Lady Magdalen

by Robin Jenkins

  Mr Henderson and his kind would want to destroy the painting, not because it was inadequate but because it was a symbol of Papacy. Her own disappointment with it went much deeper, deeper indeed than she understood.

  She took it down, wrapped it in cloth, and put it away in a cupboard. She would give it back to Francis so that he could hang it among his other works of art.

  She realised how inadequate Francis himself was. He was not keeping apart from the war because he loved his fellow men too much to want to kill or injure them, for whatever reason; he was doing it because he despised them. He had made his house beautiful to show his contempt.

  Was there a way other than James’s participation in controversies and wars and Francis’s white-handed aloofness among his paintings? Yes, there was. A way where the horrors and miseries of war had to be endured, though no blow was struck, and where, though debating chamber and battlefield were far away, their consequences had to be bravely tholed and patiently remedied. The way of women.

  12

  JANET GRIMLY ADVISED against holding the wedding in the castle. ‘You’ve nae idea, my lady, whit they can be like, especially at waddings, whaur they lose a’ sense o’ decency.’ Was this, wondered Magdalen, the disgruntled old maid speaking? Poor Janet could hardly be enthusiastic about weddings, since she had never had one herself. It turned out, though, that she was right about the behaviour of the guests.

  It began in the kirk itself. Since the local gentry stayed away, the ordinary folk had the place to themselves. They pushed and shoved for seats at the front, where their betters usually sat. They jested lewdly at the expense of the bridegroom, who looked as if he was about to be hanged, not married, and of the bride too, for Cissie, though splendid in a blue dress with hat to match, was uncharacteristically subdued and moody, like, it was gleefully pointed out, a cow in season ready for the bull. It seemed too that the old minister’s lust for Cissie had become known, for his pious exhortations to chastity were greeted with chuckles and giggles.

  Though secluded in the laird’s enclosure, Magdalen heard most of it.

  ‘If you think they’re bad noo,’ whispered Janet, ‘jist wait till they’ve had lots tae drink.’

  In the carriage on the way back to the castle Janet gave more advice. ‘As soon as the meal’s ower, my lady, slip awa’ up tae your room and snib the door. They’ll no’ mind. If you stay, you’ll be a damper on them.’

  ‘Why, what are they likely to do?’

  ‘Things that wad shame the heathen tribes o’ Africa.’

  ‘But, Janet, they are respectable men and women, with large families.’

  And those most likely to misbehave, the young unmarried men, were away at the war.

  ‘They hae sich little pleasure in their lives, my lady, that when they get the chance they dinna ken when tae stop.’

  Did not some of them walk 20 miles to see an old woman burned alive?

  Tables were set out in the great hall. The castle servants were not too pleased at having to serve such guests. Magdalen herself sat at the top table, with Janet – her self-appointed protectress –, Mr Graham the minister, the bride and groom, and the bride’s parents. The dominie’s mother had refused to attend. Magdalen picked out, at other tables, Mr Ranald, that dour man, paying more than neighbourly attention to the big lusty woman beside him who could scarcely be that ‘sickly body’, his wife; Mr Gillies, being helped to eat and drink by his wife, who did not look well or happy; and three of the other wounded men and their wives. Of the remaining two, one had died and the other was too ill. Mr and Mrs Reid were pointed out to her by Janet, a diffident pair, who tried to join in the jollifications but were not at their ease. Nearly everyone there was above them in station. Their having a son bound for the University did not make up for their not owning a kailyard of their own.

  As ale was consumed in large quantities by men and women alike, the jollifications grew noisier and less and less restrained. Some women unbuttoned their dresses, not minding that their bosoms were exposed. These were fondled by illicit hands.

  Mr Graham was amused. ‘The Children of Israel,’ he said, ‘were allowed special licence by the Lord at weddings. After all, what is the purpose of matrimony? Is it not the provision of souls for His glorification? For that purpose to be achieved, our priapean instincts must not be submerged.’

  Poor Mr Graham, thought Magdalen, pitying him when she ought surely to be condemning him. His wife had died some years ago after a long illness. Since then he had employed a succession of maidservants, all chosen for their youth and plumpness. None had stayed long. There was a rumour that one had left with money in her pocket and a child in her womb. Hours of praying on his knees on the stone floor of the kirk had not, alas, submerged his priapean instincts.

  Magdalen felt herself blushing but it wasn’t noticed among all those flushed and jolly faces.

  She remembered Mrs Nicholson, now employed in an inn of ill-repute in Dundee.

  The bride’s parents were so crushed in spirit by being at her ladyship’s table that they were unable to eat or drink. Given permission to join friends at another table, they were instantly as gluttonous as the rest.

  The bride herself continued to be quiet and demure, though she had to endure being kissed by tipsy male guests, most with beards. They came swaggering up to claim that right.

  It was, Mr Graham explained, a traditional custom. In olden times kisses had not sufficed. Priapus had been given his proper role then.

  By this time the minister had emptied a bottle of claret and was well through another. He kept quoting Latin to the dominie, to cheer him up, it seemed, but depressing him still more.

  The dominie ate little and drank less. Was it possible, thought Magdalen, that this shy frugal scholar hoped to find, in Cissie’s soft body, enough joy to compensate for the lack of intellectual and spiritual companionship? Still, he ought not to be looking so gloomy. Was not his wedding also a communal celebration? The war in the North was over and the men of the parish, including their absent host, would soon be home again.

  When the meal was ended and the tables were being cleared away for the dancing to begin, Magdalen slipped away, unnoticed. Janet asked permission to remain, implying that she wanted to see that things did not go too far, but Magdalen saw that Janet, censorious old maid, was more fascinated than disgusted by the display of priapean instincts. Was she hoping that, in some dark corner, some virile ploughman would take from her what she cherished but also hated, her virginity sweet once but now sour?

  On her way to her room, Magdalen looked in on the boys. They had been forbidden to go near the festivities. They had not minded much. ‘Who wants to see a lot of stupid peasants getting drunk?’

  She was awakened by the noise of guests skailing. They seemed greatly excited. Women screamed. She wondered, as she fell asleep again, what had happened to Janet.

  Next morning Janet was sourly reluctant to give an account of what had gone on after Magdalen had left. ‘I’d raither no’ say, my lady. It’s no’ fit for your ears.’

  ‘Did Mr Blair take part in the dancing?’

  ‘He was gi’en nae option. He and Cissie were dragged to their feet and flung intae the ring.’

  ‘He must have been very embarrassed, poor man.’

  ‘No’ hauf as embarrassed as he was later.’

  ‘Oh. And what happened then?’

  ‘Dae you really want tae ken?’

  ‘Yes, of course.’

  ‘According tae custom the bride and groom are hurled in a cairt tae their hoose, wi’ flo’ers roon’ their necks.’

  Magdalen laughed. ‘A friendly custom.’

  ‘Freen’ly maybe, but they went too faur. When they got them tae the schoolhoose they stripped them baith bare naked and threw them into bed.’

  ‘Oh.’ Making love, or consummating a marriage, was difficult enough in private; with a crowd of drunken peasants looking on, it must have been an ordeal. ‘Did you see this yourself, Janet?’
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  ‘I did not. I was telt aboot it. Some got stripped themsels. I’ll say nae mair.’

  ‘Good heavens!’

  ‘You may weel say “guid heavens!”, my lady. That’s the kind o’ folk we are, nae better and nae waur than ither folk.’

  Janet had not meant to give herself away. Guilt and remorse had forced it out of her. There was no one she could confess to and the man with whom she had sinned had probably already forgotten it, not just because he had been drunk at the time but also because he had thought it of little account. She had offered herself, body and soul, to the Devil and he had laughed. Worse still, he had dared to console her, saying it wasn’t her fault it was such a foolish failure; at her age, with her lack of experience, what else could she expect? He had promised to tell no one and perhaps he would not, for he was a married man with a jealous wife.

  If others got to hear about it, they would laugh too. Her life would be ruined. She would have to do away with herself.

  Her ladyship was laughing, when she ought to have been looking shocked and disgusted: not at Janet’s own transgression, which, if God was pitiful, she would never hear about, but at the shamelessness of people in general.

  It was not a contemptuous laughter; indeed, it had Janet in tears, for there was forgiveness in it, for everyone.

  She went closer to her mistress, for she had become shortsighted of late. ‘Whit has come ower you, my lady?’ she asked humbly.

  There was a change, but what was it? It could not be maturity, for she was still only 24. Was it understanding, that the Bible spoke of? Aye, that must be it. She understood more deeply and so was able to make allowances. When the Earl came back from his war, he would have a surprise waiting for him. He had left behind a young wife whose opinions, timidly expressed, he had listened to politely but hadn’t heeded, and whose silences he had discounted as indicating that she had nothing useful to say. Great general though he now was, he would find in her a quality that transcended all his. He had courage, intelligence, and authority; she had goodness.

  13

  WHEN JAMES CAME home, he stayed only for a week. Urgent affairs awaited him in Edinburgh, where envious rivals had to be prevented from belittling his recent achievements and from spreading rumours that he was not wholly in agreement with the principles of the Covenant but secretly yearned to join the Royalists. Among these detractors, he told Magdalen, was her brother James. Her father too was still antagonistic but, being an honourable man, would never stoop to clandestine intrigues like the others. Magdalen, he remarked, more and more reminded him of her father.

  When he saw in her what Janet had seen, her goodness (though he did not then think of it as that), it was in an unlikely place and at an unlikely time: in bed, just after he had made love to her, not very willingly. He had thought he should not, since Baby Robert was only a few months old and it might be harmful to her to become pregnant again so soon. Had not Dr Allen given that advice? But Magdalen had been eager to take the risk, not really to show her love for him but in the hope that her next child would be a girl.

  After it was over, he was struck by the look on her face.

  ‘You know, that’s exactly how you are in Jameson’s portrait.’

  ‘Am I looking so mournful then?’

  ‘I was wrong when I said that. I looked at it again today and saw what Rothes saw. Whenever I meet him, he asks after you.’

  She smiled. ‘Has he found his wealthy heiress yet?’

  ‘It seems he has: the Countess of Devonshire. But all his friends fear a grimmer bride awaits him. He coughs up blood. He has not long to live.’

  ‘I’m sorry. I liked him.’

  ‘He will be greatly missed: though, to be truthful, he has always been inclined to put personal considerations before his duty as a patriot.’

  ‘Perhaps he thinks that, if he is true to himself and to his friends, that is the best way of showing himself a patriot.’

  James chuckled. ‘That is the kind of remark your father often makes. I am never sure whether it is very wise or very dubious.’

  James was attending a conference at Berwick with the King when Francis Gowrie and his wife paid an unexpected visit to Kincardine. Their arrival was made remarkable by the magnificent white stallion that Lady Gowrie rode and which she had prancing all over the courtyard, striking sparks from the cobbles. Unlike most other guests, she wasn’t content to let her horse be taken to the stables by servants but went with it herself to make sure that it was well looked after.

  Magdalen noticed, with surprise, that she looked to the horse for companionship more than to her husband.

  Francis himself was more interested in the contents of a leather bag that he took from one of his attendants. From it he produced a beautiful silver chalice.

  His eyes grew small, like a miser’s, she thought. ‘The finest example of its kind in Scotland,’ he said. ‘Look at that exquisite engraving: Christ raising the dead. By Cellini, a famous Venetian sculptor and silversmith. I bought it from Sir John Rhynie, whose family looted it from a church in Knox’s time.’ He then took out two gold goblets. ‘Made by a Florentine craftsman for James IV. Engraved with hunting scenes. I bought them from Lord Lithgo’s widow.’

  ‘Have you been going round buying up people’s prized possessions, Francis?’

  ‘Prized, perhaps, but not appreciated. They will be safer at Mintlaw. Otherwise they might have been melted down. On the whole, though, it hasn’t been a very successful foray. Scots spend their money on things of use, not on things of beauty.’

  Magdalen wanted to ask him about his little daughter, but did not.

  Later, while they were dining, Francis made malicious fun of James. ‘So James is at Berwick talking to the King. The question all Scotland is whispering is: will he come back?’

  ‘Why should he not come back?’ asked Magdalen.

  ‘Back to the Covenant fold, I meant. Are they not expecting him to reveal himself as a ravenous wolf? There’s some glory, I suppose, in serving the King, but none in having to heed the wishes of a pack of rabid ministers, and we know, do we not, that James has always had a great thirst for glory?’

  ‘He is trying to serve his country.’

  ‘By waging or stirring up unnecessary wars? By urging Scotsmen to kill Scotsmen? By laying waste the land?’

  ‘By protecting our constitution. By defending the rights of the Kirk.’

  Francis sneered. ‘They have you well schooled, Magdalen. There was a time when you wouldn’t have thought those worth one man’s life, let alone the lives of thousands.’

  ‘No one is being killed now. The war is over.’

  ‘But everyone knows it will be resumed soon if the King does not get his way or the Estates theirs. Whatever noble claims they make, they are all serving their own interests, James being no exception. Did you know that he had the impudence to send a gang of armed scoundrels to Mintlaw with a copy of their absurd Covenant? I was to sign it or be arrested. They showed me their warrant, signed, if you please, by James and others, who included, I may say, your own brother, James.’

  ‘Did you sign it, Francis?’

  ‘I did, with swords at my throat and prayers in my ears, but it signified nothing. I do not intend to join their army or contribute one merk to their war fund.’

  Nancy intervened. ‘Horses don’t bother with politics. You can trust a horse. If you treat it well, it will burst its heart for you.’

  Her husband ignored her. ‘Why have you let them change you, Magdalen? When I was in Italy, I used to tell them about the little Scots girl, Magdalen Carnegie, who, in a land bound with bigotry, kept her soul free.’

  ‘That was foolish of you, Francis. I was only thirteen when you went to Italy.’

  ‘You were seeking the truth then.’

  Was the compliment deserved? Had her childish anxieties amounted to that?

  ‘Why do you think I am not seeking it now?’

  Nancy again spoke. ‘If I was a man, I think I would
fight for the King. He likes horses. At the time of the Coronation in Edinburgh, he told me in Holyrood House that he was worried about a favourite horse of his, it had hurt a leg while hunting. He was afraid it might have to be put down.’

  ‘Can you imagine a more bizarre conversation?’ asked Francis with another sneer.

  Magdalen could easily imagine the King, beset by nobles wishing to get something out of him or scheming to outwit him, finding refuge in this simple girl’s enthusiasm for creatures whose loyalty could always be relied on.

  She was in bed when there came a knocking on her door. Janet opened it. Outside stood Nancy in a white nightgown, holding a candle. ‘The mistress has gone to bed,’ said Janet, rudely, ‘wi’ her prayers said.’

  ‘Who is it, Janet?’ called Magdalen.

  ‘It’s me, Magdalen,’ said Nancy.

  ‘Come in, please.’

  Surly Janet stood aside and Nancy strode in. Magdalen had not realised before how big and strong she was. (In the kitchen the joke was that Lady Gowrie could pick up her husband and carry him under her oxter.) She was the kind of woman who could, without risk, bear a dozen children. Yet she had only one, with no sign of another.

  ‘Please leave us, Janet,’ said Magdalen. She saw that Nancy wanted the conversation to be private.

  Janet went off in a huff.

  Nancy sat on a low stool, with her legs, under the nightgown, wide apart. Her hands were on her knees, as if holding reins.

  ‘Francis doesna sleep wi’ me,’ she said.

  Well, not all husbands slept with their wives. It did not necessarily follow that their marriages had failed.

  ‘When I touch him, he grues.’

  Magdalen had noticed.

  ‘I’m no’ sure if it’s just because I’m a woman. He told me once that women’s bodies are repulsive. That was the word he used. Yet he looks for hours at paintings wi’ naked women in them. Is it because I am plain Nancy Dick, no’ a high-born lady like you, Magdalen?’