Lady Magdalen

by Robin Jenkins

  She was weeping now. She could not help it. There were times when the weakness of her body took over and courage failed.

  What could he say to comfort her? That he would look after her boys when she was gone? So he would if he could, but he was an old man without authority. That her mother was waiting for her in heaven? He was supposed, as a good Presbyterian, to believe that, but he found it hard; all the harder because of the ministers’ rantings on the subject.

  He got up, saying he would come back later.

  30

  IN AUGUST, WHEN the rowans were in flourish, Montrose came to Kinnaird to visit his wife and sons. He did not come slinking on foot at night, a fugitive, fearful of pursuit, but rode on a big black horse in sunlight. In his hat was a blue feather and on his breast the silver star given him by the King. He wore no breast plates. He did not look grim as Mars, but happy, like a man looking forward to seeing his wife and children after an absence of more than a year. His companions, for there was a troop of horsemen with him, heard him humming and winked at one another. The general was happy, as he deserved to be. Only one small shadow fell over his happiness: Lady Magdalen’s illness. But he was young, like them, and would marry again, this time not an ailing obscure woman who had been a hindrance to him but someone more worthy, a royal princess perhaps. For after his last two victories, at Alford, and then, only two days ago, at Kilsyth, he was now master of Scotland, on the King’s behalf. After this visit to Kinnaird, which would necessarily be brief, he would return to the army at Kilsyth and tomorrow they would all march, banners waving and pipes playing, to Glasgow and thence to Edinburgh, where he would proclaim the supremacy of the King. The Covenant lords like Argyll would scurry off to their holes, like rats. Not that they needed to fear for their miserable lives. The general was merciful: too much so at times. Covenanters had hanged patriots faithful to the King; he had forbidden retaliations. The people of Scotland would soon discover that the long dreary Presbyterian winter was over and royal summer was come at last. There would be nationwide celebrations.

  As the man in command, with all the responsibility, Montrose could not afford to be so carefree. He had to worry about the haemorrhage in his army. At that very moment many of his Highlanders were on their way home to their glens. They did not trust the people in the Lowlands and their loyalties were to their own clans rather than to the King in far-off England. Some of his older, more cautious officers, were also urging him to retreat northwards to build up his army again. It was sensible advice, but how could he, given this opportunity to re-establish the King’s dominion, turn his back on it, whatever the risks?

  These apprehensions were banished from his mind as he rode down the avenue of magnificent beeches towards the house. So many sights here were familiar to him. There, for instance, was the tree on which he had carved his and Magdalen’s initials after their marriage, on a wet dull cold December afternoon.

  He held his breath as he remembered how eager she had been, in her own quiet shy way, and how he, so stupidly, had laughed at her – no, worse than that – had sneered at her as a mere child. Who was it had called her genuine? Mr Blair, the dominie. A peculiar word, Montrose had thought, but now it struck him as very appropriate. With shame he recalled how he had once lectured her on honour, foolishly assuming that, as a woman, she could have no conception of it. Now, all these years later, he realised that he had never met anyone more honourable.

  All the reports he had got concerning her health had been to the effect that she was poorly and could not have long to live. So, God forgive him, he had got into the habit of discounting her. She would die soon, he would mourn her, sincerely enough, for she was the mother of his children, but not too long or too woefully, for he had a kingdom to win.

  She should have married a stay-at-home like Francis Gowrie. But he did not like to think of Gowrie. The burning of Mintlaw and Gowrie’s death were among the misdeeds that kept him awake at nights.

  He would not blame her if she refused to see him.

  As he cantered into the courtyard he remembered how angry he had been to see old Dr Allen trying vainly to mount his horse, orders having been given to the servants not to assist him. He had been attending Magdalen at John’s birth. Later, though condemning war, he had worked 20 hours at a stretch trying to save the lives of soldiers or lessen their pain.

  All that, thought Montrose, as he dismounted at the door of the castle, had been in another dispensation.

  Wearing a black cap and a long black gown, with a gold chain round his neck, his father-in-law, Southesk, appeared in the doorway. He was carrying a black, battered book. Was it so that he could not be expected to shake hands with the ‘traitor-rebel’, or was it a Bible, symbol of high-minded neutrality?

  Into the courtyard crept servants, keen to see the famous general, whom they remembered as a young bridegroom, who had spent more time hunting deer than accompanying his wife.

  He looked about him. ‘It brings back memories, my lord,’ he said.

  They were not all happy, though. He had found it irksome living in another man’s house, especially this man’s. ‘I see few changes. He, though, as I recall, is different.’ He was referring to the small boy scooping up the dung. ‘In my day he had fair hair.’

  ‘Even dung-gatherers grow up, my lord.’

  An odd remark to be greeted with, thought Montrose, amused, as he followed his father-in-law into the house. Some of his officers had wanted it to be searched first, in case assassins lurked, but he had rather angrily turned it down. He had often felt uncomfortable in Magdalen’s house but never unsafe.

  ‘How is Magdalen, my lord?’ he asked.

  ‘Not well.’

  ‘I am very sorry to hear that.’

  ‘You should have come oftener, James.’

  ‘Yes. But circumstances prevented. And my two boys?’

  ‘Both well. Magdalen will see you in her room. She seldom leaves it.’

  ‘Does the doctor visit her regularly?’

  ‘He does, to little avail. Mrs Witherspoon will come and let you know when Magdalen is ready to receive you.’

  Famed for his quick daring decisions, Montrose was hesitant then. He had looked on many dead men with pity, but also with resolution. He was not sure how brave and resourceful he would be when he looked at his dying wife. He had not been fair to her. He had not thought then and he still did not think now that she had had any right to have a say when he had left her to go and fulfil his destiny, but he had vaguely seen her point of view, the woman’s point of view, and he saw it much more clearly now, after the deaths of so many sons and husbands.

  Southesk spoke. ‘Is it the case that Lord Gordon was killed at Alford?’

  ‘Aye.’ Montrose could not help giving a gasp of pain and sorrow. Gordon had been one of his closest friends. Moreover, his death, by a musket ball, had made it all too likely that the fickle Gordons would again desert the cause.

  ‘May I speak frankly, my lord?’

  Montrose smiled scornfully. When had this old fox ever spoken frankly? ‘Who in these treacherous times can afford to be frank, my lord? But what is it you would like to tell me?’

  They were interrupted then by Mrs Witherspoon’s appearance, with little Robert by the hand. She had prepared not only her mistress for this important visit, she had prepared herself too. She wore a fresh dress of green-and-white taffeta and, in her splendid hair, combs sparkled.

  Montrose was struck by her beauty, particularly as it was accentuated by a frown of disapproval. She was letting him know she was on her mistress’s side.

  He lifted up his son. ‘Whom does he favour, my lord?’ he asked.

  ‘They say he has a likeness to me.’

  ‘And therefore to his mother.’ Montrose smiled but he had begun to tremble.

  He could have had love but he had chosen danger and adventure. He had never before doubted his choice but now, for a few moments, he did. He would need more courage to face Magdalen than to confront Gene
ral Leslie’s army. In a way that he would have found it hard to describe, he had betrayed her and, by so doing, had turned his back on something more valuable than high honours. She could have brought him incomparable happiness. Under her influence, he could have written poetry that would have earned him more lasting fame than military victories.

  But these were unpropitious thoughts for a general with a campaign to bring to a victorious conclusion. He had betrayed his wife, he must not now betray his comrades and his King.

  Briskly he put the boy down and turned to Mrs Witherspoon. ‘If you would be so kind, madam.’

  ‘Yes, my lord.’ Taking Robert’s hand, she led the way.

  Passing the King’s Chamber, he stopped, tried the door, and found it locked. Robert took the key out of the drawer for him. He opened the door and went in. He bowed his head. Here the King’s father had slept. Here, though he did not know it, his sister Katherine and Sir John Colquhoun had committed adultery.

  He was really putting off time before he faced Magdalen.

  ‘Do you know who once slept here, my lad?’ he asked.

  ‘The King, sir.’

  ‘Not the present king but his father. One day I shall take you to see the King.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  They went out again and locked the door. Robert put the key back in the drawer.

  Outside Magdalen’s room, Mrs Witherspoon took Robert’s hand again. ‘Come with me, Robert. You will see your father again before he leaves.’ To Montrose she said: ‘Please go in, my lord. Lady Magdalen is expecting you.’

  He was left at the door alone.

  Down in the courtyard, his officers were laughing. They must have been supplied with ale and wine. It was strange – inside the room was a woman who would not harm a fly and who loved him, at least as a woman must love the father of her children, and yet he, who could control the fierce Irish and, without hesitation, launched attacks on forces twice as strong as his own, felt afraid.

  At last, he knocked softly and went in.

  Thanks, no doubt, to Mrs Witherspoon, the room was cheerful and sweet-smelling, with bowls and vases of roses. On a wall was the tapestry Magdalen had worked at for years. Was he being fanciful in thinking that Christ bore a resemblance to Francis Gowrie? His own portrait was on another wall. Where, though, was hers? He had never liked it but he missed it now.

  ‘You look well, James,’ she said, from the bed.

  It was the same bed they had occupied after their marriage. In it she looked as small as a child. Her illness, whatever it was, had her by the throat so that breathing and speaking were difficult. It had caused hollows in her cheeks and dark bruises under her eyes, but it had not taken away the eagerness.

  He felt tears in his own eyes.

  ‘I am sorry to see you so ill,’ he said.

  She held out her hand. It was thin and cold. There was sweat on her face.

  ‘Do you have pain?’

  He didn’t have to ask. He had seen enough pain to read the signs.

  ‘A little.’

  He had knelt before the King. He had knelt to God, two days ago, before the battle. Now he knelt by her bedside.

  ‘Have you seen Robert and wee David?’ she asked.

  ‘Robert, but not David yet. I shall see him before I leave.’

  ‘They say David is very like you.’

  He remembered how she had longed for a little girl.

  ‘What a pity, Magdalen, all your children are boys.’

  She smiled. ‘I would have liked a little girl. But which of my boys would she have displaced? Tell me about John.’

  He had wondered what he would say when she asked that. Should he be the penitent husband or the sorrowful father or the stoical soldier?

  ‘He took a fever. Many others had it too. We thought he would recover, as they did. But, in his case, it got worse.’

  ‘Were you with him?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Did he ask for me?’

  In his delirium the boy had asked for many things. ‘Yes, he did, many times.’

  ‘I would have liked to see his grave.’

  ‘So you will, soon.’

  ‘I don’t think so.’ She had been trying hard not to weep, but now she wept. ‘They have shut up James in Edinburgh Castle.’

  ‘Yes.’ How like those canting cowards to persecute a child.

  ‘Will you set him free, James? I would like to see him again.’

  ‘You may be sure I shall, as soon as I can.’

  Which might not be soon enough. In Edinburgh, he would not be able to afford the time to besiege and take the Castle. Destiny awaited him in the south.

  He looked up at his portrait. ‘Where is yours? Mine looks lonely by itself.’

  ‘I sold it. You never liked it anyway, James, and I needed the money.’

  He could say nothing to that. He had impoverished his family to finance his war. It vexed him that she and his sons were being kept by her father. One day he would make it up to her: she would be the grandest lady in Scotland, after the Queen. But she would not want that and, in any case, she would be dead.

  ‘I think Francis Gowrie bought it,’ she said.

  He felt then the same shock as when he had been told that Lord Gordon had been killed. It wasn’t that he was jealous of Gowrie or distrustful of her. He just realised that he had not appreciated her as Gowrie had, and other men too, and it broke his heart. He could not buy the portrait back, for it would have been destroyed with all the other paintings at Mintlaw. There was no other portrait of her. He would have nothing to remember her by.

  What he did then would have amazed his men laughing and jesting in the courtyard below, who had seen him walking, calm and dry-eyed, through scenes of carnage after a battle. He put his head down on the bed and shed tears.

  For years now, he had been under tremendous strain, mental, physical, and moral too. He had had to decide for the King and against the Covenant, thus offending old comrades and earning the name of ‘traitor-rebel’. He had had to work ceaselessly to keep part of his army, the Highlanders, from walking off, and another part, the Irish, from being too savage. Once, so as not to discourage them, the most effective of his troops, he had deliberately condoned their plundering of a city that, as a wedding gift, had made him a freeman. He had written appeals to the King for guns and men and received barren replies. All that time he had had no one to confide in, to share his doubts and anxieties with, and to receive reassurance from. He had been alone.

  So, for a minute or so, by his wife’s bedside, he gave way, not to despair, for it was not in his nature to lose hope, but to a wish for rest and peace. They were not to be had from anyone but this dying woman, his wife, came closest. Her hand on his head was giving him her sympathy and love but not her blessing.

  At last, he stood up. ‘Next time I hope to see you much better. We shall have a lot to talk about then.’

  They both knew there would be no next time.

  He bent down and kissed her, not on the lips but on the brow, as he would have done if she had been dead.

  Half an hour later, not having waited to benefit from his father-in-law’s frankness, he was on his way back to the army at Kilsyth. His companions, respecting his sombre mood, tried to fit in with it, but they were young, they had drunk a good deal of wine, it was a splendid summer’s day, two days ago they had won a great victory, and they had before them a triumphal march to Edinburgh. They could not help being merry and showing it. They were sorry that the Marchioness, poor lady, was gravely ill and it was natural that the general should be sad about it but she didn’t really matter, did she?

  31

  IN SEPTEMBER, WHEN the rowan berries were red, at Philiphaugh in the south of Scotland, Montrose’s army was decimated by the Covenanters under General Leslie and, at Kinnaird, Lady Magdalen slipped closer to death. The servants tending her whispered that you could see that the angels were already holding her hands; these, though, were icy-cold. She lay still and s
ilent, with her eyes shut most of the time. When she opened them, she seemed to recognise no one, not even her children.

  Her father and her brother, James, in her room, thinking that she could not hear or, if she did hear, could not understand, discussed, with a little worry and much satisfaction, Montrose’s rout at Philiphaugh. It delighted James that the great invincible general had galloped from the field like a coward, leaving his troops to be slaughtered. He would try to escape to France, but every port was being watched.

  Her father was more restrained. He was concerned about the effect of Montrose’s downfall on Magdalen and her children. She herself was safe, for she would soon be in God’s keeping, but her children and the Graham properties and titles were in danger. Kincardine Castle had already been burned to the ground.

  She heard and understood, though she gave no sign, neither tears nor sighs. She prayed that James did escape to France and she remembered the Bible he had given her all those years ago. How many? Only 13. It had angered Mr Henderson, that Bible. It was an insult to the Lord having His holy words put into the language of Papists.

  She was sorry that at present Mr Henderson was ill but glad that he wasn’t able to come and pray for her. She smiled, as she remembered Margaret’s indignant tale of how the old minister had used prayer as an excuse to put his face close to her bosom. She and Margaret had often laughed at that.

  Who, of all the people she had known, did she wish to see again before she died? James, her husband? She wasn’t sure. It would be too painful for them both. She would not want to see him in disgrace and with so much more blood on his conscience. Besides, there were soldiers surrounding Kinnaird, in case he should venture there. Better just pray that he escaped to France. Would he spend all his time trying to raise another army or would he spare some to look for his sister Katherine?