Unknown (57 page)

That
late evening, with much good cheer in the camp, merriment, singing,
story-telling, dancing - and some superficial fighting - all
the well-fed relaxation of a Gaelic host, Montrose slipped away.
Major-General Alastair MacDonald was roaring drunk and challenging
all comers, three at a time, to wrestling bouts; so Black Pate was
left in effective command. Borrowing a Highland garron from Atholl,
James Graham gave himellf twenty-four hours' leave of absence while
they awaited the results of their widespread summonses, and
rode off quietly, unescorted, south-eastwards.

He
went down Garry, and into the mouth of the shadow-filled Pass of
Killiecrankie. All night he rode, at a steady mile-devouring trot,
bearing ever more into the east, by heather-tracks and drove roads,
by mere footpaths and no paths at all, leaving the Garry near where
Tummel joined it, to climb to Moulin, and up and up beyond, over the
quiet, empty darkling mountains, by the Pass of Dalnacam into Glen
Brerachan, and so to the head of Strathardle. He knew the road well,
having travelled it many times as a young man - but never by night.
Down the long, long strath he went, barked at by the occasional dog
but otherwise unchallenged. At its foot, where Ardle met the
Blackwater of Glenshee, he forded that river to Strone, to start his
climbing again, this time by the high Muir of Drimmie, eerie,
strange, where the Stone Circles of the ancient people reared
themselves out of the night like upraised fingers warning of the
brevity and unimportance of all men's lives and activities.

In
six hours of great riding he was looking down on Strathmore, or its
grey vacancy, from the very lip of the Highland Line above Alyth,
only level lands below him now, after over thirty miles of the
mountains. It was two o'clock of a still August morning. This was
Ogilvy country, where he cold feel reasonably secure; but he still
went secretly, seeking to disturb none. In two more hours he had
crossed the wide strath slantwise, almost due eastwards, by Glamis
and Aberlemno, avoiding Forfar and Brechin, and could smell the sea
in his nostrils as he rode down through the marshlands to the wide
landlocked bay of Montrose. At the reedy head of it, on a little
hillock amongst the cattle-strewn saltmarsh meadows, his tough
garron going slowly, wearily, now, he halted at a low-browed,
reed-thatched cot-house amongst the misty tidelands, where dwelt old
Sim Mather, once his father's chief falconer, who had taught him
that sport twenty years before. He had no need to rouse him -the old
man's dogs had already done that - and his greeting, on
identification, was heartfelt and heart-warming.

'Sim,'
he said, after some account of his circumstances,

"you
will serve me kindly by crossing the saltmarsh to Kinnaird. Does my
lady still occupy the south-east flanking tower? Aye. With my sons,
my children? Do you know?'

'Aye,
lord. I saw the young lord but two days back.'

'Good.
Go there then, Sim, secretly but swiftly. Tell my lady that I am
here. Bid her, if she will, come to me, for a spell. As secretly.
For an hour or two. With the boys. The baby, the girl, will be too
young.' Eight months before Magdalen had given birth to a daughter,
as yet unseen by the father. 'Bring them to me. Do not disturb the
castle, or my lord of Southesk. There is a postern-gate. You will
know it well... ?'

'Aye,
lord. I will have them here within the hour.' ‘Yes. She is
well?'

'Well,
and bonny. And the young lords fine lads. You will be proud o' them
...'

Sim
Mather was as good as his word. Montrose had dropped asleep on the
settle by the smoored peat fire when, with the first hint of dawn
beginning to whiten the coiling mist wraiths that rose from the
saltings, the shack door burst open and his two eldest sons flung
themselves in and upon him in a breathless flurry of exclamation.

'Save
us - who are these!' their father cried. 'Robbers! Hielant caterans!
Grown and ill-favoured men, for certain ! Do not tell me you arc
Grahams of some kidney?' It was over a year since he had seen them.

They
shouted with laughter, two tousle-headed, long-legged, good-looking
youngsters, all knees and elbows, one fourteen, the other eleven
years, bursting with excited questions and competing declarations.

The
man's glance lifted from them. Magdalen stood in the low doorway,
biting her lip, her youngest son Robert at her knee and a
plaid-wrapped bundle in her arms, peering in.

The
anxiety, uncertainty, implicit in her stance, her whole person, went
to his heart. Life had been less than generous to Magdalen Carnegie
- and he was no husband for her, no husband for any woman. He rose,
and went to her, hands out.

She
could find no words, only gazed at him from great eyes, holding out
the baby a little way, as something which might have been part
offering, part barrier and reproach.

Gently
but firmly he took them both in his tartan-clad arms.

'My
dear, my very dear,' he said, kissing her.

He
felt her trembling. At first she did not, could not speak. But there
was no doubting her emotion.

'So
long, lass,' he said. 'So very long. Even since I returned. To
Scotland. I could not, dare not, come to you. Even now, I come like
a hunted beast. What a husband I have made for you, Magdalen!'

She
nodded, and shook her head, in one.

'And
this is Jean ! Little Jean. We have a daughter.' He took the baby
from her, easing the plain back from the tiny wide-eyed face. 'A
poppet. Like you, my dear - comely.' He kissed the child's brow.
'Jean Graham - deserving of a better father.'

The
transference of attention to the infant seemed to loose Magdalen's
tongue 'Oh, James - at last! How I have feared for you! Thank God
you are back. Safe. All these weary months. Years. Waiting, hoping,
praying.'

'Aye,
lass. I know it. I can only beg that you forgive me. It seems to be
my fate to fail you. But - at least I am in Scotland again. Not so
far away. I can see you more often, God willing. This small one - to
think that I have never seen our daughter till now. She looks well,
well. As well as she is bonny. And these.' He turned to his eager
sons. 'My dear, you have done well. So very well. I thank you.'

She
shook her head. 'They need their father.'

The
King
needs
our father,' John said stoutly. 'All Scotland needs our
father.' That 'our' was distinctly emphasised.

'He
is the greatest man in all the realm,' young James declared. Tell us
how you beat the English. At Newcasde. And at that other place. More
. . . Morepath.'

'I
did not beat the English, lad. I did not even
fight
the
English. Only the King's enemies. And many of those are Scots, to
their shame.'

'When
can we come with you, my lord ? I at the least. To fight for the
King,' John demanded. 'I am fourteen now. And can use a sword very
well. As well as Tam Keith. And he is sixteen ...'

'Hush,
John!' his mother said. 'Do not talk so. I have told you ...'

'But
I am the Lord Graham, Mother! I must serve the King, too. I am old
enough now. Tam Keith says .. .'

You
are a child still. Enough of such foolish chatter.'

'Lewis
Gordon was fighting for the King when he was thirteen . . .' James
declared - and then looked shocked as he realised that at that time
his father had been on the opposite side.

'We
will not talk about fighting now, for the King or other,' Montrose
said gently. 'Time enough for that. Now let us talk of kinder
things. For I have not long. I must leave here before most men are
abroad. To get me into the hills of Glen Clova, just as quickly as
may be, and so over the mountains to Glen Shee and Atholl again. I
am too well known hereabouts to remain unrecognised for long. We
have an hour, little more.'

'Oh,
James-so little?'

‘
I
am sorry, my dear. But I may not be away from my men - folly to call
it an army yet - for longer. And I dare not risk capture, or the
cause is lost. Kinnaird is bound to be watched. Argyll is no fool.
There may be spies even in your own house.'

'If
I found one, I would run him through! I swear
I
would!'
John announced.

You
see! How they grow, without their father
's
hand.
They see themselves as a hero's sons...'

‘
We
are! We are!' the boys chorused. 'He
is
a
hero. Everybody says so. Next to Prince Rupert he is the King
's
best
general.'

'At
the least, let me be a hero to my sons!' the man said, ruefully
humorous. 'Now — enough, I said. And that is as good as a
royal command. Let us talk of homelier things. Magdalen - how is it
with your father?'

She
smiled, despite herself. 'My father! Even he now reckons you hero.
Since you chose the King's side! He but encourages these foolish
children.'

'And
you do not, my dear?'

'Oh,
James - I cannot
afford
a
hero for husband! Can you not see it? Understand? I want only an
ordinary man. At home. A husband by my side, after all these years.
I care nothing for heroes and battles and causes. Even for the
King's Grace, I think! I want only my own, my husband and the father
of my children. Is that too much to ask?'

Wordless
himself now, he shook his head.

'But...
I have but an hour with you, then ? One hour!'

'I
fear so, lass. Unless you would have me in one of Argyll's dungeons.
He has a price on my head. Then, you would never see me again!'

'Oh,
God!' she said, chokingly. 'Is that what we have come to?'

'I
fear it is. But I
had
to
see you. See you all. The Campbell does not scruple to fight
women. Remember what he did to Airlie's wife.'

‘
I
will
see to Mother,' John assured. 'She will be quite safe.'

'Spoken
like the Earl of Kincardine!' his father approved. 'Earl... who?'