Bitter Magic

by Nancy Kilgore

  They had pushed Margaret out of the room. Then she heard her mother keening, and she knew. Little Alexander was gone. Margaret felt like she’d been sailing toward a beautiful horizon, but a storm had suddenly arisen, and now she was adrift at sea with no land in sight. She wailed and cried, more than Mother or anyone else. Bessie tried to comfort her, saying that this was just part of life, and it happened to every family. That did not console Margaret, though, because this had happened to her family.

  She looked at Mistress Collace. “How could you bear the death of so many? All of your children! Nine?” Her eyelashes were wet with tears. “How could you go on after that?”

  Mistress Collace was weeping now, too. “It is true that He has tested me almost beyond endurance.”

  Margaret touched the lace collar on the table in front of her. She lowered her head and whispered, “How did they die?”

  “Ah, some to the pox, and one just stopped breathing. But the hardest test of all was my little Emilia. She the most recent, and I the least comprehending.”

  “How old was she?”

  “Just four, but she was the wisest one of all, perhaps more so than I.”

  “Wise?”

  “She knew that she would go to the Lord, and she told me His angels had come to her. ‘They assure me that ’tis better to be with Him,’ she said. Her sweetness stabbed my heart with love.”

  Margaret tugged at the thread with a jerk. “But you must curse the God who let that happen.”

  The eyes of her teacher radiated fierce blue fire like the edges of a flame. “Nay, child. Never speak such words.”

  Margaret shrank down in her chair. “But,” she said in a low voice, “where did the children go? Do you believe that the dead are in some other place, and that we can see them sometimes?”

  Mistress Collace looked Margaret in the eye for a long minute. “I believe the Lord allows us to sometimes glimpse our beloveds.”

  “I see my brother Malcolm. It’s as if he is right here at home, and never left.”

  “Sometimes we see in the imagination, and then we are fooled into thinking they are there.”

  Margaret’s shoulders dropped. She’d thought she could talk about her visions with Mistress, but now she sounded just like her father and mother, who blamed her “unbridled imagination.”

  “But I do see our Lord Jesus,” Mistress continued.

  “You mean that you really see him? What does He look like?”

  “The most beautiful of men.” Mistress’s gaze lifted up to the light from the window. “He comes to me and sits with me. I touch his face and feel the wounds on his hands, and see his brown eyes so exquisitely filled with love for me, and then I know that my suffering is His, as well. He fills me with the utmost ecstasy and peace.”

  Ecstasy and peace. How odd that Margaret was now reminded of the woman on the strand. Isobel Gowdie had been dressed in a plain and threadbare skirt and a dirty plaid, her feet bare and her hair flying out of her hood, whereas Mistress Collace sat neat and elegant in her black gown and modest cap. But the expression on her face was so like that of Isobel Gowdie, as if she were in another world.

  “Mistress Collace,” Margaret said, “I met a peasant woman, and she spoke a charm for the boats to bring back fish.”

  Mistress’s eyes transformed from fire to ice in a moment.

  Margaret continued hurriedly. “I know Mister Harry preaches against charms and spells and such, but this was also a prayer, because she said it in the name of the Father, the Son, and Holy Ghost. And she was sure she would get many fish that night.”

  Mistress straightened her back. In her black gown and white collar, with her blonde hair under the black cap, she looked cross and stern.

  “Perhaps,” Margaret said in a small voice, uttering a thought that had just come to her, “I could ask Mistress Gowdie to say a charm for the safe return of Henrietta Rose?”

  At the mention of Henrietta, Mistress Collace’s face softened. “Aye, lass, your friend who was taken by the Royalists.

  “But magic and charms are the works of the devil. These rhymes, though they invoke the Holy Trinity, are spoken not as prayer, but as magic. The peasants still hearken to the time of papacy, when they were told that if they repeated certain words, the words themselves would make something change; wounds to heal, a good harvest to come. They believe that there is something magical about the names of God, and do not see that the heart must be tuned, that the spirit in tune with God is what changes our lives, not magic words.”

  Margaret picked up her needle and lace again. Mistress Collace was so eloquent, so inspiring. I will tune my heart to God, and then God will surely hear my prayers for Henrietta.

  Hoofbeats sounded from outside, and Margaret ran to the window.

  In stark contrast with the Royalists, this troop of five English soldiers was orderly and quiet in line behind their commander, their red coats and white breeches dazzling in the sunshine, their gleaming horses standing disciplined and proud.

  Bessie went to answer the door, Father close behind.

  Sounds of huffing breaths and clanking arose from the tower steps, and Father, followed by two tall soldiers, came into the drawing room. Smells of leather and sweat invaded the room, overpowering the sharp, subtle scent of the flax and linen the women had been working on. Margaret fumbled and dropped her lace on the floor.

  The commander, a tall, heavyset man with flowing black curls, and his adjutant, much younger and slimmer, stood at attention. Margaret and Mistress Collace, at the other end of the room, stood up and gathered up their tools and lace. Should they leave or stay? They stayed.

  Though Cromwell was dead, the English still governed all of Moray from their headquarters in Nairn. Lady Elizabeth had said this was a good thing, as they could keep order and not let the Royalists prevail, but Margaret’s father held his skepticism and resentment close, like a falcon on a chain. He didn’t trust the English, and never would.

  He eyed these English soldiers from beneath lowered lids. Margaret knew what he was thinking. Perhaps it was these very men who had killed Malcolm.

  John Hay, Laird of Park and Lochloy, standing a full head shorter than the English commander, in his yellow doublet and brown breeches, took his place in front of the fireplace, fierce and dignified. Behind him, above the mantel, his grandfather Thomas, Laird of Park, stared down from his portrait as if to substantiate the Hay clan’s moral superiority.

  But Margaret knew that the English saw themselves as superior to the Scots. This commander no doubt regarded her family as country bumpkins. His immaculate red coat and blue breeches looked as if they had just come from under a hot iron, and his full lips spread into a florid smile as he peered down his long, fine nose at her father. “We come at your summons, my Laird,” he proclaimed with pomp—and, perhaps, a touch of ridicule. “Major Walker at your command.”

  “You know of the raid?” Father asked.

  The major nodded, and his adjutant, a lad of about Margaret’s age, stepped back from the window where he’d been observing the horses. This lad couldn’t have been more different than his commander. Tall and thin, he had a nonchalance in his manner and a hidden smile that seemed to suggest he was enjoying this escapade. His hair was straight and sandy-colored, not curled like the current fashion in the military, and this would have made him seem a bit rough, like the Highlanders themselves, if it hadn’t been for his elegant manner. He wore his coat and breeches with ease, almost like an afterthought, as if he couldn’t care less what he had on his body. His lanky steps were graceful and effortless as he walked back from the window. There was something familiar about him.

  “We have heard tell of this cattle reiver by the name Callum Beg,” the major said. “Would he be the villain we seek?”

  “Nay,” Father answered. “Callum Beg is the most not
orious cattle thief in all of Moray, and we did suffer his raids here in former times. But Campbell pays him to leave off his lands, and that keeps him, we hope, from ours, as well.” Father took a breath as if to control himself, then spat out, “Twere the Macdonalds! We saw them in our courtyard. With Angus at the lead, in all their brazenness, leading off our cattle and stealing our oats.”

  Why didn’t Father speak of Henrietta? Was not one human life worth more than cattle and oats?

  The lad stepped up; his interest piqued. “Would that be the MacDonalds of the mountains to the south?”

  “Aye. They come from the Cairngorm.” Father’s face darkened. “Fifty head of cattle they carried away, along with several hundred sacks of oats and hay.” He tensed, clutching the pistol at his side. “They raid and roam about, a party of several score—and if I knew where they were now, I would send my lads to buckle a torch with them.”

  Mistress Collace took Margaret’s hand as if to restrain her, but Margaret couldn’t help but step forward. “And Henrietta Rose!” she cried out. “What about her?”

  Father gave her a look as if to admonish her for speaking out of turn, but the commander frowned and turned to her. “And who is this?”

  “My dear friend Henrietta, of the Roses of Kilrock. We saw her carried away! Oh! Oh!” She wrung her hands, hopping from side to side with tears burning her cheeks.

  “She is the daughter of Hugh Rose, Minister of Nairn,” Father explained.

  Now the young lad was attentive. His body poised and full of spirit, but he refrained from speaking. He smiled at Margaret.

  Oh, she exclaimed inwardly. This was the soldier who had smiled at her in the village. She felt a blush she hoped was not visible and pulled at her gown—just an ordinary brown skirt with gray bodice, somber colors for a Covenanter lass. She wished she had on a prettier gown.

  “We will do all we can to bring these villains to justice,” the commander said as Father raised a suspicious eyebrow.

  Margaret could see that the lad was eager to speak, but when he did, it was in a respectful tone. “Excuse me, sir, but I believe I can find them.” Both Father and the commander started and turned towards him.

  After a pause, the commander cleared his throat. “In that case, we will certainly bring her home soon.” The lad moved over to the window and looked out at the horses.

  “And for my losses, I will receive recompense, I trust?” Father asked.

  The major shook his head. “This is not an easy thing, my Laird. These reivers make the cattle disappear, along with the other livestock and grain, and then they deny everything.”

  “Then I will petition the government for restitution, as the law provides.”

  “Ah, this may be just as difficult. There was only one case I recall in which restitution was granted.”

  “Thomas Dunlop of Grange,” Father answered. “I know the case.”

  The commander bowed his head in agreement. “A lengthy court case, and rare: the plaintiff did win, but only after five years.” Major Walker paused. “And I wonder if the law would even apply, in this case.”

  Father’s face reddened. His mouth clamped shut, and his eyes were furious as the two soldiers left.

  Margaret watched from the window. The lad sprang onto his horse, eager and confident. Though she had only seen him one other time, she had the sense that she knew him well: from a dream, perhaps, or from something else from long ago that she couldn’t quite name.

  Margaret walked back to Mistress Collace and the lace at the far end of the room, her shoulders sagging. The young man had smiled at her but turned away so quickly. To him, she was probably one of those ignorant Scots who’d never even heard of Shakespeare. He had a diffidence and a distance that belonged to some other world: a place of ease and knowledge, a place where people were free to enjoy theatre and art and music and didn’t have to worry about being attacked by wild-haired Highlanders who stole their food and captured their friends. A peaceful English village, perhaps; a place where life was not focused on revenge.

  But he would search for Henrietta.

  As would she.

  KATHARINE

  Chapter 8

  Mistress Katharine Collace stepped out of the courtyard and set herself a brisk pace along the road to Auldearn. That expression on Margaret’s face, the firm-set lips, the brown eyes intent on something in the distance. What had she been thinking? Hopefully, she wouldn’t run off again, with these cattle reivers swooping about and ransacking Protestant farms.

  Katharine was on her way to the manse. She squared her shoulders and smiled to herself. She and Mister Harry would continue the discussion they’d had after kirk. In his sermon he’d scolded the plain folk for adhering to the old ways, for calling upon the cunning women when they were sick instead of the one doctor to be found in all of Morayshire. As everyone knew, one doctor was insufficient for this population, and his practice of leeching and bleeding for almost every ailment was not popular. She had pointed out that the cunning women could often effect better cures, but then he only became more adamant in defense of the doctor.

  He’d cited the doctrine of total depravity, quoting Titus: unto them that are defiled and unbelieving nothing is pure. These women, he said, need to be squashed underfoot before they contaminate others.

  But weren’t these women as capable of knowing God as everyone else?

  Mister Harry was such a passionate preacher, but behind his burning eloquence, was there something missing? No, she thought, Who am I to put myself above a minister of the Lord? She needed to curb this sinful arrogance. She had much to learn from this man, and, she modestly hoped, also much to contribute to him.

  She looked behind her at Inshoch Castle, stark and bare on its hilltop. How did I end up here? This wild country of the Highlands was not an inviting place: flat plains of scrub and peat with occasional stands of gorse or heather, muddy roads and pools of standing water from frequent storms; constant wind and harsh stone mountains in the distance. The few clusters of mud huts comprising the villages were so dispiriting compared to the charming towns of England or even some of the communities around Edinburgh.

  But today there was something different in the air. A clearing, an opening, and the beauty of the land was emerging like a shy and lovely maiden stepping out of some desolate hovel. The air was dry and sunny, warm for April. Wildflowers sprouted on the roadside, and in the distance, where the land spread down to the sea, sheep and cattle were scattered like toys on a green carpet.

  She slowed down and picked up a stone the size of her palm. Such a simple piece of God’s creation, with specks of quartz sparkling in points and crevices. Like the beauty of the Covenanters’ theology, simple and solid, with so many facets that made it shine in brilliance.

  The sky was a universe of billowing clouds, unfolding in a vastness of gray and white, arcing above her as she stood, small and solitary, on the flat land.

  Katharine’s dream, and that of the Covenanters, was of a new, pure Scotland, a moral government based upon love and justice. After all the decadence and corruption in the Catholic churches, John Knox had seen a new way, a new way of being Christian. His Book of Discipline, based upon St. Augustine’s Civitas Dei, envisioned a society guided by the Presbyterian kirk, not the pope or the king. It would convert the Catholic Church’s holdings, wealth amassed through corruption and greed, into alms for the poor. The new society would mirror the Kingdom of God.

  Soon, she would introduce Knox’s luminous text to Margaret: a girl with wide, brown eyes and a sturdy body, who loved theology as much as she loved riding her horse. Margaret was both earthy and ethereal, and Katharine thrilled to the endless questions that came out of that innocent child, though at times they brought her up short—like today, when the girl had asked Katharine about her children.

  Katharine sighed. Her lost childr
en. Perhaps she could bring these thoughts to Mister Harry, who, in spite of his shortcomings, was her spiritual guide here in Morayshire.

  The manse was situated on the far side of the village of Auldearn, several miles yet, but the day was so clear, that the village was now in sight.

  Ah, Edinburgh. She sighed. Another loss. That place of elevated discourse and interesting ideas. Her father, who believed in the education of women, had always affirmed her interest in theology and encouraged her desire to converse with the other ministers. One winter’s day she’d sat beside the fire with a group of learned men as Thomas Hogg, the brilliant hero of the Covenanting cause, had spoken. His voice came deep and sonorous like the rolling thunder—like something inevitable, like the predestination he sought to explain. She had joined in the discussion, almost an equal with the men, and Thomas had praised the depth of her spirit. He had even thanked her for illuminating him.

  Katharine smiled at the memory, and bent down to pick a delicate lavender flower, then looked out to sea, breathing in the salty breeze. On the distant road, a man was walking beside his horse and cart.

  When she had been hired by the Lady of Park and Lochloy to teach needlework to her daughters, Katharine had harbored mixed feelings. Auldearn was isolated, far from the excitement and the heart of theological discourse, and she would miss the stimulating conversation and new ideas in Edinburgh. She’d prayed about the decision and then saw that the Lord was calling her to this place. She didn’t know why, but there must be a reason.

  Certainly, the girls were sympathetic charges, and she could see that they benefited from her scriptural teachings as well as the needlework. But what was her greater purpose here? Perhaps Mister Harry could shed light on the subject.