‘If you saw her,’ said Alex, ‘you’d laugh. Face like a witch’s and no teeth.’
‘We knew a dog once,’ said Gavin, ‘that sat by its master’s grave, howling. Do you remember, Tom?’
Tom did. They laughed at the memory. Alex joined in.
They were too young to recognise in that unknown Irish woman’s song a sorrow as old as the hills and as deep as the sea.
18
MAGDALEN DID NOT die. When young Dr Sloan arrived from Perth, he found her sitting up, with, as Mrs Witherspoon gladly pointed out, more colour in her cheeks than there had been for many months. She was able, too, to take gruel and chicken broth without at once vomiting it up. It was a miracle, but there had been so many prayers beseeching God to spare her that it was not so astonishing after all. No, it was not, thought the doctor, for though his patient, the most aristocratic he had ever treated, did have a redness in her cheeks, it was scarcely that of rude health and, though she spoke to him blithely enough, it was her braveness of spirit overcoming her weakness of body. For, as he was to tell his own wife when he got back to Perth, the Marquis might win the war and be hailed the saviour of his country but he would not have Lady Magdalen by his side in Holyrood Palace unless his triumph came very soon.
She knew it herself. As she lay in bed well happed up, for the room was cold – it was now late November – she considered how most usefully to spend the days she had left. She would do more for the sick and the poor. She would write more often to her father and sisters and brothers. She would visit Mintlaw and see again all those beautiful things. She would finish her tapestry. She would practise on the lute and sing the songs she used to when a child. She would take more interest in the welfare of her servants. In the spring she would have the whole house cleaned, for her husband’s and her sons’ return. She would plant more flowers in the garden. She would make jam out of raspberries and wine out of elderberries. She would read some of James’s books and improve her mind. She would be a better mother to poor Robert and little David, who in recent weeks had had to depend on others for care and affection. She would blame no one, least of all James, her husband, for her misfortunes. Above all, she would try to be a loving uncomplaining wife.
Though she smiled during the day, there were times, in the dead of night, when she shed tears, knowing that she would never be able to do all those things she wanted. She had always been an ineffectual person, a failure as a wife and not much of a success as a mother. She did not deserve to be remembered.
One afternoon, Mrs Witherspoon, big-eyed with excitement, came in crying that Master James had just arrived in the courtyard, not very well, poor lad, but safe, thank God.
‘John too?’ asked Magdalen, her heart racing.
‘No, my lady. He’s still with his father. But Mr Graham will explain, I’m sure.’
She had planned, when John and James returned, to greet them as boys of 14 and 12, respectively, would wish to be greeted by their mother. How many times had James, under John’s influence, reproached her for treating him as if he was a lassie. So she had meant simply to hold out her arms, take their hands, laugh, and say, ‘How you’ve grown’ or something like that. But when James came in and ran to her and, bursting into tears, hid his face against her breast, she could not help stroking his fair hair and kissing his soft face, which was wet with tears, his and hers. Neither of them spoke. He wept, more and more sorely, like a girl indeed, and she loved him for it, though his father, and certainly his brother, had they been there, would have been ashamed of him.
At last, remembering his brother’s frequent admonitions never to do anything to disgrace their family, he withdrew from his mother’s embrace, stood up, dashed away the tears with his hand and, in a voice involuntarily shrill, cried that, though he was pleased to be home, he was not to stay with her at Kincardine, he was to go to Old Montrose, where his tutor, Mr Forret, was waiting for him. That was Father’s command, as she would see in the letter that Mr Graham had brought for her.
Just then Graham came in. He bowed as he handed her the letter. Why, he wondered, did she remind him of his Jean? She was so frail and those roses in her cheeks were false. She had escaped death this time but not for long. Beneath that brave smile, she was profoundly unhappy. Yet she did remind him of his stout, cheerful, red-cheeked wife, who would, thank God, live for many years yet.
Like Jean, she was genuine, to use Mr Blair’s word so hard to explain. Like Jean she did not have in her a trace of insincerity, pretence, conceit, or self-delusion.
‘Where are your nephews, Mr Graham?’ she asked.
Braco’s bitterness and disappointment were assuaged just by looking at her. ‘They chose to remain with your husband.’
‘Do you mean they have joined his army?’
‘Aye.’
‘But they promised their mother they would go straight back home. They told me so themselves.’
‘Hearing the war-horses snort, my lady, was too much for them.’
‘But they are so young.’
‘There were some yonder even younger.’ Including your own son, he could have said.
‘Their poor mother, she will be desolate.’
‘Aye, she will.’ It was the right word. Like a woman in the Bible, Meg would put ashes on her head and speak to no one.
‘I’m very sorry. It was my fault.’
‘No, my lady, it was not your fault. They had their minds made up to try soldiering.’
‘Do you know, Mama,’ said James, ‘they’re going to march through the mountains to Inveraray.’
‘Who are?’
‘Father and his army.’
‘In the spring, do you mean?’
‘No. Now. In a week or two.’
‘But there will be snow on the mountains.’
‘They think the Campbells will not be expecting them.’
‘But surely your father will not allow John to go with them. He knows how he takes sore throats just by getting his feet wet.’
Up to the oxters in snow and icy water, thought Braco, he’ll get more than his feet wet.
‘John wanted to go,’ said James. ‘He said he was going to burn down Argyll’s castle. Father said John would be safer with the army than anywhere else. Because he’s Father’s heir, the Covenanters would like to seize hold of him and keep him as a hostage. It doesn’t matter about me. I’m not his heir.’
James then rushed out of the room to go and see how his dog, Prince, was but really it was so that no one would see him weep.
Braco and Lady Magdalen gazed at each other.
He was thinking that James might become his father’s heir before very long.
Her mind was in a state of anguished confusion.
‘He said he is not to stay with me,’ she said at last. ‘That he is to go to Old Montrose. At his father’s command.’
‘So I understand. We were supplied with an escort. They are waiting to take James to Old Montrose.’
‘Now? Today?’
‘They are impatient to get back to take part in the march into Argyll.’
But, she wondered, would James consent to go with them? If she begged him to stay with her? Would he disobey his father for her sake? Had she the right to ask him? By law and by custom a father had complete authority over his sons, a mother had none. The ministers of the Kirk said it. So did the Bible. She had promised God that she would be an uncomplaining wife, which also meant an obedient wife. But did a mother’s love for her children count for nothing? Or her children’s love for her? James would rather stay with her. His father must have known that. All her married life, her opinions, wishes, and hopes had been disregarded or dismissed, courteously, sometimes even affectionately, but always with a finality, as if her having a personal point of view on any subject was an impertinence, to be indulged so far but no further. Her father, who loved her dearly, had treated her like that too.
She read the letter. It was short. Had James thought that he might be writing to a dead wom
an and, therefore, there was no point in writing at length?
‘Dear Love,
I write this in a great hurry, after a long and exhausting day. George Graham has brought me the dismal news that you are again ailing. God grant that you will recover soon. If I could, I would come but duties prevent me. I send James in my stead. However, in the present circumstances, I do not wish him to remain at Kincardine and have, accordingly, instructed him to hasten from there to Old Montrose, where he will be able to resume his studies under his old tutor, Mr Forret. I advise that you yourself, as soon as you are well enough to travel, with the two youngest boys, go to Kinnaird to be under the protection of your father. John sends his love. God keep you.’
If she had wished to weep, she could not. Her tears, like her heart, were frozen. Surely he had not intended to write so coldly. Here was her mountain pass, blocked with snow.
Braco watched her dourly. He would not tell her what her husband had said to him as he had handed over the letter. ‘My two youngest boys, George, if it is necessary, could you personally see that they are delivered into the safe keeping of their Grandfather Southesk?’ He had meant, if their mother is dead.
‘They will wait, my lady, for a day or two,’ he said. ‘I shall see that they do.’
But how? There were six of them, all hardy fellows, skilled with weapons. Any one of them singly could overcome him. They had their orders and would carry them out ruthlessly.
Once, as a child, Magdalen had seen a rat caught in a small iron bucket. She had not seen it really, she had heard its screams, for those who had caught it, some farm lads, had poured boiling water through a hole in the lid. She had protested but too faintly for any to hear. Besides, who cared about a rat? Now she too felt trapped in a narrow space, unable to see her tormentors. No more than the rat could she look for help. There was her husband, far away, too busy with military duties to give any thought to her. There was her father in Kinnaird, who would tell her to obey her husband and leave the rest to God. There were her brothers and sisters, who would say that she ought to have known this would happen if she married James Graham. And there was God, most aloof of all, despite her prayers. What had she done, or not done, to offend Him?
I am going to die soon, she thought, and the prospect of death should be, if I am a true Christian, joyful, not terrifying, but I am so terrified that I can hardly breathe. God and His angels may welcome me but what will happen to my children when I am gone? In heaven, shall I be aware of their unhappiness but not be able to comfort them? In that case, heaven would be hell. Will my husband, if he wins his war, put up a large headstone over my grave, not because he loved me but because I was the wife of the King’s Lieutenant? If he loses, will he, in his cell, before they take him out to be hanged, think of me or will he, in the midst of his woes, have forgotten me?
George Graham was saying that he would have to leave. He would speak to the men below and try to persuade them to wait for a day or two before taking James away. They ought to be glad of the rest. He himself was anxious to get home. His wife would be worried. He had to tell his sister that her sons were now soldiers.
‘Will there ever be a time when there are no wars?’ she asked, when he was at the door.
‘When pigs can fly, my lady.’
19
LATER, JAMES CAME back, when she was alone. It was cold in the room, in spite of the coal fire. Candles flickered and tapestries covering the stone walls stirred in the many draughts. He crouched on a stool by the fire, she lay in bed. They could not see each other’s faces.
‘They’re going to let me stay till the day after tomorrow,’ he said.
‘Yes. Mr Graham said he would ask them.’
‘It wasn’t Mr Graham. They wouldn’t listen to him. Father told them they could wait. They would do anything for him.’
Yes, they would not only die for him, they would kill for him too. She remembered Rothes’s ironic remark that wars were won by killing, not by dying. Rothes was dead himself, killed by consumption. In heaven, was he amused at having met such an unheroic end? Or was he in hell, paying for all those ironies?
‘I don’t want to go, Mama.’
She could not tell him to disobey his father. Her own vow of obedience was more sacred than any soldier’s.
‘Why can’t I stay here and then go with you to Kinnaird? I’d rather be at Kinnaird than at Old Montrose with Mr Forret. Why can’t Mr Forret come to Kinnaird to teach me?’
Because your father does not want you to come under the influence of your grandfather. ‘Didn’t you say that to your father?’
‘I couldn’t.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because John would have made fun of me, wanting to be with my mother.’ He mimicked his brother’s sarcastic voice. ‘He says I should have been a girl.’
You would have been, she thought, if I had had my wish.
‘It was horrible in the camp, Mama. Once, some men came back. They had been in a skirmish with some enemy troops. One had a great gash on his face, like Gillies, the blacksmith. His face was bright red with blood. He was screaming with pain. He died afterwards. I didn’t really faint, though John said I did. He laughed at me. Some soldier you’ll make, he said.’
She remembered James’s rebuking of her for turning his sons into milksops. Yes, she had favoured James in the very hope that he would grow up hating violence.
‘Sometimes I hated him.’
‘Who?’
‘John. He said crueller things to me than anyone else did.’
‘Because he loved you more than anyone else.’
‘Not more than you, Mama.’
‘I love you both.’
‘If I loved somebody, I wouldn’t say cruel things to him.’
Perhaps you would if that somebody brought you bitter disappointment.
‘There aren’t many people I do love. You, Mama. Grandfather Carnegie, sometimes. My dog Prince. John, but only when he’s kind to me. That’s all.’
‘Don’t you love your little brothers Robert and David?’
‘Yes, but I don’t know them really. They’re too young.’
But did any of them in her family know one another as they should? If James had been content to stay at home, it would have been different. How could a man who had dreamt of disrupting the whole country, for whatever reason, noble or otherwise, and was at present disrupting it, how could he have kept his family close together?
‘Surely you have left someone out?’ she said.
‘Who?’
‘Your father.’
He gazed into the fire. He was in tears. ‘I’m not sure, Mama. I used to, when I was small. I still do, sometimes. He never speaks about you, Mama. When I spoke about you, he pretended to listen, but he was really thinking about other things, like how many Highlanders had gone off or how many bullets were left or what was happening to the King in England.’
‘Well, those would be important matters to him.’
‘Did you know, Mama, the Irish have their women and children with them? Horrible women. They sing by the fire and sing sad songs. They clean the blood off the swords.’
She shivered as she imagined herself confronted with James’s sword sticky with blood.
20
AT THE BEGINNING of March, there was a spell of cold dry sunny weather. The roads were rutted but hard. Her brother James, Lord Carnegie, came again, sent by their father, to take her and her two young sons to Kinnaird. He was not this time, he said, to accept a refusal, whatever the state of her health. If necessary, a bed could be made up for her in the carriage.
He had a dozen armed horsemen with him. There were people, he said, who, if they knew she was Montrose’s wife, would try to do her harm: people who had had relatives and friends killed at Tippermuir and Aberdeen.
She was willing to go. She had her husband’s permission.
Her brother was huffishly reluctant to give her news of her husband. From this she jaloused that the reckless raid into Cam
pbell country must have succeeded. If it had been a disaster, James would have gloated over the telling of it. Bit by bit, using the wiles of childhood, she got out of him the information that Montrose and his army had reached Inveraray and burned it down. Argyll had fled by sea. Worse than that, admitted James sourly, was what had happened afterwards at Inverlochy, where a strong force of Campbells had been decimated. Argyll again had escaped by sea. He had appeared before Parliament in Edinburgh, with his arm tied up in a scarf, as if he had been a combatant. He had reported that fewer than 30 of his followers had been killed but no one had believed him and soon it had emerged that the true number was 1500.
‘Your husband’s hands, Magdalen, are now so deeply stained with Scottish blood that all the water of the Tay could not cleanse them.’
She asked if there was news of her son, John. No, but, if he had been killed or badly hurt, it would have been joyously proclaimed.
As her oldest brother, James felt it his duty to speak to her severely. ‘You don’t seem to realise, Magdalen, that your husband and your son are going to end up on the gallows. You must prepare your mind for that.’
‘Would they hang a boy of fourteen?’
‘He’s a rebel in arms, and the son of the most notorious rebel in the land.’
‘But what if James, my husband, wins? Who will be hanged then?’
He felt cross. She had always asked silly questions like that. In a child, they had been annoying, though forgivable, in a woman with four children they were intolerable. ‘Do you want him to win, Magdalen? In your prayers, do you ask for his victory?’
‘In my prayers, I ask for the fighting to end.’
‘Aye, but how do you want it to end? With his victory, so that he will occupy Holyrood and lord it over us all, with you by his side? Is that what you want, Magdalen?’
She shook her head.
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