Chapter 24
Doune - Friday November 1st, 1745
Rob trotted his garron along the new military road past Kilmahog on the road to Callander. On the hillside the remnants of a samhnag, one of the All Hallow’s Eve bonfires still smouldered. Alongside him was his wife, Jean, and behind, the faithful Calum Og and a tail of almost a hundred men, loping effortlessly from Balquhidder and the surrounding areas.
He had taken the opportunity to go home, like many other Highlanders, to see to his own affairs. He had visited James Mòr, convalescing at Coire Arklet of the broken thigh suffered at Gladsmuir, and drummed up new recruits, along with others who had served previously.
Now it was the Samhain festival. He had seen to it that his crops, and those of his sub-tenants in Stronachlachar, had been harvested and threshed. The few cattle that he had not sold, were 'on loan' to those of his neighbours who were not out. His household valuables and other possessions had been secured, hopefully safe from any punitive action that might arise in the future. In Glengyle's absence he had arranged for the removal of much of the plenishings of Glen Gyle house up to the summer shielings, suffering in silence his mother's complaints.
Rob remained buoyed up by the runaway victory of Gladsmuir. His father, cynical from his dealings with the Scots Lords during his lifetime, may have been depressed and apprehensive for his little estate, but while Rob had taken the precautions advised by Glengyle, he had more optimism for what the future would bring.
The Clan Gregor boasted its proud descent from Kings. Rob had been reared on the claim of that descent. 'S rioghal mo dhream - Royal is my race - was the claim of his people. Around the fires the seanchaidh would recite their genealogy: Eoin mac Phàdruig, mhic Mhaoil chaluim, “John son of Patrick, son of Malcolm, son of John the Black, son of John, son of Gregor, son of John, son of Malcolm, son of Duncan from Srulee, son of Gilelan, son of Hugh of Urchy, son of Kenneth, son of Alpin; and this Kenneth was head king of Scotland, in truth at that time.”
It was a great paradox that, through misfortune and misrule, when the Clan Gregor had fallen on hard times and the Stewart dynasty had been, ultimately, the source of its persecution, they should be such ardent supporters of that self-same dynasty when it, too, fell on hard times.
The party clattered up the cobbles past the bailiff's house and up through the open gate passage of Doune. Rob would remain here with Glengyle. Their charge was to ward important prisoners. In addition they were to harry General Blakeney and his garrison in Stirling Castle, although they were not strong enough to maintain a regular siege. Glencarnaig, before departing, with relations between them still cool, had specifically agreed with Glengyle that he should continue to recruit, among his own followers as well as Glengyle’s and to collect arms and ammunition, wherever they may be found.
Rob greeted his father, "Here are some hundred men. Are they in time to be sent on for the army?"
"How was your expedition, Rob?” Glengyle replied, a little unsteadily. The cellar that the dragoon officers had left contained some fine brandies and wines. "You have my good-daughter with you." He turned to help Jean from her horse. "He has taken good care of you I hope?"
“Very well,” Jean replied. “As he should!”
"Rob, the army began their march for England yesterday. They will be at Dalkeith by now." Glengyle looked over the men resting in the courtyard. "These look to be stout fellows. They should remain here with us. There is not space in the castle for them all. They will need to be billeted on the village. Rob, I have a fine brandy just broached, come in and partake of it.
"Father, I shall settle Jean and see to the horses and join you shortly.” Rob responded.
Jean was walking around the courtyard, examining the massive curtain walls, the high gate tower with its Lord’s hall above and the retainer’s hall adjoining the kitchen tower. "Rob, my dearest," she said, "My brother said that in coming here, I would be returning to my ancestral home. I have the strangest of feelings about this place."
Rob looked at his wife. "How so, mo graidh? I may have captured it, but that does not make it our home. This place is too draughty for my taste."
"No," she said, "you do not understand. My father once explained to me that our family, that of the Stewarts of Balquhidder, derive from Robert, the Duke of Albany and his son Murdoch, who was regent after him. It was Robert of Albany, son of King Robert the second, who built this Palace. So you see, my dearest, I also derive from Kings, and far nearer in degree than you."
"Ah,” Rob responded. "Thou art indeed a great lady. I abase myself before thee, your majesty.” He bowed low. Jean pushed him playfully. He sat in a heap of horse dung.
"Away to the stable, where you belong. You shall not share my bed this night,” she laughed.
"Come, dearest,” Rob said, with a handful of dung in his hand. "If you are the same, then you shall not notice the noisome odour on me!” Jean ran, squealing, up the stone stairs while Rob went to find a bucket of water to clean his plaid.
Rob arranged for the accommodation of his recruits, mostly among the men that Glengyle had brought earlier. Most would bed down in the great hall, near the kitchen, and others in the Lord's hall where the militiamen had been surprised. Reflecting on the ease with which he had taken this place, he placed sentinels, and arranged defensive measures so that recapture would not be easy. The few prisoners who were warded here were men of no great consequence and some of the captured Argyll militiamen. These would not give satisfactory parole although it had been offered. They were accommodated in the chambers at the base of the kitchen tower. Glengyle and his immediate followers had already claimed the private chamber above the kitchen where, it was said, Queen Mary had once stayed. From here he could adequately guard his charges. More importantly it was the warmest chamber in the castle!
Rob climbed the stairs to the Lord's hall, where men where busy laying claim to their sleeping places. He continued, up the spiral stair to the Upper hall above, passing the chamber where he had found Helen Forsyth and her unfortunate officer of dragoons. He reached the upper floor and walked towards the hall. Jean called to him. She stood at the entrance to a room. "Dearest Rob, have you washed?"
"Aye,” Rob laughed. "I am my own sweet self again.”
"This chamber is delightful,” she exclaimed. "Can we sleep here?"
The chamber was hexagonal with a barrel vaulted stone ceiling. It was well lit by two elegantly shaped lancet windows, well glazed against the November weather. A large fireplace with elaborate iron furnishings lay between the windows. The room was otherwise bare.
"My dear," Rob said, "there is no bed or floor covering here. The chamber below is well plenished for comfort.”
"No,” Jean answered. "This room is so beautiful. I have a feeling about it. Perhaps, the noble Duke conceived my distant ancestor in this very room. You have men below, they can soon remove the bed and plenishings.”
Jean stood by the window, looking out over the Perthshire hills to the North. Rob stood beside her, arm about her shoulder. He gently kissed her.
"I shall have it seen to, mo chridhe."
Though she could not be sure yet, Jean was pregnant with her first child. Some womanly sense made her troubled for their future. Like Rob she passionately supported the Stewart dynasty, how could one be a traitor to a state which itself denied the legitimacy of its rightful King, from whose house, she herself claimed descent.
Later, Rob and Jean, with Glengyle and most of the garrison, sat around the great fire in the kitchen, singing songs of the ancient times. Glengyle's piper, a bard of reknown, told the ancient tales of the Fiann and of Clan Gregor that they all knew so well, but never tired of hearing.
Righ ghaisge eireachd Eoin, is asdaireach do dhuan a dhroing
Ni nach bheil an amhra do chach, fhuair an fhioradh an saithe righ.
"Bold as a prince is John in each gathering,
'T were long to sing his race's glory;
Of this there is no doubt 'mo
ng men,
That he is the first of the race of kings.
Mac Gregor of the bravest deeds,
Is the boldest chief in any land;
Between his gold and Saxons' spoil,
Well may he live in ease and peace.
Choice for courage of the Grecian Gael,
Whose meed of praise shall ne'er decay,
Abounding in charity and love,
Known in the land of the race of kings.
White-toothed falcon of the three glens,
With whom we read the bravest deeds,
the boldest arm 'midst fight of clans,
Best of the chiefs from the race of kings.
When on Mac Phadric of ruddy cheeks,
Wrath in battle's hour awaked,
The men who with him share the fight
Are never safe amidst its blows.
Grandson to Malcolm of bright eyes,
Whom none could leave but felt their loss,
The generous, gentle, shapely youth,
The readiest hand when aught's to do.
The race of Gregor stand round John,
Not as a weak one is their blow;
The famous race without a fault,
Round him like a fence they stand.
Clan Gregor who show no fear,
Even when with the king they strive,
Though brave Gael may be the foe,
That they count of little weight.
Gael or Saxon are the same,
To these brave men of kingly race,
Sons of Gregor bold in fight,
Bend not before the fiercest foe.
Prince of the host of generous men,
To Gregor of golden bridles, heir,
Pity the men whom you may spoil,
Worse for them who you pursue.
Chief of Glen Lyon of the blades,
Shield and benefactor of the Church,
His arm like Oscar's in the fight,
To whom in all things he is like.
Kindness mantles on his red cheek,
Thy praise he justly wins, ungrudged;
Benevolence when to men he shows,
Horses and gold he freely gives.
Mac Gregor of the noble race,
No wonder though bards should fill thy court;
To his white breast there is no match,
But he so famous 'mong the Feinn.
Three fair watches him surround,
Never as captives were his men;
His arm in battle's struggle strong,
Well did he love to hunt the deer.
In mien and manners he was like
The king who ruled amongst the Feinn.
Mac Gregor of the spoils, his fortune such
That choicest men do covet it.
Good and gentle is his blue eye,
He's like Mac Cumhail of liberal horn,
Like when giving gold, like when bestowing gifts on bards,
Like in wooing or in hunt, to the Cu Ceaird among the Feinn.
Fortune attends the race of kings,
Their fame and wisdom both are great,
Their bounty, prudence, charity, are knit to them, the race of kings,
Wine and wax and honey, these with the stag hunt, their delight.
Famous the actions of John's clan,
Like to the sons of the Fenian king;
John himself was like to Finn,
First and chief 'mongst all his men.
Though many sought to have Finn's power,
'Mongst those who fought against the Feinn,
On Patrick's son fortune attends,
His enemies he has overcome.
Mac Gregor who destroys is he,
Bountiful friend of Church and bards,
Of handsome form, of women loved,
He of Glenstrae of generous men.
Easy 'tis to speak of John,
His praise to raise loud in the song,
Giving his horses and his gold,
Just as a king should freely give.
King of Heaven, Mary virgin,
Keep me as I should be kept;
To the great city fearless me bring
Where dwells the Father of the King.
MacGregor Page 26
