Clandara (31 page)

The Earl had given them the State rooms for their apartments; as a child Katharine used to wander into the big bedroom with its vaulted stone ceiling, and climb up on to the bed where three sovereigns of Scotland had once slept during their visits to Clandara. The rooms had been dark and musty with disuse; now they were aired and full of lights, with large fires blazing in the grates of the bedroom and the ante-chamber.

Her nightgown and robe were laid out ready, and Annie and one of the little castle maids were waiting for her, standing very straight and solemn, and when she came into the room they curtsied. Henry left her for his ante-room and dressing-closet, small rooms which had been used by one king and two princes in the past, and there his own Ogilvie servants attended to him.

Katharine did not speak to Annie. She smiled at her, the same stiff smile which had scarcely left her face throughout the day, and allowed her to brush out her hair and scent it, and help her into the huge crimson velvet bed which stood in the middle of the room upon a dais. When the red-and-gold hangings were drawn she lay alone and isolated, as if the bed were yet another room. It was so big and the canopy above her was so high that she felt as if she were a child again, exploring it as if it were a ship and being caught and scolded.

She lay and waited for Henry and thought of nothing. They were staying at Clandara for the next two weeks; there wasn't time for him to take her back to Spey and introduce her to his tacksmen. That would come later, when the Rising was over. And if the worst befell, he was prepared to flee to France and negotiate a pardon from there with the English Government. Henry was full of optimism; he had a solution for every problem, and she knew that the source of his optimism was his happiness with her. Nothing could darken his world now that she was securely fixed in it; her influence was as brilliant and as immutable as the sun's place in the universe. The marriage might be her father's last insurance for his name and his estates, for her the payment of a debt she owed and a final surrender of her doomed and misdirected love, but for Henry it was life. He would go out to fight for his prince and his country as if the possession of her was a talisman against death, the same talisman which would protect him from arrest and punishment and ruin …

When he opened the curtains she sat up.

“If you had been asleep,” he said gently, “I would not have woken you tonight.”

“I know,” Katharine answered him. “But I was waiting for you.”

He was gentle, tender and finally carried away by the force of his own passion; it swept him on and on, surmounting her wretched attempt at participation, ignoring that attempt's collapse and the painful, unresponsive surrender which her body made. The consummation came and after it he slept, one arm across her; a little later she removed it very gently so as not to wake him. She had expected to cry, but no tears came as a relief; she felt exhausted and wretched, and her unhappiness was passive as if it were already the pattern on which her life would develop. At last she slept. When morning came he made love to her again, more slowly and with an expertise which only made the ordeal worse for her because it prolonged the act and she felt nothing. When it was over he took her in his arms and kissed her.

“Poor little Katharine,” he said gently. “Thank you, my love, for all you've given me, and don't despair. Give me a little time.”

She did not answer him because she couldn't, and wisely he did not press her. It would have been easier, she thought over and over again in the days of that wretched honeymoon, if only he had been less kind, less desperately in love with her. If she had been able to hate him or criticize him for one single moment's inconsideration, she might have hated herself a little less. But Henry was not to be faulted; she was alone with her own sense of betrayal, and pride forbade her the relief of making anyone her confidant. She snubbed Annie until her anxious hinting ceased, and to her father she presented a smooth face which told him nothing. If she was unhappy, then that unhappiness could not be shared. In his own way he loved her, and now that his son was dead, Katharine was all he had to live for, that and the grandchild he wanted so much. She could not burden him with a reproach, and once when he asked her if she was contented, she managed to kiss him and murmur that she was. He accepted her answer with relief, and did not ask again. The days passed, and the torture of lying in her husband's eager arms increased rather than slackened with repetition, because now that his own fierce desire was gratified he had begun to woo her, trying with every caress and every lover's trick to force a response out of her body. And there were times, in the last few nights before he left Clandara, when she prayed that it would come, not for herself but to please him, and because without it she feared that she would never have a child. And all her feeble hopes were fastened on that child, so longed for by her father and by Henry. She could devote herself to a son, and perhaps motherhood would re-awaken the capacity for love in her and give some meaning to her empty life. The night before Henry left, the crisis came, and unexpectedly it came from him. She lay naked at his side, her eyes closed, submitting to every intimacy he inflicted upon her, and suddenly she shuddered. He felt the movement of revulsion and immediately drew back. In the darkness he sat up.

“Why did you marry me? Answer me, damn it, why did you marry me when I disgust you?”

“Don't say that, please,” she whispered. “Please, Henry. You said it would take time …”

“Yes, a lifetime! You lie there, stiff and shivering and think I do not know how you detest it all! But if it were he who did this to you, he who held you in his arms – ah, Katharine, that would be so different, wouldn't it? He is the cause of all this coldness in you … he's still in your heart, that murderer and scoundrel, and I know it. By God, if I ever come against him I'll kill him, and perhaps when you know he's dead you'll turn to me a little!”

“That isn't true,” Katharine protested. “You have no right to say that to me … I never pretended to love you; you took me knowing I did not!”

“I didn't know you still loved
him,”
he answered. “And however much I loved you, I wouldn't have married you if you had told me that.”

“What will you do?” she said. “What do you want from me? I've given all I can … there's nothing left.”

“There's nothing left for either of us,” Henry said, “as long as you're betraying me in your heart. I've been gentle and I've been patient. I thought that love would come, that I could reach you … I was so sure. God in heaven, what a fool I've been.”

He dragged back the curtains and in the moonlight she saw him looking down at her. She pulled up the sheet to cover herself and he seized it and threw it back. “You are my wife,” he said. “And I've a right to see you if I wish. You don't appreciate a gentle hand. So be it! Close your eyes and make believe you're lying with your brother's murderer, if that will make it easy for you.”

She tried to fight him then, but she was overwhelmed and hurt, and suddenly his brutality was a relief. She wept in his arms and when it was over he sprang out of the bed and left her.

When Annie came to dress her in the morning she saw the marks on Katharine's arms, and her thin little face turned pale.

“Spare me,” her mistress said. “No questions, no reproaches against him, Annie. I deserved it, and he was man enough to deal it out. At least I can respect him now.”

She was still in her wrapper, her long hair hanging down her back, sitting before the toilet-table while Annie laid out her riding clothes – for she was expected to ride part of the way with him – when Henry came into the room.

He stood looking down at her and for a moment neither of them spoke. Katharine turned to Annie.

“Leave us, please. I'll ring when I want you.”

“Very good, milady.” She passed Henry without looking at him and at the door she turned.

“If ye need me, I'll be nearby.”

He was already dressed in trews and riding coat, his hair hidden under a short curled wig tied back with the white ribbon of the Stuarts. He looked drawn and there were sharp lines on his face which she had never seen before.

“Katharine,” he said at last, “Katharine, I've come to ask you to forgive me.”

She shook her head. “There's nothing to forgive. I am the one who needs forgiveness.”

“I didn't want to hurt you,” he said slowly. “I didn't mean to; if you didn't love me before, I know you must hate me now.”

She got up and came to him, and putting out her hand she took his.

“I could never hate you, Henry. I've hurt you so much that if you hadn't turned on me I couldn't have borne it …”

“You don't love me, do you?” he asked her. “Don't be afraid to tell me the truth, Katharine. What happened last night will never happen again, I give you my word. Whatever you say, I won't reproach you now.”

“No,” Katharine said. “No, I don't love you, Henry. I don't believe I ever will. There's nothing I can say to soften it; there's nothing I can do to right the terrible injury I've done you.”

“You can forgive me for last night,” he said unsteadily, “and say that, in spite of all that's gone before, if I return you'll take me back and we can try again. I've said so often that love comes in the end, and, like the fool I was, I expected it in a few days and nights. But now I know that I would rather have you on your own terms and keep hoping, than not have you at all. Can you grant me that one hope before I go?”

“I am your wife,” she said gently. “If you want me I shall be waiting here for you.”

“Life isn't at an end for you, my love.” He stepped close to her and took her in his arms. “We have so much, so many happy years of friendship, long before this shadow came to blot out all our happiness. We will regain it, given time.”

“We may,” she whispered. “Who knows? You're a very good man, Henry … If only I had married you three years ago and never met that other one – how different everything would have been today!”

“The past is past,” he said. “There's little profit out of thinking of what might have been – only of what still may be. And you know that I love you? Nothing has ever altered that and nothing ever will.”

“I know,” she said. “Take care, try and come back to me. We may make something of our lives together. I give you my word that next time I will try.”

“That promise would drag me from the grave,” he said. “Pray for me, Katharine. In victory or defeat, I will return to you. Kiss me now, before I go.”

“I shan't ride with you,” Katharine said. “We'll part here, alone.”

He kissed her slowly, and she put her arms around his neck.

“One thing more,” she whispered. “Don't look for James Macdonald. Don't tempt our fate …”

He turned at the door, and looked at her.

“I told you last night, if I come against him in battle or out of it, I shall kill him. God bless you, my love. Farewell!”

On Tuesday morning, April 15th, 1746, Prince Charles Edward was established in Culloden House, the evacuated home of his old enemy Duncan Forbes, Lord President of the Council of Scotland and supporter of the English king. It was a fine house in a beautiful setting, and the whole of the Highland army was drawn up in the country surrounding it. The word had come to Inverness two days before that the Duke of Cumberland and an army of ten thousand men had reached Nairn, followed by their supply ships along the eastern coast. The last battle was approaching, and the scattered troops were rallied. Cameron of Lochiel marched sixty miles from Achnacarry and the Duke of Perth brought back the army of the Spey, an army too weak and ill-equipped to challenge the enemy's crossing of the River Spey. By forced marches and incredible endurance, Charles's troops joined him at Inverness and then on to Culloden. And at Culloden, after a brave review of his army, it was decided to try again the tactics of surprise which had won him victory at Prestonpans.

The Macdonalds were there with their men; the old Chief sat his horse with his three sons on either side, their piper playing before them, and only a third of their original levy drawn up behind. The rest had succumbed to cold and irregular rations or had slipped away during the long weeks of waiting until their enemy caught up with them. They had gone with Perth to the Spey, and marched back at the Prince's summons without food or rest for two whole days. The men were swaying on their feet with hunger and fatigue. Sir Alexander was gaunt and red-eyed and his edgy temper flared at his sons.

“While they sit deliberating in Culloden House, arguing and swilling brandy, when in the devil's name do we get either to fight or rest? Hugh, go down there and find out what's happening. Did they send for us to come all this way just to hold a review!”

“The English are at Nairn,” James snapped. “That's all we know, and that's all we're likely to know till they come up on us!” He was so tired that he could hardly sit his horse. None of them had eaten more than a few crusts of bread and they had drunk whatever they could buy or steal from the few miserable hamlets they passed through; their men had had less. “If we fight now we haven't a chance,” James said. “We need rest and our people need food. The same is true of the whole army. Tell them that, Hugh, when you go there!”

“I will,” Hugh called out to him; he kicked his tired horse until it broke into an uneven gallop down the grassy slope towards the Lord President's mansion. While they waited, the Chief and James and David dismounted, and ordered their men to stretch out on the ground and snatch what rest they could. The hours passed, while the councils continued at the house, and when at last Hugh came back to them it was nearly dusk and turning very cold.

“We're to creep up on them and attack by surprise,” he said. He was out of breath, and his thin face looked thinner still with fatigue. “Another Prestonpans, that's the plan. You should have seen the Prince! He threw his arms round Lord George's neck and wept with joy when that old misery agreed to take the initiative for once! Come on, Father! Rally the men, we're to march as soon as it is dark.”