in the chimney. James had put away his papers for the time being and was polishing his sword with the gold hilt. It would have made a good painting, she thought wryly: the warrior prepares for battle, with his wife’s assistance.

  Yet his mind was not on slashed faces or cloven skulls.

  ‘I have left instructions that, if Beatrix marries, 250,000 merks will be paid by me or my heirs as a marriage settlement.’

  Beatrix, his youngest sister, was the only one still unmarried; except, of course, for Katherine.

  ‘Do you agree?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes, James, I agree.’ Though she had been warned by the lawyer that so generous a sum could scarcely be afforded, considering James’s military expenses.

  He sighed. ‘Poor Lilias. I wish I could do more for her.’

  ‘She is becoming reconciled.’ Because she was now hopeful that her husband would come back to her one day.

  ‘Reconciled to a lifetime of unhappiness, through no fault of her own.’r />
  Magdalen thought of the women whose husbands would be in his army, thousands of them. Many of those husbands would be killed or wounded and their wives too would have to be reconciled to a lifetime of unhappiness through no fault of their own.

  ‘Poor Katherine,’ she said, ‘I wonder what has become of her.’

  He went on polishing and said nothing.

  ‘If she were to come back, James, would you welcome her? Would you let her come and live with us here in Kincardine, where she was born?’

  ‘It would not be possible.’

  It would take a different kind of courage from that needed on the battlefield. He did not have it, not yet anyway.

  ‘Sir John’s friends have not cast him out. They are trying to have him pardoned. Why should not Katherine’s friends help her?’

  ‘That is how a woman would see it. I understand that. You put humane considerations first. You are free to do so. Men cannot, especially those in responsible positions, who have to set an example. For them honour must come first.’

  But surely, James, there is greater dishonour in leaving your sister alone and unhappy far away among strangers?

  Two days later her third son Robert was born.

  9

  THE BABY WAS only three days old and James, with his company of soldiers, was about to march off to join the others who would make up the Covenanters’ army when a woman from the village came to the castle, asking to see her ladyship. Janet reluctantly brought the message. ‘Of coorse she canna see you, my lady. You’ve hardly got the strength tae speak, faur less listen tae her grumbles. I ken Agnes Gillies. She’s a greeting-faced creature. You’ve got enough troubles o’ your ain.’

  The greatest of Magdalen’s troubles, though she would never have admitted it to anyone, was the difficulty she was finding in cherishing little Robert as she should. Utterly innocent, he nevertheless represented the greatest disappointment of her life. At first she could not bear to hold him in her arms. James’s sympathy was jocose: what warrior strain was in her that caused her to bring forth men children only? But she was not to repine, he added cheerfully, she was young and had plenty of time to have half a dozen daughters. Janet couldn’t hold her tongue and reminded him that her ladyship was delicate, just one more pregnancy could kill her, as old Dr Allen had said. Dr Muirkirk, though, rebuked her, saying she was talking nonsense. The Lord had meant women to bring forth children in abundance and had given them bodies able to do it. He had known ladies with narrower pelvises than Lady Magdalen who had had ten of a family. Not all of them had lived but that was part of the Lord’s plan too: He took away the weak and left the strong.