Pilgrim of Slaughter E-Book

Douglas Watt

• Herausgeber: Luath Press
• Kategorie: Krimi
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2015

Seitenzahl: 376

Beschreibung

On the eve of the Glorious Revolution of 1688, a series of gory murders are discovered by investigative advocate John MacKenzie and his assistant Davie Scougall. Drawn into a world of Papist plots, Presbyterian secret societies and religious and political upheaval, the pair follow a trail of clues left by a murderous, self-proclaimed 'Messenger of God'.

Leseprobe

DOUGLAS WATT is a novelist and historian who lives in Linlithgow with his wife Julie and their three children. He won the Hume Brown Senior Prize in Scottish History in 2008 for The Price of Scotland: Darien, Union and the Wealth of Nations (2007). Pilgrim of Slaughter is the third in his series of ingenious murder mysteries set in 17th-century Scotland featuring lawyers John MacKenzie and David Scougall. The first two in the series were Death of a Chief and Testament of a Witch.

By the same author:

Fiction

Death of a Chief (Luath Press, 2009)

Testament of a Witch, Luath Press (Luath Press, 2011)

History

The Price of Scotland: Darien, Union and the Wealth of Nations (Luath Press, 2007)

Pilgrim of Slaughter

DOUGLAS WATT

Contents

Author Bio

By the same author

Title page

Copyright

Dedication

Epigraph

The Main Characters

Historical Note: Scotland in 1688

Prologue

1: An Incident on the High Street of Edinburgh

2: News of a Birth

3: A Letter for Rosehaugh

4: Dinner at The Hawthorns

5: A Mother's Despair

6: The Music of the Virginal

7: Dr Black Secures a Loan

8: Confession of an Assassin

9: An Opportunity for Davie Scougall

10: A Customer for Maggie Lister

11: Application of the Boot

12: A Secret Association

13: Proclamation of Papist

14: A Note from Rosehaugh

15: Dissection of a Frog

16: A New Case for MacKenzie

17: Investigations in Niven's Wynd

18: Pittendean House

19: Lodgings of a Papist

20: Conversation in Parliament Square

21: Golf on the Links

22: A Body in a Bawdy-House

23: Scougall Makes a Confession

24: A Walk in the Country

25: A Late Sermon

26: Purchase of a Periwig

27: An Awkward Request

28: Questions Over Coffee

29: A Liberal Education

30: Sanctuary at Holyrood

31: A Capital Fund

32: A Night on the Town

33: A Witness Comes Forward

34: A Summons to the Castle Hill

35: Weight of a Body

36: The Association Reconvenes

37: Turkish Baths

38: Storming of the Palace

39: The Road to London

40: Christmas Day in Edinburgh

41: Revelations

42: A Confession

43: A Walk in the Gloaming

44: Cabinet of Wonders

45: A Visit from Bessie Troon

46: The Lair of Satan

47: Recovery at Libberton's Wynd

48: Failure of a Bill

49: Jacobite Rebellion

Epilogue: Glorious Revolution

Acknowledgements

First published 2015

ISBN (EBK): 978-1-910324-54-7

ISBN: 978-1-910021-99-6

The author’s right to be identified as author of this book

under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 has been asserted.

© Douglas Watt 2015

To Jamie

The Lord hath made all things for himself: yea, even the wicked for the day of evil. Proverbs 16:4

The Main Characters

Davie Scougall, notary public in Edinburgh

John MacKenzie, advocate in Edinburgh, Clerk of the Court of Session

Elizabeth MacKenzie, his daughter

Archibald Stirling, Crown Officer

Sir George MacKenzie of Rosehaugh, Lord Advocate

Kenneth MacKenzie, Earl of Seaforth, chief of the clan MacKenzie

Colonel Ruairidh MacKenzie, brother of Seaforth

Alexander Leslie, Earl of Pittendean

David Leslie, Lord Glenbeath, eldest son of the Earl of Pittendean

Francis Leslie of Thirlsmuir, second son of the Earl of Pittendean

James Douglas, Duke of Kingsfield

Agnes Morrison

George Morrison, merchant

Alexander Stuart, son of the Laird of Mordington

Jean Stuart, his mother

Adam Lawtie, physician in Edinburgh

Peter Guillemot, French refugee, wig maker in Edinburgh

Maggie Lister, brothel madam

Andrew Quinn, perfumer from Dublin

Helen Quinn, his sister

Alexander Baillie of Lammington, laird

James Guthrie, minister

James Cockburn of Grimston, laird

Archibald Craig, Pittendean’s writer

Robert Johnston, student at the College of Edinburgh

Isaac Black, doctor

John Graham of Claverhouse, Viscount Dundee

Historical NoteScotland in 1688

THE SEVENTEENTH CENTURY was a time of bitter religious division across Europe which had its origins in the Reformation of the previous century when the Continent split into Protestants and Catholics.

In Scotland, two rival branches of the Protestant church – Episcopalian and Presbyterian – vied for domination. The Episcopalians, who were in power in 1688, believed in a church run by bishops and held a hierarchical view of society. The Presbyterians were democratic and puritanical in outlook, revering the National Covenant of 1638.

After the Restoration of the monarchy in 1660, Presbyterians refused to accept a church run by bishops and were persecuted by the government in an attempt to force them into conformity. They resorted to worshipping illegally in fields and hillsides at conventicles. Repression precipitated rebellions in 1666 and 1679 which were brutally crushed. Many Prebyterians fled into exile in the Netherlands, while others were packed off to the plantations in the Caribbean as indentured labour.

As a result, Presbyterians and Episcopalians hated each other. They both despised Roman Catholics who they viewed as servants of Satan. The Pope himself was the Whore of Babylon or the Antichrist. France was the major Catholic power in Europe at the time. In 1685 the French King Louis XIV revoked the Edict of Nantes, ending toleration for French Protestants (Huguenots). Thousands fled oversees with many settling in London and some in Edinburgh.

Catholics were a tiny minority in Scotland in 1688, perhaps only a few thousand individulas spread across the country, mainly in Highland clans and noble households. However, the popular perception was that they were becoming much more numerous, a feeling stimulated by high profile conversions among those who sought to curry favour with the King.

King James VII and II inherited the thrones of England, Ireland and Scotland on the death of his brother Charles II in 1685. By the time he became King he was an open Roman Catholic. His reign was a disaster. In the space of a few years he had alienated many of his subjects in the three kingdoms by his policies of extending toleration for Catholics. In Scotland, both Episcopalians and Presbyterians were horrified as the Mass, which they viewed as blasphemous, was celebrated in the centre of Edinburgh, Jesuit priests were established in the city and a Catholic printing press set up at Holyrood Palace. Among extreme Protestants, feelings of paranoia became a hunger for Catholic blood.

On 10 June 1688 the King’s second wife, Mary of Modena, who was a Catholic, gave birth to James Francis Edward Stewart. The House of Stewart had a male heir. The King already had two Protestant daughters, Mary and Anne, from his first marriage. Protestants feared that the King’s pro-Catholic policy would be extended, perhaps indefinitely. William of Orange, the Dutch Stadtholder, who was married to Mary, and revered as the upholder of Protestant rights in Europe, was encouraged to intervene. It was unclear if he would aim to influence the King by persuading him to change tack, or, as more radical Protestants hoped, seize the Crown for himself and his wife.

Over the autumn of 1688 the atmosphere in Edinburgh became increasingly frenetic as rumours circulated in coffee houses and taverns of an imminent invasion by William in the south of England. The town was already bursting at the seams, swollen by exiles returning from Holland, as well as an influx of radical Protestants from the south-west of Scotland.

The anti-Catholic mob was increasingly active on the High Street, burning effigies of the Pope, smashing windows and terrorising suspected Catholics. Secret Presbyterian associations met across Edinburgh, planning revolution against the King, while politicians schemed, hoping to benefit from any change of regime. The city was a powder-keg ready to explode.

Prologue

May 1688

THE KNIFE’S BLADE shines before me. I test its sharpness against my finger. The crowd on the hillside are shouting, exhorting me to be done with it, to get the job done. The man is still screaming. His white shirt is pulled up to reveal a lean grey belly.

He only knows me by sight. I have watched him many times. I have seen him in the court house where he works as clerk, where he aids those who abuse the Godly. I have watched him in the ale house, laughing, telling jokes to his creatures, while I ponder from my dark corner – that is the man I will kill.

‘Get on with it,’ one of them grunts. ‘Soldiers will be here soon!’

I act for God and His people, the covenanted folk of Scotland, the abused flock, the crushed remnant. I see their faces around me, beckoning me to sacrifice. Some of the blessed are already in Heaven, cut down as they worshipped in the field by Claverhouse, vile servant of James Stewart, called by some King of Scotland, England and Ireland; slaughtered like lambs.

The man stops screaming. Does he sense a conflict within me? Does he not know with whose authority I act? There is no doubt in my soul. I simply savour the moment. I thank Him for the chance to avenge his poor blighted followers.

I look down on the taut belly, choosing a place for my dirk just above the spot where the cord connected him to his mother. This moment is predetermined from the beginning of time. There is nothing that can be done to save him. I plunge the knife into flesh. It slips through easily; penetrates deeply. For an instant there is no reaction from him or those who watch.

The blade is embedded in his body. We are conjoined by metal; the crowd hushed to silence. Then, blood spurts from the wound and screams rise from him and them. I thrust deeper, working up and down with my knife as his cries echo across the hills. The coils of his bowels steam before me; the bloody intestines of a vile sinner who has paid for his treachery.

I slam the blade into the earth between his legs. Forcing my hands into the cavity, I scoop up the viscera, holding them up for all to see. Each man and woman and child standing on the hillside will bear witness. Then, taking the knife again, I cut the ends and raise the guts above my head, dripping blood and excrement over my face. It is as holy water baptising me.

He has lost consciousness. The blood still gushes from the wound onto the grass of the hillside. I take up my knife again. There is still work to be done. There is still butchery in His name and I am a man skilled in the craft. I slash across the chest; place a boot on the body to give purchase; heave the rib cage open. Bones snap and flesh is ripped.

I cradle it in my hands, mesmerised by its pulsing. I slice through the vessels surrounding it. The blood gulps out like water from a pump. I hold it aloft.

Behold my people, behold the heart of Antichrist!

Screams of exaltation echo around the hillside.

I do God’s work. I am saved. I am promised everlasting life from the start of the world. I was born to perform this act from the beginning of time. My name is written in the book of life from the foundation of the earth. I was born to kill Satan. I was begot to defeat Antichrist. I am God’s agent of transformation.

1

An Incident on the High Street of Edinburgh

June 1688

EVERYTHING FOR AN afternoon’s work was in place: inkhorn, paper, quills, wax. Scougall looked down on the legal instrument he was working on – a conveyance of land from John Nisbet to James Dickson, two of the burgh’s merchants. It would be a long afternoon at the desk, but one he relished. There was nothing to disturb him, no awkward conversations with Papists, or painful thoughts about Elizabeth, although he found it impossible to push her completely out of his mind.

If only he could find a wife, the feelings for her might fade, easing the frustrations of body and spirit which he wrestled with day and night. He was ashamed to confess that he was more and more tempted down the path of self-abuse, his mind overwhelmed by illicit images. Such behaviour was postulated a sin of the first rank by some, though others regarded it as only a minor transgression, and a few blades as no sin at all. Major Weir’s dalliance with beasts stood as a dreadful warning of the dangers of the unmarried state. He felt his face redden, despite being alone, and he asked God to forgive him such sinful thoughts. What was beyond doubt was that he needed a wife.

A knock at the door roused him from these reflections, and before he could shout ‘enter’, a young woman stood in front of him, soberly dressed in black cloak and dark gown with a blue bonnet on her head. She smiled warmly. ‘Do you not remember me, Davie Scougall?’

He knew her at once. Agnes Morrison was a year or two younger than him, but much improved in looks by the gap of six years since they last met.

‘It’s been so long, Agnes,’ he managed to splutter out. He was not prepared for a conversation with a woman. After a few embarrassing seconds, he offered her a chair beside his desk.

‘You’ve done well for yourself, Davie,’ she said in a half mocking tone with a look of mischief on her face. ‘This is a far cry from the honest toun. I hear you are now acquainted with the great and good.’

Scougall thought of the Earl of Seaforth, with whom he was forced to dine that night. Surely she did not have this kind of acquaintance in mind. He had travelled far, perhaps too far, from the simple life of his parents in Musselburgh.

‘I’m not changed… much,’ he said as his face reddened again.

‘You’ve changed, favourably so. You were a boy when I last saw you.’ Unused to compliments, he did not know what to say. There was another uncomfortable silence.

‘As you have too, Agnes,’ he said finally. ‘You look very fine,’ but he immediately regretted being so forward.

‘I come on a business matter.’ Her expression became serious. ‘Do you remember my brother George?’

Scougall recalled a boisterous youth a few years older than him, something of a bully in the school yard, with a large looming face.

‘Your work as writer comes highly recommended. We’ve a few instruments for you, if you’ll take them.’

He had plenty of work to be getting on with, but would happily work late for Agnes. She was changed into a fine-looking woman. ‘What’s the nature of the business?’

‘As you know, we’ve suffered terribly since father was accused in the Rye House Plot. We fled Scotland like many others and took up residence in the Dutch Republic. Unfortunately he died a few years ago, joining mother in eternal bliss.’

‘I’m very sorry to hear of their demise.’

‘It’s a terrible loss, but we must look to the future. Great change is afoot, Davie. The Indulgences allow us to return home. St Magdalene’s Chapel is sold by the Council to our people. We Presbyterians have a place to worship in the heart of Edinburgh. It’s like the days of the Covenant again. George and I decided to come back to our native soil. We wish to buy a property in Edinburgh where we can trade from. We need your help to obtain it.’

‘I’ve always wanted to visit Holland,’ Scougall mused. ‘The Dutch follow a sound path in religion and a profitable one in commerce.’

‘You could not imagine a more magnificent trading metropolis than Amsterdam,’ she replied. ‘Everything under the sun can be purchased there. The bank is the safest in the world and there’s a bourse where shares in companies are bought and sold. The Dutch are Godly also. They’re a fine people, led by a noble prince.’

He listened attentively, impressed by the fluent way she spoke, observing her face carefully, drawn more and more into her serious, but lively, brown eyes.

‘My brother wants to establish himself as a merchant in Edinburgh. We’ll trade with Holland where we have many friends. All is change… all is flux. We must prepare, perhaps, for greater transformations.’

He nodded again. Scotland was an abused nation. The Stewart King James was a servant of Antichrist. But there were hopes of change. ‘Do you think William will come?’

‘We’ve seen the preparations with our own eyes; a fleet will sail.’ She smiled, before continuing, ‘My brother seeks an audience with the magistrates to obtain a licence for a shop. I’m looking forward so much to living in Scotland again. I’ve missed it, despite the wonders of Holland. I long for strolls by the Firth, watching the waves. Do you remember flying our kites on the sand?’

He could not remember flying a kite with Agnes; perhaps she was speaking in general terms, or thinking about someone else. What he did remember was her sharp tongue. She had teased him about his shyness at school. But he did not care. He was already captivated. God forgive him, he could not stop appraising the way she looked; her shapely figure and smiling face. She may have lacked the polished breeding of Elizabeth, the silks and jewels and perfumes, but she possessed a natural disposition which was equally appealing. He found himself feeling strangely light. He had not felt so happy since thrashing Hector Stoddart at golf on Leith Links.

‘So you’ll act as writer for us?’

Working for her family would bring him more than a few pounds. Had God sent her just as dejection threatened to cast him downwards into a spiral of sin?

‘Yes, Agnes. It would be a great pleasure…’

A thunderous bang, so loud he could remember hearing nothing like it in the whole of his life, shattered the blissful moment, as the whole building shook. The sound was followed by screams outside on the street. He peered through the window, pressing his nose against the glass. There was a man lying only a few yards from the door. Another was being grappled to the ground.

‘My God! Someone’s been shot. Wait here, Agnes.’

‘Don’t endanger yourself, Davie.’

He climbed the few steps from his office in the basement of the tenement up onto the High Street. In front of him a young man was being pinned down. To the left, an older figure lay on his back attended by a servant. He knew the victim was James Douglas, Duke of Kingsfield.

‘Fetch a doctor!’ a voice screamed from the crowd.

The Duke was groaning in agony, the blue silk of his suit stained darkly at the chest. A long periwig had fallen from his head which Scougall picked up. He noticed the name Simon Tippendale on the label, one of London’s most famous periwig makers.

‘The Duke’s shot!’ a cry came from an onlooker. ‘Papist bastards!’ a woman’s voice shrieked. A man waved his fist at the young man on the ground, screaming obscenities about the Pope and the Jesuits. ‘Run the fuckin Papists oot o toon! This is the murderous rule of Antichrist!’ The volume of abuse rose like the stink from a midden. ‘The Papists have shot Kingsfield!’

‘Whaur’s the doctor?’ Kingsfield’s servant cried. The Duke was lying motionless, his old head resting in the man’s hands.

Scougall recognised Adam Lawtie, a physician employed by Crown Officer Stirling, emerge from the throng. Kneeling beside the Duke he sought a pulse. After a minute or so, he shook his head.

Screams exploded from the crowd. ‘Papists hae murdered Kingsfield! Papist sodjers will burn the city! Oor King is a Papist Traitor! The King’s servant o the Whore of Babylon! The rule of Antichrist has come tae Scotland!’

Scougall had never heard such visceral hatred at close quarters before. From his attire, the man who was being restrained appeared of some means, probably from a landed family. A few yards away a pistol lay on the ground. The feeling of lightness was gone. Kingsfield was assassinated in broad daylight. He was known to be a supporter of the Presbyterians. There would be uproar in Edinburgh that night.

2

News of a Birth

THE MESSENGER STOOD at the doorway allowing his eyes to adjust to the gloom. Having spotted the man he sought at a table towards the back of the coffee house, he squeezed through the crowd, eager to unburden himself of the news.

A thin middle aged man looked up with alert eyes. He put his pipe down carefully on the table.

‘Ah, Mr Stark. How are you?’

‘I hae news, sir,’ Stark spoke breathlessly. ‘I’ve come aw the way frae Lammington today as fast as I could. I kenned you’d want tae be the first tae ken, sir.’

‘News?’ Lammington repeated. The others at the table stopped talking and looked up at Stark who gathered himself before speaking deliberately in a whisper. ‘The King has a son, sir.’

‘The King has a son,’ Lammington repeated and then with more volume: ‘The King has a son. James Stewart has a son.’ There was a smile on his face.

One of Lammington’s companions, an older man with a gaunt face, rose to his feet and roared. ‘Our Papist King has an heir! Antichrist has a son!’

The news spread from table to table, provoking curses, screams, shouts and general discord. No one seemed pleased by the tidings.

‘Do you know what the bairn’s called, Mr Stark?’ asked Lammington.

‘I’m telt it’s James Francis Edward Stewart.’

‘Not another king called James,’ said a man in a French accent wearing an enormous wig which dwarfed the other head-pieces around the table.

‘Just like the French,’ said another. ‘Louis, Louis, Louis. James, James, James. It’s always the same wi despots.’

‘But she wasnae due yet. It’s surely an imposter. It’s an attempt tae help the King oot of his difficulties,’ said the older man.

‘Calm yirself, Grimston, be seated,’ warned Lammington. ‘Let’s nae lose our heads. I thank you, for conveying such important tidings punctually, Stark. Here’s something for your trouble. Now return hame and tell my wife I’m delayed in Edinburgh for a few mair weeks. There’s business tae be done, important business.’

‘The King will be strengthened by this, Lammington. He has two daughters and now a son. The succession is secured for a Papist,’ said a thin man in an Irish accent.

‘It may not be so, Quinn. The birth will nae be celebrated with enthusiasm in England or Scotland.’ He took up his pipe again and began puffing slowly, savouring the tobacco. He looked animated by the news. Things were coming to a head at last, he thought. There was much to be done, but they would be ready. ‘Don’t lose heart, gentlemen. This may be the trigger we look for. It may encourage William tae intervene. We must continue wi our plans.’ His voice dropped to a whisper. ‘The boys on the street must be a little mair vocal in their condemnation of Antichrist.’

‘Where’s Johnston?’ asked the Frenchman.

There was laughter round the table. ‘He’s still at the college, Mr Guillemot,’replied Lammington. ‘He is very much the scholar, although vehement in his hatred o the Papist. They will be oot on the street when we have more intelligence. Any news of Black?’

‘He’s been released frae the castle,’ announced Grimston.

Lammington stopped smoking and stared intently at the faces round the table. ‘We must be ready, gentleman. The news frae London is good. The King is weak. The birth will encourage our brithers in the south. The Prince of Orange will sail soon. A revolution in the government will follow.’

3

A Letter for Rosehaugh

HE SAT AT the ancient desk sipping claret. He had never known before such utter disregard for sound policy. The King was antagonising everyone, even his closest supporters. The political situation was deteriorating at an alarming speed. He wondered if it had been a mistake to return to office as Lord Advocate. He could not resist being at the centre of things one final time. He was not yet ready for retirement to his country estates. But how was he to advise a King who would not listen, who only followed the advice of the fools who had converted to the Catholic religion? He sighed and poured himself another glass. Whatever happened, rebellion was treason. It could only lead to chaos.

He flicked through his correspondence on the desk; the usual communications from the Privy Council, intelligence reports from his agents, countless letters. One caught his eye. The writing was more florid than the rest, as if the writer had taken care with it:

To Sir George MacKenzie of Rosehaugh, Lord Advocate,

the Tolbooth, Edinburgh.

He put the other papers aside, broke the seal and read the following:

Scotland: haunt of the profane, den of iniquity, cavern of chaos, cradle of witches. I look down on you from a great height. I watch your black castle against the western sky, your tenements filthy with squalor, your tollbooths, kirks and palaces. I wander your closes, wynds, courts and vennels. Your King is the slave of Satan. Your King is besotted with the Whore of Babylon. Your King welcomes Antichrist to the heart of your realm where the blasphemous Mass is proclaimed.

Hear the cries of the people. Edinburgh is a city awaiting deliverance, a synagogue of Satan. I hear your calls. I feel your agony and despair.

My children, I will free you from the chains of Antichrist. I will free you from the government of the Godless. I will liberate you from the plague of priests.

The black stone of the castle speaks to me. The stink of the streets speaks to me. Oh city renowned through Europe for nothing.

Until I returned to you, little land, forgotten, until I stirred you with my breath. You were forgotten by the world, small and insignificant, left alone to suffer the reign of Antichrist, abandoned, until I remembered you, until I was called by you, until I returned to wake you from your slumber.

I seek out your labyrinths of debauchery. I seek out your parlours of hypocrisy. I seek out your ministers with hearts of lust. I seek out your abusers, whoremongers, idolaters, warlocks, witches.

I seek out your great men hungry for mammon, lawyers crafty and covetous, doctors cheating the sick of their last pennies, servants despising their masters. I will bring them to account for their sins.

Let the fierce wind blow. Let the mighty wind blow. Let the gale of reformation blow, stirring you from lethargy, awakening you from this quagmire of atrophy. Oh nation burning and suffering in the pit, I will be as a wave among you, a great wave of the ocean, deep-formed within the mighty water. I will wash through you, sweeping your streets clean. I will cleanse you of the stain of Antichrist.

Rise like the sun, burning red. The time is at hand, oh my children.

Rise like a mighty sun. I bring transformation. I bring glorious revolution.

Rosehaugh shook his head in despair. It was the ranting of another fanatic. Scotland had enough of them these days. He folded the letter carefully and rose from his desk. On the way to the large press in the corner he stopped suddenly. There was the pain again, deep inside his stomach. It was becoming more frequent. He wondered how much time he had left. Whatever happened, he would struggle on. He opened a drawer and dropped the letter on top of a pile of other documents. Should he keep them or burn the lot? The mind of man was troubled indeed, angry and troubled.

4

Dinner at The Hawthorns

SCOUGALL’S EYES TOOK in the large collection of plate on MacKenzie’s dresser. It was principally made of silver rather than pewter, a collection of bowls, cutlery, jugs and dishes engraved with hunting scenes of stags and hounds, surely worth a small fortune. In the centre was a round silver salver with the clan coat of arms embossed upon it, a mountain engulfed in flames with the legend Luceo non uro around it. Scougall translated the words to himself, pondering their meaning – I shine but do not burn. The light of reason rather than the flames of passion – that sounded like MacKenzie’s philosophy of life. The plate showed he was a rich man; the pickings of the law were greatest for advocates at the top, but not for notaries like him. He wondered how much capital he could amass by the time he was MacKenzie’s age of fifty-six.

They sat in the dining room at the back of the house where two sash windows looked onto the gardens. Water gurgled from a stone fountain in the gloaming. Across the table from Scougall sat Kenneth MacKenzie of Kintail, the Earl of Seaforth. He was only a few years older than him, perhaps in his late twenties, and did not look like a Highland chief, dressed in his blue silk suit and long periwig. His younger brother, Colonel Ruairidh MacKenzie, diagonally opposite, was even more splendidly attired in a scarlet suit, the latest fashion from Paris.

Elizabeth was wearing a vibrant green gown. She had eyes for Ruairidh only, a man who had fought in battlefields across Europe, and, according to his own account, played a vital role in every one. They made a fine pair, Scougall had to admit. Reason told him to lay his feelings for her aside; jealousy was a sin. But he could not help himself. Could it be possible that she would marry a Roman Catholic? He had heard rumours about his conversion but had not told MacKenzie. He wanted to warn her that the souls of her unborn children were endangered. But it was not his place and, after all, it was still possible the marriage might not happen. He felt his face burning red as he picked at his lamb ragout. He could not understand why MacKenzie insisted on torturing him. He had no business dining with Papists.

MacKenzie had set aside the black garb of the law for his best suit. Having drunk a number of glasses of claret, he was in relaxed mood, his conversation darting back and forwards between Gaelic and English, leaving Scougall feeling left out. Despite learning a few words, he understood little of the language of the Highlands. He nodded grimly as if he understood more.

At last MacKenzie addressed Seaforth in English. ‘What do you make of the rumours about the Prince of Orange, my Lord?’

‘It’ll come to nothing, John.’ Seaforth spoke in an unusual accent, influenced by the courts of Europe where he had spent much of his life, with little suggestion of a Scots brogue. ‘The Stadtholder will not risk invasion,’ he continued. ‘Getting bogged down in a British war would play into French hands. The people of England and Scotland remain loyal to their King. His policy of toleration looks to a time when all religions are viewed as equal. He wishes men to follow their hearts in religion. Is that not unreasonable?’

‘The aim of toleration is a worthy one,’ replied MacKenzie, refilling the Earl’s glass, ‘but the manner of its introduction is unwise. The Indulgences have unsettled the King’s supporters in Scotland, stirring up a hornet’s nest. ’

Scougall stole a look at Elizabeth who was deep in conversation with her fiancé. They had no interest in politics tonight.

‘You’re too pessimistic,’ Seaforth continued. ‘The lawyer always sees the bottle half empty. The world is changed. Seaforth is a Privy Councillor.’ Scougall found his affectation of referring to himself in the third person annoying. ‘He sits with the great men of the realm, administering the kingdom. He’s raised to the Order of the Thistle and looked upon as a loyal servant of the King. The MacKenzies have never been so favoured. Tarbat is on the Council; Rosehaugh restored as Lord Advocate; a dozen advocates of our name prosper in Edinburgh, including yourself. We rival the Campbells as the most powerful family in the realm. Atholl is weak. Hamilton broods in London.’ He stopped to sip his wine and emphasise what followed. ‘A dukedom is talked of at court. Can you imagine it – the Dukedom of Ross restored, or the Dukedom of Seaforth established! What honour for the clan! What riches it may provide!’

MacKenzie nodded, but his expression had lost its playfulness. He reflected that aristocrats were always puffed up with their own importance, obsessed with obtaining honours at any cost. ‘I believe the King’s policies are foolish, my lord. Our country has no appetite for the Roman religion. The establishment of Jesuits in Edinburgh inflames the fanatics.’

‘The fanatics are diminished since Renwick’s execution. Those of a reasonable disposition may worship in private chapels. They’ve no need to scurry off to the hills.’

‘What say you as a man who favours Presbytery, Davie?’ asked MacKenzie.

Scougall had said little during the meal. He had to be careful what he said. Upsetting an earl would be a mistake, even a Papist one. ‘The King’s Indulgence has allowed many to worship in the manner they wish, though not all,’ he said quietly. ‘The situation has eased for Presbyterians who return from exile. They can listen to sermons in St Magdalene’s Chapel. Only those who keep to the fields are persecuted.’

‘There, John. Sensible words from your man. Toleration’s at the heart of the King’s policies. All should worship as they wish. I would’ve thought that you, as a man of reason, a devotee of the philosophy of the ancients, would support such a position.’

‘I believe the King’s policies aim to promote Papists rather than introduce toleration. King James is a follower of the French way of absolute rule. Toleration is a fine ideal, one which I believe in passionately. But much depends on the way it’s introduced. The hearts and minds of the people must be changed before it’s hoisted upon them. There’s one clear lesson from history – the Scots despise having their religion tampered with by a distant king. On the death of his brother three years ago, King James had Scotland at his feet despite being a Papist. Recall the joyous celebrations on his succession. He’s now hated by half the people in England and Scotland. Never was so much thrown away at so little cost.’

‘What’s he done to deserve his people’s scorn?’ Seaforth asked sharply.

MacKenzie could not stop himself. ‘The people despise the appointment of Papists to the army and government. They scream of arbitrary rule by indulgence rather than parliament. They fear a standing army with Papist officers, while the Navy is neglected. Trouble is brewing across these Kingdoms. The King would be well advised to halt his policies immediately.’

As he had done on countless occasions in the law courts, MacKenzie conquered his rising anger. His earnest expression melted into a smile. He did not want to push Seaforth too far. He was his chief, after all, and that still meant something, although not as much as it used to. He raised his glass. ‘It may all come to nothing, my lord. Men’s minds turn to other matters. The Prince of Orange cast his eyes back to war in Europe. Let’s hope he does not sail for these shores.’

‘I’ll raise a glass to that,’ said Seaforth.

Scougall could not bring himself to make the toast. He raised his glass obediently, but under his breath prayed for a fair wind to deliver William.

‘Let me propose another,’ said MacKenzie, moving the conversation away from politics. Tapping his glass with a spoon, he waited for Elizabeth and Ruairidh to finish their intimate conversation.

‘Welcome to The Hawthorns. Let’s hope a settlement will be reached soon!’

Scougall reluctantly toasted the couple who continued to have eyes only for each other. Visions of their wedding night flashed through his mind – Elizabeth’s body the property of a Papist! He felt a deep desire to be away from The Hawthorns. He did not belong in such company. He yearned for the golf course away from troubling thoughts of politics and women.

5

A Mother’s Despair

THE VIEW FROM her chamber always comforted her, the gardens in the foreground, the rolling hills beyond. Whatever happened in life, whatever trouble, whatever good or ill, the hills were there for her; the hills where she had played as a girl. She had watched them change with the seasons all her life.

She remembered hearing the news of her father’s death when she was a child. He was slain in the battle of Philiphaugh, fighting with the great Montrose. She had idolised the Marquis as a girl. Many of his men viewed him like a God who was invincible in battle until the grim struggle on the banks of the Ettrick and Yarrow ended his remarkable series of victories.

Before the battle, the army had quartered on her family estates. Indeed, Montrose spent the night in their house, the small tower built by her ancestors, sleeping for a couple of hours in the blue chamber where his portrait now took pride of place – a copy of a painting by a Dutch artist showing him in black armour. His words to her were etched on her memory, ‘Your father’s a loyal man, Jean. He serves me and his King’; as was the recollection of his cheek on hers as he kissed her farewell.

She had wished with all her heart that she could have married him, even though he was already wed, and some said he had no time for the caresses of women. She had wished it so much that the remembrance of her passion brought a flush to her cheeks. She would have done anything to change things. Montrose was noble and gentle, despite being a man of war, while she was married to a brute. She had learned there was nothing noble about her husband on her wedding night. At least he spent most of his time fighting in Flanders. She had prayed many times, God forgive her, that a Papist bullet would find his gullet.

She tried to direct her thoughts down other routes, avoiding the pain of the present. But she could not do so for long. Her son’s portrait was also on the chamber wall, painted when he was sixteen. Pain crushed her, taking the strength from her legs. She dropped to her knees, letting out a deep moan as she fought back tears. How could he have done this to her?

He was unlike the other children of the parish, shy and thoughtful, book-loving, eschewing violent games, avoiding the hunt. She had doted on him too much, spoiling him. He was the focus of all her love, for there were no other children despite her husband’s loveless efforts. Her womb remained barren to spite him.

The news of his conversion was like a knife in her heart. She perceived in an instant what trouble it would bring. Others were doing likewise, even some of the great men in the land, like Perth and Melfort, turning to Rome to seek favour with the King. But however much she rationalised it, telling herself that he might be rewarded at court in London, or find a position as a man of business for one of the Papist lords, the thought that her only son was a follower of Rome disturbed her to the core of her being.

When her husband found out, he had beaten the boy senseless. She had feared for his life, so violent was the attack. He had accepted the blows almost with pleasure and she was forced to throw herself between them to stop his kicks. The boy spent a week in bed recovering and while he lay in his chamber, she had tried all means of persuasion, offering him travel in Europe, the chance to remain at court in London, even though they could not afford it, the opportunity to follow any profession he desired, if he would abandon the Whore of Babylon. Her husband left for his regiment saying he wanted no more to do with him. He was no longer his son.

She had asked the minister to talk with Alexander in an attempt to turn him from his folly, but all persuasion pushed him further into the arms of Antichrist. She wondered what sins she had committed to have been given such a husband and such a son. But she could think of none, other than a little vanity as a young woman which was entirely crushed out of her, for she now cared nothing for her own fate.

She had pleaded with him, begged him on knees; prostrated herself before him, saying she would do anything if he would change his mind, if he would reject the priests who were practising in Scotland, if he would return to the fold of the Protestant church. But he only smiled at her. He could not change his mind. He was happy for the first time in his life, content with himself at last. All he asked was that she accept his decision.

Then he was gone, she knew not where. Perhaps he was off to live with friends in Edinburgh or London or in overseas lands. She was left with nothing but the small estates which she managed for her husband who cared little for land or tenants.

The hills were her only consolation. Their bleak beauty reflected her own despair.

For months she heard nothing and she wondered if she would ever see him again. Then, a few days ago, a letter arrived. It was a strange epistle, asserting his love for her, but passionately proclaiming that he sought to serve God; that he must do a great deed to further the cause of the true religion. She was not to worry, all would be well in the end.

She felt a great weight of foreboding as she read it, for she sensed in his words the certainty of the fanatic. God knew what he would do. He was lost to her. She had no one left in the world. But she was still a mother. She must travel to Edinburgh where the letter was posted. She would bring him all she had left: love and tenderness. She would try one last time to persuade him.

6

The Music of the Virginal

MACKENZIE RECALLED HIS wife’s proficiency on the instrument. She would play in the evenings, while he read beside her. They were blissful times. It felt like someone else’s life. But he sat in the same chair in the same room. Where was it she had gone?

Looking up now and again from his Cicero, he had believed he was the luckiest man alive. Watching her belly swell week after week, their contentment in the life they had made together. But if there was one law in which he believed, it was that everything changes; good times lead on to bad, and sure enough, his fortune deserted him.

She had gone into labour at four o’clock in the afternoon. It was their first child and a very long one. He waited in the library beneath for hour after hour, listening intently. Finally there was the noise of a child, then a dreadful silence. The expression on the midwife’s face still haunted him twenty years later. Her forlorn expression greeted him when he woke each morning; her words were implanted in his memory. ‘I’m sorry, sir.’

Before that day, he had lived a blessed life. But the years since were a long road of despair. Sometimes, life was unbearable, so great was the pain of loss. His desire for self-destruction was almost overpowering. Somehow he had not succumbed to the darkness. He went on like a clock or a machine. The dullness of the law was an antidote to the agony. He looked after his daughter, watching her grow into a beautiful young woman. The years passed – nineteen since his wife had died.

Where was it she had gone? Was she still somewhere? Was her essence preserved somewhere – in heaven? If there was a heaven, she would surely be waiting for him. But how could there be one? He saw in his mind’s eye the black fleck of a bird far away against a sky drained of colour, circling, waiting to come nearer.