Here Burns My Candle (18 page)

Stay a little
and news will find you.

GEORGE HERBERT

E
lisabeth woke with a start, still clinging to the wispy fragments of a dream. Mist rising from the ground on a cold autumn night. The skirl of a bagpipe. And Donald, looking into her eyes, smiling as he spoke.
I know the truth
.

When he’d uttered those words last eve at table, her heart had nearly thudded to a stop.
I know the truth
. She’d feared her husband had discovered her worship of the Nameless One, now that she was uncertain she even believed in the auld ways. What a cruel irony that would have been!

As it happened, Donald had meant something else entirely. When she found the courage to ask him in the privacy of their bedchamber, Donald had kissed her brow, then explained, “’Tis obvious you follow the waxing and waning of the moon each month as a means of reckoning…ah…”

“My courses?” When he’d nodded, relief had poured over her like a
plumpshower
on a spring day. She could never lie to her husband. But if he came to a wrong conclusion, sparing them both, what benefit could be found in correcting him?

Donald slept beside her now, his body curled toward the fireplace. She envied him his restful pose. Constantly worried about Simon, she’d tossed and turned most of the night, chilly one moment, overheated the next. Gibson had returned from Mrs. Turnbull’s with little to report. In the anxious hours ahead they were sure to have news from the battlefield.

Guard him and keep him safe
. She’d shouted those words to the pale moon.
Will you not help him?
Soon she would have her answer. No wonder she could not sleep.

The room was as black as newly mined coal except for the flickering seam of light along the door to Marjory’s bedchamber. Was her
mother-in-law awake, or had she left a candle burning through the night? Elisabeth eased from the bed, tiptoed to her door, and listened until she heard Marjory’s slow, even breathing.

They’d not ended their day together well. Marjory had quit the drawing room in a huff, her parting words as sharp as any bayonet. “Would you be loyal to this family, Lady Kerr? Or to the relatives you left in Castleton of Braemar?”

“I hope I may be true to
both
my families,” she’d said. Wasn’t that a daughter-in-law’s duty?

But now in the dark of night, Elisabeth realized she’d spoken amiss. She was not loyal to either family. She’d fled from her mother’s cottage, abandoned her only brother, and never found her way back home. As for the Kerrs, she lived with them, yet honored another king, worshiped with them, yet entreated another god.

Elisabeth stared into the remains of the fire, numb with a kind of grief. She had always thought herself faithful. But clearly she was not. Not to anyone.

Nae, lass. You are faithful to Donald
.

Her heart lifted at the thought. Aye, she
was
a faithful wife who loved her husband completely.

Elisabeth hastened across the room, needing to be near him, needing to know that Donald was truly hers and that she’d not failed him too. She quietly slid beneath the bedcovers and fitted her body against the warm curve of his back. A deep sense of relief washed over her.
Donald, my husband, my own
.

Taking care not to wake him, she slipped her arm round his waist and let her eyes drift shut. Time would answer some of her questions. Another hour of rest might calm her fears. But the man who shared her bed offered her the deepest solace of all.

“Peace to you, my love,” she whispered and drifted off to sleep.

Elisabeth’s spoon clattered onto the rim of her china plate, her porridge forgotten, the morning’s peace shattered. “What is it, Gibson? Good tidings or ill?”

“Dragoons, milady, charging up the High Street!” Red-faced and panting, Gibson stood at the end of their breakfast table. “Four royal lads riding hard from Gladsmuir.”

“Are they bound for the castle?” Andrew cried, nearly standing.

“Come, Gibson!” Donald urged him. “You must know something.”

“Let the man catch his breath,” Elisabeth said, resting her hand on Donald’s. “Just tell us what you can, Gibson. Has the fighting begun?”

“Aye, milady.” He hastily straightened his livery, then offered a belated bow. “And ended.”

Janet gasped. “Ended?”

“I ken verra little,” Gibson said apologetically, “but the dragoons are seeking sanctuary up at Edinburgh Castle.”

A look of horror filled Marjory’s face. “Do you mean to say… the Highland rebels… have… won the battle?”

“I canna be sure, mem.” Gibson looked down at the floor as if ashamed to be the bearer of bad news. “But, aye, ’twould seem they did.”

Elisabeth’s hand flew to her mouth, stifling her cry of joy.
Victory! Oh, Simon
.

Donald was already on his feet. “Come, Andrew. We’ll make for Mrs. Turnbull’s and see what other news can be had.”

Without thinking, Elisabeth grasped the sleeve of his coat. “Might I join you?”

“Lady Kerr!” Marjory admonished her. “’Tis no place for a gentlewoman—”

“On the contrary.” In one graceful motion Donald drew Elisabeth from her chair to his side. “My wife’s place is here. With me.”

Andrew glanced at Janet, seated next to him, but her only response was a petulant sniff. He stood as well, nodding at Donald, his expression stoic. “The three of us, then.”

They hastened down the stair and into the gray morning light. News had spread quickly, and the square was crowded with folk seeking answers. How had a ragged army of rebels bested King George’s men? Women wept into their aprons while men with unkempt hair and bannock crumbs in their beards stumbled about the square. Boisterous lads
chased after one another with wooden sticks, pretending to be soldiers, making their younger sisters shriek with terror and delight.

Elisabeth took each brother’s arm as they traveled across the High Street toward the tavern next to the Tron Kirk. “’Twill be more crowded withindoors,” Donald warned her, raising his voice lest his words be lost amid the noisy throng. He steered them round the muck and refuse, then quickened their pace at the sound of hooves thundering up the street.

A small company of dragoons galloped by—their uniforms torn, their faces haggard—and shouted to all who would listen.

“The rebels cut us down!”

“Hundreds are dead!”

“All is lost!”

However glad she was for a Highland victory, Elisabeth remembered the Sabbath last when the same lads had trotted through the city, polished and proud, engaging in swordplay for sport. “They were so young,” she murmured, imagining the wives and mothers who would see their loved ones no more.

“Aye,” Donald said grimly, then guided the threesome through the tavern door.

Crowded as it was, heads turned when the Kerrs entered. Far more men than women filled the long, narrow room with its dearth of windows and abundance of wooden chairs and tables, all spoken for.

An older fellow with copious whiskers but few teeth bobbed his head in their direction. “Lord Kerr, yer leddy is
walcome
to my chair.” He brushed off the seat with his bonnet, then bowed and fitted the wool cap back on his head.

Murmuring her thanks, Elisabeth sat at a well-scrubbed oak table. Two of his friends gallantly sacrificed their places as well so Donald and Andrew could join her.

Her husband pulled the tallow candle closer, the wax nearly spent, the flame guttering. “You’d be the talk of Mrs. Turnbull’s this morning, Lady Kerr, if ’twere not for more pressing matters.” He ordered a small glass of sack for each of them, then called out to John Elder, a shoemaker from Marlins Wynd and a proud Jacobite, seated at the next table. “Mr. Elder, what news have you to share?”

The shoemaker grunted as he turned in his chair, his posture bent from years of stretching leather over a wooden last. Yet his blue eyes sparkled, and his mind was as sharp as the point of his awl. “I’ll tell ye whatsomever I can, Lord Kerr. A story o’ woe for some, blithe tidings for ithers.”

Donald gripped him on the shoulder. “None can spin a tale like you, John.”

He folded his hands, the creases lined with dye, and leaned closer. “The stars still shone bricht in the nicht sky whan the princes men made their way o’er a bog to face the royal army. Their brogues are made o’ soft leather, ye ken, and they had nae horses, so the Hielanders couldna be heard.”

At that moment Mrs. Turnbull appeared with wine and a fresh candle. “Here ye be, Lord Kerr.” The red-headed proprietor plunked down three glasses without spilling a drop, lit the new candle from the old, fitted it into the candleholder with its puddle of soft wax, then took her leave—all done in the blink of an eye.

“A model of efficiency, that woman,” Andrew observed, then raised his glass. “To victory.”

“To victory,” the others responded, though no sides were taken. It was a very public place.

“The mist was starting to lift,” the shoemaker continued, waving his hands about as he spoke. “The Hielanders
pu’d
aff their bonnets and prayed to God. Then they sounded their battle cry, and the pipes pierced the morn air.”

Elisabeth swallowed hard.
The rising mist. The skirl of a bagpipe
. Had such a scene not awakened her before dawn?

“The prince’s men discharged their arms, then cast them aff and drew their broadswords and scythes. Och, ’twas a bluidy rout.” He took a long drink of ale, then shook his head. “I canna describe it with a leddy present. It didna take mair than a quarter hour. The dragoons fled, the infantry fell, and the rest o’ Cope’s men surrendered. o’ course, ’tis nae surprise whaur they fought.” John leaned forward, his eyes as bright as buttons. “On Gladsmuir shall the battle be.”

Elisabeth’s breath caught. What Highlander didn’t recognize the
words of Thomas the Rhymer? Here was another medieval prophecy fulfilled. “Between Seton and the sea,” she recited from memory, “many a man shall die that day.”

“Weel done, Leddy Kerr,” the shoemaker said, offering her a gap-toothed smile. “Gladsmuir sits a bit east o’ the battleground but close enough for the Hielanders to claim ’twas a victory foretold.”

Elisabeth turned toward the open door, her thoughts ever drawn back to Simon. “What of the prince’s men?”

“Not
monie
Hielanders were lost.” John leaned back in his chair. “As for the rest, ye’ll see a few this day, mair on the morrow. Those Hielanders wha think their duty is done will take their bounty hame.” He inclined his head toward the High Street. “Ye’ll not find a surgeon in Edinburgh this morn, for the prince bid the lot o’ them come and leuk after the wounded.”

If Simon lay among the injured, Elisabeth would insist on tending his wounds at Milne Square. Her mother-in-law could not refuse her brother a clean bed and a warm hearth. Nae, she could not.

Elisabeth abruptly stood, brimming with conviction. “Lord Kerr, if you will, kindly escort me home. I want everything in readiness for my brother’s return.”

Twenty-Five

Uncertainty! Fell demon of our fears!

DAVID MALLOCH

D
onald had never felt so restless—nae, so useless—in all his seven-and-twenty years. Having delivered Elisabeth to their drawing room, he’d begged her indulgence, then retraced his steps down the stair, no clear destination in mind. Now, on this cool, cloudy morning, he stood in the heart of Milne Square surrounded by neighbors yet longing for solitude.

“I need a good, bracing walk,” he’d told Elisabeth. He needed far more than that—time to reflect upon his past, time to consider his future—but dared not burden his wife, who had worries of her own. “I’ll not be away more than an hour or two,” he promised. After saying a word to Gibson, Donald had left the house before the dowager could fill his ear with woe or with guilt. She was very good at both.

He strode toward the High Street, uncertain which direction to turn, so conflicted were his emotions. Out of habit he bore west, heading uphill toward the castle. He’d left Andrew at Mrs. Turnbull’s, drinking sack. Donald paused in the midst of the crowded street, giving thought to rejoining him, when a familiar voice called above the din. “Lord Kerr?”

He looked up to see his oldest friend in Edinburgh, Patrick Manderson, striding toward him. Heir to a prosperous Milne Square merchant, Patrick resided in nearby Oliphant’s Land. The two had closed many a tavern in their youth and stumbled home at the beating of the ten o’ the clock drum.

“You’re especially well turned out this morn,” Donald told him, admiring his brown velvet coat with its wide satin cuffs embroidered in gold. “Shall I compliment Angus MacPherson the next time I see him?”

Patrick made a sour face. “That Jacobite? Nae, ’twas William Reid who took my coin.”

“Your father’s coin,” Donald corrected him, an old ploy between them.

Patrick rolled his eyes on cue. “I thought
you
were the one who freely spent his father’s silver.”

“You have me confused with my mother,” Donald said, glad for any excuse to smile.

The two men walked side by side, their light banter giving way to the sense of gloom that hung over the city like a chilling sea fog in winter. “Tell me what you’ve heard from Gladsmuir,” Donald said, “then I’ll do the same.”

“’Twas a grim business,” Patrick said. “A sharpened scythe in the hands of a Macgregor is a deadly proposition.” He shuddered, pointing toward a knot of women gathered at the mouth of Mary King’s Close. “Please God, those wives and mothers will ne’er be told how their loved ones died.”

Donald glanced in their direction, then looked away, undone by the abject sorrow on the women’s faces and the tears that flowed unabated. Jacobite or royalist, any loss was tragic. For Elisabeth’s sake he was glad Simon had fought for the prince. Her brother would return to Edinburgh a victor instead of a prisoner.

Patrick’s steps slowed as they neared Writer’s Court. “I am to meet David Lyon at the Star and Garter. Join us for a wee pint?”