A Falcon for a Queen

by Catherine Gaskin

  He was gone, escaping my clutching hands, escaping my cries. Neil Smith and I stood and watched as he ran through the open main door of the warehouses, the stacked casks high on each side making his figure ever smaller and smaller. Did we see it ‒ did we actually see it ‒ or was it fantasy? In that last second before he reached the end doors ‒ those massive doors that had to be swung and closed against the force of the heat and energy generated within that inferno, the draught that sucked the fire in upon itself and stoked it ‒ did Neil Smith and I see that figure for a second? ‒ that slender figure with fiery hair, the momentary dark figure silhouetted against the blaze, the figure of a young woman, who only began to run as the fire raced to engulf her? Was it she whom Callum also saw? What else could have made him rush within the raging territory of the last warehouse, beyond the door that might have meant safety. We never really knew ‒ Neil Smith and I. What we thought we saw was Callum’s running figure, and then the shape that might have been Morag, suddenly outlined, helplessly caught, the sleepwalker awakened too late from sleep. They did not meet, those two figures ‒ I would swear to it. Before Callum reached the last doors, the end warehouse, feeding totally upon itself, erupted. The whole mass went in one explosion of blazing alcohol. An enormous fire ball shot up, devouring support columns, beams, and roof. The air all around was sucked towards the dreadful centre. Slates crashed in upon the burning casks, the ventilation holes choked, so that the liquid spilled back upon itself, finding other ways to run, into the forward warehouses. The door to the last warehouse was engulfed before Callum could reach it. And after that, there was no distinguishing one part from another. It raced like the wind, explosion upon explosion, the slates raining down on the men who stood dumbfounded in the road at the side of the building, helpless, speechless. All I could feel was the tightening grip of Neil Smith’s fingers upon my arm. No smoke now, but fire consuming fire, raging, pouring, as fuel was added to unquenchable fuel.

  ‘Callum …?’

  It seemed so few minutes before it was consumed. The whole stored wealth of Cluain disappeared before our eyes, and in the midst of it was the man who might have been its future wealth. We never even had a glimpse of Callum again.

  My grandfather went on. I don’t know from what source he gathered his strength, but he did. He saw forty years consumed in minutes, but he still had the energy to direct the men to bring the hose back to the distillery and wet it down. The distillery before the house. Then the house was again soaked, stone walls and roof, a fairly hurried operation because they had to return to the distillery, which was much more vulnerable. The sparks from the warehouse flew upwards, and I stood rooted, dreading to see the first glow from within the distillery. But with a fire so hot, there was very little left of the warehouses ‒ it was quick, and powerful and sure. It flared and died almost as rapidly. And my grandfather continued to direct the whole operation to safeguard the distillery as though he were unmoved by the holocaust which consumed his life and his work, and by the cries of Neil Smith, who watched his neat cottage, attached to the warehouse, also disappear.

  It wasn’t until I told my grandfather ‒ when the fire in the warehouse seemed to fold in upon itself, when the burn ceased to run with fire, that Callum had gone into the warehouse, and was dead, that he turned aside. Without an order to any other man to take over, he abruptly turned aside. He went back into the house, into the dining-room, Samuel Lachlan grabbing unavailingly at him. We stood there, still, unspeaking, and my grandfather kept his back turned to the windows, so that even the enormous, dying glow of the warehouses was just, for his eyes, a reflection on the walls.

  We moved some chairs back in, Mairi Sinclair and I, and she poked some life into the peat turfs, and laid some fresh. I remember forcing my grandfather down into a chair, keeping his back carefully to the garden, so that he might not watch the glow that still lighted the sky. Gavin Campbell came; I don’t think he said anything, just took my grandfather’s hand for a moment. My grandfather didn’t seem to notice his presence. I helped Mairi Sinclair bring bread and ham from the kitchen, and we served it on the thick kitchen crockery. She seemed now not to care for the good china stacked up outside in the road, or Cluain’s silver. I also helped her carry out food for the men standing about in the stableyard, still pumping water on the distillery. There were plenty of women about in the kitchen would have done the task just as well, but it seemed right that if my grandfather was not there, I should appear.

  Then I came back to the dining-room, and began to pour whisky into glasses that one of the women had brought in from the road. I passed it round, and to Neil Smith, who still stood in the doorway, half-way between our group and the men in the yard. He really belonged nowhere, and his world was just as much finished as ours.

  ‘Grandfather,’ I said, ‘I have sent whisky with the food to the men. It grows cold, and they must still keep wetting down the distillery.’

  He looked at me with dulled eyes. ‘Aye ‒ that’s right. Don’t spare it, Kirsty. I have a few casks in the cellar ‒ excise paid, mind you, Neil Smith.’ He rose to his feet and went to pour more whisky from the decanter. ‘No, let us not spare it this night. We might as well drink the best ‒ here, Samuel, your glass.’ The old man was rocking in his chair, sipping at the whisky, and keeping up a continual little moaning sound, that might be his substitute for weeping. ‘And you, Campbell, you drink Cluain’s whisky this night, and savour it. Because when these few casks are done, there will be no more for a long time. And tell Callum … Tell Callum Sinclair ‒ My God! ‒ Callum …’

  Now he stopped. His back was towards us as he stood at the sideboard. The action was so slow that I actually saw the glass slipping in his hand, and his desperate fight to hold on to it, and himself. Then it fell to the ground and smashed. He held himself upright, hands pressed on the edge of the sideboard, for a few seconds longer, then that burly body crashed down, and one hand lay among the broken glass and the spilled liquid of his life.

  Chapter Eleven

  I

  Two days later Angus Macdonald was buried in the plot between his wife and his mother Christina. Next to Christina was William’s grave, and beside that was the grave of Callum Sinclair.

  Mairi Sinclair had protested. ‘You cannot. It is not right, now.’

  ‘If it is not right now, it shall never be. Is it not now time we all laid down our pride and our fears, and admitted to the truth? I intend Callum to lie beside William, and close to his father. And his headstone will be marked Callum Sinclair Macdonald ‒ as my grandfather wrote it in the Bible. It is long ago time that all who care to know, should know. He is dead ‒ shall we bury him in some corner of the kirkyard? He must lie with his family. Do you dare to say no?’

  If she wept, I could not tell it. She was as silent and withdrawn as ever. How silent the whole house was. Samuel Lachlan sat in his chair by the fire; how frail he seemed after the bulk of my grandfather; how deep was the quiet without Morag’s voice to break it. I made my journeys to feed Giorsal, and she was becoming tamer to my hand. I had John shoot me a rabbit or a pigeon for her each day. I stood in the shed with Giorsal, stroking her with the feather, as Callum had done, and it was there I did my weeping alone, where no one could see, or hear. Cluain in these days had need of a calm presence. I could no more afford to indulge grief than Mairi Sinclair.

  Gavin sent the Ballochtorra landau for the journey to the kirkyard; it had to be borrowed, since the Cluain trap had gone in the stable fire. But The Sunday Lad had been found, and it was he who was between the shafts, not one of Ballochtorra’s horses. Gavin came with the carriage to Cluain to escort us to the kirk, and to take Samuel Lachlan. Again there was the confrontation between myself and Mairi Sinclair when I insisted that she break the habit of a lifetime, and ride beside me.

  ‘We are burying your son, and my grandfather this day, Mistress Sinclair, in the same family grave ‒ marking them with the same name. Will you have me pass you on the road as you walk to you
r son’s funeral? A time of change has come at Cluain. It is as well to recognise it.’

  ‘Yes, a time of change. It is as well to recognise it. I will be packing my things to-morrow, mistress. I would be grateful if you could keep my books for a little time until I have found a place to take them. Of my other belongings, there is little enough.’

  ‘Your books will stay at Cluain forever ‒ as you will, Mistress Sinclair. I think your grief has turned your senses.’

  ‘I cannot stay where I am not wanted. You cannot want me here. I take no charity …’

  ‘None is offered. Cluain has need of both of us, and well you know it. It is unthinkable that you should leave. I do not offer you charity ‒ or ease. Cluain will use both of us hard. It will make its demands, as it always has done. You do not exist away from Cluain. As my grandfather could not ‒ nor Callum. We have lost very much. Let us not lose more than we need.’

  All she did was nod, and turn away. But when the Ballochtorra carriage arrived I found her waiting in the hall, wearing, as always, the plaid about her head. We did not speak all the way to the kirkyard, nor back again, but she rode beside me.

  Those two burials were hard. The anchor of Cluain was gone, and, almost, its hope. I wondered where I would turn now. With my hand on his arm, more to support him than anything else, I felt Samuel Lachlan tremble. And then I looked across Callum’s open grave at Gavin’s face, and remembered that beyond the crowd that surrounded us now, just across the path, Margaret lay. The grass had not even started to sprout on that grave; and she lay so close to two men who had loved her. And Gavin’s eyes met mine, then; we both seemed to know what the other thought, and the thought was the same.

  Gavin escorted us back to Cluain, and Samuel Lachlan, as though he dreaded the thought of the empty, quiet house, asked him to come in.

  ‘Angus was more than ten years younger than me,’ Samuel Lachlan said. ‘I had not thought to be the one left.’

  And then he picked up the Inverness paper, which had arrived while we were gone. There was a picture of the remains of the warehouse at Cluain, and an article about the fire which I did not even want to read. But the main headline was reserved for something else, PANIC RUSH TO SELL SHARES, FERGUSON’S BANKRUPT?

  He held it towards Gavin. ‘What do you make of this?’

  ‘What am I to make of it? I’m sorry for James Ferguson. I’m not sorry for myself and my son.’

  ‘You mean you’re glad?’ Samuel was dumbfounded; how could anyone not mourn the fall of a capitalist’s kingdom?

  ‘I think it may be my son’s salvation. Ferguson can make no claim on him now. There is nothing for Ferguson money to buy. And Ferguson does not understand any other relationship, so he will leave my son alone. Jamie will be what I am ‒ that is, a poor man. I think he will be no worse for it.’

  ‘But ‒ Ballochtorra …?’

  ‘Ballochtorra cannot be run without money. The servants have had their notice ‒ I gave them that the day my wife was buried, before I knew about Ferguson’s difficulties. I suppose, if Ferguson goes into liquidation, the receiver might justly claim the contents of Ballochtorra ‒ the horses and all the rest of it. But the title to the house and lands has to stay with me. If it’s possible to find a buyer, I’ll try to sell the house. The land, such as it is, must be kept for Jamie. There will be no gamekeepers, of course. But the grouse moors are there, and will stay, even though they might not provide a worthy day’s shooting for a prince. They could be rented perhaps … We’ll see.’

  ‘And you?’ Samuel was so shaken by the events of the last day that his reserve and probity seemed to have dropped from him. I had not thought him capable of asking such questions of someone who was almost a stranger to him.

  Gavin took the tea I poured, and munched on the ham sandwich as if he suddenly found himself hungry. ‘We’ll do as I’ve always wanted to. There’s a little money ‒ I’ll borrow the rest ‒ and I’ll drain the only piece of Ballochtorra land that’s worth trying to do anything with. It could raise a crop or two ‒ it could make pasture. We would not be hungry, Jamie and I. And the gatehouse will soon be empty.’

  ‘The gatehouse!’ Samuel Lachlan was thunderstruck. ‘And you are the heir to the Marquis of Rossmuir!’

  Gavin actually laughed. I heard the sound with pleasure; it broke the silence of mourning in this house, a sound that would help to bury the past.

  ‘And the present Marquis of Rossmuir wishes he had some place as comfortable, no doubt. Though I can’t speak for the old gentleman; I’ve never met him. But it will do very well for Jamie and me … until we can sell the house, or find a tenant. And then the money will build us a small house on the land I want to farm. I know the place where I want to build. It is out of sight of Ballochtorra ‒ which is no great loss. Jamie will fish the river, and we will be able to keep a gun or two. I’ve always noticed that small houses are warmer than big ones. We will manage, Jamie and me. And he will not go to school in England. It is the one piece of news that has made him happy since his mother died. He will have a pony ‒ not the thoroughbred he has now. A garron ‒ one of the kind we breed around here. Far safer ‒ far tougher. What he really longs for, of course, is that I should buy Ailis for him.’

  ‘I will never sell Ailis.’

  ‘You suppose I don’t know that? But let him dream. In time he will love his own pony ‒ and he will love it better for having to take care of it himself. So you see, Mr Lachlan, that Ferguson’s going bankrupt is a bad blow for James Ferguson, but I cannot think it is wholly a disaster for his grandson.’

  ‘But … but he will be an earl!’

  Again Gavin laughed. Why did the sound affect me so much? It was like the spring of hope, of new life. He saw no adversity before him, or Jamie. I sipped my tea and thought of his remark about small houses, and how he and Margaret had lost each other in the vastness of Ballochtorra.

  ‘Yes, an earl. I must try to explain it to him soon. That poor old man can’t live much longer. They say he is pitifully weak, and can hardly see or hear. So Jamie will be an earl. I think his grandfather has given him the impression that a coronet will appear like magic ‒ a real coronet. But children forget easily. If he can fish his river, and ride his pony on his own moors, I think the coronet may not matter so much. I’m sorry his grandfather will think it is such a come-down for his only grandchild. But James Ferguson will never see it any other way. Without money and power, he is a ruined man in every respect. If I give my life to it, I will see that Jamie does not become that kind of man.’

  Then he took his hat and went. I saw him motion to the coachman to give up the reins, and he himself took them. The sullen look on the man’s face indicated that he had had his notice along with the others, and thought also that Sir Gavin had indeed come down in the world, and had no business to appear so cheerful about it.

  ‘I will send John to-morrow with the landau,’ I called to him. ‘He can walk The Sunday Lad back.’

  ‘Use it as long as you like. Ferguson’s can’t begrudge you that little favour. I don’t think the Receiver will be in by tomorrow.’

  I went back to Samuel Lachlan at the fire, and suddenly the house was silent and empty again. I fought, in a moment’s panic, against the depression that started to come over me, the loneliness, the sense that now the fight was just beginning. And I had need of Gavin’s laugh, his cheer, the sense of courage he imparted. But I had to go back to the old man by the fire, and try to give to him what I had hardly begun to scrape together for myself.

  ‘Extraordinary!’ Samuel muttered. ‘I do believe he means it!’

  ‘Means what?’

  ‘He really doesn’t care about the money. Imagine having to do without Ferguson’s money, and not caring!’

  ‘It’s possible some men are like that. Like Callum ‒ who didn’t want Cluain. He would have parted with what he loved rather than be a James Ferguson. It’s possible, Mr Lachlan … it’s possible.’

  He shook his head. ‘I don�
�t understand it. Give me some whisky, Kirsty. The kirkyard was cold …’

  And he warmed his bones before the fire, and on Cluain’s whisky, remembering, perhaps, what my grandfather had said ‒ that when those few casks were empty, there would be no more until Cluain’s next distilling came of age. At that moment, I had no, idea when that might be.

  II

  Even after they combed the wreckage of the warehouses there was nothing found that even suggested the body of Morag MacPherson. ‘But I saw her!’ Neil Smith kept saying. He repeated it again and again, to the Excise officers who came to investigate the fire, and to the police. ‘I saw her there, right at the end, in the last warehouse where the fire started. And that was a laid fire ‒ the doors opened all through like that. Deliberately set. Well, Mistress Howard here will tell you the same thing. She stood beside me ‒’

  I had to tell them that I could not swear that we had seen Morag MacPherson in those seconds ‒ something that appeared to be the figure of a woman outlined against the inferno behind her. The blaze had been so intense it had almost seemed to sear the eyes. Callum, I knew, had never reached her ‒ if she had been there.

  ‘If she had been there,’ one Exciseman said, ‘we would have found the remains. No one could have escaped from where you thought you saw her. And if it is arson …’

  ‘It was arson! Do I go leaving my warehouses open to who wishes to walk inside? Is it for this I have built my reputation in the service? I tell you that girl started the blaze in the stables as a distraction ‒ and then she waited her chance to start the fire that really destroyed Cluain,’ Neil Smith was indignant and shamed.

  And afterwards, when he had walked off up the road to the cottage of one of the workers where he was temporarily lodged, the Exciseman turned to me. ‘Well, we all knew it was past time for Neil Smith to retire ‒ but he had built a fine reputation in the service, and it being so quiet up here, and he never leaving the place ‒ no family, no distractions, and never touched a dram in his life. But to go and leave the keys … no matter what was taking place outside the cottage. If the sky had been falling on him, he should have thought of his keys first. It will go badly with him, Miss Howard. He cannot expect to stay in the service now.’