Flora McIvor Read online

  ‘Forgive me, Flora, but I must go to meet an unexpected guest.’

  ‘Who is that?’

  ‘Captain Waverley of Waverley Honour.’

  ‘An English officer is our guest?’

  ‘He comes from an old Jacobite family, and he is staying with the good Baron at Tullyveolan.’

  ‘I thought you were in dispute with Baron Bradwardine.’

  ‘A mere trifle of missing cattle. That misunderstanding has been washed away by our retrieval of beasts lifted by Donald Lean. Evan Dhu has been about the business.’

  ‘Donald Lean is a rogue, and I don’t know why you indulge him,’ chided Flora, galled to think how McIvor’s association with that lawless cateran must look in the eyes of the Baron and his gently educated daughter, Rose.

  ‘Even rogues have their uses.’ The lines round Fergus’ dark McIvor eyes crinkled in a smile which his mouth refused. ‘It is Donald that has brought Edward Waverley to Castle McIvor at this moment.’

  ‘Is he a serving officer?’

  ‘His regiment is stationed at Dundee. But we need the Jacobite English above all men.’

  ‘Would Waverley of Waverley Honour desert his commission?’

  ‘He is on leave visiting the Baron. Their families, as you know, served together in the Rising of 1715. We cannot ask anything dishonourable of our guest, but when the time comes for action… We must test his intentions, and encourage a change of heart.’

  ‘Are things really at a crisis, Fergus?’ Flora had taken hold of her brother’s arm and pulled him a little towards her.

  The McIvor eyes swivelled out of focus. His face became blank, smooth skinned. ‘I must go or we will be late. Come, Calum,’ he shouted over Flora’s shoulder, ‘we’ll go and meet Euan Dhu on the way.’

  The figure sweeping from the hall, followed by his personal attendant, was compact and sturdy; he seemed to take all the energy with him out of the room. His less than average height was balanced by broad shoulders, controlled force and poise. Though traditionally equipped with sword, pistols and dirk, Fergus wore tartan trews and sported a stylish bonnet with three eagle feathers. His dark beard was closely trimmed with the rest of his tanned face shaven and shining.

  Flora dipped some bread in cream and slowly scooped up porridge from a wooden bowl. After chewing a few mouthfuls she retired back to her chamber on the topmost storey to reconsider the dressing of her own unruly raven hair.

  Later in the morning, in accordance with the routine of recent months, MacMurrough the Bard appeared to give Flora instruction in the music of the clarsach. Using a combination of her childhood Gaelic, the clan poet’s elementary English, and the universal language of music, steady progress was being made. Yet Flora’s attention was not on the old man’s lessons.

  ‘We are expecting a guest.’

  ‘An English.’

  ‘Yes, but not any Englishman. Captain Waverley is a soldier of ancient family, loyal to our king.’

  ‘The king over the water!’ MacMurrough looked round for a flask from which he could pledge his loyalty. ‘We are in strange times to be welcoming a redcoat.’

  ‘Perhaps, you will compose a poem for the occasion?’ Flora was unsure of the etiquette, yet knew that the Bard could compose spontaneously when he chose.

  ‘The Bard will sing in honour of his chief.’

  ‘Of course,’ Flora acquiesced, ‘yet the chief’s guests are also deserving of honour.’

  MacMurrough began to stroke the strings and to recite some classic verses about the beauty, strength, fame, endurance, audacity, wisdom and virtue of Fergus McIvor, culminating with his generosity to poets and harpers. As Flora murmured appreciation the Bard began a catalogue of all the Highland clans and their qualities. Flora was barely able to follow but understood that the selection of MacDonalds, McDonells, MacLeans, Camerons and MacNeills, amongst others, was based on their allegiance to the exiled Stuarts.

  Then came an unfamiliar verse that Flora made MacMurrough repeat until she had the sense and the melody at her own command.

  Fair-haired stranger from the land that is green

  Whose steed is shining and smooth as raven’s wing

  And raises its head to neigh like the eagle’s battle cry,

  Remember the faith and courage of your forbears,

  The loyalty they held in their hearts without faltering.

  Clearly, Fergus had already briefed the Bard as to what might be required, and Flora was happy to follow suit, till she had the song fully learned.

  After MacMurough’s withdrawal, Flora called Nicolette, to wash her hair and curl its tumbling waves into more orderly ringlets. This evening had turned into a test for the young McIvors, who had been left orphans and exiles to pick up the ragged threads of their heritage. Flora was determined to succeed whatever the cost to herself. Even the small pension she received from the will of Clementina Sobieski, her deceased royal mistress, had been diverted to the support of the clan’s officers, not least the Bard and his extended family. When her hair was dried, Flora had her best silks laid out on the bed. Despite several variations of ribbon and lace, pride of place remained with the McIvor plaid wrapped round her bare white shoulders. The combination even viewed in her mottled mirror was striking.

  By late afternoon Flora was out on the battlements which were still warmed by sunlight coming from the western side of the glen. There were a few boats still on the loch but the main activity was on the other side of Castle McIvor. In the distance, straggles of people could be seen moving out of the townships. Closer to hand these appeared as family groups heading towards the evening gathering. Below the walls, clansmen were milling about in their best philabegs, fully armed with claymores, pistols, dirks and metal studded shields slung over their shoulders. At their centre a smaller group – the chief’s personal bodyguard – held Lochaber axes in addition to their other weapons. There was no sign of Fergus.

  Suddenly the sound of bagpipes was heard from the lochside. One of the boats had pushed ashore and Flora could see three figures stepping out. First unmistakably came the tall frame of Evan Dhu, then Fergus, and lastly, helped out by Evan, a slender red-coated stranger. The three began to walk towards the castle, gathering an escort as they came.

  Meanwhile the bustle below had formed itself into an assembly. The men stood in curved rows fanning out from the gateway, each rank bristling with weapons. As the three figures came closer there was a strange groaning as more bagpipes were swelled, and a wave of sound broke into the air. When the chief himself appeared the men clashed swords on shields and shouted in acclamation. Fergus stopped with the redcoat at his side and Evan behind. He raised his hand and silence fell.

  ‘The McIvor is honoured by the greeting of his people. And our clan is honoured to welcome Edward Waverley. You must excuse our customs, Captain Waverley. I had forgotten that some of my clansmen were gathering today for our feast.’

  At a signal from Evan, the clashing of swords and skirling of pipes broke out again. Listening now from the shelter of her room, Flora could imagine the tall fair-haired stranger being ushered through the battered gates, as if this display of martial tradition was a routine hardly worth particular notice. As yet, Flora herself had been unable to get a good look at the young man whom Fergus was so determined to impress.

  By the time Flora was summoned to the high table of the feast everyone was in their places. As she approached, Captain Waverley rose to his feet and she nodded in acknowledgement of his courtesy but slipped past unnoticed to her seat on Fergus’ left hand. The din was deafening and ruled out polite conversation.

  The chief and his principal guests sat at an extended top section of a huge oak table which stretched the length of the hall which in turn took up the whole ground floor of the castle. Below Fergus, Waverley and visitors from neighbouring clans were Clan McIvor’s main land holders, most of whom were related through ties of blood or ancient obligation to the chief. Next were the officers of the chief’s household an
d below them again the clansmen, small farmers and cottars who made up the body of the clan. On this occasion the feast continued on trestles out the hall doors into the courtyard and then onto the green beyond. The lower tables were surrounded by landless men, dependents, women, children and finally a tumultuous host of dogs which having come in various company were now vying lustily for place and attention.

  Men and women moved busily about the tables bringing food, replenishing drinking vessels and scooping up leftovers to carry down to the dogs and humans, who were below even the lowest table. Those at the high end were eating from boards and ashets piled with finely dressed cuts of venison, mountain hare, whole salmon, grouse and ptarmigan. Further down the table were roughly hewn joints of mutton and beef, but the centrepiece was a whole roast lamb still standing upright with a sprig of parsley stuck in its mouth. Those nearby hacked at the carcass with their dirks.

  Further down again were pots of broth, cheese, onions and oatcakes, supplemented by the leftovers from higher up. These supplies were constantly passed on to the crowd outside. Drinks were administered in the same degree with champagne and claret flowing at the top end while whisky and then strong beer were poured as the table descended. At the far end penny ale found its way in copious quantities through the hall doors so ensuring that none felt slighted or excluded.

  Since her own arrival some months before, Flora had experienced many clan feasts but there was something hectic and raucous about this occasion. There were more armed clansmen gathered than she had seen before; barely suppressed excitement and even fervour seemed to possess the whole company. Flora wondered what Captain Waverley of Waverley Honour would make of such an excess of Highland custom. It was certainly too noisy to ask, as neighbours competed to be heard across a table that looked increasingly like the aftermath of a battle.

  Then suddenly the hubbub subsided. Bidden or unbidden, MacMurrough had taken up his place beside the fire. He stood small harp in hand, as the last voices died away, and when the Bard was satisfied he had the assembly’s full attention he struck his first chord. Flora knew what was coming and followed closely. First was the traditional panegyric of the chief, his ancestry, valour and virtue, the strength of his fighting men, the loyalty of his whole clan to their last breath. Next came praise of neighbouring and allied clans, at which their representatives at the high table rose and bowed in gracious recognition. Then came the verse praising Waverley. Flora stole a glance in his direction as did many others in the hall. The young visitor remained still and formally upright, though clearly gripped by this unfamiliar performance.

  Then abruptly the music changed to a more vigorous tempo. MacMurrough struck the strings with renewed force and poured a passionate river of angry words into the atmosphere. This was unexpected but Flora recognised the form if not the precise meaning. This was a call to arms and incitement to battle. She could feel the pent up energy build till it could be held back no longer and with a full throated roar the long table took up the refrain, fists, knives and gun butts beating on the oak boards.

  MacMurrough let it play out, and then as adroitly pulled back the volume and pace, and the company subsided with him. As the Bard let the last chords fall into silent place he turned and bowed deeply towards his chief. In reply Fergus rose to his feet and raised a delicately chiselled silver cup to the Bard before draining it in one quaff. Then he passed the cup to an attendant who took it in gift to MacMurrough. At this the whole crowd burst out once again in cheering and applause. The poet raised his cup in triumph.

  As MacMurrough stepped away from the cavernous stone fireplace a piper struck up. Flora knew this was the signal for redoubled drinking that would go on through the rest of the evening. It was time for her to retreat and prepare to receive Waverley in her withdrawing room on the top floor of the old tower.

  ‘This is my sister’s kingdom, Captain Waverley. My writ does not run here, since she is as much a power in Clan McIvor. For our people tradition is everything, and Flora has drunk more deeply at that stream.’

  ‘That is exactly what interests me,’ replied a cultured, pleasantly modulated voice, ‘the civilisation of your Highland nation.’

  ‘Well, you will find satisfaction here then, despite the steep ascent. I am a mere soldier, weighed down by practical affairs.’

  Flora could hear this exchange as the voices came up the last steps and through her door. The room they entered was spartan by Waverley’s standards, and even by those of the Palazzo Muti, yet good taste was on display wherever you looked. Two high backed carved chairs sat either side of a modest fireplace. Old French tapestries softened bare stone walls, and in the middle of the room a small circular table of polished wood set off some Venetian glass which glowed in the light of the fire. Against the south wall, beneath a narrow window slit, was an escritoire on top of which was ranged a row of leather bound literary volumes, French, English and Italian. Some small devotional books were laid on the desk top.

  There was a recess on the north side in which Nicolette sat demurely on a low stool. But the centrepiece of the chamber was its mistress who sat on the fire’s right hand, upright and elegant. Flora’s resemblance to her brother was immediately apparent, but whereas he breathed vigour and repressed energy her face appeared fragile in repose like fine white porcelain. The intense pallor of her skin set off the dark eyes and black hair tumbling down her neck. Yet Flora’s delicate frame sat firmly in the cradle of the chair, possessed by its own strength of resolve.

  ‘My dear Flora, here is Captain Waverley to make your acquaintance. I must tell you, before I return to the barbarous rituals of our forefathers, that young Waverley is a worshipper of the Celtic muse, as of tonight – not least because he does not understand a word of Gaelic. I have assured him that you are eminent as a translator of Highland poetry and that MacMurrough highly esteems your versions of his bardachd, on the same principle as Waverley admires the originals, namely he doesn’t understand the language. Please have the goodness to recite to our guest the string of names MacMurrough tacked together this evening. I am sure you have a version since you are in the Bard’s councils and know every new song before he rehearses them in the hall.’

  Waverley seemed to stoop slightly in embarrassment without in any way denying his enthusiasm.

  ‘Fergus, how can these verses possibly interest an English stranger? Even if I could translate them as you claim.’

  ‘They have interest enough for me,’ complained the chief, ‘since they’ve cost me the last of my silver cups.’

  ‘When the hand of the chief is closed, the breath of the Bard is frozen,’ Flora quoted.

  ‘Quite so, and God knows what I can give him next time the Muse has a thaw. There are three things useless for today’s Highlander – a sword he cannot draw, a Bard to sing of deeds he dare not emulate, and a goatskin sporran that lacks a single golden guinea.’

  ‘Don’t believe him, Captain Waverley. Fergus holds MacMurrough to be easily Homer’s equal, and he would not give up his goatskin purse for a bagful of Louis d’Ors.’

  ‘Well, I must leave you to talk poetry as the elders of Ivor await their hereditary rights of usquebagh.’ With which Fergus left the room.

  ‘He means whisky, Captain. The men will insist on stronger liquor as the evening proceeds. Please, sit down. I cannot offer you the water of life but I do have a sweet Rhenish wine.’

  Nicolette came forward to pour two glasses from the old Venetian descanter.

  ‘You are very kind, Miss McIvor,’ said Waverley raising his glass, ‘and your brother was not teasing. I was very struck by the Bard’s eloquence.’

  ‘Have you studied much in literature?’

  ‘A great deal. I was not able to attend school in England because of my family’s beliefs, so I was educated by a tutor and by living in my uncle’s library at Waverley Honour. Yet despite its many volumes I do not remember reading anything of Highland literature.’

  ‘That is because it is more spoken than
written. MacMurrough and his kind have extraordinary powers of memory to which they are trained from an early age.’

  ‘What are their poems about?’

  ‘The feats of heroes, woes of lovers, cattle raids, as you already know, and the wars of contending tribes. These are the entertainment at every Highland fireside, and were those poems to be translated into the European languages, I believe they would be a sensation.’

  ‘As you say, I have experienced the cattle raid – the creagh as Evan Dhu calls it – and the pursuit. Our parley with Donald Lean the raider took place in a cave on the lakeside which could only be reached by boat.’

  ‘Did you meet Donald’s lovely daughter, Captain Waverley?’

  ‘I was kindly waited on, Miss McIvor, by a very handsome Highland lass.’

  ‘Lassies, indeed, Captain – you are turning native, even on your first visit.’

  Waverley smiled and blushed at the same time. There was something retiring and winning in his delicate features. The even nose, high forehead and finely modelled chin were set in motion by eyes as deep brown in colour as his neatly tied hair was light. Having discarded the officer’s standard white wig, Waverley looked, natural and at ease with the tan that life in the hills was already conferring on his well bred skin.

  ‘And what about the Bard’s song this evening? Am I right in thinking there was some reference to me in the verses?’

  ‘There was – amidst a catalogue of names and praisings. The Bards can extemporise new verses on the wing of the moment in response to the situation.’

  ‘I would like to know what he said about me, if you –’

  ‘And you shall, Captain Waverley, but not here. You must encounter the Highland muse in her proper setting. Nicolette, fetch Calum to carry the clarsach. We have no garden here but nature herself provides the perfect theatre.’