An Ancient Strife

by Michael Phillips

  “Culodina,” he cried, running forward. “Come downstairs and see the deer I killed!”

  With an inward shudder, she glanced grimacing toward Aileana, then rose and followed Sandy toward the stairs and outside.

  The next morning Sandy was up at dawn. The moment Culodina made an appearance, he fairly attacked her with his enthusiastic plans for their day together, which included fishing in the River Spey and a hunt along its banks for otters or deer in the forest. Perhaps they would visit the cave on the slopes of Ben Alder or even search for the fabled great white stag of the Highlands up on the high slopes of Marg na Craige.

  As much as Culodina had always enjoyed such adventures in the past, on this day they did not sound quite so inviting. She was still thinking of her dress.

  Fourteen

  Meanwhile, the appointment to which Culodina’s father was bound had more to do with Cliffrose than either she or Sandy’s family could have imagined. Several days later and farther south, at the Campbell stronghold of Inveraray on Loch Fyne, Murdoch Sorley was engaged in private counsel with his longtime acquaintance, the duke of Argyll.

  “Another rising is sure to come, Tullibardglass,” John Campbell was saying. “I need eyes and ears throughout the north to detect any hint of Jacobite activity.”

  “There is always talk,” replied Sorley. “Surely you are aware of it.”

  “Talk is harmless. I was referring to activity that might have potential to rouse itself into a full-fledged uprising.”

  “I think you will find me dependable. What do you want me to do?”

  “Your friend Cliffrose has become an influential man. I seriously doubt any move will be made by the Jacobites without his knowledge. He may even be a prime mover in the affair when the time comes. I want to know what he is up to.”

  “Kendrick Gordon no longer confides in me.”

  “Then find a way to reinstate yourself in his good graces.”

  “Are you suggesting I spy on my cousin . . . betray my country?” said Sorley with a wry smile.

  “Come, come, Tullibardglass, you’ve gone beyond that now. Your country is Great Britain. And as you know, those Scots who were most instrumental in effecting the union, though called traitors by the Highlanders, were heroes in London. Most were given honorary titles and fat pensions for the rest of their lives.”

  “So the Jacobite complaint that Scots loyalties were bought is true?” chided Sorley with pretended surprise.

  “Of course. Most of 1707s ayes were secured by, shall we say, material incentive. Nearly every man who voted for the measure in the Scottish Parliament was paid to do so. I am merely suggesting that you look at matters realistically with regard to your own future.”

  Tullibardglass eyed the duke carefully. There was no mistaking Argyll’s meaning.

  Murdoch Sorley’s jealousy with regard to his cousin had by now become all but irrational, possessing him with thoughts of getting his clutches on the Cliffrose estate. He had turned Tullibardglass Hall upside down looking for the papers his father had mentioned, but to no avail. If the documents had been stolen, they were no doubt now lying in some vault at Cliffrose to keep the truth hidden. He would find the papers once he had his hands on the place. He had already devised several schemes to install himself at Cliffrose, but had not been able to clear away the snags in each case.

  Slowly Sorley began to nod.

  “I thought so,” smiled Campbell. “What is it that would insure your, ah . . . allegiance and confidentiality?”

  “I want Cliffrose,” said Sorley after another brief pause.

  “That could possibly be arranged,” answered Campbell. “Timing would of course be important.”

  “I have waited this long. I can afford to be patient.”

  “And your daughter?”

  “I have plans for her that will keep her out of it. When the time comes, she will not be a problem.”

  “Then perhaps, my friend Tullibardglass, you should hope for another Jacobite rising. That may be just the thing to provide you the opportunity to gain that which you desire.”

  Fifteen

  MAY 1733

  Four more years passed, and Sandy Gordon at last shot up and filled out, developing a man’s broad shoulders and frame and muscular chest. The boyish exuberance had not left his eyes, nor had his love for hunting and battles and the out-of-doors. He would have been equally as at home on any of the mountains surrounding Cliffrose as in front of the fire in his mother’s kitchen. His hair matched his name and was as thick a mane as ever graced a lion’s neck. Dark blue eyes, almost black, gazed out from beneath it—eyes ever on the move, not the eyes of a scholar that paused to dwell on some thought or another, but active eyes that constantly anticipated life’s next adventure.

  When the invitation arrived at Cliffrose for a ball at Tullibardglass Hall to be held in honor of the birthday of King George’s German wife, Caroline, Kendrick Gordon tossed it on the table and shook his head.

  “I don’t understand it, Aileana,” he said. “What is Murdoch thinking, making so much of the fact that Argyll and Forbes of Culloden will be in attendance? Not many Highlanders in these parts would show their faces at such an affair—especially not with those two of the King’s men on hand.”

  “Perhaps that is Murdoch’s intent,” suggested his wife.

  “How do you mean?”

  “Maybe he wants no Highlanders to come, though he feels duty bound to invite them.”

  “But why, Aileana?” asked the earl in frustration. “Why does he seem intent to consort with these crown lackeys? In honor of our great and worthy King George II . . . the invitation smacks as an insult against Scotland itself.”

  “Murdoch has been changing for many years,” remarked Aileana.

  The earl nodded. “I have noticed,” he sighed, “and it disturbs me. What has come over the man, Aileana? I thought I knew him. Sometimes a word will fall from his lips that makes me think I am with a total stranger.”

  They were silent a few moments.

  “Will you attend?” asked his wife at length, glancing toward the invitation where it still lay.

  “I don’t know—what if I am one of those, as you suggest, whom Murdoch felt obligated to invite but would rather stay away?”

  “I cannot believe that, no matter how changed he may be.”

  “I suppose you are right. But I am loath to show my face to either Campbell or Forbes—with all respect to your mother. The dukes of Argyll have been more English than Scot for a century. And this present Campbell, along with your mother’s nephew, the Lord Advocate, has displayed all too clearly that he is intent on pursuing a course that is anything but in Scotland’s best interest.”

  He paused, then glanced seriously at his wife. “On the other hand,” he went on, “if I refuse, Murdoch may take it as a slap in the face. He is my friend and my cousin, after all. Will you go with me?”

  “If you ask me to, of course. And Duncan Forbes is my cousin, just as Murdoch is yours. What has Scotland come to when families must take sides against one another?” she added pensively.

  “The invitation also includes Sandy. I wonder what he will think.”

  “I’m sure the politics of the situation will weigh less heavily on his mind than they do on yours,” replied Aileana. “He is only seventeen.”

  “And will be eighteen in three months. The politics of Scotland will draw him in eventually.”

  Inwardly Aileana shuddered. “Nevertheless,” she said, “at present I imagine he will see it as an opportunity to peruse all the young women in attendance.”

  Gordon laughed. “No doubt you are right. Maybe we should attend, if only for his sake. Perhaps we shall find him a wife.”

  “I am not quite ready for that,” said Aileana. “Especially not the daughter of some English sympathizer. I’ve heard that Samantha Forbes can turn any young man’s eye, and I would prefer she not set her sights on our son—he has become too handsome for his own good. On second th
ought, I’m not sure we should take Sandy with us!”

  “I doubt we shall prevent his going, whatever we do!”

  “Then we shall attend, if only so that I can keep a mother’s eye on him!”

  “You will have to release him to the world of women sometime, Aileana,” laughed Gordon.

  “Yes, but not a moment sooner than necessary,” rejoined his wife playfully, though with more sincere intent in her tone than a stranger might have noticed. “I am a Highland mother after all.”

  Sixteen

  The event, as predicted by Aileana Gordon, was not highly attended by those with Highland sympathies. But both Forbes and Campbell had many friends who made the journey from Kingussie, Pitlochry, and Fort William, even from as far away as Inverness and Perth. Thus a good-sized crowd, mostly with, as they judged it, sophisticated Lowland sensibilities, was on hand.

  Aileana had dressed in white, with a tartan shawl of a blue, green, and white pattern, accented with thin stripes of yellow, draped over her right shoulder and held in place at the shoulder and left waist with brooches of silver thistle set with amethyst stones. Her husband and son both wore black wool jackets above matching dress kilts in a darker blue, green, and yellow plaid, high woolen stockings pulled up below the knee, and silver and leather sporrans hung around their waists. Kendrick and Aileana made a stunning couple, with Sandy following and no less dashing to all the young ladies who glanced his way.

  The music as they entered the ballroom at Tullibardglass Hall was certainly not Scottish in character. The small orchestra was playing a series of decidedly English minuets and hornpipes by the younger of the two Purcells. Then followed a “Trumpet Tune” and a “Saraband” of his father’s. Not a harp or a bagpipe was to be seen, nor were more than a handful of kilts in evidence.

  “Are you certain we are in Scotland?” Aileana whispered to her husband as she walked in beside him on his arm. “Or did we cross the border without knowing it? He’s even taken down the tartan from the wall where it usually hangs, over there between the stag’s head and shield and crest.”

  Her husband followed her nod toward the far wall and noted the change with a dark creasing of his forehead. “We had better keep our mouths shut,” he answered, attempting a sardonic smile. “I can scarcely make out a single broad Scots tongue in the place. Sandy, what do you—” he began, turning to his right.

  But already Sandy had left them in search of companions his own age.

  A stately young woman approached with radiant smile.

  “Good evening, Aunt Aileana . . . Cousin Kendrick,” said Culodina, greeting them each with an embrace. “Welcome to Tullibardglass Hall.”

  “Hello, Culodina, you look positively radiant this evening!” said Aileana. “A new dress?”

  “Yes, Aunt Aileana,” Culodina replied. “I finished it just yesterday. I used some of the stitches and other ideas you showed me for the last one. Do you like it?”

  “It is beautiful, Culodina dear. And so are you.” She gave the viscount’s daughter a warm hug, holding her a bit longer than usual perhaps. Her mother’s heart could not help but go out to this poor lass, who was so obviously caught between a young girl’s dreams and her father’s politics.

  “I concur, young lady,” added Kendrick. “I know nothing about dresses, but I consider myself well qualified to comment on their contents. And the contents of the dress you are wearing would certainly attract my attention if I were twenty years younger.”

  A good-natured jab from his wife into his ribs followed, and he quickly added, “If I were not already at the side of the most beautiful woman in Scotland, that is!”

  “Thank you, Cousin Kendrick,” laughed Culodina.

  “Have you seen Father yet?”

  “We just arrived.”

  “He is glad you were able to come. He was afraid you might not.”

  “How could we not?” said the earl. “Is that not what I said, Aileana?” he added, glancing to his wife.

  “Is Sandy with you?” asked Culodina.

  “He was a moment ago,” replied Aileana. “Then we looked up and he was gone.”

  “Well, I hope you have an enjoyable evening,” said Culodina. “But I should mingle. Father says I must try to greet everyone and play the part of hostess. I will see you again later, I promise.”

  She smiled, then glided off toward more newcomers.

  Before he had a chance to speak to anyone, Sandy himself had been spotted by a set of roving young eyes that looked out from the middle of a dazzling though calculating face. The figure of its owner, though youthful, had long since filled out in all the right places, and the girl knew it. By this time she had surveyed all the other available young men in the hall and found them lacking. She now began maneuvering his way.

  “Hello, Sandy,” said the silky voice, as he was glancing about to get his bearings.

  Sandy turned to see his beautiful second cousin oozing toward him.

  “Samantha—I didn’t expect to see you here,” said Sandy. “It is a long way down from Inverness.”

  “Oh, but I couldn’t miss it,” rejoined the girl, slipping her hand through Sandy’s arm and subtly leading him away from any competitors for his attention. “It has been positively boring since I returned from London. I made Papa promise he would bring me. Dance with me, Sandy,” she said, now leading him to the center of the floor.

  Near the door, walking forward to greet Baron MacLeod and his wife from Skye, Culodina saw the incident out of the corner of her eye. A pang surged through her at sight of Samantha Forbes on Sandy’s arm. She had hoped she might be able to dance at least once with Sandy. But if she knew Samantha, she would somehow manage to keep him to herself the whole evening. She glanced back toward Lady MacLeod, forced a smile, and tried not to think of it.

  Meanwhile, from the conversation in progress to one side of the orchestra, it was clear that not everyone of anti-English sentiment had declined the viscount’s invitation. Even now one Lehrin Morey of Aberfeldy, also kilt-clad and with a second drink in hand, was taking his host to task, as others on both sides gradually gathered around to listen.

  “I couldn’t help but notice the flag, Sorley,” said Morey, a loyal Jacobite in every inch of his massive and muscular frame. He nodded toward the Union Jack on the far wall. “Isn’t the Scottish flag customary as well? And as I recall, the last time I visited Tullibardglass, the Stuart colors were flying outside.”

  “That was a long time ago, Morey,” replied Murdoch Sorley. “Times change, and we must change with them. The era of the Stuarts is past, their cause long dead.”

  “Yet you once considered yourself a Jacobite, did you not, Sorley?” now asked Cameron of Spean, of more moderate views than Morey, but still an unrepentant Jacobite and sporting the red-and-green tartan of his clan.

  “A youthful indiscretion, Spean,” laughed the viscount. “I have come to my senses since then. It is a new era, and Scotland is the better for it.”

  “Unless you are a merchant of salt and malt,” quipped Morey, draining the whiskey from his glass and absenting himself from the gathering momentarily in search of another.

  “I too am curious about the flag, Sorley,” interjected MacDonnell of Fort William. “What about our identity as Scotsmen? What about pride in our past?”

  “Don’t you know, there is no Scotland now, only Great Britain,” commented the staunchly unionist Douglas, coming to Sorley’s defense.

  “Precisely why I fly the colors of the united nation,” rejoined Tullibardglass.

  “An uncomfortably English gathering for so far north, wouldn’t you say, Gordon?” whispered Morey at the earl’s side, a few paces away from the others. The talkative Highlander was returning with a new glass in his hand filled with the amber fire of the north.

  “I must admit,” replied the earl softly, “that I have noticed a distinct absence of the pipes at this gathering, not to mention the kilt. If I didn’t know better, I would think we were in Coventry,” he
added with a light laugh.

  “There are English sympathizers wherever you look, Gordon,” whispered Morey, a little louder this time. “It’s an evil pass when our bonnie land has come to this.”

  “It may not last forever, Lehrin. We must be patient and bide our time. We can only—”

  The end of his sentence was cut off by the sudden appearance of Duncan Forbes.

  “There might be some who would take your words as treason,” remarked the Lord Advocate as he approached from the other side.

  “Ah, Lord Culloden,” said Morey effusively, lifting his glass toward Forbes and downing a healthy swallow.

  “Forbes,” nodded Kendrick Gordon, shaking the hand of his wife’s cousin. MacDonnell, Spean, Douglas, and the few others present all now shook Forbes’s hands as the two coteries intermingled.

  “I would be curious to know what you were implying a moment ago, Gordon,” said Forbes after a moment. “I would not like to think that my aunt’s daughter has fallen in with traitors.”

  “Certainly I meant no treason, my lord,” replied Kendrick, “only love for my homeland.”

  “I for one would consider treason in King George’s eyes a badge of honor,” said Morey. The whiskey was taking its toll on both his brain and his good sense.

  “Even if it resulted in hanging?” said one Sean Lyle, a friend of Morey’s who had come all the way from Edinburgh for the occasion. His tone was attempted tongue-in-cheek, though the words carried a more somber meaning than he had intended.

  “The King hasn’t a rope strong enough to hang Lehrin Morey of Aberfeldy!” said Morey. “And you can tell him so.”

  “You don’t think the King would listen to me, do you, Lehrin?” laughed Lyle.

  “Nevertheless, Lyle has a good point,” commented Forbes. “It would be well no such words reached the court of King George.”