Lady Magdalen

by Robin Jenkins

  Francis had always been excessively and curiously fastidious. The bodily contact that was necessary between a married couple might well repel him.

  ‘He says making love reduces us to the level of animals.’

  So it did, if love was lacking.

  ‘I hope you don’t mind me saying all this, Magdalen. I had to say it to somebody. You ken him better than I do. You were going to marry him yourself once, weren’t you?’

  ‘We were never actually betrothed.’

  ‘He still loves you. He thinks how much happier he would have been if he had married you instead of me. But he would never have been able to make Mintlaw so grand and that’s all he lives for.’

  ‘Tell me about your little girl, Nancy.’

  Nancy’s face brightened but, moments later, was glummer than ever. ‘I’m hardly allowed to see her. He says I’ll make her vulgar like myself.’

  Earlier, when talking about her feats as a horsewoman, she had remarked that her ‘erse was like leather’.

  ‘I was wondering if you would speak to him, Magdalen. He wants you to think well of him. He doesn’t care a button what I or anybody else thinks of him.’

  ‘I would like to help, Nancy, but I don’t think I should interfere.’

  ‘Sometimes I think I’ll run away. Like your good-sister.’

  ‘It didn’t turn out well for poor Katherine. What is your little girl’s name?’

  ‘Mary, after his mother.’

  ‘Is he fond of her?’

  ‘In his own way. But, if he doesn’t want me, why should I stay with him?’

  ‘You must stay, for little Mary’s sake.’

  ‘She wouldn’t miss me. He’s seen to that.’

  Nancy stood up. ‘I’m keeping you from sleep. Thanks for letting me talk to you. You’re a good person, Magdalen. I’d like very much if you would come and visit me at Mintlaw again.’

  ‘I’d like that too.’

  ‘Francis says you could be in danger here, if your James changes sides and goes over to the King. For revenge they might burn the castle down.’

  Magdalen’s father in a letter had hinted at that too. ‘Be ready at all times to come to Kinnaird, you and your children.’

  Before Nancy left, she came over and gave Magdalen a hug.

  They stayed three days. When they were leaving, Magdalen had the painting of the Madonna ready, wrapped in cloth. She presented it to Francis in the entrance hall.

  She had once loved him, perhaps she still did, but she could not have borne for him to touch her. A man might despise humanity for its many faults, its greed, its callousness, and its cruelty, but surely he should make exceptions of his wife and daughter.

  Outside in the courtyard Nancy could be heard talking joyfully to her big white horse. When she was on its back, she did not have to fear her husband. Managing a horse was the one accomplishment in which she outdid him.

  ‘What is this, Magdalen?’ he asked, but he had already guessed, wrongly, as it turned out.

  He unwrapped the cloth. He frowned, in disappointment, it seemed.

  ‘Don’t you want it?’ she asked.

  ‘I hoped it was the portrait of another woman.’

  She blushed. ‘That’s not for sale.’

  ‘It will be some day. It will become my proudest possession. But why are you returning this? It is one of the finest works of one of the finest painters in the world.’

  ‘What makes it so, Francis?’

  ‘A hundred things. The delicacy of the colours. Look at that wonderful blue. Its atmosphere of holiness.’

  What did he, who scoffed at religion, mean by holiness?

  ‘I used to find it holy,’ she said, ‘but not so much now.’

  ‘What changed your mind?’

  She hesitated. She must be true to herself but not false to her husband. ‘A few days ago I visited one of the village women in her hovel. Her face was covered with sores. She had just given birth. The baby was dying.’

  ‘What has all that got to do with this? This is art: beautiful. What you have described is reality: hideous.’

  ‘Poor Mrs Baillie’s love for her child seemed to me more beautiful.’

  He stared at her with a strange expression. Was he about to laugh with derision or declare his love? ‘Life is ugly and hateful. Art is the only protection.’

  Outside in the sunshine Nancy was letting John and James ride her enormous horse. Magdalen felt anxious.

  She shook her head. Love, she thought, was the only protection.

  ‘Art succeeds where everything else fails.’

  Could she reply that love never failed? Not truthfully. It had failed in Katherine’s case and in Nancy’s.

  ‘I’ve promised Nancy to come and visit her and little Mary.’

  ‘Make it soon. You will be very welcome.’

  ‘It will depend on James.’

  ‘You mean, if he hasn’t plunged the country into war again.’

  ‘You have never once spoken to me about your little girl.’

  He seized her hand. His voice was suddenly hoarse. ‘Take care, Magdalen, lest you be left with no protection at all.’

  Then he hurried out and handed the painting to one of his attendants.

  As she watched them canter across the courtyard Magdalen stood in the doorway, waving. John and James ran after them, shouting and waving their caps.

  ‘She let us ride the stallion,’ cried John.

  ‘We liked her,’ said James, ‘but we didn’t like him.’

  ‘He doesn’t like hunting,’ said John. ‘He said he’d rather listen to music.’

  ‘Or look at paintings,’ said James. ‘He was always looking at your picture, Mama. Wasn’t he, John?’

  ‘Every time we went into the hall, he was looking at it.’

  Magdalen turned and went into the house. There were tears in her eyes. She did not think she loved Francis now, though she once had, but the thought that he still loved her and perhaps was unkind to Nancy because of it, gave her joy when it should have given her grief. Whatever happened to her, she would find comfort in thinking of him standing in the hall, looking up at her portrait.

  14

  THE NEGOTIATIONS WITH the King at Berwick were fruitless, each side continuing to distrust the other. Yet, when James came home to Kincardine for one of his hurried visits, he struck Magdalen as curiously confident, uplifted indeed, with a gleam in his eyes as if he had made a decision that, in the meantime, he intended to keep to himself. She knew what it was: he had finally made up his mind that his true duty lay in serving and not opposing the King. He would wait until the time was right for what the Covenanters would call his treachery and he himself his honourable conversion.

  When she asked him about his personal dealings with the King at Berwick he replied brusquely that he would prefer not to talk about it but, later, he was more forthcoming to John and James, who had declared themselves fervent Royalists.

  They asked him eager questions. She sat by in silence, sewing, with little Robert in his cradle at her feet.

  What was the King like?

  Gracious, kind, and majestic, with a beautiful face that was often sad.

  Why was it sad?

  Because both his kingdoms were unruly.

  Why were they unruly?

  Because the King’s advisers gave him bad advice.

  Why did he not get rid of them?

  Because he was loyal, too loyal, to servants whom he thought were loyal to him.

  How had he received Father?

  Most graciously.

  Did Father kiss the King’s hand?

  Yes, with pride and joy.

  Did Father have a private audience with the King?

  Yes, he was given that honour.

  What did the King say to him?

  What a King said to a subject in private was confidential but, since they were loyal little fellows, who could keep a secret and one day might fight for the King, he would tell them.

&nb
sp; (Here James glanced aside at Magdalen, who kept her eyes on her sewing.)

  The King had said that, though Father appeared to be on the side of his present enemies, he knew that it was not really so, he understood very well that Father had to be patient and cautious for the time being, because the King’s enemies were in truth his enemies too, and they were ruthless and dangerous men.

  But you aren’t afraid of them, Father?

  No, but it was sometimes prudent to disguise one’s real feelings.

  Was the Earl of Argyll the leader of Father’s enemies?

  The Campbell was certainly the most cunning of them.

  Was it true that Argyll wanted to get rid of the King and put himself in his place?

  Who had told them that?

  Mr MacDonald, who used to be their tutor.

  Someone ought to warn Mr MacDonald to stick to the history of the past and leave the present alone.

  Mr MacDonald had also said that Argyll’s Highlanders were savages who couldn’t speak English and didn’t observe the rules of civilised warfare.

  (Here Magdalen’s needle paused. She would have liked to ask what those rules were.)

  It was true that Argyll’s men went in for robbery and needless butchery.

  If they ever came to Kincardine, Father would drive them away, wouldn’t he?

  He would do his best.

  Mama had said that their uncles, Lord Carnegie and Lord Dalhousie, were on Argyll’s side. Was that true?

  Yes, but they should realise that in troubled times like the present, it was sometimes advisable for members of a family to be on opposite sides. In that way, whichever side won, the family would not be ruined.

  But was that honourable?

  (Here Magdalen paused again, waiting, like the boys, for an answer.)

  It was not necessarily dishonourable. A man must, of course, have faith in the cause he espoused, otherwise he would do well just to sit at home.

  But only cowards sit at home. Isn’t that so, Father?

  If a man is able-bodied and his country is in danger, then if he is content to sit at home, he deserves to be called a coward.

  Didn’t it mean that one member of a family might come face to face with another on the battlefield?

  It sometimes happened.

  Later, when the boys had gone off to bed, she asked her question meekly: ‘Will there be war again, James?’

  He frowned. ‘It would be better if you did not concern yourself with such matters.’

  ‘If there is war, my husband may be opposed to my brothers. He could be killed. So could they. My home could be destroyed. My children could be at risk. Yet you tell me I should not be concerned about such matters.’

  ‘You have your children to look after and this house to manage. Those are your concerns.’

  ‘Did you not tell me once that honour is more important to you than life?’

  ‘That is what I believe. What are you imputing?’

  She trembled but felt she had to say it. ‘Is it honourable to let men like Lord Rothes keep on regarding you as their friend and ally when you are all the time waiting for a suitable opportunity to join their enemies?’

  He jumped to his feet, with a shout of anger. ‘By God, if a man had said that to me, I would have killed him.’

  ‘That is how it appears to me, James.’

  ‘Yes, because you know nothing, you have been nowhere, you lack imagination, you have no idea of the complexities involved. Is it your father who has instigated you to insult me?’

  ‘My father’s advice is that I should keep my opinions to myself.’

  ‘Excellent advice. Why not take it? You have complained about my long absences. You are going the right way to make them longer.’

  ‘I would be sorry if I did that, but am I not allowed to say what I think?’

  ‘No, you are not.’ He was about to leave the room then but turned at the door, as if repenting of his arrogance. Perhaps, too, he felt pity for her and some respect. His smile seemed to convey all that. He came back in and sat down. ‘Well, what else do you think? Let me have it all. I can see it’s time I got to know my wife.’

  ‘You think, James, you and the Earl of Argyll and the Earl of Rothes and the King and my father and Mr Henderson and all the rest of you, that you are making the history of our country with your arguments in Parliament and your wars but it is not so. What you are all doing is wasteful. It benefits no one. You do not build up, you break down, you destroy. Scotland is a poor country, but it is you, all of you, with your quarrels and wars, who have made it poor and who keep it poor. Mr Gillies, the blacksmith, was once a happy man, of value to his neighbours; now he sits at home feeling useless and afraid to speak because even his own family makes fun of his painful mumblings. If there are more wars, there will be many more like him.’

  He stared at her in astonishment. ‘Who have you been talking to? Who has given you these ideas? Not your father, it would seem, since you have included him among the destroyers. Was it Francis Gowrie?’

  ‘Francis cares only for his works of art. No one has given me my ideas. I can think for myself.’

  He grinned, deciding to be tolerant. After all, she was young and knew nothing of the world. ‘Just so long as you do not pervert my sons.’

  ‘You have already done that, James. They think that war, that killing people, is glorious.’

  PART THREE

  1

  MAGDALEN HERSELF WAS unwell and Janet was dying of a painful disease when Lord Sinclair, sent by the Estates, came to Kincardine with a band of black-clad inquisitors to search the castle for evidence against James, who, with his friends Napier, Keir, and Blackhall, was imprisoned in Edinburgh Castle accused of conspiring with the enemies of the Covenant. Forewarned by her father, she went through James’s papers to destroy any that she thought might incriminate him. If the charges against him could be substantiated, the penalty was death and Argyll would not shrink from exacting it.

  In the library she looked in the big charter chest, where all the Graham documents were kept, while the boys took down every book from the shelves and vigorously shook it. They resented what they were having to do: it amounted, they said, to an admission that Father might be guilty. They found nothing in the books save a lock of hair: yellow, so not their mother’s; probably their Aunt Lilias’s. But Magdalen wondered if it could have belonged to one of James’s sweethearts before he was married, or perhaps the Frenchwoman who had given him the Bible.

  In the chest she came upon a bundle of letters tied with blue ribbon. A faint scent came off them. She wondered at first, with her heart giving a leap of joy, if they were those written by her to James but quickly realised they could not be, she had never written so many. Were they from the same woman whose lock of hair he had treasured? A quick glance showed that they were in English.

  There was a copy of the Cumbernauld Bond, an agreement entered into by James and other noblemen to band together to prevent Argyll from seizing power for himself. It was no longer secret: one of the signatories, in a delirium, had given it away. But, just in case, Magdalen threw the copy into the fire.

  She found nothing else likely to harm James.

  What she also discovered was that there was nothing amongst all those papers that made mention of her. If she were to die tomorrow, she would be remembered only by her portrait in the hall.

  Meanwhile, John and James, like conspirators, were talking about riding to England to see the King and urge him to send an army north to rescue their father. There would be a great battle. Argyll and his followers would be defeated and hanged as traitors. Father would rule the country in the King’s name. There would be peace and justice.

  Magdalen listened sadly. They assumed, like their father, that the King was to be trusted but it seemed to her that Charles would not hesitate to betray or desert even his most faithful allies in order to get his own way and James, after all, in the King’s view, had been and indeed still was a Covenanter, who ha
d fought against the King, not as a common soldier either but as a successful general. Surely he must think of James as a traitor.

  According to her father, James would be immediately released from prison and given back command of the army if he were to reaffirm his loyalty to the principles of the Covenant in such a way as to make it impossible for him afterwards to repudiate them. ‘Though, to speak the truth, what those principles now are is a matter for bitter controversy. I must warn you, my pet, that your husband is embroiled in dangerous ventures and could well forfeit his life. My influence, alas, would not be able to protect him but it should avail to save you and your children. Be ready at all times to flee to Kinnaird.’

  On her way to her room to lie down she looked in on Janet and found her still with her face resolutely to the wall, saying nothing.

  ‘Is she still in pain, do you think?’ whispered Magdalen to the nurse.

  ‘Aye, but she never utters a cheep.’

  Magdalen sat by the bed. She was in tears. This dour old woman had been like a mother to her for many years. She had been present at the birth of all Magdalen’s children.

  ‘It’s me, Janet,’ she said. ‘Is there anything you would like?’

  Janet seemed to reply, but neither Magdalen nor the nurse could interpret her faint mumble.

  It was just as well, for Janet, her mind having slipped back to her grandmother’s days, when ministers were priests, had tried to say that she would like to confess her sins before she died. Such a practice was now condemned as Papist.

  She said no more and, after half an hour, Magdalen left to go and rest. ‘If there is any change, let me know at once.’

  The four inquisitors were dressed in black and as bleak-faced as hangmen. Their other duties were assisting the Kirk’s commissioners in investigating cases of witchcraft and afterwards in supervising the burnings. They were under the command of Lord Sinclair, who showed, by his dress, black like theirs but lustrous and expensive, and by his manner – he smiled a lot – that he was not to be regarded as one of them, he was no ferreting clerk, he was a man of rank and breeding, a representative of the Estates. He mentioned that he was acquainted with Magdalen’s brother, James, and, like many others, thought highly of her father. He had been authorised to say, and it gave him the greatest pleasure to say it, that she herself was in no way under suspicion. It was known that she favoured her father’s views more than her husband’s.