Lady Magdalen

by Robin Jenkins

  She baked bannocks and stowed them, with a lump of home-made cheese, among his luggage. They were gifts for the dominie and his wife, whom Braco intended to call on in Perth on his way north.

  She stood at the door to see him off. She did not wave or weep, though Meg, by her side, was waving and weeping like a madwoman but then, as she had said earlier, she had never had a son killed.

  Nell, the old white horse, with no speed but enough stamina to carry him to John o’ Groats and back, plodded along, taking care not to trample on the hens that scurried about.

  Some of his workers saw him and waved. They wished him well. They were his and yet they were not his. Nor were they Montrose’s or the Estates’ or the Kirk’s or even the King’s. They were their own men and women. That was his deep belief.

  Similarly with the cattle, sheep, and pigs, and also the wild creatures on his estate, like otters and deer. They did not belong to him. He had been given the task of looking after them. It had been given him by God. He had once tried to explain this to a company of noblemen, James Graham among them, and he had been mocked. To be fair, Montrose’s laughter had been good-natured. He had not approved but he had understood. He had that kind of understanding and compassion. Was it not said that his soldiers were free to leave whenever they wished without being accused of desertion and threatened with execution, as happened in other armies? He would grieve for his wife, in his own private resoluteness. There would be no gloating on Braco’s part.

  It was a crisp sunny autumn morning, with more brown and yellow leaves on the ground than green ones on the trees. If its purpose had been happier, Braco might have enjoyed the journey.

  At first, his way led through villages and townships where he was known, respected, and even liked, or, at least, so he had been before Montrose’s disruptive war. As a kinsman of Montrose’s, though an insignificant one, Braco was inevitably regarded with suspicion. If he had openly disowned Montrose and miscalled him, he might have been forgiven and absolved but he could not, it would have been a kind of treachery. So, that morning, he got grudged smiles and sullen looks. There were men missing limbs, women missing husbands, children missing fathers. How could he expect a friendly welcome? The poor, and most of these were very poor, did their best to keep out of wasteful wars, but often they were bullied and cowed into taking part. They worried more about a sick child or a cow gone dry than they did about the King’s great woes.

  In the chilly gloaming, when he had travelled almost 20 miles and Nellie was wabbit but still willing and he himself stiff and sore, he came to an inn where he was known and where he hoped to spend the night. It was not far from Mintlaw Castle, whose scorched towers could be glimpsed through trees. It had been burned to the ground by Montrose’s drunken Irish. It was said he had just shrugged his shoulders. Gowrie, he had thought, should have spent his fortune, or rather his wife’s fortune, on helping the King’s cause, not on beautifying his castle. Many beautiful objects, the work of craftsmen and artists brought from France and Italy, those Papist lands, had been destroyed. It was said, though, that some had been rescued by villagers dashing into the flames, The Kirk had quickly sent agents who had searched all the hovels round about, and there had been more bonfires.

  Braco had sometimes wondered what had happened to the portrait of Lady Magdalen painted by Mr Jameson of Aberdeen. He had admired it when it hung in the great hall at Kincardine.

  So far his journey had been safe enough, though he had encountered some desperate-looking fellows who looked like deserters from the war. There could be spies among them. Perhaps Montrose would be told of his coming before he arrived, if ever he did arrive.

  Luckily, the inn was quiet. He was able to get a room to himself, a very small one but sufficient. The innkeeper sensibly kept his remarks to that season’s harvest. There had, he said, been a fine crop of haws. The birds would be grateful for them when the snow came. They talked about birds. The innkeeper was knowledgeable about them. He had a stuffed hawk in his parlour.

  Next day, Braco’s luck held. No robbers or would-be assassins were encountered. The sun shone again. Roads were dry and easily passable. Nellie kept going sturdily. He himself ached all over but a potion that Jean had prepared for him, made up of herbs, alleviated the pain a little. There were times, though, when he felt tempted to turn back.

  It was dark when he crept cautiously into Perth and found it hoatching with swaggering loudmouthed Covenant soldiers. Evidently they were getting ready to venture northwards to destroy Montrose but they were in no hurry. It was known that he had got away from Philiphaugh with a strong force of cavalry. As always, he would prove a dangerous adversary. So it was safer to linger in Perth and crowd out the taverns and brothels.

  Braco had a false name ready if challenged: Angus Campbell, of Inveraray. He had enough Gaelic to play the part and could imitate a Highland accent well enough. As a boy, he had used to do it for fun.

  He lodged Nellie with stables not far from the dominie’s house. When he remarked, in his false voice, that he was visiting Mr Blair, he was attended to with smiles. The dominie was apparently well known and well liked; the dominie’s wife more so.

  As he chapped on the door of the house by the river, he felt misgivings. He had no right to put the dominie and his family in danger. They had had the good sense and good fortune to keep clear of the hostilities so far but, if it became known that a kinsman, however distant, of the traitor Montrose had visited them in secret, they would be immediately suspected. Blair would be flung into jail. He would lose his post.

  Braco was about to hurry away when the door opened. It was the dominie, with a bawling baby in his arms. He himself was as always calm and patient.

  He did not at first recognise Braco.

  ‘I’m sorry to trouble you, Mr Blair,’ said Braco. ‘George Graham of Braco. I visited you once.’

  ‘Yes, of course, Mr Braco. With your nephews, Tom and Gavin. Are they with you?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Wha is it, John?’ called a cheerful voice and Cissie appeared, wiping her hands with her apron. She was a bit stouter but as brisk as ever.

  She recognised Braco at once.

  ‘Come awa’ in, Mr Braco,’ she cried. ‘Don’t keep the gentleman on the doorstep, John.’

  Braco was taken into the warm tidy kitchen. Two little girls peeped shyly at him from behind chairs. He remembered Tom and Gavin eating heartily at that table.

  ‘Didn’t your nephews come wi’ you this time?’ asked Cissie.

  ‘No.’ It had to be said some time but how to say it without breaking down? ‘They couldn’t.’

  Blair was too well mannered to ask why but Cissie would always put human interest before good manners.

  ‘Whit prevented them?’

  ‘What have you done with your horse?’ asked Blair.

  ‘I left her at stables up the road a bit.’

  ‘She’ll be well looked after there.’

  ‘Especially if you mentioned you were visiting us,’ said Cissie. ‘John’s weel liked and respected in the toon. They’re saying he micht be provost yin day. But whit aboot your nephews? John and I often talk aboot them, sich handsome and jolly young men.’

  Blair had noticed Braco’s uneasiness. ‘Is there anything wrong?’ he asked quietly.

  ‘Last time they didn’t go back with me. They joined Montrose.’

  ‘As sojers?’ cried Cissie, in horror. ‘The daft young gowks.’

  ‘They were at Philiphaugh. You will have heard of Philiphaugh.’

  ‘Yes, we have heard,’ said Blair.

  ‘Tom was killed, it seems, and Gavin got a bad wound. I do not know how bad. That is what I am going north to find out.’

  The baby in Blair’s arms was now asleep.

  ‘So you are on your way to Montrose?’ said Blair.

  ‘Aye. I have a message for him. His wife’s dead.’

  Cissie let out a cry of anguish and covered her face with her hands. ‘Puir lady. We used t
o say in the servants’ ha’ that she wad never scart a grey heid.’ Her voice sharpened. ‘But why gie yoursel’ a’ this bother, Mr Braco? He’ll no’ care. He never did when she was alive. Why should he noo she’s deid? We used to say it was a sin merrying her tae him.’

  In the servants’ hall, thought Braco, they had been a bit too free with their criticism of their betters.

  Cissie took the baby from her husband’s arms and cuddled him. ‘His name’s John, like his faither’s. He’ll never be killed in ony war if I can help it.’

  But that, thought Braco, was what Meg thought, and every woman with a son.

  ‘I’ll lay him in his cot,’ said Cissie, ‘and then I’ll get you something tae eat.’

  She went out with the baby.

  ‘This is a very dangerous journey to make by yourself, Mr Braco,’ said Blair. ‘They’re saying Montrose is camped up by Glenfeshie. That’s wild country. You would need a guide.’

  ‘Where could I find a guide in this town?’

  Braco felt a shiver of fear. Winter came quickly to the mountains, with snow, and he was too old and rheumaticky to camp out of doors.

  ‘I think you should go no further, Mr Braco.’

  ‘To tell you the truth, I think so too. But I have to tell the man his wife’s dead.’

  ‘I’m sure he already knows. It’s been the talk of the town. It’s been toasted in every tavern.’

  Braco was shocked. ‘Why would they do that? She harmed nobody.’

  ‘She was his wife.’

  The two little girls, bolder now, came out from hiding and smiled at Braco. One went forward and took his hand.

  Though his bed was comfortable, Braco was unable to sleep. He spent hours trying to make up his mind whether sensibly to turn back or foolishly to go on.

  He had asked to be wakened at dawn and Cissie knocked on his door then.

  ‘We think, Mr Braco,’ she said, through the door, ‘John and me, that you should tak a guid long lie the day and gang straight hame the morrow.’

  ‘Thank you, Cissie,’ he said, and realised that was the first time he had used her Christian name.

  He got up and dressed. His hands were shaking. Never had he felt less heroic.

  ‘You’re going on then?’ she said in the kitchen.

  ‘I promised Meg, my sister, I would find out about Gavin.’

  ‘Maybe it wad be better no’ tae find oot. I mean, whit if you find oot he’s deid as weel, and you hae tae tell her that?’

  ‘Then she could grieve for him.’

  Blair came in then. He had been attending to the children. ‘So you’re determined to go on?’

  ‘I feel I must. I’ll go first to Atholl. I ken the way there.’

  But last time he had Montrose’s scouts to guide him and Tom and Gavin to give him support. This time he had no one.

  ‘Mind, on your way back, ca’ in and tell us how you got on,’ said Cissie.

  It was raining when Braco went to the stables for Nellie. She neighed, glad to see him. He felt heartened.

  ‘She kens you,’ said the stableman.

  ‘She should do.’

  ‘A strong auld nag. She’ll carry you whaurever it is you’re going.’

  It was as good as asking Braco his destination. It was concern, not nosiness. This old man who loved horses was no spy. Still, Braco was careful not to say.

  They listened to the rain.

  ‘It’ll clear up,’ said the stableman. ‘Be carefu’ when crossing burns. Guid luck.’

  Alas, the man’s wish for better weather and good fortune was not to be granted.

  Braco was still in the outskirts of the town when he was suddenly surrounded by a gang of filthy-looking creatures that hardly looked human. They grabbed his legs as if minded to drag him off his horse and murder him, though they seemed to have no weapons except their claw-like hands. He soon saw they were not murderers but starving beggars. They clamoured in a mixture of Gaelic and Scots. Luckily, he had foreseen such a situation. He had a handful of coins ready. These he tossed as if it was a wedding: a scramble it was called, and they certainly scrambled on hands and knees.

  As he rode on hastily, it occurred to him that in the war, which, to be honest, Montrose had started and still pursued, a vast fortune was being wasted, which would have given these unfortunate people and many like them a decent life. What, he wondered, would James Graham, that compassionate man, say if that was put to him? Braco knew what he would say. That if every man did his duty to the King, the country would be peaceful and prosperous. Not a very honest answer, thought Braco.

  He was proud of old Nellie. She hadn’t panicked. She had always been patient with children and had recognised some of the ragamuffins as children.

  His reward for his philanthropy was that the rain soon stopped and the sun came out, shyly at first.

  He wasn’t a religious or superstitious man but he liked to think that good deeds were rewarded and bad deeds punished, though who did the rewarding and the punishing he preferred not to consider.

  He began to feel confident that he would indeed be lucky and meet up with Montrose. He even hoped that he would find Gavin alive and well.

  In the late afternoon, he arrived at the inn where he and his nephews had fallen in with Montrose’s scouts. It was now ruinous and deserted. A consequence of war, he thought.

  He had to decide whether to turn back, having made a praiseworthy effort, or to press on into the mountains, as far as Atholl. He thought he would remember the way. If he didn’t, Nell might. Three well-defined paths led into the hills. If he took the wrong one, God knew what wilderness he would end up in. There was a burn, in spate now. He thought he remembered crossing it. Tom and Gavin had held his horse’s reins. So that was probably the way to Atholl. He had no hope of reaching the village that day. He would have to spend the night in the open. Well, he could survive that, he had been a soldier himself once. There was always a chance that scouts or foragers from Montrose’s army might find him. It was just as likely that a band of deserters, now outlaws, would. They would cut his throat and rob him. They would slaughter poor Nellie out of sheer wickedness.

  In the gloaming, he came upon a small shed that still had a roof. Inside it smelled of oxen but there was a dry corner. It would do. In the morning he would be as stiff as a board but still alive. Thinking of Jean gave him courage and hope. Whatever happened, he must see her again. Otherwise there was no goodness in the world.

  In a small hunting lodge grudgingly lent him by Huntlie, in the midst of a forest of pines 50 miles north of Blair Atholl, Montrose was writing a letter to the King and finding it difficult. He had to make very clear how desperate his present situation was and how absolutely necessary were the reinforcements so often promised but never sent but, at the same time, he must not appear to be blaming the King though, in his inmost heart, he knew that the King was at least partly to blame. Making it still more difficult, he had recently learned that the King, behind Montrose’s back, was negotiating with the Estates, their enemy. Not only that brusque simpleton, George Graham, had hinted that the King was not to be trusted.

  With a sigh, Montrose raised his head and gazed out of the window. It was a beautiful tranquil scene now that the sun was shining. Squirrels were busy in the tree-tops. The tall pines reminded him of the pillars in a cathedral in France long ago. There had been a tryst among those pillars. He remembered raven-black hair, lively blue eyes, and a merry reckless laugh.

  He closed his eyes and then opened them again, erasing that heart-breaking part of his past.

  His soldiers were going about their camp duties with the devotion of priests. He felt severe qualms of conscience. These honest faithful men were prepared to give their lives for him and the King. Surely they must one day get their reward in a Scotland where honour and justice prevailed, under the rule of a beneficent King appointed by God?

  But did Montrose himself believe that that would ever happen? It could turn out so differently. There c
ould be another disastrous rout like Philiphaugh. He himself could be captured and dragged off to Edinburgh to be hanged. The King would not be able to save him, indeed might not want to save him, for Montrose could have become a hindrance. But then the King was entitled to sacrifice as many of his subjects as was necessary to achieve his ultimate triumph. God had given him that right.

  Was that true? When he was younger and more idealistic, Montrose had written a treatise defending the King’s rights derived from God. He had meant it then but did he still mean it, absolutely, without doubts? He did not want to think of Magdalen, he had vowed to put all memories of her aside until later but he could not help remembering how, in her naïve way, she had urged him always to be true to himself. She had not understood how circumstances could make that impossible.

  Poor Magdalen. He knew that she was dead. He had had a spy at the funeral in Kinnaird Castle, who had reported that it hadn’t been a funeral at all but an occasion for his enemies to gloat. They had thought that her death would be as heavy a blow to him as the defeat at Philiphaugh.

  They were much mistaken. He had never loved her as he could have loved another woman and she had not loved him as she could have loved, say, Francis Gowrie. They had been forced into marriage, she by her father, he by his mentors. Perhaps if he had stayed at home and looked after his family, they might have come to love each other truly like a man and his wife but he did not think it likely. In a way that he had never tried to examine, she had been a little repulsive to him. Was that not why, at the beginning of their marriage, he had gone off to tour the Continent and stayed away for three years?

  The cruel truth was that, except as the mother of his children, she had never been of much importance to him and, now that she was dead, even less so.

  He was aware how despicable that confession was and he felt the same depth of shame as when he had galloped off the field at Philiphaugh, leaving his Irish to be butchered in cold blood.

  He became aware of a commotion among some of the soldiers. They were gathered round a big white horse. He thought he recognised its rider but surely he was wrong. He picked up his field glass. Yes, it was George Graham of Braco, that well-meaning bucolic fool. No, that was unfair, but what in God’s name was the cattle-breeder doing so far from home?