Lady Magdalen

by Robin Jenkins

  When dressed, with her hair brushed, she sat in a chair, holding tightly on to its arms. In the candlelight, she looked, thought Mrs Witherspoon, like a young queen, but one close to death.

  ‘Please tell them I am ready to receive them,’ she said.

  As she went down the dark narrow stone stairs, Mrs Witherspoon wondered what would happen to herself if the castle was destroyed and she lost her employment. She would have to go to her sister in St Andrews, though she did not care for her brother-in-law, a common shopkeeper.

  Major Strang marched up to her. ‘How much longer are we to be kept waiting?’ he bellowed.

  She noticed the other officers scowling at him.

  She addressed his superior. ‘Her ladyship will see you now, sir, in her room.’

  ‘How is she? Is she very ill? Is she able to talk?’

  ‘Yes, sir, but not for long. She’s very weak. Please show her consideration.’

  ‘As much consideration as her husband showed the people of Aberdeen,’ shouted Strang.

  Mrs Witherspoon did not understand. At the castle they had heard nothing about Aberdeen.

  As they went up the stairs the minister spoke anxiously: ‘This sickness of your mistress, is it smittal?’

  ‘The doctor didna think it was.’

  Mrs Witherspoon opened the door. ‘Here are the gentlemen to see you, my lady.’

  Strang pushed her out of the way and was first into the small room, much to Sir Archibald’s annoyance. The minister snorted as if distrusting the air, though it was scented with herbs.

  Sir Archibald looked uncomfortable, not because he was afraid of catching a disease but because he felt ashamed. It was one thing blowing up the house of a damned traitor like Montrose, but quite another thing molesting this young woman, who in spite of her illness looked so brave and beautiful.

  The minister kept close to the door, which he would not allow to be shut, though the draught caused the candles to flicker.

  Sir Archibald introduced himself.

  She remembered him. ‘Did you not once visit my father’s house at Kinnaird?’

  ‘I had that honour, madam. I have always been an admirer of your father.’

  ‘I’m sorry I cannot entertain you as I should have liked. As you can see, I am not well.’

  ‘I’m very sorry indeed.’

  ‘You remember me?’ jeered Strang.

  ‘Yes, Major, I remember you. You were offensive to me once and you are being offensive to me again.’

  Mrs Witherspoon noticed the third officer, a younger man, smile. Evidently he did not care for Strang.

  Strang laughed. ‘Did you know, madam, that your husband, James Graham, has been excommunicated, a price has been put on his head, and all his property is confiscated?’

  She ignored that, though she would worry about it later. ‘Have you news of Captain Ratho, Major?’

  That put an end to his bluster.

  ‘Captain Ratho was killed at Tippermuir,’ said Sir Archibald.

  ‘He was one of those who did not run away,’ said the young officer.

  ‘I am very sorry,’ said Magdalen. ‘He was kind to me.’

  ‘Thousands were slain at Tippermuir,’ said the minister, ‘thanks to your husband’s devilish treachery and ambition.’

  Sir Archibald had his duty to do. Since he did not like it, less now than ever, he spoke more harshly than he wished. ‘I have to inform you, Lady Magdalen, that by the order of the Estates, I have come to destroy this house, as being the home of a notorious and proscribed traitor.’

  ‘It is my home too. Am I also branded as a notorious traitor?’

  He shook his head. He knew about her saving the lives of the Covenant soldiers. If she was a traitor it was to her husband, not to the Covenant.

  He glanced angrily at the Revd John Clarkson, but there was no help on that gaunt fanatical face.

  Major Strang was again jeering. ‘Have you heard what your husband, the traitor James Graham, did at Aberdeen lately?’

  With her head held high, she waited for him to tell her. He did it with gloating.

  ‘He let loose his Irish savages on the people. They killed and raped and plundered.’

  Her instant reaction was not disgust or horror but pity: not for the unfortunate citizens of Aberdeen but for James, forced by circumstances into actions utterly repugnant to him.

  ‘He will roast in hell for it,’ said the minister.

  She tried to keep her voice steady. ‘And in revenge you have come to destroy my home, harry me and my children, terrify my servants, and make us all homeless. Is that war, gentlemen?’

  Sir Archibald looked baffled and ashamed; so did the other officer; but Strang and the minister were exultant.

  ‘Aye, by God, it’s war,’ cried Strang.

  ‘War that your husband, the traitor rebel, brought about,’ cried the minister. His voice, though, was muffled by the handkerchief he now held to his mouth.

  Sir Archibald, a regular soldier, had a high opinion of his profession and its principles. Her apparently guileless question defeated him. All he could say was: ‘I have my orders, madam. You have until two o’clock tomorrow to clear the castle of all its inhabitants and of any valuables you wish to preserve. I shall put a company of soldiers at your disposal. I bid you good-night.’

  He turned then abruptly and left.

  Mr Clarkson, still holding the handkerchief to his nose, followed; so did Strang, laughing: but the young officer came over to Magdalen and whispered, in an agitated voice: ‘I assure you, Lady Magdalen, some of us do not enjoy this task that has been laid upon us.’

  ‘But you will nonetheless carry it out?’

  ‘We are soldiers. We obey orders.’

  He fled then, shame-faced.

  There could have been triumph in defying them and in showing up their ultimate cowardice, if it had not been for the picture in her mind of women screaming at the hands of the Irish, and of James, sick at heart, letting it happen because he had a war to win.

  12

  THERE WAS NOT much sleep for anyone in the castle that night. Most of the servants had already gathered their belongings together and packed them in readiness. There were grumbles that this war had nothing to do with them, it was a quarrel among the gentry; why should porters and parlour maids suffer? Some, in whispers, confided to others whom they trusted, that it was the Marquis’s fault, all those secret journeys to England, and his deserting the cause of the Covenant to fight for the King. Perhaps he deserved to have his castle blown to bits, for weren’t he and his Irish busy blowing to bits the castles of other noblemen? But surely their mistress was innocent. There were prayers said for her that night.

  She herself did not pray. She lay awake for hours, listening to an owl hooting, a mouse scraping, and her own heart pounding. James was now doomed, she was sure of that, in spite of his victories. He would be hanged as a traitor: a cruel and unjust fate. She imagined him in his cell on his last night. What would he be thinking? Of his sons, no doubt; of the King, whom he had not been able to save; and of her? She hoped so but did not believe it. In any case she herself would be dead by then. Tears came into her eyes. She and James and the children could have been happy together if he had been content to stay at home, winning fame as a poet rather than as a soldier. She remembered lines he had written and murmured them aloud in the room that was now dark and cold because candles and fire had gone out:

  ‘But if thou wilt be constant then

  And faithful of thy word

  I’ll make thee glorious by my pen

  And famous by my sword.

  I’ll serve thee in such noble ways

  Was never heard before;

  I’ll crown and deck thee all with bays

  And love thee evermore.’

  She had pretended that it was addressed to her but of course it wasn’t. It was addressed to some more glorious creature, the mythical embodiment of all he believed in; she fell far short of that. Perhaps she h
ad never tried hard enough to measure up to his ideal, but what mortal woman could have?

  She hoped it was not true that he had let his savage Irish soldiers plunder Aberdeen. After all it was his enemies who had told her. If it had happened, it could have been without James’s sanction, indeed against his will. Those bloodstained savages she had seen at her gate would not be easy to keep under control. But, if he had let it happen, as a deliberate manoeuvre of war, what part had her sons played in it? Her heart broke as she thought of John, secretly sick at heart but pretending to approve, and of poor James, who would have been openly appalled. She had failed, not only as a wife but as a mother too. It was no use her offering excuses, such as her youth, her timidity, and her inevitable submission to her husband’s so much stronger will: she could have tried harder.

  Early next morning, she had all the servants assembled in the great hall. Dressed in black, she was assisted by Mrs Witherspoon down the stairs. She sat in the high throne-like chair, under the portraits of herself and James. She tried to look more resolute than she felt.

  Everyone was present, down to the lad who kept the courtyard clear of dung. They all gazed at her with frightened faces and kept shivering, from fear and cold. Outside it was another dank, damp, dull day.

  She spoke slowly, for she was still short of breath. She was afraid that at any moment she might break down and weep. If she were to do that, she would be letting James down. It was his honour she had to uphold.

  ‘You have seen the soldiers. Their commander has told me that, at two o’clock today, they will begin firing their cannon at this house. That is the order they have been sent to carry out. You must therefore take all your possessions and leave, as soon as you can. Soldiers will be sent to help. You may choose not to accept their help.’

  She paused then, for those soldiers could be heard entering the courtyard.

  ‘But whaur are we to gang, my lady?’ someone called.

  ‘Surely your friends and relatives in the district will give you shelter?’

  ‘Some o’ us are no’ frae this pairt, my lady. We hae nae freen’s or relatives nearby.’

  ‘Still, someone will take you in, until other arrangements can be made.’

  Mrs Witherspoon was smiling. She wasn’t worried. She would find refuge in the manse, being friendly with the minister’s wife. Besides, being a good Presbyterian, she looked for favour from the soldiers, not harm.

  ‘Whit aboot yoursel’, my lady?’ someone cried. ‘And your twa bairns?’

  Her children, Robert aged seven, and David still a babe in arms, were there, in the charge of their nurses, on whom, God forgive her, they depended more than they did on her.

  ‘Whit aboot your valuables, my lady?’

  ‘They will remain here. I think they will be safe.’

  They stared at one another. Safe? Did she say ‘safe’? How could they be safe with cannon balls smashing into the walls of the castle? The poor lady was truly out of her mind. What she said next proved it.

  ‘You must all leave but I myself will remain.’

  Did she think that, if she was in the castle, it wouldn’t be bombarded? She could be right for, after all, her father, the Earl of Southesk, was an important man who knew other important men, and her brother Lord Carnegie was a friend of the Earl of Argyll. But what if she was wrong? Terrible things were done in war. In her place, they wouldn’t have taken the risk, but none of them dared try to dissuade her. She was not one of them, in spite of her kindness.

  The soldiers, led by a shy lieutenant, came into the hall, wearing capes that glistened with rain. He made his way through the throng of servants to Lady Magdalen. He looked unhappy. He had a wife of his own, and two children. In the officers’ mess tent last night he had been on the side of those who had argued that the castle did not have to be destroyed then, it could be done later, after Montrose’s army had been smashed once and for all.

  ‘Lieutenant Rutherford, my lady,’ he said, nervously. ‘I have been instructed to offer you and your children escort to our camp. There you will be hospitably received and afterwards, if you wish, delivered to your father’s house at Kinnaird.’

  ‘Thank you, Mr Rutherford, but this is my home and I do not intend to leave it.’

  He was taken aback. Obduracy on her part had not been envisaged. A sick young woman of no particular character, that was how she had been described.

  He had no authority to use force to make her leave. He doubted if anyone had. The Estates would not wish to offend her father or her brother, Lord Carnegie, who was a valued ally of Argyll’s.

  Meanwhile, the soldiers were giving assistance. A few of the servants angrily declined it but most were grateful. One or two women wept.

  Lieutenant Rutherford went again to speak to Lady Magdalen, though he would rather have faced a charge of Irish.

  ‘I was instructed, Lady Magdalen, to warn you that, if you choose to remain here, the consequences will be on your own head.’

  ‘I am aware of that, Mr Rutherford.’

  If she had scowled or looked down on him as if he was rubbish – after all, his father was a tradesman from St Andrews – he could have borne it with head held high, for he was a soldier obeying orders, but she spoke so pleasantly and smiled so serenely that he crept back, confused and ashamed. That the young lady was brave and proud he could have expected, considering her lineage, but she was also kind; not only that, she was also humorous, even in those desperate circumstances.

  13

  WHEN LIEUTENANT RUTHERFORD reported Lady Magdalen’s attitude, Mr Clarkson, with support from Major Strang, was all for having her bodily removed but Sir Archie growled that it wouldn’t do. The lady was of higher rank than himself and he knew her father. She was ill and not in her right mind: probably female troubles, he muttered. Rough treatment could kill her. And, though he mentioned this to no one, Sir Archie could not get out of his head that question of hers, which could be regarded as childish or wise, according to how you looked at it. ‘Is that war, gentlemen?’

  Everyone was aware of another very sound argument against treating the young lady roughly, though none was bold enough to voice it, not even Mr Clarkson. If Montrose had another two or three victories like Tippermuir and Aberdeen, he might well end up justifying his title of King’s Lieutenant in Scotland and be in a position to have them all hanged. In spite of what had happened at Aberdeen, he was reputed to be fair-minded and merciful, but he was bound to punish severely any who had ill-treated his wife. It didn’t matter that it had never been much of a love match. Hadn’t he gone off on a Continental tour that had lasted three years, leaving her with two infants? That had hardly indicated passionate attachment. It had been the talk of salons and taverns. Still, whether a man loved his wife or not, his honour resided in her. If she was abused, so was he.

  Thus, in their tent, as they drank their claret, the officers chatted, with a forced jest or two. They decided, best leave the lady and her castle alone. Time enough to blow it up later, when Montrose was no longer a threat.

  No one asked Major Strang his opinion, but then no one ever did. In any case he was usually too drunk to give it. No one liked him, drunk or sober. He wasn’t the only one who had run away at Tippermuir but none had run faster or squealed louder. Demotion or even cashiering was imminent. Sir Archie couldn’t stand him and didn’t hide it.

  At a quarter to two, trumpets were sounded in warning and the gun was trained on the castle.

  It was raining heavily. The soldiers took shelter in their tents. Only those in charge of the gun were out in the open, getting soaked. There was a good chance that, if the order to fire was given, nothing would happen because of the wetness. On his knees in the mud, Mr Clarkson prayed. More than one artillery man was tempted to kick his backside.

  Then, about two or three minutes to the hour, through the mirk and rain, they saw something appear on the ramparts. Was it a crow or a spectre? The soldiers muttered uneasily; in the old days, they would have cr
ossed themselves. Officers with field glasses soon made out that it was a person dressed in black. Roused from his prayer, Mr Clarkson snatched a field glass. It was the traitor-rebel’s woman, he howled. The Jezebel had been lying. How could any woman seriously ill have climbed up there?

  They could have told him. By showing great courage and determination.

  She was motionless, with no waving of her arms in defiance or entreaty.

  Mr Clarkson shrieked the order to fire, like a spoiled child afraid that the treat it had been promised was going to be denied it. Sir Archie muttered an oath of a blasphemous nature, which would have shocked Mr Clarkson had he not been deafened by his own hoarse exhortations.

  The poor young lady must be getting soaked to the skin, said the soldiers, themselves shivering. If a cannon ball or a fall into the moat didn’t finish her off, a chill would.

  Mr Clarkson was now giving a ranting account of wilful, wicked, and lewd women in the Bible who had been chastised by the Lord. The soldiers found it entertaining.

  Suddenly, Sir Archie, with another oath, ordered everyone to their tents and strode off to his own. Only the minister was left by the gun. Falling on his knees, he hugged the long wet iron snout, like a man embracing his sweetheart, or the other way round. The soldiers’ comments were sardonic and obscene. If that was holiness, they could do without it.

  Next day the soldiers folded their tents and marched off, gun and all. Most were thankful that they hadn’t knocked down the castle, though Sir Archie might be in trouble for not carrying out his orders. Mr Clarkson was sure to clype on him.

  The servants returned, at first wary as cats not yet sure there were no dogs about. Then rejoicing broke out. Ale was produced and drunk. They had been spared by the Lord so, to show Him how grateful they were, they danced and sang and cuddled. There was no minister to spoil the fun.