Lady Magdalen

by Robin Jenkins

  To Lady Magdalen’s father he was more outspoken.

  In his study Lord Carnegie poured each of them a glass of claret to toast his new grandson. ‘Thanks be to God,’ he said.

  God or Fate or Chance, thought the doctor, what difference did a name make?

  ‘The outcome might not be so fortunate next time, my lord,’ he said.

  ‘What do you mean?’ But Carnegie knew very well. From afar he had heard his daughter’s screams.

  ‘If next time is too soon,’ added the doctor.

  Carnegie stared at him gloomily. How could it be delayed, that next time? Was not procreation the purpose of marriage? His own wife had had ten children. He had not spared her. Why should he expect young Montrose to spare Magdalen? For another purpose was the sating of lust, rampant in most men.

  ‘May I speak frankly, my lord?’

  Carnegie’s nod was curt: not too frankly, it meant.

  ‘Lady Magdalen must be given time to recover her strength.’

  ‘She is in God’s hands, like the rest of us.’

  ‘Yes, but more immediately in her husband’s hands. He must be persuaded to keep out of his wife’s bed for at least a twelve-month.’

  Carnegie scowled. The doctor was forgetting to whom and about whom he was speaking.

  ‘If she is not given time to recuperate, another pregnancy would kill her, my lord, and it would not be an easy death. That is my professional opinion.’

  ‘You exaggerate, doctor.’

  ‘I think not, my lord.’

  ‘Certainly you presume.’

  ‘Lady Magdalen is my patient. I have a sacred duty to her.’

  ‘Sacred, doctor?’ Carnegie sneered. The doctor was reputed to be an unbeliever.

  ‘We doctors swear a solemn oath, my lord.’ In his case, not to God or at any rate to Mr Henderson’s God or Lord Carnegie’s either, for that matter. It had been to the doctor’s own gods: reason, intelligence, and human affection. He had thought then, at 22, and still thought at 62, that they were more worthy of worship than revengeful Jehovah.

  ‘You should know, doctor, that no one has a right to interfere between a man and his wife.’

  The doctor was tired. He had had no sleep for almost 30 hours. He had watched a beautiful good-hearted young woman suffering abominably, without being able to help her much. He was dispirited by his own lack of skill and resources. Also his own wife had died just two years ago and he still missed her. They had had three children, all of whom had died in infancy. She had cast up that he saved other women’s children, why hadn’t he saved hers? He had taken the blame, rather than have her blame God, in whom she fervently believed.

  Therefore he was not as guarded and humble as he should have been when speaking to a Privy Councillor about a belted earl. ‘If he has to ease his loins, let him use whores. It’s often done by young men in his position.’

  Carnegie curbed his anger. The doctor was too old. He would have to be replaced by a younger, more respectful man with a knowledge of more up-to-date methods. Not very long ago he had been summoned before the Presbytery to be warned: he had rashly, in the presence of witnesses, called the burning of a witch murder. Now here he was accusing noblemen of resorting to whores. That it was true in many cases did not excuse it. If commoners were allowed to criticise their superiors, chaos would fall upon the country.

  ‘You go too far, doctor.’

  Allen bowed his head. He had cringed many times before in the presence of the mighty. ‘I beg your pardon, my lord. Old men’s tongues sometimes run away with them.’

  Older men than you have had their tongues cut out for their impudence, thought Carnegie, bleakly. He hated cruelty but there were times when it was necessary.

  ‘You may go, doctor. You have a long ride ahead of you.’

  At the door Allen turned. The doctor in him overcame the cautious underling. ‘Will not the earl be setting forth on a Continental tour?’

  ‘When he comes of age.’

  That would be in about three years. A pity, thought the doctor, but he did not say it.

  He was in the courtyard trying to mount his horse – a stiff and clumsy manoeuvre nowadays – when a servant approached and said that Lady Magdalen wished to see him before he left.

  He found her pale and weak but eager to thank him again. The baby had been taken away by the wet-nurse. That was a pleasure she would never have, he thought. Gentlewomen did not suckle their young: it was considered vulgar and demeaning. He had often wondered what effect it had on their offspring. Did it explain the violent and callous behaviour of so many Scottish noblemen? Would James VI have sat in Holyrood, counting his fingers, while his mother was being beheaded at Fotheringay, if he had been suckled at her breast when a baby?

  Lady Magdalen put out her hand to take his. ‘Must you go back today?’ she whispered. ‘Should you not rest first?’

  ‘I have other patients waiting, my lady.’

  Then into the room, dressed for hunting, swaggered her husband, in very good humour. He had just been to see his son. ‘A fine boy,’ he said, ‘with an excellent appetite. Is that not a good sign, doctor?’

  ‘A very good sign, my lord.’ But not such good news for the wet-nurse’s own child, which would have to do with tainted cow’s milk.

  ‘I’m glad I’ve caught you before you left, doctor. There’s something I’d like to discuss with you.’

  ‘Yes, my lord.’ Could it possibly be, wondered the doctor, that it had occurred to the young man that another pregnancy too soon would endanger his wife’s life? Montrose might not love his wife more than he did the perpetuation of his earldom but only an hour or so ago he had heard her crying out in pain.

  Allen took leave of the countess, assuring her that he would be back soon to see how she and the baby were progressing.

  Montrose waited impatiently.

  Going down the big staircase, he stopped, under a portrait of one of Lord Carnegie’s ancestors in a helmet, and stared at the doctor eagerly. Allen was sure he was going to talk about his wife’s condition; after all, she had been close to death and was still poorly.

  ‘I have been thinking, doctor, that if it came to war it might be a good idea to have some kind of hospital prepared, to receive and treat soldiers who were wounded. I believe they have such places in France.’

  The doctor hid his astonishment. ‘Will there be war, my lord?’ It was like asking: will winter come?

  ‘Such a place would need an experienced man to superintend it. Someone like yourself, doctor.’

  They continued down the stairs, past more of Carnegie’s ancestors, most of them in war garb.

  This time the doctor did not have to hide his astonishment. ‘I, my lord?’

  ‘You are skilled in surgery, are you not?’

  Hardly skilled, thought the doctor. He could saw off gangrened limbs and howk out bullets. But then, not even the King’s own surgeons could do more. One day perhaps the medical profession would know more and have better resources; but no doubt the military profession then would have deadlier and more destructive weapons.

  ‘I’m happier delivering babies, my lord.’

  They were crossing the great stone-flagged hall. More portraits adorned the walls. One was of Montrose, painted by the celebrated Mr Jameson of Aberdeen. It had been a wedding present from that city. With his long hair and olive-coloured doublet, he could have been taken for a girl.

  ‘Think about it, doctor. Look about for some suitable place. Discuss it with those of your colleagues you can trust. Funds will be provided. It seems to me that the first thing a commander must do is to win the confidence of his men. If they feel he has their interests at heart they will fight for him all the more zealously.’

  And die all the more plentifully, thought the doctor, but he kept it to himself. The war the earl had spoken of would be fought, so the contestants would say, over the question of whether or not bishops should be appointed to govern the Kirk. Surely the most absurd of reasons
for men to kill their fellow men. If there was a God would He not tear His beard at such murderous folly? But if it was not about bishops, some other pretext would be found. Was not the Bible full of wars? Men enjoyed the excitement and danger and their commanders loved the glory. Here was young Montrose yearning to be such a commander.

  These thoughts passed through the doctor’s head as, in a very unmilitary fashion, he mounted his horse. Luckily, between him and old grizzled Nellie there was an understanding: they were to be tolerant of each other’s frailties and foibles.

  11

  THE BABY, CALLED John after Jamie’s father, was six months old and Magdalen was pregnant again, when Francis Gowrie came home from Italy, much earlier than he had intended, for who would want to leave the sunshine of Rome for the sleet and snow of Scotland in January? Word had been sent him that his father was dying. He had returned as quickly as he could, only to find his father dead and buried. He was now Sir Francis and master of a large estate. It seemed that he had grown a black beard, arranged in Italian style, giving him a Papist look. While in Rome, he had kissed the Pope’s ring. He was so used to speaking Italian that he used it to people who couldn’t understand a word. Other young noblemen’s souvenirs of their travels abroad were guns, daggers, and swords; his were paintings, sculptures, glassware, musical instruments, and other fancy objects more suitable for a Papist chapel than a Presbyterian home.

  These reports came from servants at Mintlaw Castle. Janet knew one of the housekeepers there.

  ‘If he’s no’ carefu’,’ she said, ‘he’ll find himself before the Presbytery. Some of the paintings he’s brought back are an affront to decency.’

  Magdalen smiled. ‘In what way?’

  ‘Women wi’ naething on except for a bit leaf here and there. Shameless fat hurdies, according to Bella Morton.’

  Then she casually added something that stopped Magdalen’s heart.

  ‘It seems he’s thinking o’ getting mairried.’

  Magdalen could hardly speak. Who was this lucky woman? ‘To some Italian lady?’

  ‘Na, na. Somebody frae Edinbroo. She’s no’ a lady either. Her faither’s a merchant, the richest in the haill country, Bella says. Miss Nancy Dick; that’s her name. Mintlaw met her through her brither. He and Mintlaw travelled hame thegether.’

  But how could Francis marry a commoner, however rich her father? It was not done. Nobles were not just a superior kind of humanity, they were a different species altogether. Francis would have to get permission from the King or the Privy Council. They might not be willing to give it.

  ‘She must be beautiful,’ she said.

  ‘You’d think sae, my lady, but it seems it’s no’ the case. He’s got a picture o’ her. Bella got a peek at it. Big and sonsie. A mooth frae ear to ear. Unco fond o’ horses, they’re saying.’

  ‘Horses?’

  ‘In the picture she’s sitting on one. A big black brute o’ a stallion that wad frichten maist ordinary women.’

  Not to mention Francis, who had always been wary of powerful horses.

  ‘What age is she?’

  ‘Aboot a year or twa aulder than yoursel’, my lady. There’s talk the wedding will tak place in St Giles’s in Edinbroo. Bella says a’ the servants at Mintlaw are threatening to leave raither than serve somebody that’s common clay like themselves, even if her faither’s got bags o’ money. If you ask me, my lady, Mintlaw will end up on the end o’ a rope. First he insults the Kirk and noo he’s insulting the gentry.’

  Even so, his wife would be the most fortunate of women.

  ‘They’re saying he’s going to use her money to turn Mintlaw intae a palace like the kind he saw in Rome, wi’ painted ceilings and pictures everywhere.’

  Later, when she was alone, Magdalen found herself in tears. It was not in her nature to be envious and she wished Francis and his Nancy well, but she knew now that she still loved him more than she would ever be able to love Jamie. It was a dreadful sin that could never be confessed, but she could not bring herself to pray for forgiveness.

  Jamie, much amused, brought up the subject of Francis Gowrie and his bride-to-be. A friend had brought the news from Edinburgh, where it was the talk of the town.

  ‘Daughter of a shopkeeper, would you believe it?’

  ‘An ordinary shopkeeper?’

  ‘Maybe not all that ordinary. Richest in Edinburgh, they say. But a shopkeeper just the same. She’s no beauty either. Long-faced, like a horse. Which is appropriate for it appears she’s an intrepid horsewoman. Her father’s bought an estate just outside Edinburgh – he’d like to be taken for a gentleman. There she spends most of her time on horseback jumping over hedges and walls. Odd, wouldn’t you say, considering what a feartie Mintlaw himself is.’

  ‘He wasn’t a feartie when he spoke up for Jessie Gilmour.’

  ‘Jessie Gilmour?’

  ‘An old woman who was burnt as a witch.’

  ‘Oh. I meant a feartie in relation to horses. As a boy he was scared of them. We used to laugh at him. Now he’s going to marry a female Cossack. That’s very funny, don’t you think?’

  ‘Did your friend say when the wedding is to take place?’

  ‘Soon, I believe. And do you know where it’s going to take place? St Giles’s. No doubt her father’s promised the Dean a handsome donation.’

  ‘Who will attend it?’

  ‘Oh, it will be well enough attended. Half the noblemen of Scotland owe Mr Dick, her father, money. He’s a moneylender too, as well as a shopkeeper.’

  ‘Does he charge interest?’

  ‘I haven’t heard of him doing that.’

  ‘So he lends as an obligement?’ She had been told once by her father that most Scottish noblemen were indigent.

  ‘Expecting obligements in return. They’ll turn up at the wedding but that’ll be the end of it. No one will ever visit Mintlaw when she’s the châtelaine.’

  ‘Except for artists and musicians.’

  Jamie laughed. ‘Yes, and ostlers too. His own kind will shun him. You see, Magdalen, what a fate you escaped.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ she whispered. She could not help blushing.

  ‘Wasn’t there talk at one time of your becoming betrothed to him? Well, I’ll tell you this, if you had, no one would ever have heard of you; but as my wife you’re going to take your place among the great ladies of the land.’

  He was only half-joking.

  ‘In this conflict that lies ahead, Magdalen, between those who are for the King and bishops and those who are for the Kirk and the Constitution, Mintlaw and those like him who stay aloof will be despised by both sides and they will deserve it. Men who leave the fighting to others are contemptible.’

  12

  THERE WERE STILL patches of snow in ditches and on the tops of mountains, and daffodils were beginning to bloom in the Kinnaird policies, when Francis Gowrie paid his first visit after his return from abroad. Magdalen had heard that he had been spending most of his time in Edinburgh with his bride-to-be. Alerted that he was approaching, she was at her window watching him ride into the courtyard. His horse was no prancing stallion but a sedate gelding.

  She pressed her hands against her belly, swollen by her second pregnancy. For a moment she let herself wish that Francis was the father. It was a great sin that would take an hour’s praying to expiate.

  His cautious dismounting was comic, to anyone knowing that he was going to marry a ‘female Cossack’, but also moving, to anyone who loved him. So Magdalen smiled, with tears in her eyes.

  Janet came hurrying in. ‘Mintlaw’s here, my lady. I’d better tak the bairn awa’.’

  ‘Why? Do you think he’ll do the child harm?’

  ‘Maybe no’ intentionally, but he could hae brought back some foreign disease.’

  ‘He’s been home now for nearly six months.’ And yet this was the first time he had come to see her.

  ‘These foreign diseases, they lie in the bluid for years. For safety’s sake let me
tak wee Lord John to Annie Brodie. In ony case it’ll soon be time for his next feed.’

  Magdalen hesitated. Did she want Francis to see the living proof that she was well and truly married to another man? But, of course, he would notice her big belly. ‘No. Leave the child. I want Sir Francis to see him.’

  She deliberately gave him his title. Janet must be made to understand that he was a nobleman, not to be criticised by a servant. Perhaps it was also an unworthy jeer at the absent Nancy, daughter of a shopkeeper.

  Minutes later, he was knocking at the door. Her face grim and unwelcoming, Janet opened it.

  He was splendidly dressed, in what Magdalen supposed was Italian style. His beard too had a foreign look about it, as indeed did his whole manner as he came over to where she sat, took her hand, and kissed it.

  But the greatest difference in him was his air of selfish assurance. He had seen the world and made up his mind how to deal with it to his own advantage. He would not now stand up in church and condemn the burning of a witch. He would still despise those eager to burn her but he would keep it to himself. He was not the generous idealistic young man she had loved, but she still loved him.

  ‘What have they been doing to you, Magdalen?’ he asked. ‘Have you let them defeat you?’

  She smiled, almost in despair. ‘As you see I’m with child again.’

  ‘Another heir for Jamie?’

  ‘I hear you’re getting married yourself, Francis.’

  He had been carrying under his oxter a small square package. Now he unwrapped the brown cloth. ‘I’ve brought you a present, all the way from Rome.’ Revealed was a painting, with a gilt frame.

  Janet’s grandmother, to avert evil, would have crossed herself, but that Papist trick was now forbidden. Unfortunately, none had been put in its place, so Janet had just to gape in horror at the picture, though she could not yet see what its subject was. That it had come from Rome, home of the anti-Christ, was enough.