Pilgrim of Slaughter

by Pilgrim of Slaughter (retail) (epub)

  5

  A Mother’s Despair

  THE VIEW FROM her chamber always comforted her, the gardens in the foreground, the rolling hills beyond. Whatever happened in life, whatever trouble, whatever good or ill, the hills were there for her; the hills where she had played as a girl. She had watched them change with the seasons all her life.

  She remembered hearing the news of her father’s death when she was a child. He was slain in the battle of Philiphaugh, fighting with the great Montrose. She had idolised the Marquis as a girl. Many of his men viewed him like a God who was invincible in battle until the grim struggle on the banks of the Ettrick and Yarrow ended his remarkable series of victories.

  Before the battle, the army had quartered on her family estates. Indeed, Montrose spent the night in their house, the small tower built by her ancestors, sleeping for a couple of hours in the blue chamber where his portrait now took pride of place – a copy of a painting by a Dutch artist showing him in black armour. His words to her were etched on her memory, ‘Your father’s a loyal man, Jean. He serves me and his King’; as was the recollection of his cheek on hers as he kissed her farewell.

  She had wished with all her heart that she could have married him, even though he was already wed, and some said he had no time for the caresses of women. She had wished it so much that the remembrance of her passion brought a flush to her cheeks. She would have done anything to change things. Montrose was noble and gentle, despite being a man of war, while she was married to a brute. She had learned there was nothing noble about her husband on her wedding night. At least he spent most of his time fighting in Flanders. She had prayed many times, God forgive her, that a Papist bullet would find his gullet.

  She tried to direct her thoughts down other routes, avoiding the pain of the present. But she could not do so for long. Her son’s portrait was also on the chamber wall, painted when he was sixteen. Pain crushed her, taking the strength from her legs. She dropped to her knees, letting out a deep moan as she fought back tears. How could he have done this to her?

  He was unlike the other children of the parish, shy and thoughtful, book-loving, eschewing violent games, avoiding the hunt. She had doted on him too much, spoiling him. He was the focus of all her love, for there were no other children despite her husband’s loveless efforts. Her womb remained barren to spite him.

  The news of his conversion was like a knife in her heart. She perceived in an instant what trouble it would bring. Others were doing likewise, even some of the great men in the land, like Perth and Melfort, turning to Rome to seek favour with the King. But however much she rationalised it, telling herself that he might be rewarded at court in London, or find a position as a man of business for one of the Papist lords, the thought that her only son was a follower of Rome disturbed her to the core of her being.

  When her husband found out, he had beaten the boy senseless. She had feared for his life, so violent was the attack. He had accepted the blows almost with pleasure and she was forced to throw herself between them to stop his kicks. The boy spent a week in bed recovering and while he lay in his chamber, she had tried all means of persuasion, offering him travel in Europe, the chance to remain at court in London, even though they could not afford it, the opportunity to follow any profession he desired, if he would abandon the Whore of Babylon. Her husband left for his regiment saying he wanted no more to do with him. He was no longer his son.

  She had asked the minister to talk with Alexander in an attempt to turn him from his folly, but all persuasion pushed him further into the arms of Antichrist. She wondered what sins she had committed to have been given such a husband and such a son. But she could think of none, other than a little vanity as a young woman which was entirely crushed out of her, for she now cared nothing for her own fate.

  She had pleaded with him, begged him on knees; prostrated herself before him, saying she would do anything if he would change his mind, if he would reject the priests who were practising in Scotland, if he would return to the fold of the Protestant church. But he only smiled at her. He could not change his mind. He was happy for the first time in his life, content with himself at last. All he asked was that she accept his decision.

  Then he was gone, she knew not where. Perhaps he was off to live with friends in Edinburgh or London or in overseas lands. She was left with nothing but the small estates which she managed for her husband who cared little for land or tenants.

  The hills were her only consolation. Their bleak beauty reflected her own despair.

  For months she heard nothing and she wondered if she would ever see him again. Then, a few days ago, a letter arrived. It was a strange epistle, asserting his love for her, but passionately proclaiming that he sought to serve God; that he must do a great deed to further the cause of the true religion. She was not to worry, all would be well in the end.

  She felt a great weight of foreboding as she read it, for she sensed in his words the certainty of the fanatic. God knew what he would do. He was lost to her. She had no one left in the world. But she was still a mother. She must travel to Edinburgh where the letter was posted. She would bring him all she had left: love and tenderness. She would try one last time to persuade him.

  6

  The Music of the Virginal

  MACKENZIE RECALLED HIS wife’s proficiency on the instrument. She would play in the evenings, while he read beside her. They were blissful times. It felt like someone else’s life. But he sat in the same chair in the same room. Where was it she had gone?

  Looking up now and again from his Cicero, he had believed he was the luckiest man alive. Watching her belly swell week after week, their contentment in the life they had made together. But if there was one law in which he believed, it was that everything changes; good times lead on to bad, and sure enough, his fortune deserted him.

  She had gone into labour at four o’clock in the afternoon. It was their first child and a very long one. He waited in the library beneath for hour after hour, listening intently. Finally there was the noise of a child, then a dreadful silence. The expression on the midwife’s face still haunted him twenty years later. Her forlorn expression greeted him when he woke each morning; her words were implanted in his memory. ‘I’m sorry, sir.’

  Before that day, he had lived a blessed life. But the years since were a long road of despair. Sometimes, life was unbearable, so great was the pain of loss. His desire for self-destruction was almost overpowering. Somehow he had not succumbed to the darkness. He went on like a clock or a machine. The dullness of the law was an antidote to the agony. He looked after his daughter, watching her grow into a beautiful young woman. The years passed – nineteen since his wife had died.

  Where was it she had gone? Was she still somewhere? Was her essence preserved somewhere – in heaven? If there was a heaven, she would surely be waiting for him. But how could there be one? He saw in his mind’s eye the black fleck of a bird far away against a sky drained of colour, circling, waiting to come nearer.

  He watched his daughter, Elizabeth, her straight back and nimble hands on the virginal. He felt unsettled. It was not the talk of rebellion, of replacing one king with another. He faced a personal decision of crucial importance for her happiness. She would leave The Hawthorns with her husband and become the lady of Brahan Castle. She had been the lodestone of his life, the one thing that could draw him out of the pit. Who would do so when she was gone? The thought of her departure was a physical pain. There was something else. He had begun to feel uneasy about Seaforth’s brother Ruairidh. There were rumours in town which had brought turbulence to his mind. According to gossip, he was not only a Papist but active in the promotion of the religion. The moment he heard this he knew it was true, although he had been assured by Seaforth that his brother passed as an Episcopalian and thought little about religion. If that had been the case, he would have signed the papers on his desk with no concern. But the marriage of Elizabeth to a Catholic was another matter. It would have serious ramificat
ions. His first instinct was to call it off and face the wrath of his chief, but upsetting Seaforth was problematic; he was still a powerful figure in the Highlands, and highly favoured by the King because of their shared religion. There was also Elizabeth to consider. She was set on the match. The dashing young soldier had swept her off her feet. He would have to tread carefully.

  She had stopped playing. ‘You look worried, father.’

  ‘These are dangerous times, my dear. Edinburgh’s full of rumours. The Prince of Orange has prepared a fleet. A new regime might bring about a change of church government.’

  ‘You’d still have your clients. They might need you all the more. You’re not a Papist.’

  ‘I’m no Papist. But I’m no supporter of Presbytery. There are always winners and losers at such times. I might be ousted as Clerk of the Session. If Presbytery is restored, Episcopalians will not be looked on favourably, that’s the nature of politics.’

  She seemed little concerned about the point he was making.

  ‘The Earl of Seaforth might find himself under suspicion,’ he continued. ‘It might prove difficult for Ruairidh.’

  The mention of Ruairidh’s name roused her interest. She turned to face him. ‘He’s a soldier, father. He would still find service in the army.’

  ‘But with whose army?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘If he was thought to incline towards Rome, he might not be able to serve in an English or Scottish regiment.’

  ‘He’s no Papist.’

  ‘Do you know that for certain?’ He could not put it off any longer, he had to tell her; she would hear it from her friends. ‘There’s talk… there’s talk in town… there’s talk in town that he’s converted.’

  ‘What talk!’ she snapped. ‘He cares nothing for religion.’

  ‘Life might be difficult with such a husband, my dear.’

  ‘Are you saying I should not marry him?’ There was anger and fear in her voice.

  ‘Of course not.’ He rose from his chair and walked over to her. It was difficult to be honest with the ones you loved. He spoke gently, placing his hand on her shoulder. ‘We must be careful, that’s all. We need to delve more deeply into the matter.’

  ‘I care not if he’s a Papist, Presbyter or Mohammedan!’ she screamed.

  He gave her his hand but she did not take it. Rising abruptly, she swept past him out of the room.

  He sighed, regretting his lack of tact. But there was no polite way of dealing with the issue. The marriage was a political event which would have repercussions for them all. He could not give his blessing if Ruairidh was a Papist. He would never have begun negotiations if he had known. A few legal loopholes could delay the process, of course. It was hardly time for a wedding with the mood darkening on the streets.

  He looked out of the window. The sun was dropping behind the garden wall. Birds were circling ominously in the sky, probably crows. There was the familiar feeling of something stirring within him; of a black knot coalescing in the pit of his stomach. He closed his eyes. He felt tightness in his temples, a hint of pain. He saw the bird transforming from speck to creature, filling his mind.

  He took his seat again, rubbing his brows, breathing deeply. His melancholy was returning, attacking him just when he needed a clear mind. He must talk to Ruairidh soon, but he would proceed carefully. His opposition must not drive them to elope. He could not bear the pain of losing her entirely. As he watched the sun dip below the wall, he knew that he would prefer she converted to Rome than lose her altogether.

  7

  Dr Black Secures a Loan

  LAMMINGTON DREW ON his pipe, inhaling deeply, watching him approach up the slope. He must be careful to conceal his contempt for him. He could not understand why he was so revered in William’s court, while hundreds of loyal Presbyterians were overlooked. But the meeting was not about politics. It was about money. Love of money is the root of all evil. But he did not love money; he was no sinner. Money was power. Money was always in demand. Money was capital. If Black wanted a loan he would price it like any other, work out the likelihood of repayment. A memory of impoverished exile in the slums of Groningen flashed through his mind. Picking the wrong side could be costly, but this time he was on the right one, God had assured him.

  Black walked deliberately, placing his boots down carefully on each step, his cane supporting him.

  ‘Good morning, Lammington.’

  He was out of breath after the climb. It was just as he liked it. He observed him carefully from head to toe, weighing him up, not as a man, but as an asset. His wig was expensive, as was the dark coat, the breeches and boots – all spoke of quality. He did not practice his craft of medicine but travelled back and forth relentlessly between The Hague and Edinburgh, between The Hague and London. He must have a pension from someone. He must have another source of income.

  ‘It’s a fine day, sir,’ said Lammington. ‘The view of Edinburgh is particularly fine frae Calton Hill. I prefer to do business here rather than the coffee house or tavern. No one can overhear us.’

  ‘I’ll get straight to the point,’ began Black. ‘Things are at a crucial juncture. My time in the castle is testament to that. I’m owed money by a number of rascals who are slow in payment, so I must raise something myself. I’ve heard you can provide funds at a reasonable interest rate as we share the same political viewpoint.’

  Lammington smiled urbanely. ‘I’m aye happy doing business with fellow Presbyterians, but I must ask a few questions first. I’m nae an advocate or writer. I don’t lend by bond. I don’t demand guarantors, witnesses or documents signed and sealed. I deal only by word of mouth and handshake. I must receive payment on the allotted dates.’

  ‘I understand. Your business is not held back by administration.’

  ‘You must answer me honestly, Dr Black. If I find out otherwise I’ll demand immediate return of the funds advanced.’

  ‘Ask anything of me. I’m an honest man with friends in high places, the highest, as you know. I’ve kissed the hand of the Prince of Orange countless times.’

  ‘How much do you want tae borrow?’ asked Lammington.

  ‘£500.’

  ‘Scots or sterling?’

  ‘Sterling, sir. My bawbess will not be accepted in Amsterdam or Groningen.’

  ‘What assets do you hae as security?’

  Black smiled. ‘I’m my best asset, sir. As you know, I’ve the ear of William. I’ve a small property in The Hague given to me by the Stadtholder providing an income of about £100 per annum. I also have significant sums lent out to a number of men of quality.’

  ‘Would I ken any of these… men of quality?’

  Black was annoyed by the question. He did not like begging from the likes of Lammington. He was nothing more than a bonnet laird from the Borders, while he was the grandson of the Earl of Tullochbrae. But he needed money or he might be imprisoned again. He could not risk being locked up at such a vital time. He had to be at the centre of things.

  ‘I’m owed substantial sums by the Earl of Argyll, Lord Tarbat and Viscount Grindlay.’

  Lammington raised his eyebrows. ‘I believe they are nae reliable in their repayments. Let me see… I’m willing to lend the sum of £500, a very substantial one, at an annual rent of £120.’

  ‘That’s a high rate indeed, sir.’

  ‘Take it or leave it, Dr Black. That’s my only offer. If you decide tae tak it I’ll tell you my terms.’

  Black tapped his stick on the ground. He felt dejected for a moment. He, the personal friend of Carstares, was reduced to borrowing from scum like Lammington. But he would not dress as a pauper. He must have money for wine, women and the table.

  ‘I’ll take it, Lammington. I’ve no choice.’

  ‘I’ll provide the sum on the fourth day of August at eleven o’clock in St Giles Kirk. Thereafter you must pay me £10 on the same day each month. If you’re late with ony payment the annual rent doubles the following month. If you
’re late again, I’ll be forced tae recover the original sum… by ony means.’ Lammington looked straight into his eyes. Black saw for the first time his craft. ‘And there’s one final condition,’ Lammington smiled.

  ‘What’s that, sir?’

  ‘In the association you will side with me rather than Thirlsmuir or Grimston.’

  ‘I could not agree to such a thing… politically I must remain a free agent. I’ll not become the creature of any faction!’

  ‘Then you’ll have nae money, sir.’

  Black realised he had no choice. No one else in the city would lend him a penny. He was trapped, ensnared by an upstart moneylender. But when William came he would be rewarded handsomely. He would repay the debt and avenge himself on this petty usurer.

  8

  Confession of an Assassin

  SCOUGALL SAT IN the Flanders Coffee House reading the latest pamphlet. There were rumours that the King was to bring Irish troops to pacify Scotland and that William sought to reform the government rather than seeking the crown. If King James did not come to an accommodation, he would take the throne with his wife, Mary, James’s daughter. The people in London did not view an invasion as a Norman Conquest by another William, but as deliverance from the Papist yoke. On the King’s Birthday no guns were fired from the Tower of London. Indeed, the sun was eclipsed at its rising, the signal of the victory of William the Conqueror against Harold at the Battle of Hastings. This was held as a good omen and there was expectation among the people of the arrival of William’s fleet in a matter of days.

  He finished his coffee, left the sheet on the table and made his way to MacKenzie’s lodgings in Libberton’s Wynd, an apartment of rooms on the third floor of a tenement just off the High Street.