Lady Magdalen

by Robin Jenkins

  ‘You need have little worry on that score,’ he said. ‘Your mother used to complain that I was never at home. It will be the same with you and James. He will certainly wish to take part in public affairs. You will therefore be alone oftener than you would wish, except of course for your children. I hope you will not find their company irksome.’

  He regretted the sarcasm but she did deserve some rebuke.

  ‘Yes, Father.’

  Thus was her consent given, her surrender meekly made. She did not blame her father or James Graham. They took for granted that, being a woman and therefore weaker-minded than a man, she would be content with a big house, many servants, silks and satins, and jewels. How could they know what she really wanted when she wasn’t sure herself?

  In the old days there had been hospices attached to churches and dedicated to the care of the old and sick. They had been managed by women of rank who in the service of Jesus Christ had given up their lives to that compassionate work. She often imagined herself as one of them.

  2

  HER BROTHERS AND sisters were astonished when they heard that little Magdalen was betrothed to James Graham, Earl of Montrose. Dutifully they congratulated their father, who had arranged it, and her too of course, but they were not altogether pleased. Jealousy was inevitably part of their feelings for it would mean her, the youngest, being raised in rank above them, but there was also genuine concern. They did not think that she would ever be happy married to a man like Montrose.

  They had known James since his infancy and had seen how self-assertive he was, unable to bear not being foremost in everything. At St Andrews University he had won the silver medal for archery twice, because, according to their eldest brother, also called James, he had outranked all the other competitors. Had not Argyll won it too a year or so earlier, though no one could be less martial than squint-eyed Campbell?

  It had been assumed by everyone, and particularly by himself, that so handsome a youth, only too conscious of his abilities and deservings, would marry a woman as ambitious as himself, who would help him in his career, for he made it clear, indeed often boasted, that he intended to play a prominent part – he meant glorious – in the affairs of his country. He wrote poetry full of splendid aspirations. His favourite character in history was Alexander the Great and his favourite book Raleigh’s History of the World. At the time of the betrothal he was 16, with his dreams of glory at their brightest.

  Why then, they wondered, had this would-be conqueror of the world agreed to take as his wife their Magdalen who was comely enough but scarcely beautiful, who dressed drably, often in black, read books of sermons, prayed as if she believed in it, loved solitude and sad music, spoke to servants with more fondness than command, and still, though she had never known her, mourned her mother? Had not her sisters jested among themselves, cautiously, for theirs was a strict Presbyterian household, that she had all the makings of a nun? How in heaven’s name could she, who loved to stay at home in obscurity, find happiness with a husband on fire to go out into the world and be famous? How could she, so gentle, love a man who yearned for bloody battles? It was true that most marriages among the nobility were arranged for political or dynastic reasons but surely there had to be some points of contact between bride and groom? A shared passion for hunting, perhaps, or for religious observances. In Magdalen’s case those were points of difference, since James loved hunting and was at best lukewarm towards religion, whereas she abhorred the killing of animals for sport and was very devout.

  As an obedient daughter, she had obviously consented to the marriage to please her father, but it was hardly likely that James had done it to please Lord Napier. James always pleased himself. Since he was in a hurry to beget heirs, he might have been expected to choose a woman built for child-bearing, buxom and broad-hipped, but Magdalen was delicately made and had never enjoyed robust health. Could it be that he loved her? No, James was in love with ideals and poor Magdalen fell far short of those. So what qualities in her could have appealed to him? Her loyalty? No wife would keep her vows more resolutely. Her chastity? She had reached the age of child-bearing without knowing how children were begot. Her sweetness of nature? A man would have to be haughtier even than James Graham not to approve of that. Her docility? She would be as obedient as a wife as she was as a daughter. But what of that quirk of character which prevented her from acceding to anything she thought untrue, unjust, or unkind? She might not voice her dissent but it would be present in her silences. Fortunately James would not notice or, if he did, would be more amused than angry. In any case, the older she got the more resigned she would become.

  All the same it would have been better for her if she were to marry Francis Gowrie instead. It was obvious to her sisters, though not yet to herself, that she was in love with him. Whenever he paid a visit to Kinnaird, look how delighted she was. He would bring his lute and they would sing songs together, or his paints and brushes and she would sit beside him in the orchard watching him paint. He never wore sword or dagger and, like her, dressed plainly. Unlike her, though, he did not keep quiet when confronted with what he considered wrong; on the contrary, he was passionately and indiscreetly outspoken: his outburst in the kirk was an example. Since his father was reputed to hanker after the old religion and his mother, long since dead, had been a member of a wealthy English Catholic family, he himself was suspected of papistical leanings, especially as he was never done upbraiding Presbyterians for having removed all beauty from their kirks.

  3

  IN HIS ROOM in Kincardine Castle James Graham was getting ready to ride over to Kinnaird to pay one of his infrequent visits to his betrothed. It was a warm sunny morning in August, so that windows could be opened and no fires were needed. In the courtyard below, his escort of kinsmen and friends waited for him. Their laughter and the stamping of their horses’ hooves on the flagstones could be plainly heard. Mr John Lambie of St Andrews assisted his young master, making sure there were no wrinkles in the lilac-coloured stockings, that the doublet of red velvet edged with white silk was not too bulky at the shoulders, and that the red velvet hat with the white feather sat at the jauntiest angle with just enough chestnut hair showing. Like a good servant he attended to his duties and pretended not to hear the taunts with which Lady Katherine, the earl’s younger sister, kept teasing him. If any of his own sisters had talked to him like that, he would have clouted her. The earl, though, did not seem to mind, indeed he seemed to be enjoying her bitter comments. As he preened himself in front of the looking-glass, he hummed a song of romantic love.

  Katherine had come home unexpectedly from Loch Lomond-side, where she lived with her sister Lilias who was married to Sir John Colquhoun of Luss.

  ‘All that finery, Jamie,’ she said. ‘What a pity it won’t be admired. Doesn’t Magdalen herself always wear sombre hues?’

  ‘Well, Kate, in nature isn’t it only the males who are resplendent? Consider the proud peacock. Consider even the humble chaffinch.’

  Katherine herself was wearing the blue dress in which she had ridden from Luss. It was bedraggled and crumpled. Her brother had been surprised to find her so pale, thin, and resentful. He had asked if she hadn’t been getting her share of the juicy red venison so plentiful on the hills above the loch and of the fat salmon in it.

  ‘Seriously, Jamie, is she suitable?’

  ‘Suitable for what?’

  ‘You know fine what I mean. Suitable to be your countess. She’s a mouse. You intend to be a lion.’ She let out a sarcastic roar.

  He squealed. ‘Whereas you, Kate, are being a shrew.’

  There was a burst of loud laughter from below.

  ‘They’ll be drunk before they set out,’ she said.

  ‘It’s a beautiful day, Kate, and they’re young and happy. Like me.’ He was especially happy then, as he buckled on his new rapier with the golden hilt. ‘But not like you it would seem. What’s amiss, Kate? Come on, tell me truly. Did you and Lilias have a cast-out? Or was it Sir
John’s foolish cackling you couldn’t stand? I wouldn’t blame you.’

  He didn’t notice how her hands trembled as she picked up the book on his bedside table. Her voice trembled too. ‘The Life and Death of Mary, Queen of Scots. Now if it had been her you were going to visit, Jamie, I could understand all that peacockry.’

  From the flash of his eyes and the tightening of his grip on the hilt of his sword, she saw that he was imagining himself as the rescuer of that beautiful and unlucky queen.

  Their great grandfather on their mother’s side had been the first to strike Rizzio, Mary’s Italian secretary, in the Palace of Holyrood 60 years ago.

  She could not resist saying, sullenly, ‘John doesn’t cackle.’

  Jamie laughed. ‘Oh, Kate, he does. Like a hen that’s just laid an egg. It’s good for a man to be amiable but not foolishly so.’

  He was too intent on admiring himself to notice her angry scowl. ‘You make him out to be a weak-minded fool,’ she said.

  ‘Well, isn’t he? Luckily Lilias seems to be fond of him.’

  ‘Why do you say “luckily”?’

  ‘Because a strong-minded woman such as yourself, Kate, might become very impatient with him. When I was last at Luss, I caught him with his hands up the clothes of one of the maidservants. She was enjoying it, as if she was used to it. I got the impression that Lilias knew about it and didn’t mind. A red-cheeked Highland wench, with short skirts: most convenient. Well, Kate, I’ll be off. See you in a day or two.’

  He blew her a kiss and then hurried out, followed by his servant.

  Sobbing, from a mixture of anger, sorrow, and frustration, she went over to the window and looked down.

  There were ten of them, riding in high spirits through the gate. They turned and waved their hats at her. They were young, healthy, splendidly dressed, and a little drunk. She could hear them singing as they trotted past the barley field. If they were going off to war, they would be just as joyful.

  She did not wish them well.

  Yes, John Colquhoun was too amiable for his own good. Yes, he fondled maidservants. Yes, he went from their beds to his wife’s and pleasured her too, not out of love but because he was so good-natured. In spite of all that, Katherine loved him and had enticed him into her bed also. He had gone willingly enough and they had done, not once but several times, what was permissible only between a man and his wife. She had got him to promise to forsake Lilias and his children and flee with her to London and thence to Europe. When she went back to Luss in a week or two, she was determined to keep him to that promise, though it could well mean ruin for them both. She loved him, but it was more than that: he would be the means by which she would escape from marriage to some oaf chosen by her family. Just because he had been born a male, Jamie was free to roam the world and marry whom he pleased whereas she, because she was a woman, was expected to stay at home, marry that oaf, and produce a brat every year or so until at 30 she was worn out physically and mentally. That might be good enough for Magdalen Carnegie, but never for Katherine Graham.

  4

  THE WEDDING TOOK place in November. During the festivities Kinnaird Castle was crowded with representatives of the Graham and Carnegie clans. Among the young ones there was much jollification. Excited by wine, they chased one another all over the big house, letting themselves be caught in dark corners, where kissing and fondling took place, for a marriage seemed always to arouse erotic feelings. What prevented bolder misdemeanours like fornication and adultery wasn’t so much the presence of several dour-faced ministers as the several layers of clothing worn by both sexes, for the castle, despite coal fires, candles, and torches, was cold and draughty.

  Similarly happed up, the older men sat in front of the fires and discussed politics, while their wives played cards and gossiped, mainly about their children.

  Later in the evenings there were games and dancing. Expert fiddlers had been brought from Dundee.

  It was noticed that the bride was often left on her own. No one was surprised and no one made any great effort to coax her into sharing in the merriment. It was her nature, they knew, to wait in the background. Other brides of 15 would have been hysterical with joy and conceit: she sat pale and calm. They would have been wearing the most splendid dress there: hers was the drabbest. If her bridegroom ignored her or, putting it more charitably, left her in peace, why should anyone else disturb her?

  The groom, flushed and eager, was at the centre of everything, which of course he considered his rightful place. He did his share of chasing, of illicit kissing, of dancing, and of conversing with the greybeards about politics and religion. He did not need anyone to tell him, though many of the ladies did, that he was the handsomest young man there; his legs in the red stockings were especially admired. None dared say it in her father’s house, and indeed none wished to say it for little Magdalen was well liked for her modesty and shyness, but many did think that, though Jamie was bound to soar like one of his falcons, he might have risen higher still if he had been marrying a woman as keen and ambitious as himself.

  They would have been astounded, those ladies and gentlemen in their silks and satins, if they had known that, to the silent young girl in the dark blue dress, they looked like savages, especially when they were at table, guzzling. In those terrible visions the meat that they stuffed into their mouths and the bones that they picked up and gnawed were not those of cattle, sheep, or pigs, but of old Jessie Gilmour, cooked at the stake. In the midst of their guffaws and giggles, she heard the old woman’s screams and herself screamed, inwardly. It was remarked that she ate very little but it was put down to nervousness having taken her appetite away.

  She slipped off once, unheeded, to rest for a while in the quiet and solitude of her own room.

  On her way she passed the chamber known as the King’s, for it was in there that James VI had slept on the three occasions when he had visited Kinnaird. The last time had been twelve years ago, when she was three. The King had held her on his knee. Since then her father had kept the room like a shrine. It contained relics of the old King, such as his chamber pot adorned with the royal coat of arms. The door was kept locked but the key was available to anyone who knew the ways of the house: it was in the drawer of a small cabinet outside. Every other room in the castle was in use to accommodate the many guests; this one, by her father’s order, had been left empty.

  She wasn’t greatly surprised when she heard voices within. Visitors often asked to be shown where the King had slept. She herself had acted as guide.

  As she stole past, she heard the door open behind her with its familiar loud creak. She turned, ready to call a greeting but, when she saw who they were, she was so amazed that she kept silent and drew back into deeper shadow. From other parts of the house came shouts and laughter.

  It was a couple who had come out. While the man locked the door and returned the key to the drawer, the woman hung on to him not so much lovingly, it seemed to Magdalen, as possessively. He was willing enough to be possessed but was also anxious to get away before they were seen.

  Magdalen knew them. They were Katherine, Jamie’s younger sister, and Sir John Colquhoun, husband of Jamie’s older sister Lilias.

  A few weeks ago Magdalen would have been puzzled as to why they were embracing and kissing so passionately. Since then she had had her innocence and ignorance removed. Her married sisters and her Aunt Euphemia had ruthlessly instructed her on the physical requirements of marriage.

  Could Sir John and Katherine have been doing that in the King’s room, on the King’s bed? It would explain their furtiveness, for in their case it would be a great sin. Not only were they not man and wife, they were related to each other, in that he was Katherine’s good-brother.

  Aunt Euphemia had stressed that, though it was an act permitted by law and sanctioned by God and the Kirk in the case of a man and his wife, nevertheless it was not to be thought about or sought after, for it was in its nature inevitably disgusting, more suitable for a
nimals and peasants than gentlefolk.

  Why, then, had Sir John and Katherine done it? Surely they knew that its purpose was to beget a child? What would they do with their child if one resulted? No one would want it, no one would love it. Hadn’t Katherine told Magdalen once that she hated children and never wanted any? And Sir John already had two, his wife Lilias being their mother.

  Magdalen sighed. She couldn’t help it. It was an expression of her bewilderment.

  Sir John heard. ‘There’s someone there,’ he muttered. ‘For Christ’s sake, Kate, give up.’

  She held on to him. ‘It’s always the same, Johnny. As soon as you’ve had what you want, you want rid of me.’

  ‘No, Kate. There’s someone there, watching us. I heard them.’

  They both stared in Magdalen’s direction.

  Ashamed of being a spy, though unintentionally, and also terrified of this secret she had unwittingly found out, Magdalen sighed again.

  ‘There is someone,’ said Katherine, fiercely. Letting go of him, she rushed towards Magdalen while he, with a groan, hurried off in the opposite direction.

  Katherine grabbed hold of Magdalen. ‘Oh, it’s you, you little sneak,’ she said.

  She sounded relieved. She was confident she could intimidate Magdalen into not clyping; or, better still, since Magdalen was such a ninny, she could be made to believe that all that Katherine and Sir John had been doing in the King’s room was admiring it.

  ‘I want to talk to you,’ she said. ‘Let’s go to your room.’ She pushed Magdalen towards it.

  It was cold, the fire having died down. It was dark too, for all the candles except one had been blown out.

  ‘I expect you saw who I was with,’ said Katherine, having decided what story to tell to this credulous simpleton. ‘Sir John Birse, a relation of yours. He wanted to see the King’s chamber, so I offered to show it to him. Poor old man, he was telling me about his wife. As you know, Magdalen, she died three months ago. He still misses her very much. Did you see how he clung to me? He was crying.’