A Falcon for a Queen Page 2

  ‘You’re cold,’ the man said. ‘I’m sorry. It was thoughtless of me to have put you up here on the box. I could have ridden down there with you. But I’ve been a week in Edinburgh and when I’ve been away from here I have a terrible longing to be back. And when I’m back I have to sit up high, and see it all again. I know I’m home then.’

  ‘I’m not cold,’ I answered. ‘Perhaps just tired. And I know what you mean ‒ about seeing it all …’ There was so much to see, to try to know. It was beautiful; even my tired, bewildered gaze could appreciate that. Beautiful, but not soft. We passed from clumps of trees to vistas of open meadows, and beyond them boggy moorland. The wind raced through the young green crops; we seemed to climb and descend endlessly ‒ sometimes through open expanses of moor, sometimes the road wound down and up a glen so narrow that the very light seemed to be shut out. As the clouds scudded before the wind, from time to time I saw the mountains ‒ I knew they had to be part of the Cairngorm Range. I had studied the map of Scotland so many times since Angus Macdonald’s letter. We passed little cottages huddled where they could find a vestige of shelter ‒ I knew the snows would come here, as they did in China. It was strange and wild, and it exhilarated me in a way I had not expected. My mother’s blood was in me also, I thought. Suddenly I began to understand the feeling of recognition which must have stirred in William.

  Then I saw it ‒ a great place perched on a craggy outcrop above a river, a river whose white water tumbled and sparkled even on this grey afternoon. The place itself was high and old, turreted and battlemented; the centre building was of a great age, and had once been a fortress dominating the narrow pass through the glen. But obviously when times had grown more peaceful, portions had been added to it, and gardens laid out in broad terraces that descended to the river. Despite the gardens, its splendour had still a kind of grimness about it.

  ‘What is that?’

  ‘Ballochtorra.’

  It was a name already in my heart; William would lie buried somewhere near.

  ‘Who lives there?’

  ‘A Campbell.’ Then he added, turning and half-smiling at me ‒ the first time I had seen a smile. ‘I do.’

  ‘Then why did you say it like that? ‒ a Campbell?’

  ‘Because you, Miss Howard, are a Macdonald, whether you’re called that or not. In Scottish history, ever since the massacre at Glencoe ‒ oh, and before that, even ‒ the Macdonalds and the Campbells are thought to be implacable enemies. It wasn’t always true, of course. Often they had fought on the same side ‒ just as often they’ve faced each other with drawn swords. As have most clans in Scotland. They’ve raided each other’s cattle and castles. They’ve taken each other’s women. Sometimes they’ve even arranged peaceful marriages. But you and I ‒ we’re supposed by outsiders to be hereditary enemies, but in fact it was different septs of our clans who were involved at Glencoe. You are a Macdonald of Glanranald, and I’m a Campbell of Cawdor. But still it was Campbells who were quartered on Macdonalds at Glencoe, and who took their hospitality, and who slew them that morning in the February snow ‒ all from seven to seventy years old. Five o’clock in the morning, and many of them tumbling out of their beds, and ending lying naked and dead in the snow. It isn’t forgiven or forgotten ‒ even if the Macdonalds were rebels against King William of Orange ‒ and the Campbells were said merely to be carrying out orders. That it was done by stealth by men living in the houses of their victims is what is not forgiven. It happened more than two hundred years ago, but we’re still supposed to hate each other. Scotland’s been peaceful for a long time now, and it’s only fanatics who keep bringing up the Stuarts and Bonnie Prince Charlie. We have our old Hanoverian queen living here among us, and none would think of harming her, or her son. But it’s a romantic, foolish game we Scots play that all the clans still share ties of brotherhood and blood. We’ve been as cruel to each other as men could be ‒ Ballochtorra there would tell its tales, and its dungeons were there for other reasons than storing wines. But your name is Macdonald and my name is Campbell; and we’re supposed never to let the memory of Glencoe die. Even though you and I are distant cousins.’

  I sat upright.‘Cousins? How?’

  He shrugged. ‘It does happen. Oh, it’s an odd story, and your grandfather would like to keep its memory bright, because he won himself a great personal victory from it. He won the best that Ballochtorra owned. He won the dower house of Ballochtorra, which is Cluain. With it he won the best lands in the strath, the lands that in the old days gave Ballochtorra its grain and cattle ‒ gave it the lands to rent out to tenant farmers, who in turn gave service to the Campbells in times of trouble, so that the chief of the Campbells would protect their lands and houses, their women and children. Most would take the name of Campbell ‒ or Macdonald or Frazer or Grant ‒ whatever was the name of the chief they served. That’s how the clan system worked then, when it was a real need, not a decoration. They clung together for mutual protection, as families do. And as families do, they often quarrelled. It was a system. It worked in its time. But that time is over now. On the order of the English, after the Stuarts’ last hope vanished with Prince Charlie at Culloden, the clan system was broken. For many years no Highlander could wear the tartan, or bear arms. But we would do better to forget it, or at least understand where it belongs. It would be better if you and I were not expected to mistrust and dislike each other just because of our names.’

  ‘Montague and Capulet …’

  He sighed, a sound I heard even above the wind. ‘Yes, Montague and Capulet, if you like. Forgive me for indulging in all this, lecturing on something you perhaps already know ‒ but you will perhaps be happier here if you remember a few of these things.’ We were crossing a graceful arched stone bridge, and he glanced up at the heights of Ballochtorra. ‘That was one of the things so attractive about William ‒ he had many qualities we all liked. He was like a clean wind blowing through all this nonsense. He hadn’t come with any preconceived ideas. He didn’t hate Campbells because of their name. And he went against everything your grandfather believed in when he came to visit at Ballochtorra.’

  ‘He always said he would be his own man.’

  ‘He was. I never believed he would do anything he didn’t want to do. You were very fond of William.’ It was said in the same matter-of-fact tone.

  ‘I had only one brother. In China one is isolated. There are fewer of one’s own kind. I hardly know how other brothers and sisters feel about each other ‒ if they are as close as we were. He was the elder ‒ he led me everywhere. For a long time I didn’t know what to think before asking William. He was like Father ‒ but so much nearer my age.’

  ‘And he led you here?’

  ‘Perhaps.’

  We had started on the steep ascent again, the road winding up around the castle to take the bend along the shelf of the crag. We came to a gatehouse, stone-built, but quite new, I thought ‒ turreted in the fashion of the castle; splendid iron gates were embellished with a gold-tipped shield, the armorial bearings a bird of some sort, with long arched neck, like a hissing swan. The gold leaf was so fresh I could read the motto above the bird. Be mindful. I wondered if it were meant as advice or warning.

  I could not help the touch of acid; ‘For those who have lost their best lands to another clan, you appear to be very prosperous.’

  He nodded. ‘Oh, yes ‒ our good farming lands are gone. What we still have are the moors for rich men to shoot on.’

  ‘Then you are rich.’

  ‘Let us say my wife is rich.’

  I was too tired; I couldn’t take in any more of it. So I let the remark slide past me. I knew that soon I would face Cluain, and whatever waited for me there, I felt my shoulders sag, and it was then I truly began to feel the cold. The trees that had been cleared to give the castle its prominence were appearing again, an ancient planting of oak and beech. We were rounding the bend and coming out into a broad meadowland beside the river when I saw him. It would have
been easy to miss him. He stood within the shadow of a beech, and the leaves above him were the only things that moved; the dog at his side was just as motionless. The man was dark ‒ I could barely see his face in the shadow; he wore a kilt, some faded red pattern it was, and a ragged sheepskin jerkin above it. He looked at us steadily; his hand was raised, but not in greeting. We were almost past before I saw the bird perched on that raised gloved hand. A large bird, what kind I didn’t know, but with intensely dark eyes, as still and unblinking as the man and the dog. Perhaps they all moved their eyes to watch us, but none turned a head. Oddly, though, Campbell, beside me, raised his whip in brief, rather curt, salute; the man did not respond. Then they were behind us, that strange trio, and somehow I managed not to turn my own head to look back at them.

  ‘What will you do at Cluain?’

  ‘Who knows. Perhaps I won’t stay.’

  We went on in silence for some time. Then he said: ‘Angus Macdonald was bitterly grieved by William’s death. William must have seemed an answer to all his hopes. I have only glimpsed him once in the months since then. He seemed to me very aged. Perhaps it would be a kindness if you made yourself stay, whatever happens.’

  ‘Does that mean you believe I will not be welcome? I told you I was not expected.’

  ‘Who’s to say? Cluain is not an ordinary household. If you should need a friend … if you should need somewhere to come, Ballochtorra is close by.’

  ‘And your wife ‒ will she welcome me?’

  ‘She will welcome whomever I do. She welcomes a lot that I don’t. That is no reflection on her, but on me. I’m not … very sociable.’

  ‘You have done me a service for which I’m sure my grandfather would wish to thank you. I’m sure Cluain will not fail in the Highland hospitality you were speaking of. After all ‒ as you said ‒ I am his only grandchild.’ And then quickly added, to cover myself, ‘Most likely I will not stay long.’

  ‘Not stay? A pity …’ A pity for whom, I wondered. But now he was gesturing again with his whip, and the reins urged the horse to a quicker gait. ‘There it is now ‒ Cluain.’

  It stood there alone in the broad meadows that rose gently from the river; the wind riffled through the young green grain; the cattle grazed the early summer grasses on the higher pastures, and those down towards the river. The cloud had lifted, and the mountains were clear and sharp, the wind blowing straight off them. I could not easily pick out the dwelling-house of Cluain, because the other buildings dominated it. There were not just the usual outbuildings of a good farm, but a long series of identical stone sheds, adjoining one another, which must be used for warehousing, I thought. Then there was the odd stone pile with chimneys that ended in pagoda-like domes that might have come there straight from China. It was a strange sight ‒ the grouping of buildings in the midst of a rural scene, like some factory pile lifted from the industrial North through which the train had taken me, but with these stones cleansed of soot and grime by the slashing rain from the mountains. I had not known what to expect a whisky distillery to look like, but this had not been in my mind.

  ‘Angus Macdonald claims,’ Campbell said, ‘that he makes the finest malt whisky in the whole Highlands, and I’ve never heard anyone seriously dispute that claim. Now he is old, and William had become his great hope. I’m afraid he is a very sad and angry man …’

  II

  The road down from Ballochtorra’s crag had taken such a wide curve to bring it to the level of the river meadows that now it had to wind back on itself to approach Cluain; the whole group of buildings faced us on a diagonal, so that we looked into the very centre of it. The house I could now identify ‒ the first building we would reach, the smallest and oldest. There was a stable block, and a cobbled yard that served stables and house and distillery. Across the road, beginning in a line with the distillery, began the long row of warehouse buildings. These were low ‒ one storey only, but with roofs and dark slate. Although the pagoda chimneys of the distillery dominated the scene, the brooding bulk of the warehouses ‒ stretching along the road like a great gabled terrace ‒ had a compelling quality about them, a sense of permanence. From the height of Ballochtorra I had seen the roofs of farm buildings behind the distillery, and strung out along the road past the warehouses, some cottages with garden plots. A town all to itself, it seemed, and yet strangely quiet, as if everyone had gone and left it.

  But it did not remain quiet. A dog barked, and as the landau drew near to the house a great flock of geese came at a wild run from the direction of the warehouses, hissing and shrieking. Behind me I heard Stevens’s half-stifled oath, and Campbell had to hold the horse in tighter to prevent it shying. Stevens slipped out of his seat and went to the horse’s head; we moved on at a slow walk, and Campbell tossed the whip to Stevens, who used it to gesture the geese away. Finally, even the big gander in charge of the flock began reluctantly to accept our presence; he gave a honking signal, and the whole white stream of birds turned and waddled back to the warehouses, delighted, I guessed, with the fuss they had caused.

  ‘Damned animals,’ Stevens grumbled. ‘They should not be allowed. This is a public highway.’

  Campbell did not answer him. The flurry of geese seemed to have brought no one to mark our arrival. The landau now stood before the house. In the confusion, I had not had time to look at it closely, but now it took on its overwhelming importance, as the very heart of Cluain. It was not, as we stood beside it, after all, so small. It was simply that the other buildings were bigger. They all shared the same, almost painful, neatness. The house was much the oldest of the group ‒ the dower house of Ballochtorra, it would have stood for perhaps two centuries before the distillery. It was L-shaped, built about two sides of a courtyard. The high stone wall of this courtyard was flush to the wall of the house itself, and an ancient studded door, like the door of the house, faced directly on to the road. Despite the noise of our arrival, both remained unyieldingly closed. The whole structure was built of massive, irregularly cut stone, two-storeyed, with gabled windows in the steep-pitched roof. What lifted it from the mere dignity of its age and good lines was a piece of sheer fantasy. Where the two wings of the building joined, a tower rose, its slightly inward-inclining walls reaching well above the rest of the house, and capped with a perfect rondel of slate, and a magnificently ornate weather vane. Its total proportions were so perfect that it seemed almost like a child’s toy piece. My eye had long been educated to the studied delicacy of the Chinese houses, their walls and courtyards, the exquisite sense of detail that was not absent from anything they fashioned, so I responded to this place as if I had been born to it ‒ as William must also have done. He had written that Cluain was beautiful; how beautiful, and in what way, he had not said.

  Stevens went and banged the knocker on the door; it seemed to be minutes before we caught a glimpse of a figure near the window of one of the front rooms, and almost as long before the door at last opened. The woman who stood there wasted no effort on taking in the details of the scene; her gaze went at once to me, and eyes ‒ brilliant, dark, deeply set, and shadowed with black brows and lashes, seemed to scour me with their examination. She was dressed in servant’s dress, completely black, even to the apron, severe, unadorned. Black hair, streaked with silver, was drawn sharply to the back of her head; it was a handsome face. Tall, slender, she had an unassailable dignity, standing there, just looking at me.

  Even the man beside me, so cool and self-assured until now, seemed struck with the same feeling as I. I could feel my throat dry. So, in the end, it was the woman who spoke first.

  ‘If you had sent a telegram, we would have sent the trap. You are William Howard’s sister.’

  How had she known? I was not so much like him. But she gave the impression that she knew things most people did not.

  I struggled for composure; I was not going to be put out by a servant. But she was like no servant I had ever encountered. I made a movement, and Campbell came to life, leaping down o
ff the seat, and hurrying round to help me down. Stevens had returned to hold the horse. I advanced towards the woman. ‘Mr Macdonald is at home?’

  ‘And why would Mr Macdonald be at home at this time of day? We work at Cluain.’

  The insult was deliberate, telling me that if I expected to put her in her place I must know that I first had to find it. As I came closer I saw that she was older than she had seemed. There were fine lines in her pale skin, many lines; and then I saw her hands. They were shockingly red and worn with work, the skin broken at the knuckles as if caustic soap had bitten into it. But she held them before her like a badge of virtue, despising all who could not boast of gainful toil.

  ‘I may wait then?’

  She held the door a little wider. ‘Aye, certainly you may. I see you have brought your bags …’ She did not pause to see the effect of the remark, but turned and called over her shoulder, as if she knew someone would be close by. ‘Morag … you are needed.’

  From the back of the hall a girl came at once, and indeed she had been waiting and listening. She rushed forward, like a sudden flaring of light beside that dark figure; red curling hair spilled without discipline from her cap; she had red, soft, full lips and golden amber eyes. It was a perfect little heart-shaped face with white skin that flushed to apricot with excitement. No more than the woman beside her did she look like a servant, but she wore a white apron, and she bobbed me a slight curtsy.