Yet now by a bitter blow of Fate he was to be married to a woman he had never seen, a woman who he was instinctively convinced, would wound not only his pride and his self-esteem but also the estimation of his friends.
One thing the Duke swore to himself as he dressed reluctantly and with gritted teeth in the full Highland regalia that was required, he would never take his wife into Society where his choice could be criticised.
Worse still, the marriage could be laughed at by those who at the moment respected him not only for his position and his achievements but for his good taste.
He sat down at the breakfast table in the small dining room, which was used when there was only the family present and saw lying by his place a programme of the day’s events.
He pushed it to one side feeling that if he read it before he ate, the food would undoubtedly choke him.
Yet when he did try to eat he found he was not hungry and ordered, which was very unusual, a glass of brandy. The Duke was far too much of an athlete to indulge in alcohol. He drank if the occasion demanded it, but even then sparingly and his choice in his own house in the South was invariably champagne or good French claret.
He had not brought these with him North, relying on his father’s cellars, but he had included in his luggage some kegs of excellent brandy.
He thought, as he sipped it slowly, that it would steady his nerves and make it easier to face the ordeal that lay ahead.
It was early because the Marriage Ceremony was the first item on the agenda. This was to be completed as quickly as possible because so much time would be taken up in accepting the allegiance of the Clansmen.
The Duke was just about to rise from the breakfast table when Lord Hinchley joined him saying,
“The noise outside, which sounds like Bartholomew’s Fair, makes it impossible for me to sleep, Taran, so I have risen at this unearthly hour.”
He looked at the expression on the Duke’s face and added,
“Perhaps it is a good thing, because now I am here to cheer you up.”
“Nothing could do that,” the Duke replied sourly.
“Quite frankly, I am very sorry for you,” Lord Hinchley answered, “but as there is nothing you can do to avoid it, you must make the best of a bad job.”
Lord Hinchley sat down at the breakfast table and, when the servants, having helped him, had left the room, he said,
“Take my advice. Cut your losses and come to Edinburgh as quickly as possible. I must leave here the day after tomorrow.”
“So soon?” the Duke murmured automatically.
“Soon?” Lord Hinchley exclaimed. “I have stayed at your special request for your wedding for longer than I had intended, but I thought we might have one more day’s shooting. I have never known the grouse more plentiful. Then I really must be about my duties.”
“I do realise it would be impossible for you to arrive after the King,” the Duke joked and Lord Hinchley gave an exclamation of horror.
“God forbid! I should be shot at dawn, incarcerated in the Tower or worse still confined in the dungeons of Edinburgh Castle!”
“That, I admit, would be the ultimate in punishments,” the Duke remarked.
“Then join me in Edinburgh. I presume you will be going by sea?”
“It is quicker,” the Duke replied, “and I believe Dunblane has already sent off our Clansmen who are to represent the McNarn yeomen at the review on Portobello Sands, but they, of course, are riding to Edinburgh.”
“I see you are really becoming a Scot,” Lord Hinchley commented. “At least in appearance.”
The Duke gave a sigh that was curiously like a groan and, because his friend was really sorry for the predicament he found himself in, he changed the subject.
All too soon, it seemed to the Duke, it was time for them both to repair to the Chief’s Room where the Marriage Ceremony was to take place.
As space was naturally limited, only relatives and the most important personages of either Clan were invited inside The Castle.
The Duke and Lord Hinchley entered the Chief’s Room when everyone else including the Minister was already there.
In the few minutes the Duke had to wait, he had time to notice The Kilcraig’s relations and recognise his eldest son, Andrew, and beside him his wife.
One look at her told him all too clearly the type of woman he was being forced to marry.
Mrs. Andrew Kilcraig had a pleasant face, but she had lost her figure bearing three children.
Dressed plainly in a manner that made the Duke think that if he had seen her in London he would have mistaken her for a servant girl. Her skin was tanned by the sun and her hair the pale sandy shade of red that had nothing to recommend it as a feminine adornment.
The Duke looked at her and then looked away.
He had always disliked red hair, whether it was the red portrayed by Titian and so much admired on the Continent or whether it was the more flamboyant red associated with many Scottish women.
Once again he felt everything that was fastidious in him recoil in horror at what lay ahead.
He thought of what the Prince of Wales had had to put up with through Princess Caroline’s unclean habits.
The Duke modelled himself, as soon as he was old enough, on the strict principle of cleanliness, which had been laid down for the beaux and dandies by Beau Brummell.
Brummell had been so obsessed that he had even had the soles of his shoes polished and sent his linen to be washed in Hampstead which, he averred, made it smell of sweet country air.
Frenchmen who worked to copy his elegance had their own dirty linen sent across the Channel to be washed by English laundresses and laid out in the sun on Hampstead Heath.
The Prince of Wales had in fact at the beginning of the century swept away the uncleanliness of the generation before him.
Only a few of his older associates, like Charles James Fox and the Duke of Norfolk, wore dirty linen and apparently washed as little as possible.
The Duke insisted on a cleanliness in his own houses, which echoed that of Carlton House and, when the Regent succeeded to the Monarchy, of Buckingham Palace and Windsor Castle.
Now he thought that, if his wife was dirty as well as unprepossessing, it would be impossible to follow Lord Hinchley’s advice or even to touch her.
‘She can stay here,’ he thought savagely to himself, ‘and rot, for all I care!’
He heard the swirl of the bagpipes and knew that the moment was upon him.
Then, as he was aware that the Kilcraig was coming down the centre of the room with the bride on his arm, he knew he could not look.
It was not only cowardice, it was a feeling of being unable to come face to face with the destruction of his pride and the foundation on which he believed his life was built.
He therefore stood staring ahead and as the Minister in his broad Scottish accent started the Service he found it impossible to listen to the words, conscious only of his own feelings of rebellion and anger.
For the first time it struck him that his father had won.
He had imagined when he ran away that he had escaped him and was free not only of the brutality of the parent he had loathed but of all the hide-bound customs and superstitions that were embodied in The Castle.
It had been to him a place of torment, while the people who lived there, because they gave their loyalty to his father, were his natural enemies.
Now that he had come back, his father had recaptured him and he had become a prisoner of everything he believed he had escaped from.
The Minister’s voice droned on and then the Duke was aware that Lord Hinchley was handing him a wedding ring.
He put it on to a finger that seemed to appear from out of a white mist and steeled himself against revulsion at his first contact with the woman who was now his wife.
Then the Minister said the last prayer over them and it was with a sense of relief that the Duke could move.
Although he had given his arm to his Duchess, he did no
t look at her.
It had been arranged by Mr. Dunblane that they should all repair to the large dining hall for a wedding breakfast.
This would entail, the Duke was aware, a meal of gigantic proportions consisting mostly of a profusion of meats that had been in preparation since the day they had left Kilcraig Castle with no choice but to accept the ultimatum.
Everyone who had attended the ceremony in the Chief’s Room could be seated in the Baronial dining hall which had been added to The Castle by William Adam and was a magnificent example of that great architect’s work.
The carved ceiling, painted and gilded, was a treasure in itself and the huge mantelpiece of Italian stone carved by craftsmen who had been brought especially to Scotland by his grandfather was unique and the furniture was as outstanding as the pictures.
To the Duke it was all very familiar, but to Clola it was a surprise and a delight she had not expected.
She thought that The Castle would be fine, but she had not thought to find it filled with treasures that she had learnt and read about in Edinburgh but never expected to see in her own land.
Vaguely at the back of her mind she remembered hearing that the Duke’s grandfather had been a great traveller. It must have been he, she thought, who had brought so many fine foreign pictures to The Castle and perhaps too the French furniture, which she had noted in the corridors as they moved through them.
Sitting next to the Duke at the top of the long table at which were seated many of the kinfolk of the Kilcraigs as well as the McNarns, Clola was glad that the Duke did not speak to her.
She knew if he did so it would cost him a tremendous effort, for she had felt his anger emanating from him as they had stood side by side.
She had known even more intimately what he was feeling when his fingers had touched hers in the giving of the ring.
‘He hates me!’ she thought.
While it frightened and perturbed her, she thought that perhaps if they could talk alone together it would be easier than if he faced her with enmity in public.
She therefore bent her head so that the lace veil, which had been flung back after the Marriage Ceremony fell like a curtain on either side of her face.
She knew that such a gesture would be attributed to the shyness which was expected in a bride and no one was likely to comment on it.
Like the Duke she could force herself to eat very little of the many dishes that were laid before them and she was glad too that because of the strenuousness of the afternoon ahead there were to be no speeches.
The toast to their health was proposed by The Kilcraig in just a few short words.
She was not aware that the Duke had said to Mr. Dunblane when he had wished to discuss the details of the wedding,
“Arrange anything you like. If I have to be a performer in this circus, I will do what is expected of me and no more!”
Finally he had said to his Comptroller,
“What is more I will not make a speech, neither will I listen to any. Make any excuse you like or tell the truth. I have been blackmailed into this marriage and I shall not pretend to enjoy it!”
“I will try to make everything as painless as possible, Your Grace,” Mr. Dunblane promised.
“Dammit, Dunblane! How could this have happened to me?” the Duke demanded.
For a moment Mr. Dunblane thought it was the cry of the boy he had heard twelve years ago explode in almost the same voice,
“How can I endure this any longer? It is impossible!”
Young Taran had in fact broken under the strain and run away to freedom. But he had come back to find himself embroiled through no fault of his own in a situation about which anyone must feel sympathetic.
And yet, Mr. Dunblane thought philosophically, good might come out of evil.
He had, although he would not admit it to the Duke, an enormous respect for The Kilcraig.
He was a great Chieftain of the old-fashioned type, who had made the Clans at one time small armies within themselves, following a code of honour and an integrity that, if it had been known universally, would have been the admiration of the world.
The word ‘Clan’ means ‘children’. The Kilcraig and his like considered themselves to be father of their family, loved and feared, benevolent at their best and exercising their terrifying power of ‘pit and gallows’ at their worst.
Their Clan’s excessive pride came from a belief in a common ancestry and exclusive identity that placed them above other races and especially the men of the South.
It was this pride which made them fight with a courage and a valour that was the terror of other armies and was to earn them later the name of ‘the devils in petticoats’.
Killing and death in Gaelic terms Mr. Dunblane knew was always heroic and grief its shining laurel for the slain.
Somewhere between the vision and the reality there were men like The Kilcraig struggling to lead his people and to do what was best for them.
‘If the Duke will only stay with us, he too will be a great Chieftain!’ Mr. Dunblane thought, but he was well aware there was a very large question mark over the Duke’s immediate plans.
At last, when the Duke had begun to think that time had stood still, the meal came to an end and in traditional manner the piper played round the table, stopping beside the Duke’s chair to receive a word of appreciation and a small silver cup filled with whisky.
He shouted out the Gaelic word slainte which means ‘health!’ drank it in one draught and was then ready to lead the Duke from the banqueting hall along the corridors and out through the front door to the front of The Castle.
Again without looking at her, the Duke offered his arm to Clola and, as they appeared on the steps of The Castle, a great cry went up which seemed to shake the very turrets.
It was the war-chant of the Kilcraigs and the McNarns yelled at the same time by hundreds of men, deafeningly explosive, and yet at the same time evoking a pride in those who heard it that was unmistakable.
Without pausing, his piper leading the way, the Duke and Duchess walked from the door of The Castle towards the place where all the Chieftains of the McNarns had in the past accepted the homage of their Clansmen,
There were stories of how the Kings of Scotland had met here, tales too believed by the Clansmen that their ghosts could still be seen and their places sometimes taken by the giants and monsters who lived high in the mountains.
But today there was only one chair that had been fashioned from the antlers of stags, every one of them a Royal.
The chair had been made for the first Earl of Strathnarn whose title had been created after a battle in which his Clansmen had distinguished themselves with conspicuous gallantry.
The Duke stood in front of the chair, The Kilcraig standing beside him and Mr. Dunblane handed him a dirk.
First The Kilcraig kissed the metal of which it was fashioned and said in a voice that rang out so that all the Clansmen who were listening could hear,
“On this drawn dirk, I take my oath to extend the hand of friendship to the Chief of the McNarns. The feuds of the past are forgotten and we face the future as brothers, commanding all those who follow us to do likewise. On this I swear and, if I ever prove perjured, may I be stabbed with this same weapon for having betrayed my trust.”
He kissed the blade again and handed it to the Duke who repeated the same oath before handing the dirk back to Mr. Dunblane.
Then the two Chieftains clasped their hands together and bowed to each other. Another chair was set with that of the Duke’s and they sat down side by side.
Then The Kilcraig said in a loud voice,
“The oath of allegiance will be given by our followers to us both, but first, my Lord Duke, your wife – my daughter – will swear allegiance to you,”
The Duke drew in his breath.
Now he knew that he would have to look at the woman he had married, touch her hand and kiss her cheeks.
It was the same oath of allegiance that had alway
s been given in the past to the Kings of Scotland and he wondered if any King had ever been as reluctant as he was to accept it.
Then, as she moved in front of him, the first things he noticed was that her gown was not only in the height of fashion but very elegant and that she moved with a grace that he had not expected.
For the first time since the Marriage Ceremony, Clola held her head high on her long neck in a way that had commanded a great deal of admiration in Edinburgh.
For a moment she stood facing the Duke and he saw in astonishment not the homely Scottish woman he had expected but someone so beautiful, and yet so unusual, that he thought he must have imagined her.
There was no doubt that Clola was lovely and her dark hair was in contrast to a white skin that had the texture of a magnolia..
Her eyes were dark but with touches of gold in them like the sunlight on a stream, framed by fringed lashes that curled back like a child’s.
They seemed to hold a mystery in their depths that was part of The Castle towering above them and the high mountains in the distance.
For the first time it struck the Duke that her voice when she repeated the marriage vows had been very soft and musical and he knew before he touched them that her hands too would be soft and sensitive.
For a moment they stared at each other as if they had forgotten they were being watched by hundreds of curious eyes.
Then with the grace of a swan, Clola went down on her knees in front of the Duke.
Slowly and distinctly, she recited the ancient words of allegiance,
“So may God help me as I shall support thee. I swear and hold up my hand to obey, defend and serve thee as long as my life lasts and if needs be to die for thee.”
Her hands were outstretched in front of her, palms together, pointing upwards in an attitude of prayer.
The Duke covered them with his own and accepted her allegiance, then bent his head formally and kissed her first on one cheek and then the other.
As he did so, he felt her fingers tremble in his and there was a faint fragrance of a French perfume that he did not recognise and the ceremony was over.
He rose and raised Clola to her feet, then, as he looked round as if to find a chair for her, she shook her head and moved as she had been told to stand beside his chair.
The Chieftain Without a Heart Page 8
