Duncan and the Trenthams enjoyed rooms in the castle with the laird and Mrs. Gordon. Bill and Paddy Rawlings stayed at the Craigfoodie Bed-and-Breakfast. The most surprising accommodation was that of Prime Minister Richard Barraclough. In a private conversation with Andrew he had expressed his wish, as he put it, to mingle with the genuine and humble people of the region rather than stay in an expensive hotel thirty-five miles away in Perth. The Scottish issue and their conversations leading up to the vote, he said, had stimulated his interest in the north, and he was eager to know its people on a more intimate basis than as a stuffy politician from faraway London. Prime Minister Barraclough and his wife, therefore, had been guests for two nights in the home of blacksmith Alastair Farquharson, who, upon their departure, had a standing invitation to Number Ten Downing Street, for as long as Richard and Mrs. Barraclough remained in residence.
The wedding took place at ten o’clock on Saturday morning. Following the outdoor ceremony the Games began, with the new Mr. and Mrs. Andrew Trentham officiating as honorary hosts. Andrew had debated long and hard about whether to wear the English morning coat or full Highland regalia. In the end it was his mother who helped him decide. She said, meaning more than the mere words indicated, “The past is behind you, Andrew. It is time to move forward in your father’s heritage. The old kilted Highlander’s dress in the gallery is your standard now.”
So he again donned the kilt and jacket he had worn into Parliament that fateful day a year earlier.
Ginny looked stunning beside him in her mother’s heavy satin wedding gown, which had been packed away in blue paper for thirty-five years, then brought out and altered down to size. She had her dress tartan scarf pinned to her left shoulder with an amethyst brooch, and the tartan sash came round her back and was pinned again at her waist on the right. Somehow—Andrew couldn’t tell how—there were green ribbons woven all through her hair, with sprigs of purple heather tucked into the strands. She carried a bouquet of more heather combined with white baby’s breath and more green ribbons. Behind her, dressed in a simple frock of lavender, walked young Margaret, Ginny’s niece, leading two shaggy terriers on a leash. Faing and Fyfe walked with sprightly dignity, relishing the attention, each showing off the sprig of heather tucked decoratively in its collar.
There wasn’t a single photo or snapshot taken that day that didn’t turn out magnificently. How could they not—with such subjects and such a colorful backdrop?
After the wedding proper, the Games commenced with even more good spirits than was usual. Alastair Farquharson had made a shorter and lighter caber to accompany the full-size log—in order to enable Lowlanders the experience of participation in the uniquely Scottish caber toss. Andrew took second place to a surprisingly strong and agile William Campbell of the SNP. In addition to the usual races and athletic contests, special fundraising men’s and women’s Parliamentary editions of both the 2.8-mile and 200-meter run were held, whose publicly announced entrants beforehand included Andrew Trentham, Richard Barraclough, Sally Lutyens, Maurice Fraser-Smythe, and Lachlan Ross, all of whom were successful in persuading many of their more reluctant colleagues to join in on the day of the event.
In all other aspects the Games had been conducted as usual, with merchants’ booths and sheep shearing and Highland dance competitions, tables of local handcrafts and edibles, and much music. The press was on hand in droves, but this was one occasion on which no one seemed to mind.
At four o’clock in the afternoon—earlier than was customary for the benefit of the couple of honor—a great feast of roast lamb managed to feed all the hungry mouths in attendance. Country dancing to the live music of one of Edinburgh’s best-known box and fiddle bands followed, during which Andrew successfully organized a gigantic Gay Gordons encircling the entire castle.
At seven o’clock on the evening of the happy day, to great cheers and well wishes, the bride and groom departed for the first stop on their two-week honeymoon, the beautiful valley of Glencoe. From there they would pay a leisurely visit to the other places Andrew had encountered in his private search and had not had a chance to show Ginny during the months of their courtship. Now he could explain to her in full how they had all contributed to make a Scotsman of him.
Ten days later, two hikers whose faces had been on nearly every television and in the pages of every newspaper in Britain made their way up a steep slope in the desolate northern Highland regions of Sutherland. That they were alone was a relief, for wherever they went they were recognized. Their notoriety, however, had not diminished the enjoyment of their time together.
Panting heavily from the climb, they paused for a breather.
“Now do you see why I wanted to bring you here?” said Andrew, gesturing about.
“Ay, I do,” replied Ginny. “’Tis an even wilder view than frae Lochnagar, though that mountain will always be even more dear t’ my hert noo as the place ye speired me t’ marry ye. But I aye see what ye mean. I’ve lived my life doon in the central Highlands—‘cept fer my vet-school years in Glasgow, of course—but this is stark indeed.”
“I am certain,” Andrew went on, “that we are somewhere in the vicinity of Laoigh, where the Caledonii brothers made the first monument of stones and where the ancient chiefs were buried. Just imagine, Ginny, if we could find it!”
“But hoo could we, Andrew? It doesna seem possible.”
“I don’t know, I suppose we would need a guide—someone who knew where it was—or a sign given to us somehow. But you’re probably right. Too much time has passed. Maybe we will never know the exact location. But I will always dream of it and wonder if it still exists . . . somewhere.”
They sat down on a large flat stone, breathing more easily now, and gazed about in contented silence.
“Ye’ve made me a happy lass, Andrew Trentham,” said Ginny after a minute or two, slipping her arm into his. “Ken ye that?” she added, looking up into his eyes.
“I think so,” smiled Andrew, leaning over to kiss her gently. “And you have done the same for me. I never dreamed that my search for roots would lead me to a wife—and one from my own clan, at that!”
“So, Andrew,” Ginny continued, “noo that ye’re an admitted Scot, an’ prood o’ the fact, an’ noo that we’re finally married, ’tis high time we didna jist talk aboot the future like we’ve been doin’ fer six months—noo we’ve really got t’ decide what we’re gaein’ t’ du. Ye’re not really plannin’ t’ mak me learn t’ speak civil English an’ become a London lady, are ye? I dinna think I could abide it.”
Andrew laughed with delight.
“I’ve told you before and I’ll tell you again,” he said. “Even if I stay in the Commons and we have to spend half the year in London, don’t you dare become English! I married a Scots lass, and a Scot I want her to remain.”
“I’m aye relieved t’ hear it.”
“But I am still wondering,” Andrew continued, “if perhaps I ought to relocate to Scotland. We could live up here all year round, and you could even keep your practice if you want to.”
“I ken hoo ye’ve talked aboot it, Andrew, but Alexander already expects that I’ll be leaving the practice, fer the present at least. My place is with you noo, where’er that taks us.”
“Perhaps when the transfer of power to Edinburgh is complete,” said Andrew, “I could stand for the Scottish Parliament. Who knows,” he added laughing, “I might even become prime minister of Scotland someday!”
“I dinna ken what t’ think o’ that, Andrew. Du ye think the country’d hae the likes o’ me fer the wife o’ a prime minister?”
“And why not?” laughed Andrew.
“I’m a bit outspoken fer politics, dinna ye think?”
“All the women of the country love you, Ginny. Just like that woman at the market yesterday, wanting your autograph, not mine.”
“Ay, she was a dear,” smiled Ginny at the memory, “wi’ sich a bashful look on her round face as she walked up t’ me. Although I dinn
a think I’ll ever git used t’ folks wantin’ me t’ sign my name. ’Tis a mite strange fer a simple country lass like me.”
“You are just what Scottish politics needs, Ginny—an outspoken prime minister’s wife! I tell you, you’re going to be the most famous Trentham before much longer.—No wait . . . I have an even better idea! You shall become prime minister of Scotland!”
“Andrew!” laughed Ginny playfully. “Dinna make sport o’ sich a thing.”
“I’m serious. . . . yes—I like it. I shall leave the Commons in London and become the husband of the Scottish prime minister!”
“It canna be quite so easy, I’m thinkin’?” said Ginny, still laughing at the outlandish notion.
“No, not so easy at all. We’d have to get you elected to the Scottish Parliament first. Times have changed since Robert the Bruce—it’s not just for the taking anymore. And there could still be problems because of me.”
“What du ye mean?”
“I’m sure many Scots still think of me as a Sassenach.”
“Not after what ye’ve dune fer Scotland,” rejoined Ginny.
“Then you would be sure to win hands down!”
Another reflective silence went by. Far off in the distance, partway up the slope of an adjoining hill, a faint movement caught Andrew’s eye. He stood and squinted.
Yes, something was there! Something large, something . . .
“Ginny,” he said excitedly, “could you please grab the binoculars out of my backpack!”
“Why, what du ye—”
“Hurry—I’ll show you.”
Twenty seconds later he was fumbling frantically with the focus dial. The next thing Ginny heard was an exhaled exclamation of wonder and disbelief.
“What is it, Andrew!”
“Here—look for yourself.” His voice quivered. “I don’t believe it . . . tell me I’m not crazy!”
He handed her the binoculars and pointed with his hand and arm. She put the lenses to her eyes and moved them about until she found what Andrew was pointing at. A gasp of astonishment now also escaped her lips.
“I canna believe what I’m seein’!” she said. “I always thought the white stag was jist legend! But Andrew, it is white . . . or are my eyes playin’ a trick on me?”
“It looked white to me, unless the sun—”
“Luik, Andrew!” interrupted Ginny. “The creature’s turnin’ an’ walkin’ away.”
“Yes, I see it!”
“Here—take the binoculars,” she said. “See noo—it’s luikin’ back . . . I think it sees us!”
“Right, I see . . . yes, it’s gazing straight up here . . . no, there he goes again, walking away, into that little thicket of woods.”
“He must mean fer us t’ follow, Andrew—come!” cried Ginny, jumping up and grabbing Andrew’s hand.
“It’s too far, Ginny. We could never hope to keep up with him.”
“If he means us t’ follow, then he’ll wait—an’ if we dinna follow,” Ginny added, urging him on, “we may never hae the chance again.”
Hand in hand they began running down the slope opposite that which they had descended.
Andrew needed no more convincing. Even if the attempt proved unsuccessful, seeing it once was enough for a lifetime. His ancient predecessors had not set eyes on the white stag again after their encounter in Muigh-bhlaraidh Ecgfrith. But if their blood indeed flowed through him, he must, like Fidach, never abandon the quest.
Five minutes later, Andrew and Ginny were hurrying eagerly through the valley with a carefree abandon reminiscent of Cruithne and Fidach themselves, then scrambling up the slope opposite where they had seen the great beast disappear. If he had indeed beckoned them toward the legendary stones of antiquity, then perhaps these two would be blessed to complete in their time what the two brothers of old had begun in theirs.
As they went, though no human eyes saw the direction of their retreating footsteps, in truth these two modern Caledonian pioneers were not alone.
The cloud of witnesses joining in their pilgrimage came not only from ancient times, but was also made up of those many thousands like Andrew Trentham whose discovery of their Scottish heritage had opened new worlds of adventure into both the past and the present.
And like Andrew’s, their quest was one that has no end, and whose next chapter may be standing across the glen on the next Highland ridge. For the glory of Scotland never fades, but lives and ever renews itself in the hearts of all who will forever love those magnificent northern reaches, whose souls are set singing at mere mention of that land known to the ancients . . . as Caledonia.
Hark, when the night is falling,
Hear! Hear the pipes are calling
Loudly and proudly calling,
Down thro’ the glen.
There where the hills are sleeping,
Now feel the blood a-leaping,
High, as the spirit of the
Old Highland men.
High in the misty Highlands,
Out by the purple islands,
Brave are the hearts that beat
Beneath Scottish skies.
Wild are the winds to meet you,
Staunch are the friends that greet you,
Kind as the love that shines
From fair maiden’s eyes.
Towering in gallant fame,
Scotland my mountain hame,
High may your proud standards gloriously wave.
Land of my high endeavor,
Land of the shining silver,
Land of my heart forever,
Scotland the brave.
Notes and Bibliography
Those who have read the first volume of CALEDONIA: LEGEND OF THE CELTIC STONE will by now be well familiar with my particular method of blending fact and fiction in order to help bring to life various historical eras. If you have not read it, I recommend both that book and its appendices to you, for Legend of the Celtic Stone and An Ancient Strife are truly a single story.
In order somewhat to clarify what I have called the “blurry line between story and history, fact and fiction,” I hope the following brief remarks will be helpful.
Aileana and Kendrick, Sandy and Culodina Gordon are fictional, though most of those involved in the buildup and aftermath to the battle of Culloden are historical individuals. The movements of Prince Charles Edward Stuart, the infighting among his staff, and the disastrous details of the battle itself are factually accurate.
The character of Kendrick Gordon is very loosely modeled after one Cluny MacPherson, at first a somewhat reluctant convert to Bonnie Prince Charlie’s cause, but later one of his staunchest supporters and closest friends. The location of Cliffrose Castle along the banks of the Spey in the region just west of the Cairngorms known as Badenoch sits at the former site of Cluny Castle. Culodina’s father and Tullibardglass Hall are entirely fictional.
Ill-fated though it was, the brief shining moment of Prince Charlie’s fame remains one of the most romantic and legendary periods of Scottish history. Had I the time—and would my editors allow me another hundred pages!—I would have loved to follow Sandy Gordon’s movements in more detail during those frantic months in hiding with the prince. Stories abound of narrow escapes, disguises, midnight getaways, treacheries, and triumphs. And those months did actually culminate in two weeks of hiding out high above Loch Ericht on Ben Alder in a fully outfitted and elaborate “tree house” known as Cluny’s Cage and made famous by Robert Louis Stevenson. Some maps of Scotland now note the site as “Prince Charlie’s Cave.” This hideout was used by many Jacobites, including Cluny and the prince, for several years after the rebellion and is known for hiding not only the prince, but also a sizeable Jacobite treasure.
When financial help from France in the form of a huge stash of gold coins belatedly arrived on the western shores of the Highlands to aid in the Jacobite rebellion, the battle was over and the prince on the run. Its only immediate impact was to make a few chiefs wealthy men, probably inclu
ding MacPherson himself. What was not stolen at the outset was taken inland to Loch Arkaig and thence to Cluny’s Cage to prevent the English from getting their hands on it. This Treasure of Loch Arkaig, as it was called, was buried somewhere in the vicinity and never seen again. In the 1950s, several gold Spanish coins were discovered in the hooves of limping cattle in the region of Loch Arkaig.
Unfortunately the most fictionalized portion of the story lies in this: Very few of the leading Jacobites, such as the fictional Sandy Gordon, ever lived normal lives in Scotland again. Men such as Cluny MacPherson and Lord George Murray and hundreds of others were hunted down ruthlessly by the English. Those who were not killed either spent the rest of their lives in exile on the Continent or were imprisoned and their homes and lands confiscated. Sadly, the “happy ending” enjoyed by Sandy and Culodina in the afteryears is not as true to the facts as one might hope.
The village of Spittal o’ Ballochallater and its inhabitants are fictional.
The specific genealogy of Kenneth MacAlpin is fictional as well. Nothing is known beyond the fact that he became joint King of the Picts and the Scots in 843, and this may have been accomplished through ties from his mother to the Pict royal line. Donnchadh, Dallais, Breathran, and Steenbuaic are all fictional. The later fictionalized history of Steenbuaic (or Stonewycke), however, I have written of elsewhere, in partnership with Judith Pella, in two collections entitled The Stonewycke Trilogy and The Stonewycke Legacy.
The character of Fionnaghal is fictional, although most of the portrayal of Margaret and Malcolm III, including many of the incidents recorded, is based on fact. St. Margaret washed the feet of many and ministered to the needy both in the village surrounding the castle and in the great hall of the castle itself. She is also said to have given them her jewelry, sat outside the castle so people could come to her, and to have fed nine orphans daily with her own spoon. King Malcolm did indeed, upon at least one occasion, kneel with his wife and wash the feet of a beggar.
Darroch and Nara MacDonnuill, their twin sons, and their descendents Fergus and Donal are fictional.
An Ancient Strife Page 60
