‘So you’ll act as writer for us?’
Working for her family would bring him more than a few pounds. Had God sent her just as dejection threatened to cast him downwards into a spiral of sin?
‘Yes, Agnes. It would be a great pleasure…’
A thunderous bang, so loud he could remember hearing nothing like it in the whole of his life, shattered the blissful moment, as the whole building shook. The sound was followed by screams outside on the street. He peered through the window, pressing his nose against the glass. There was a man lying only a few yards from the door. Another was being grappled to the ground.
‘My God! Someone’s been shot. Wait here, Agnes.’
‘Don’t endanger yourself, Davie.’
He climbed the few steps from his office in the basement of the tenement up onto the High Street. In front of him a young man was being pinned down. To the left, an older figure lay on his back attended by a servant. He knew the victim was James Douglas, Duke of Kingsfield.
‘Fetch a doctor!’ a voice screamed from the crowd.
The Duke was groaning in agony, the blue silk of his suit stained darkly at the chest. A long periwig had fallen from his head which Scougall picked up. He noticed the name Simon Tippendale on the label, one of London’s most famous periwig makers.
‘The Duke’s shot!’ a cry came from an onlooker. ‘Papist bastards!’ a woman’s voice shrieked. A man waved his fist at the young man on the ground, screaming obscenities about the Pope and the Jesuits. ‘Run the fuckin Papists oot o toon! This is the murderous rule of Antichrist!’ The volume of abuse rose like the stink from a midden. ‘The Papists have shot Kingsfield!’
‘Whaur’s the doctor?’ Kingsfield’s servant cried. The Duke was lying motionless, his old head resting in the man’s hands.
Scougall recognised Adam Lawtie, a physician employed by Crown Officer Stirling, emerge from the throng. Kneeling beside the Duke he sought a pulse. After a minute or so, he shook his head.
Screams exploded from the crowd. ‘Papists hae murdered Kingsfield! Papist sodjers will burn the city! Oor King is a Papist Traitor! The King’s servant o the Whore of Babylon! The rule of Antichrist has come tae Scotland!’
Scougall had never heard such visceral hatred at close quarters before. From his attire, the man who was being restrained appeared of some means, probably from a landed family. A few yards away a pistol lay on the ground. The feeling of lightness was gone. Kingsfield was assassinated in broad daylight. He was known to be a supporter of the Presbyterians. There would be uproar in Edinburgh that night.
2
News of a Birth
THE MESSENGER STOOD at the doorway allowing his eyes to adjust to the gloom. Having spotted the man he sought at a table towards the back of the coffee house, he squeezed through the crowd, eager to unburden himself of the news.
A thin middle aged man looked up with alert eyes. He put his pipe down carefully on the table.
‘Ah, Mr Stark. How are you?’
‘I hae news, sir,’ Stark spoke breathlessly. ‘I’ve come aw the way frae Lammington today as fast as I could. I kenned you’d want tae be the first tae ken, sir.’
‘News?’ Lammington repeated. The others at the table stopped talking and looked up at Stark who gathered himself before speaking deliberately in a whisper. ‘The King has a son, sir.’
‘The King has a son,’ Lammington repeated and then with more volume: ‘The King has a son. James Stewart has a son.’ There was a smile on his face.
One of Lammington’s companions, an older man with a gaunt face, rose to his feet and roared. ‘Our Papist King has an heir! Antichrist has a son!’
The news spread from table to table, provoking curses, screams, shouts and general discord. No one seemed pleased by the tidings.
‘Do you know what the bairn’s called, Mr Stark?’ asked Lammington.
‘I’m telt it’s James Francis Edward Stewart.’
‘Not another king called James,’ said a man in a French accent wearing an enormous wig which dwarfed the other head-pieces around the table.
‘Just like the French,’ said another. ‘Louis, Louis, Louis. James, James, James. It’s always the same wi despots.’
‘But she wasnae due yet. It’s surely an imposter. It’s an attempt tae help the King oot of his difficulties,’ said the older man.
‘Calm yirself, Grimston, be seated,’ warned Lammington. ‘Let’s nae lose our heads. I thank you, for conveying such important tidings punctually, Stark. Here’s something for your trouble. Now return hame and tell my wife I’m delayed in Edinburgh for a few mair weeks. There’s business tae be done, important business.’
‘The King will be strengthened by this, Lammington. He has two daughters and now a son. The succession is secured for a Papist,’ said a thin man in an Irish accent.
‘It may not be so, Quinn. The birth will nae be celebrated with enthusiasm in England or Scotland.’ He took up his pipe again and began puffing slowly, savouring the tobacco. He looked animated by the news. Things were coming to a head at last, he thought. There was much to be done, but they would be ready. ‘Don’t lose heart, gentlemen. This may be the trigger we look for. It may encourage William tae intervene. We must continue wi our plans.’ His voice dropped to a whisper. ‘The boys on the street must be a little mair vocal in their condemnation of Antichrist.’
‘Where’s Johnston?’ asked the Frenchman.
There was laughter round the table. ‘He’s still at the college, Mr Guillemot,’replied Lammington. ‘He is very much the scholar, although vehement in his hatred o the Papist. They will be oot on the street when we have more intelligence. Any news of Black?’
‘He’s been released frae the castle,’ announced Grimston.
Lammington stopped smoking and stared intently at the faces round the table. ‘We must be ready, gentleman. The news frae London is good. The King is weak. The birth will encourage our brithers in the south. The Prince of Orange will sail soon. A revolution in the government will follow.’
3
A Letter for Rosehaugh
HE SAT AT the ancient desk sipping claret. He had never known before such utter disregard for sound policy. The King was antagonising everyone, even his closest supporters. The political situation was deteriorating at an alarming speed. He wondered if it had been a mistake to return to office as Lord Advocate. He could not resist being at the centre of things one final time. He was not yet ready for retirement to his country estates. But how was he to advise a King who would not listen, who only followed the advice of the fools who had converted to the Catholic religion? He sighed and poured himself another glass. Whatever happened, rebellion was treason. It could only lead to chaos.
He flicked through his correspondence on the desk; the usual communications from the Privy Council, intelligence reports from his agents, countless letters. One caught his eye. The writing was more florid than the rest, as if the writer had taken care with it:
To Sir George MacKenzie of Rosehaugh, Lord Advocate,
the Tolbooth, Edinburgh.
He put the other papers aside, broke the seal and read the following:
Scotland: haunt of the profane, den of iniquity, cavern of chaos, cradle of witches. I look down on you from a great height. I watch your black castle against the western sky, your tenements filthy with squalor, your tollbooths, kirks and palaces. I wander your closes, wynds, courts and vennels. Your King is the slave of Satan. Your King is besotted with the Whore of Babylon. Your King welcomes Antichrist to the heart of your realm where the blasphemous Mass is proclaimed.
Hear the cries of the people. Edinburgh is a city awaiting deliverance, a synagogue of Satan. I hear your calls. I feel your agony and despair.
My children, I will free you from the chains of Antichrist. I will free you from the government of the Godless. I will liberate you from the plague of priests.
The black stone of the castle speaks to me. The stink of the streets speaks to me. Oh city
renowned through Europe for nothing.
Until I returned to you, little land, forgotten, until I stirred you with my breath. You were forgotten by the world, small and insignificant, left alone to suffer the reign of Antichrist, abandoned, until I remembered you, until I was called by you, until I returned to wake you from your slumber.
I seek out your labyrinths of debauchery. I seek out your parlours of hypocrisy. I seek out your ministers with hearts of lust. I seek out your abusers, whoremongers, idolaters, warlocks, witches.
I seek out your great men hungry for mammon, lawyers crafty and covetous, doctors cheating the sick of their last pennies, servants despising their masters. I will bring them to account for their sins.
Let the fierce wind blow. Let the mighty wind blow. Let the gale of reformation blow, stirring you from lethargy, awakening you from this quagmire of atrophy. Oh nation burning and suffering in the pit, I will be as a wave among you, a great wave of the ocean, deep-formed within the mighty water. I will wash through you, sweeping your streets clean. I will cleanse you of the stain of Antichrist.
Rise like the sun, burning red. The time is at hand, oh my children.
Rise like a mighty sun. I bring transformation. I bring glorious revolution.
Rosehaugh shook his head in despair. It was the ranting of another fanatic. Scotland had enough of them these days. He folded the letter carefully and rose from his desk. On the way to the large press in the corner he stopped suddenly. There was the pain again, deep inside his stomach. It was becoming more frequent. He wondered how much time he had left. Whatever happened, he would struggle on. He opened a drawer and dropped the letter on top of a pile of other documents. Should he keep them or burn the lot? The mind of man was troubled indeed, angry and troubled.
4
Dinner at The Hawthorns
SCOUGALL’S EYES TOOK in the large collection of plate on MacKenzie’s dresser. It was principally made of silver rather than pewter, a collection of bowls, cutlery, jugs and dishes engraved with hunting scenes of stags and hounds, surely worth a small fortune. In the centre was a round silver salver with the clan coat of arms embossed upon it, a mountain engulfed in flames with the legend Luceo non uro around it. Scougall translated the words to himself, pondering their meaning – I shine but do not burn. The light of reason rather than the flames of passion – that sounded like MacKenzie’s philosophy of life. The plate showed he was a rich man; the pickings of the law were greatest for advocates at the top, but not for notaries like him. He wondered how much capital he could amass by the time he was MacKenzie’s age of fifty-six.
They sat in the dining room at the back of the house where two sash windows looked onto the gardens. Water gurgled from a stone fountain in the gloaming. Across the table from Scougall sat Kenneth MacKenzie of Kintail, the Earl of Seaforth. He was only a few years older than him, perhaps in his late twenties, and did not look like a Highland chief, dressed in his blue silk suit and long periwig. His younger brother, Colonel Ruairidh MacKenzie, diagonally opposite, was even more splendidly attired in a scarlet suit, the latest fashion from Paris.
Elizabeth was wearing a vibrant green gown. She had eyes for Ruairidh only, a man who had fought in battlefields across Europe, and, according to his own account, played a vital role in every one. They made a fine pair, Scougall had to admit. Reason told him to lay his feelings for her aside; jealousy was a sin. But he could not help himself. Could it be possible that she would marry a Roman Catholic? He had heard rumours about his conversion but had not told MacKenzie. He wanted to warn her that the souls of her unborn children were endangered. But it was not his place and, after all, it was still possible the marriage might not happen. He felt his face burning red as he picked at his lamb ragout. He could not understand why MacKenzie insisted on torturing him. He had no business dining with Papists.
MacKenzie had set aside the black garb of the law for his best suit. Having drunk a number of glasses of claret, he was in relaxed mood, his conversation darting back and forwards between Gaelic and English, leaving Scougall feeling left out. Despite learning a few words, he understood little of the language of the Highlands. He nodded grimly as if he understood more.
At last MacKenzie addressed Seaforth in English. ‘What do you make of the rumours about the Prince of Orange, my Lord?’
‘It’ll come to nothing, John.’ Seaforth spoke in an unusual accent, influenced by the courts of Europe where he had spent much of his life, with little suggestion of a Scots brogue. ‘The Stadtholder will not risk invasion,’ he continued. ‘Getting bogged down in a British war would play into French hands. The people of England and Scotland remain loyal to their King. His policy of toleration looks to a time when all religions are viewed as equal. He wishes men to follow their hearts in religion. Is that not unreasonable?’
‘The aim of toleration is a worthy one,’ replied MacKenzie, refilling the Earl’s glass, ‘but the manner of its introduction is unwise. The Indulgences have unsettled the King’s supporters in Scotland, stirring up a hornet’s nest. ’
Scougall stole a look at Elizabeth who was deep in conversation with her fiancé. They had no interest in politics tonight.
‘You’re too pessimistic,’ Seaforth continued. ‘The lawyer always sees the bottle half empty. The world is changed. Seaforth is a Privy Councillor.’ Scougall found his affectation of referring to himself in the third person annoying. ‘He sits with the great men of the realm, administering the kingdom. He’s raised to the Order of the Thistle and looked upon as a loyal servant of the King. The MacKenzies have never been so favoured. Tarbat is on the Council; Rosehaugh restored as Lord Advocate; a dozen advocates of our name prosper in Edinburgh, including yourself. We rival the Campbells as the most powerful family in the realm. Atholl is weak. Hamilton broods in London.’ He stopped to sip his wine and emphasise what followed. ‘A dukedom is talked of at court. Can you imagine it – the Dukedom of Ross restored, or the Dukedom of Seaforth established! What honour for the clan! What riches it may provide!’
MacKenzie nodded, but his expression had lost its playfulness. He reflected that aristocrats were always puffed up with their own importance, obsessed with obtaining honours at any cost. ‘I believe the King’s policies are foolish, my lord. Our country has no appetite for the Roman religion. The establishment of Jesuits in Edinburgh inflames the fanatics.’
‘The fanatics are diminished since Renwick’s execution. Those of a reasonable disposition may worship in private chapels. They’ve no need to scurry off to the hills.’
‘What say you as a man who favours Presbytery, Davie?’ asked MacKenzie.
Scougall had said little during the meal. He had to be careful what he said. Upsetting an earl would be a mistake, even a Papist one. ‘The King’s Indulgence has allowed many to worship in the manner they wish, though not all,’ he said quietly. ‘The situation has eased for Presbyterians who return from exile. They can listen to sermons in St Magdalene’s Chapel. Only those who keep to the fields are persecuted.’
‘There, John. Sensible words from your man. Toleration’s at the heart of the King’s policies. All should worship as they wish. I would’ve thought that you, as a man of reason, a devotee of the philosophy of the ancients, would support such a position.’
‘I believe the King’s policies aim to promote Papists rather than introduce toleration. King James is a follower of the French way of absolute rule. Toleration is a fine ideal, one which I believe in passionately. But much depends on the way it’s introduced. The hearts and minds of the people must be changed before it’s hoisted upon them. There’s one clear lesson from history – the Scots despise having their religion tampered with by a distant king. On the death of his brother three years ago, King James had Scotland at his feet despite being a Papist. Recall the joyous celebrations on his succession. He’s now hated by half the people in England and Scotland. Never was so much thrown away at so little cost.’
‘What’s he done to deserve his people’s scorn?
’ Seaforth asked sharply.
MacKenzie could not stop himself. ‘The people despise the appointment of Papists to the army and government. They scream of arbitrary rule by indulgence rather than parliament. They fear a standing army with Papist officers, while the Navy is neglected. Trouble is brewing across these Kingdoms. The King would be well advised to halt his policies immediately.’
As he had done on countless occasions in the law courts, MacKenzie conquered his rising anger. His earnest expression melted into a smile. He did not want to push Seaforth too far. He was his chief, after all, and that still meant something, although not as much as it used to. He raised his glass. ‘It may all come to nothing, my lord. Men’s minds turn to other matters. The Prince of Orange cast his eyes back to war in Europe. Let’s hope he does not sail for these shores.’
‘I’ll raise a glass to that,’ said Seaforth.
Scougall could not bring himself to make the toast. He raised his glass obediently, but under his breath prayed for a fair wind to deliver William.
‘Let me propose another,’ said MacKenzie, moving the conversation away from politics. Tapping his glass with a spoon, he waited for Elizabeth and Ruairidh to finish their intimate conversation.
‘Welcome to The Hawthorns. Let’s hope a settlement will be reached soon!’
Scougall reluctantly toasted the couple who continued to have eyes only for each other. Visions of their wedding night flashed through his mind – Elizabeth’s body the property of a Papist! He felt a deep desire to be away from The Hawthorns. He did not belong in such company. He yearned for the golf course away from troubling thoughts of politics and women.
Pilgrim of Slaughter Page 2
