Lady Magdalen

by Robin Jenkins

  They set out soon after dawn, with the sky still red, their saddle-bags stuffed with provisions supplied by Mrs Blair. Their horses had been fed and rested and were in good fettle. At that hour the town was empty and they were soon clear of it, heading for the mountains in the distance, their tops wreathed in pink mist. A cool breeze blew. The dominie had greatly amused Tom and Gavin by staring up at the sky and holding up his hand to feel the wind and then forecasting it was going to be a fine day. He was being so like a schoolmaster, they thought, pretending, as he had to do to impress the bairns, that he knew everything. They found even more amusing and kept making jokes about the fact that he had so bonny and big-breasted a wife with such a flirtatious wink. Sourly, Braco rebuked them. He had been as lustful as they at their age and usually made allowances, but he had a premonition, which often possessed him, that God was waiting for a chance to chastise them, and where better than among these wild regions into which they were venturing? There had never been a minister in the pulpit at Braco who had taught that God was kind.

  When they began to sing a ditty with a jaunty tune and many verses, none of them proper, he would have liked to ask them to sing a psalm instead but they would have laughed, knowing how stubbornly silent he was in kirk, or they might have obliged him by singing one through their noses like an old minister they had once known. Braco gave up thinking about God and thought about Jean instead and was comforted.

  The closer to the mountains they came, the poorer the houses, the stonier the fields, and the skinnier the cattle. Twice abuse was yelled at them, once by an old woman and the second time by a gang of children as wild-haired, dark-skinned, and unclothed as heathen Hottentots. What harm have we done them? asked Gavin indignantly. Braco replied that if you have had your possessions, miserable though they were, and your cattle, skinny though they were, stolen by men you had never seen before, you weren’t likely to feel kindly towards strangers afterwards. Soldiers of any army considered that they had a right to take what they needed. Their cause, whatever it was, and their weapons, gave them that right. Sometimes they paid compensation, but mostly they did not. The Marquis would not allow his soldiers to steal, said Gavin, and was told to remember what had happened at Aberdeen. Wars, said Braco, were not won by men hampered by scruples. But, said Gavin, hadn’t there been a time long ago when knights had fought according to rules of chivalry? He had been told about them in school. What, asked Braco, was chivalrous about smashing men’s skulls as if they were eggshells?

  Until the day he died, he would remember an incident at Tippermuir. He had seen one of the Irish washing the blood off a young soldier’s face by pissing on it. He had told no one, not even Jean, and never would.

  Once they passed close to a large house that was now a blackened ruin. It must have been a very pleasant place to live in, with its orchard and its burn with trout in it. On the grass were red stains that looked like blood. God knew what had happened to the inhabitants. There was no safety for anyone in a time of war, with rival armies pursuing each other. If a man was known to favour one side, then the other side would burn down his house. If he favoured neither, his danger was even greater, for it meant that both sides would regard him as fair game.

  They met few other travellers. All were silent and suspicious. Trust, like the heather, was withered. Hands went readily to guns or dirks.

  At Dunkeld, the inn, like the village itself, was a sordid place that stank of goats and pigs. The innkeeper was small, with a red beard and dishonest eyes; his wife had most of her teeth missing and not enough self-respect left to cover up her bosom. If you wanted proof that Scotland, especially in the Highlands, was poverty-stricken, here it was. Yet Montrose and the Estates could find vast sums of money to wage their futile war.

  Braco and his nephews agreed, without having to debate the matter, that they would rather sleep on beds of frosted bracken out of doors than in this rat-hole. Outside, it was very beautiful, with the sky clear and the high peaks glittering in the evening sun.

  The landlord had a stable but was unwilling to take charge of their horses. Reivers often came howling out of the hills. They would cut throats for a hen, let alone three good horses. He showed no interest in why they were there or where they were going.

  Other men did. They came in, two of them, keen-eyed, active, dressed in leather jackets, and armed with swords and pistols. They sat in a corner, sipping whisky, and saying nothing, but their eyes were quick and questing. They were not ordinary travellers but men on duty. Were they spies? If so, Montrose’s or Argyll’s? Montrose’s surely, for somehow they reminded Braco of Montrose himself. They had the same air of dedication.

  At last he got up and went over to them. ‘Good evening, friends. I would like to introduce myself. George Graham of Braco.’

  ‘Braco?’ said the one with the black moustache. ‘And what brings the Laird of Braco to this outlandish place?’

  ‘I have a message for the Marquis.’

  ‘What marquis is that?’ asked the other, with the fair hair.

  ‘Montrose. I am a kinsman of his.’

  ‘Those likely-looking lads, are they your sons?’ asked Black-moustache.

  ‘My nephews. Grahams too, on their mother’s side.’

  ‘Is it your intention to remain with the Marquis after you have delivered your message?’

  Braco became alarmed. ‘We have come from Kincardine. The message is from Lady Magdalen. We have to report back to her.’

  ‘Those horses outside, are they yours?’

  ‘Yes. We were advised to leave them here as the road is not suitable for horses.’

  ‘It’s rough in places but passable enough. We leave in half an hour and would be pleased to have your company. With the horses.’

  Braco went back to his nephews. They misread his worried face.

  ‘Are they Argyll’s men?’ whispered Tom.

  ‘No. Look, lads, there’s no need for you to go any further. You promised your mother to go straight back home. She’ll be worried to death about you.’

  ‘We’d rather go on with you,’ said Tom.

  Gavin nodded.

  Braco was in a desperate quandary. Should he and his nephews go no further but let the two spies carry the message to Montrose?

  He was still trying to decide when half an hour later they set off for the Pass of Killiecrankie and Blair Atholl. He and his nephews were on horseback. The two spies strode alongside.

  17

  NEXT DAY, AT dusk, they arrived in the glen where Montrose’s army was encamped. Braco and his nephews were exhausted from the effort all that day to stay in the saddle as the horses lurched like boats in a storm. Frequently the terrified beasts had to be dragged by the reins across places where the track had been washed away. Yet, as Braco had cursed and complained, Tom and Gavin, pretending they were cavalry-men, had put up with all the difficulties manfully. Showing how young they were and how gullible, they were delighted at the praise given them by their companions, who said they were coping like seasoned dragoons.

  If he had to go back without them, if he had to tell Meg that they had joined Montrose’s army, it would not merely be a matter of her never forgiving him, it would be more serious than that, she would go out of her mind. But surely when they saw the Irish, those cruel butchers, they would be shocked out of their romantic ideas of heroism and chivalry?

  The camp consisted of a great array of tents and other makeshift shelters round a stone house that was Montrose’s headquarters. Dozens of camp fires were lit. There was a smell of roasted venison.

  They hadn’t been there ten minutes before they realised there was an unusual air of excitement. They soon learned the reason. Alistair Macdonald, leader of the Irish, had that very day returned from his foray to the west. It had been feared that he might stay away all winter or indeed might never return at all, which would have meant the end of Montrose’s campaign.

  It was the first time Tom and Gavin had seen the Irish. Confident that they would be
repelled by the shaggy hair, the bare legs, the unwashed smell, and the uncouth manners, Braco was dismayed when instead they were fascinated by the size of the swords and the gallus swagger. Here were warriors who would fearlessly attack and rout an enemy far more numerous and better armed; as, indeed, they had done at Tippermuir.

  They said all that to each other but their uncle overheard them. He reminded them how cruel the Irish were but they smiled and, gently mocking him, pointed out that in battle you had to kill your enemies or they would kill you, and it was surely not possible to kill in a kindly fashion. In desperation, he told them what he had vowed to keep a secret to his grave: about that Irish savage who had pissed on the face of the dead soldier. Well, said Tom after a pause, in the heat of battle a man had to piss somewhere. Then he and Gavin, thinking it a joke, laughed.

  He had known them all their lives. Now they had become strange and unknowable.

  It seemed a conference had been going on for hours between Montrose and Macdonald, as to the army’s next move. Montrose was for marching south. From reports he had received he was convinced that, in the Lowlands, many men now hesitating would join his standard when they saw how irresistible his army was. Another victory or two like Tippermuir and the way would be open to Edinburgh. Within a month the whole country would be theirs.

  Unfortunately Macdonald was refusing to take his men into the alien south. He wanted the whole army to go west, ravaging Campbell country all the way to Inveraray. It would mean a march over high mountain passes that might be blocked by snow and, if it came off, would do great damage to Argyll’s pride but it would hardly advance the King’s cause.

  It was thought by the Lowlanders round the camp fire where Braco and his nephews were being entertained that Macdonald would get his way and, sure enough, when the council of war broke up, the Irish coming out of the house were laughing and congratulating one another in their barbarous tongue, while Montrose’s Lowland officers were glum.

  Braco and his nephews had been in the camp almost three hours before Montrose sent for them. In his place, thought Braco, if I had been told that messengers had come with news of Jean, I would have wanted to hear it immediately. Nothing in the world would have seemed more urgent. But then, that is why, thank God, I am only a minor laird and a breeder of cattle, while Montrose is the King’s Lieutenant and a famous general.

  At last Montrose’s personal servant, a youth no older than Gavin, came to take them to his master.

  Montrose received them in what was evidently his private room. There was a camp bed in a corner. On the wall hung a portrait of the King. It seemed to Braco that haughty Charles wasn’t at all pleased at his primitive surroundings. On a small table were glasses and a bottle of wine.

  Montrose’s sons sat by the fire, John with a cloth round his neck and James happed in a blanket.

  Montrose came forward cordially, holding out his hand. Tom and Gavin were awed. They had been expecting to see in his face the magic of genius and they did not disappoint themselves. That he was hardly above middle height and was slightly built in comparison with Macdonald did not matter. He wore dark serviceable clothes with only one decoration, a silver star given to him personally by the King.

  Braco, on the other hand, saw him, as many Lowland Scots noblemen did, as a young upstart, who had dragged the country into civil war for the sake of an unworthy King but also for his own ambition’s sake. Everyone knew that, as a youth, Montrose had dreamed of military glory; now, as a man, though still a young one, he was determined to achieve it, whatever the cost. To such a man, the illness of his wife, or even her death, was bound to be of small significance.

  ‘Well, George, I believe you have a message from Magdalen.’

  No tremor in his voice, no gasp of anxiety, no wetness of eye. But then, how could he plan battles in which thousands would be killed if he showed weakness at the death of one woman, even if she was the mother of his children?

  He shook hands with Tom and Gavin. ‘I remember you as youngsters. Which one of you was it that shot the eagle?’

  It had been Tom, with an arrow. He was not proud of it. The great bird had flown off with the arrow in its breast, proabably to die in its eyrie. But he was proud that Montrose had remembered it.

  ‘Not really a message, James,’ said Braco. ‘I have brought news of her. She is very ill. She may, at this very moment, be dead.’

  ‘Is that what you have come all this way to tell me?’

  The two boys were not so calm or was it so callous? Painfully, the older of the two turned his head to glower at Braco, while the younger let out a sob.

  Braco then told how Lady Magdalen had risen from her sickbed to defy the Covenant troops and save the castle.

  ‘Nobody will save Inveraray Castle when we get there,’ said John, hoarsely.

  ‘Poor Mama,’ wailed James.

  ‘Who did you say was in command?’ asked Montrose.

  ‘Sir Archie Hutcheon.’

  ‘I know Sir Archie: a gentleman and a scrupulous soldier. Thank you, George, for taking the trouble to come here and tell me this, but what did you expect me to do? Leave my post? Abandon my men? Give up my cause or, rather, the King’s cause?’

  ‘It would be only for a short time. You could be there and back in three days.’

  ‘In those three days I could lose three hundred men. To keep the pot boiling, George, you must not let the fire go out.’

  ‘What good could Father do?’ asked John angrily. ‘He is not a doctor.’

  Braco felt sympathy for the boy. ‘Your mother said to me: “Please go and bring back my sons.” I promised I would try. So here I am.’

  ‘May I go, Father?’ asked James, trying hard not to weep.

  ‘I see no reason why not.’

  ‘Will John come with me?’

  ‘I am going to Inveraray,’ said John, ‘to burn down Argyll’s castle.’

  You will never come back alive, thought Braco. Only strong healthy men would survive that lunatic march.

  ‘You have no children of your own, George, as I remember?’ said Montrose.

  ‘That is so.’ Braco let himself be provoked. ‘Doesn’t it trouble you, James, that you may never see your wife alive again?’

  ‘Yes, George, it troubles me very much. I hate death. Anyone’s death. Does that surprise you? I see it does. You find it incredible, considering my present occupation. But no man would be killed if everyone was loyal to the King, as everyone should be, according to the laws of God and man.’

  Braco resented being given a political sermon, especially from a man who had once fought against the King. ‘Lady Magdalen is very highly thought of.’ He meant, by everyone but you, James.

  ‘She has a pleasing nature.’

  ‘Much more than that. Mr Blair, the dominie, said she was the most genuine person he had ever met.’

  Montrose smiled. ‘How dare Mr Blair pass judgment on his betters. Genuine? What a curious word to use.’

  ‘I know what he meant.’

  ‘Well, George, I shall give you a letter to take back. That is all I can do in the meantime. James will accompany you. It has been my intention to send him home, not to Kincardine, but to my house at Old Montrose, where he will resume his studies under his tutor, Mr Forret. When do you intend to start back?’

  ‘Tomorrow morning.’

  Tom had been itching to speak. ‘My lord—.’ Shyness overcame him, and perhaps shame too, for he knew that what he was about to say would distress his uncle.

  ‘Yes?’ Montrose was smiling.

  ‘Gavin and I would like to stay and join your army, my lord. Isn’t that right, Gavin?’

  Gavin nodded, keeping his eyes off his uncle.

  ‘We saw some out there not any older than us,’ said Tom.

  ‘I’m just fourteen,’ said John.

  ‘I believe you brought horses,’ said Montrose. ‘We are very short of cavalry.’

  ‘Your mother,’ said Braco bitterly, to his nephews, ‘gav
e you permission to go with me to Kincardine to find out what had happened to Lady Magdalen, in return for a promise that you would return home as soon as possible. Are you going to break that promise? And your mother’s heart?’ He turned to Montrose. ‘Would you encourage them to break it?’

  ‘Since you ask me, George, I have to say that a man’s loyalty to his King supersedes all other loyalties.’

  ‘Even to his mother?’

  ‘Even to his mother.’ Montrose’s voice was cold. His mother had died when he was a child of six.

  ‘And to his wife?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Do you really in your heart believe that, James?’

  ‘I would not be here, George, if I did not believe it with all my heart.’

  ‘Even if the King has shown he does not deserve loyalty?’

  ‘I shall pretend you did not say that, George.’

  ‘Why not have one of your Irish cut out my tongue and then piss on my face to wash away the blood?’

  ‘You are distraught, George. As I told you once before, go back to your black cattle.’

  ‘With a straw hanging from my mouth, you also said.’

  ‘Well, George, you were assuring me you preferred farming to soldiering.’

  Montrose turned to Tom and Gavin. ‘Don’t decide now. Sleep on it. Let your uncle try to dissuade you. In the meantime, Alex will take you to your quarters. I’m afraid it will be a sack stuffed with bracken on the hard ground in a rather leaky tent. Good-night.’

  As, led by Alex, they made their way among the tents, they heard, coming out of the darkness, someone singing. The words were unintelligible but the grief they contained chilled Braco’s blood.

  ‘Some Irish woman,’ said Alex, casually, ‘mourning for her man. They’re always at it.’

  Braco stopped to listen. There were other noises, dogs barking, children crying, men laughing, and wood crackling on fires, but this one, of the woman breaking her heart for her dead husband, dominated them all.