An Ancient Strife

by Michael Phillips

  “Thank you all for coming on such short notice,” the PM began. “I have a brief prepared statement to read, after which Mr. Trentham and I will take a few questions.”

  He paused, cleared his throat, then began to read from the single typed sheet in front of him.

  “It is my intention to call upon the government to bring before the House of Commons, as outlined in our agenda in November, a bill calling for the continued devolution of power to Scotland over the course of the next several years. I believe such to be the right course of action historically. England and Great Britain are proud to have brought democracy to the world, and I believe we must continue leading the way of freedom in this new millennium. I am speaking of far more than merely the ongoing program of devolution as previously understood.

  “I have not yet spoken with either my cabinet or the leaders of the SNP.”

  As he listened, Andrew’s mind reeled. He had told the prime minister he sensed it might come to this in the end. But now suddenly the reality broke in upon him that the incredible thing could actually happen . . . and soon!

  “—so a specific schedule and timetable will have to be determined at a later date,” Barraclough continued. “But the overall objective will be for London to gradually turn more and more of Scotland’s affairs over to the Scottish Parliament in Edinburgh, especially those issues of importance to the Scottish people—with an end in view, at the culmination of this process, and if the Scottish Parliament and Scottish people so approve, of complete independence from the UK, and autonomous, sovereign nationhood.”

  The prime minister stopped.

  The crowd outside his residence at Number Ten Downing Street remained silent a second or two, as if collectively stunned by what they had just heard.

  Then gradually a murmuring began to circulate, which rose within moments to a great hubbub of scurrying and talk and shouted questions.

  Within an hour, news of the announcement had circled the globe.

  Seven

  In the month following, all news throughout the UK was dominated by the Scottish story.

  Interviews, personality profiles, historical specials, and rampant speculation filled every television network and were the subject of pub talk from Land’s End to John O’Groats. It was all the Commons could do to conduct its other business.

  The matter was of course discussed informally—heatedly and energetically—by the members of Parliament at every opportunity, even before the formal legislation was introduced. At length, the bill was drawn up by the prime minister and his party leaders and submitted to the Commons, where it went through its initial reading and then to committee. It appeared a final vote would be called for sometime toward the middle to end of April, at which time the future of both Scotland and the UK would be determined.

  Early predictions indicated that the vote would generally follow party lines, though such was by no means assured.

  At this point, most Labour MPs appeared in favor of the measure, as obviously were the members of the Scottish Nationalist Party. Tory sentiment, as predicted, ran against. If major defections within Labour’s ranks occurred, however, the voting balance could be seriously upset.

  If such did not happen, it appeared that Andrew Trentham and the Liberal Democrats would hold the deciding bloc of votes—determining not only what the future of Scotland would be, but whether the government of Richard Barraclough would continue to stand . . . or fall.

  Eight

  As the critical vote neared, Andrew knew that he needed to get away from London and distance himself from the mounting pressure and media attention upon him. He had to think the entire issue through one more time—perhaps review the stories he had read to make sure he was heeding their lessons aright. This was the most important vote of his life, and he could not make a mistake. The rest of his party was looking to him for leadership. Most had already pledged their support and would back his decision.

  And as his party looked to him, the entire country was watching and holding its breath.

  He drove north to Derwenthwaite during the Easter holiday in the second week of April. He knew the burden upon him was now much greater than merely getting in touch with his personal roots. He had to make a historic decision about the future of a nation. Somehow fate had chosen him to occupy a determinative role in that process.

  Early on the morning after his arrival, he found himself once more walking the rocky, overgrown pathway up the hill toward Bewaldeth Crag. He had been back to Derwenthwaite on a number of occasions during the past year and had even walked these hillsides. But today he purposed exactly to follow the steps of that previous day a year ago February that had led him, for the first time in years, to Duncan MacRanald’s cottage.

  He climbed steadily over rocks and heath, walking stick in hand. But his mind was far away from the familiar paths that climbed up over open heathland and wound over the folding ridges of the Skiddaw range. Instead, he recalled to mind everything that had happened since that visit—all he had read, what he had learned and thought about, every discussion with the old Scotsman, his entire historical pilgrimage through ancient Caledonia. Now he needed to put it all into an overarching perspective—to decide once and for all what were the contemporary lessons of that quest.

  When he had come out merely to enjoy the morning on that fateful day and then begun thinking about Scotland, he could never have foreseen the events that would soon gather upon the horizon of his life. Everything had changed in the fourteen months since a southern breeze and the peat smoke from Duncan’s chimney had beckoned him backward in time.

  And everything, it seemed, was about to change again. The Scottish Bill, as it was called, had had its first reading seven weeks ago. The next reading and final vote were set to take place immediately after the Easter recess. The entire country was talking feverishly about the pros and cons—and what would be the outcome for Britain in either case.

  Was Caledonia’s destiny now to chart a new course in the millennium as a sovereign nation again as of old?

  The prime minister’s announcement last week was clear: “Upon resumption of our duties” he had said, “we will have the second reading of the legislation for Scottish Home Rule. I have allocated eight hours for debate, after which, if called for by the opposition, the House will divide.”

  He had just a matter of days to sort it out for the last time.

  Andrew stopped for a short rest after ascending the ridge that overlooked the sea. On a clear day, he would have been able to see the coast of Scotland just twenty miles over the firth. But today’s clouds swirled damply across the water, and the opposite coast was invisible in the mist. So Andrew continued his walk, reflecting on the byways of his youth and on his own Scottish heritage, which he had traced during the past year. He was more certain than ever of his Scottish roots and of the mist-clouded beginnings of his own Gordon lineage—stretching back into the Celtic origins of Caledonia itself.

  As on so many occasions before, his steps again on this day led him to Duncan MacRanald. He knocked on the door to the old, familiar cottage today with purpose and resolve. Though the Scottish vote was most heavily on his mind, Andrew also remained curious as to whether it was possible to connect the story of the twelfth-century twins from the Gordon district to the threads of his own past. He had wanted to talk to Duncan ever since learning of Gachan and Beath, the twin sons of the hardworking peasant Darroch MacDonnuill.

  The old Scotsman and the young member of Parliament talked late into the afternoon. On this occasion, no snowstorm nor message from the south nor ancient book brought an end to the discussion, and they continued until every detail had been unraveled to Andrew’s satisfaction.

  “So what you are telling me,” he said at length, “is that my people originally came from Strathbogie too . . . from the town called Huntly, with one branch migrating from there down to the upper Speyside and the region of Cliffrose Castle?”

  “Ay. Lady Fayth was born an’ bred in the va
lley o’ the Spey at the place called Cliffrose.”

  “And then a hundred and fifty years ago, she came south to Cumbria when she married my great-great-grandfather?”

  “Ay—Lord John. ’Tis frae the twa o’ them ye git yer twa names—the Gordon an’ the Trentham.”

  “And your own people came with Lady Fayth?” asked Andrew.

  “Ay, laddie. We been servin’ yer family all this time.”

  Duncan went on to explain the solemn pledge that his own great-grandmother, as lady’s maid, had made to Lady Fayth herself when she accompanied her to Cumbria for the marriage.

  “She remained in Lady Fayth’s service?”

  “Ay, and her daughter after her t’ Lady Fayth’s daughter Lady Ravyn, an’ then t’ Lady Kimbra. It’s been a pledge my people hae honored this mony a year since, which is why I always took sich a keen interest in yersel,’ laddie—‘cause it was a solemn vow ne’er t’ let yer Scots past drap oot altogether frae yer sicht.”

  “It almost did,” laughed Andrew.

  “Ay,” smiled Duncan. “But I was aye watchin’ ye . . . waitin’ for the chance t’ speak . . . tellin’ ye the auld stories.”

  “That you did,” nodded Andrew with a smile of revelation, realizing at last how many things about old Duncan MacRanald suddenly fit together and how deep the connections between the two families had been.

  “I kenned ye was the one t’ bring yer heritage back alive,” Duncan added. “I kenned the auld tales would git under yer skin in time . . . Caledonia always does.”

  “So I have discovered,” replied Andrew with a pensive nod and smile. “Indeed it does.”

  A pause intervened.

  “But now the matter has far more import than simply my own roots,” Andrew went on. “The future of all Scotland is at stake.”

  “Ay, I’ve been followin’ the matter wi’ keen interest, as ye ken—even readin’ the newspapers frae time t’ time.”

  Andrew laughed—Duncan’s refusal to keep up with the news had become a bit of a joke between them. Then he paused, reflecting on the idea that had come to him on his walk over the hills to the cottage. “There is a man I would like you to meet, Duncan,” he said at length “—a Scotsman like you, a Highlander. I would like to get the two of you together for a talk, to help me sort everything out and put the question into the perspective I need for a final decision. May I bring him down?”

  “Certainly, laddie. My door’s open t’ any man or woman, an’ t’ a Scotsman most o’ all.”

  As Andrew walked down the hillside toward Derwenthwaite an hour later, he felt content and complete. What a heritage indeed was his, personally and politically—a heritage of history and of blood. At last he could feel the pieces starting to come together.

  All except for Ginny, that was.

  Leigh Ginevra Gordon was a puzzle all her own.

  But he mustn’t cloud his duty to his country with confusing matters of the heart. As difficult as it was, he must keep them separate . . . for now.

  Before he could resolve either dilemma, however, he needed to see Ginny’s father. He and Duncan and people like them were what this vote was all about.

  The two old Scotsmen together in Duncan’s cottage. . . . what better way to come to terms with what he ought to do? He would telephone Ballochallater the minute he got back to the Hall.

  Nine

  Laird Finlaggan Gordon arrived at Derwenthwaite two days later. He had left to drive south the morning after Andrew’s call.

  He hit it off with Andrew’s parents immediately. The four of them spent one of the most enjoyable evenings together Andrew could ever remember. His father was in rare form, talking and laughing as if their guest were a long-lost relation, as indeed—who could tell?—he might be. No longer ambivalent, as he once had been, Harland Trentham now seemed genuinely enthusiastic about his Scottish heritage. Andrew’s mother, her speech now more than ninety percent restored, kept directing the discussion toward its political implications and the impending vote of which they all now felt such an intrinsic part and toward which she expressed surprising openness, given her Tory sympathies. The ideas and perspectives of her experience gave Andrew a number of valuable points to consider.

  Andrew and the laird walked across the fields to Duncan’s cottage the following morning a little before noon. If the telephoto lenses of the press were watching now, thought Andrew, just let them try to figure out what this was all about!

  As he knew could not be helped, Duncan MacRanald and Finlaggan Gordon were instantly the best of friends. When they began talking intently in the old Scots tongue both loved, Andrew could scarcely understand a word, but laughed aloud in pure enjoyment as he listened.

  The three talked into the afternoon, enjoying pot after pot of tea and a double batch of Duncan’s orange oatcakes, which he had made for the occasion. Andrew shared his dilemma and decision with these two old Scots, explaining everything that was on his mind and the factors he felt he must consider in making a wise judgment in the case, posing a hundred questions, to which they did their best to give unbiased answers.

  “I’m thinkin’ there’s but one place where ye’ll find the answer t’ the biggest question o’ all, lad,” said Laird Gordon at length.

  He glanced at Duncan.

  “Ye ken where I’m meanin,’ eh, Duncan, gien I’m no mistakin’ the luik in yer eyes.”

  “I’m thinkin’ ye’re meanin’ where the legend o’ the Bruce still lives.”

  “Ay. I see we’re o’ one mind on it.”

  “Where then?” said Andrew, glancing back and forth questioningly between the two Scotsmen.

  “’Tis t’ Stirling ye’ve got t’ gae,” said the laird, “an’ work this oot by yersel.’”

  “Ay,” added Duncan. “I’ve dune what I can fer ye, laddie, an’ ye’ve been a good listener all these years. But noo that ye ken yersel’ as a Scot, ye must spend some time wi’ the Bruce. Ye’ve got t’ make yer decision alone, wi’ the ancients luikin’ doon on ye. Ye got t’ hear what they would tell ye, laddie. No one can du it fer ye. ’Tis a road ye must walk in the quiet o’ yer own hert—wi’ the Lord, an’ wi’ history.”

  Andrew nodded. He immediately recognized the wisdom of Duncan’s words, and in that realization his decision was made.

  He must drive to Stirling.

  If his entire way was not clear, at least he was confident in what should be his next step. As Duncan had once read to him from an old book, “We do not understand the next page of God’s lesson book; we see only the one before us. When we understand the one before us, only then are we able to turn the next.” Thankful for this clarification of his own “next page,” Andrew rose to leave. Already the sun was beginning to disappear behind the hills that enfolded Duncan’s cottage.

  “I believe it is time we should head back down to the Hall,” he told the laird.

  “I think I’ll jist stay here wi’ Duncan a wee bit longer,” said Gordon. “I can find my own way back, I’m thinkin.’”

  “Why dinna ye spend the night, Laird?” asked the old shepherd. “Ye can hae my bed.”

  “I couldna du that, Duncan, lad. Jist gie me a tartan, an’ I can sleep anywhere.”

  “Jist like wee Andrew used t’ du.”

  “One request, Laird,” said Andrew, pausing at the door. “When you go home, I think I would prefer you said nothing of our conversation to Ginny.”

  “Why’s that, lad?”

  “I can’t say exactly. Maybe it’s because I want her to know me on the basis of who I am rather than what I may or may not do for Scotland.”

  He paused and chuckled briefly.

  “And who can tell?” he added. “It may be that the vote I feel compelled to make in the end will anger her even more than what I have done thus far.”

  “Weel, I’ll honor yer request, lad, whate’er ye decide. ’Tis the least I can du.”

  Andrew turned again to go. As he was closing the door, the last words he heard behind hi
m came from the laird’s mouth. “I think I’ll jist hae anither drap o’ tea, Duncan, lad,” Ginny’s father was saying, “an’ one or twa more o’ those orange oatcakes.”

  Andrew smiled, his heart warmed by the bonds of friendship he was leaving behind in the cottage.

  The two Scotsmen talked late into the night. Neither later divulged to Andrew the subjects touched on between them. But the lifelong friend of the one and the daughter of the other, and what might be their future together, came in for a good share of the evening’s conversation.

  Ten

  The mood in the private room of the Burn and the Bush in Knightsbridge was subdued. Dugald MacKinnon and his SNP colleagues, still reeling from the arrest of their deputy leader, Baen Ferguson, knew they needed to maintain a low profile amid the firestorm of speculation regarding Scotland’s future.

  None had anticipated that Prime Minister Barraclough would so soon put into their very laps the thing some of them had been hoping and fighting for all their political lives. Yet now they found themselves in a position, because of the scandal of the two crimes involving parliamentary leaders, where to lobby too strenuously for passage of the bill could backfire.

  “As I noted a year ago, Dugald,” said Gregor Buchanan, “when I was congratulating you and toasting your success, your strategy with Barraclough seems to have succeeded beyond our wildest expectations. I only wish there was something we could do to push the vote forward.”

  “My concern exactly,” rejoined Lachlan Ross more soberly than usual. Even the Glaswegian was not drinking much tonight. “Here we are at the threshold, yet if the vote fails, it will be extremely difficult to revisit the matter again for years.”

  “And there is nothing we can do to insure passage,” put in Archibald Macpherson. “We obviously need help from the other parties and the undecided members.”

  “Not to mention that a defeat could reverse our own party’s advances in recent years,” put in William Campbell, the new deputy leader in Ferguson’s place.

  Gradually eyes turned toward MacKinnon.