Flora McIvor Page 3

  Within minutes a small procession left the Castle by a side gate, bypassing the wild merriment in the hall. Flora went first, wrapped warmly in her plaid. Next came Waverley, carefully steered by Nicolette onto a narrow footpath. Calum, a kilted clansman, brought up the rear shouldering a harp much larger than the one MacMurrough had held in the crook of his arm by the fireside. The accompanying stool was in his free hand.

  Dusk was beginning to descend as the party made its way up the steep slope above Castle McIvor on its eastern side, where the edge of the valley came close to the tower. Soon the path began to wind between rocky outcrops causing everyone to carefully mind their footfall. After a while the ascent twisted past a massive boulder and unexpectedly led onto an enclosed glade of stunted trees. For some time the climbers’ route had been following a burn which clattered down the hill but the stream now levelled out, stretching across the natural enclosure towards a precipitous rock face down which poured a tumult of pure water.

  Flora seemed to know her spot and gestured to Calum to set down stool and clarsach at this edge of the grove, where the roar of the waterfall was softened by distance. Without further ado she took up position at her instrument.

  ‘Now, Captain Waverley, I shall attempt MacMurrough’s ode in English, accompanied by the true muses of all Highland bardachd – wind and water.’

  The young Englishman stood speechless by the burn as the performance began. Nicolette cowered beneath the trees, a position which was guaranteed to attract every insect the evening had so far hatched to her soft skin.

  Mist darkens the mountain,

  Night creeps through the vale,

  But darker by far is the sleep of the Gael.

  The targe and the sword are hidden by dust,

  The bloodless claymore reddened with rust.

  But the black hours of dark and of sleep are past

  Dawn on our mountain is shining at last –

  Glenaladale’s peaks are lit by the rays,

  The streams of Glenfinnan afire with the blaze.

  Flora’s singing voice was mellow but distinctly articulated. She glided harmoniously into a catalogue of Highland clans responsive to the Jacobite cause, followed by the standard praises of Clan McIvor. In between the two, she repeated MacMurrough’s verse about Waverley, who blushed more deeply than ever at hearing himself described as a Gaelic hero. Finally Flora took up the brosnachadh rhythm, summoning those heroes for conquest or death.

  Be the torch of each chieftain like Fionn the fair

  The blood in his veins like fierce streaming fire.

  Break the base foreign chains as your fathers before,

  Spill blood to break free, and bear it no more.

  There were further verses on similar lines, but suddenly a huge deerhound loped into the clearing followed quickly by Fergus, who seemed as fresh as the dog and unaffected by the feasting.

  ‘I knew I would find you here. Have you drunk deep from the Muse’s spring, Waverley?’

  As he spoke, Fergus bent down and scooped a handful of the fast flowing stream to his mouth.

  ‘I have been beautifully instructed in the mysteries of the Highland Bard,’ Waverley responded bowing courteously towards Flora.

  ‘No mystery there, believe me. MacMurrough has now consumed a pint of my best whisky to counteract, he says, the chill of the claret. Anyway Bran and I have come to fetch you back. Dancing is called but the pipers refuse to play unless the lady of the house takes the floor.’

  ‘And all you can offer them, Fergus, is a poor sister.’

  ‘And a poor chief, but the fortunes of our house are once more on the turn. It lies with us to seize the moment.’

  Awaiting neither reply nor reaction, Fergus whistled on Bran and led the way back down to Castle McIvor. The great table had been shoved back, and clansmen were already forming up for a reel. It seemed that for Waverley the evening’s instruction in Gaelic customs was set to continue.

  The next day a message was sent down with Calum to the Baron of Bradwardine, announcing that Waverley would stay at the Castle for a fortnight. Fergus was talking of a traditional gathering for the deer hunt, and the English guest had begun to take a serious interest in Flora’s lessons on Highland culture. As if to emphasise he was on official leave from his regiment in Dundee, Waverley abandoned his uniform in favour of tartan trews and a plain jacket. After mornings spent walking and riding, he would join Flora in her drawing room, with or without Fergus, depending on the chief’s daily business.

  ‘You would be well entertained at Tullyveolan, Captain Waverley.’

  ‘Arriving there was like a family reunion, so far back does the friendship of our two houses stretch. My Uncle and the Baron served together in the Rising of 1715, as you probably know.’

  ‘He talks of it often.’

  ‘The Baron is very distinctive – a remarkable man. He overflows with classical learning, and protocols from his soldiering on the continent.’

  ‘He is a true European, the very type of the old cavalier. I often heard his name mentioned in the Palazzo Muti in Rome when I was young.’

  ‘Not more often than Clan McIvor,’ interposed Fergus, who was standing looking out of the narrow window.

  ‘You are Europeans as well,’ said Waverley.

  ‘I was in service to Her Majesty Clementina Sobieski, and then in the exiled household of King James.’

  ‘But now we have come home,’ added Fergus turning his full attention to the conversation. ‘What did you think of Rose Bradwardine, Waverley?’

  ‘Miss Rose is an amiable and lovely hostess, perfect in her manners and her nature.’

  ‘And in her form, would you not say?’

  ‘Most of all in her affections,’ countered Flora firmly. ‘Whoever is fortunate enough to win them will have an invaluable and lasting treasure. Her very soul is homely and rooted in quiet virtue. Her husband will be the focus of all her care and solicitude, as her father is now. She will sympathise with his sorrows, divert his fatigue and share in his pleasures. She will be connected to the world only through him. But he must be a man of virtue, for married to someone cold or negligent she would bend to his mood and die of unkindness. If I were a queen, Captain Waverley, I would command the best youth of the kingdom to woo Rose Bradwardine.’

  Waverley seemed nonplussed by Flora’s warmth, but not Fergus.

  ‘Well, sister queen, I wish you would command her to accept my hand in marriage.’

  ‘Yours, brother? No, you have another bride, Honour. And the dangers you must run in pursuit of her rival would break poor Rose’s heart.’

  On another day, Fergus was out visiting some neighbouring chief and the talk turned to political affairs.

  ‘What is your impression of Scotland?’ asked Flora.

  ‘It seems a divided country. In Dundee they are all for the Presbyterian Kirk and King George, but not far away at Tullyveolan everyone seems devoted to the exiled Stuarts.’

  ‘Perhaps if their king returned home the nation would unite,’ suggested Flora.

  ‘I cannot say, Miss McIvor, honour requires my present loyalty.’

  ‘Of course, Captain Waverley, yet circumstances can change.’

  The young man looked down towards the fire, his cheeks reddening in the glow.

  ‘Sometimes, since coming to Scotland, I feel my whole life hanging in the balance.’

  How young and vulnerable the heir of Waverley Honour seemed. He too had lost a mother, and by his own account saw little of his father. But there, thought Flora, the comparison ended, for life in a prosperous and sheltered English estate bore little resemblance to the Jacobite Court.

  ‘We must await events,’ she counselled.

  ‘What events? In Dundee there the talk was of an imminent rising. Your brother has a regiment of his own here in arms.’

  ‘I am not party to Fergus’ thoughts, but his clansmen keep law and order in this region, despite Donald Lean and his banditti.’

  ‘Of
course, forgive me, I did not mean to question your –’

  ‘Please, Captain Waverley, don’t apologise. I am as anxious as you to know how things will turn out. I cannot conceal that my dearest wish is that our rightful king be restored.’

  ‘I understand your feelings. I was brought up with them.’

  ‘But here you see why our passions run so deep. There is a way of life, a whole civilisation at stake.’

  ‘Forgive me, I do not fully understand but I would like to learn.’

  ‘Then we must take up poetry again instead of dynastic struggles.’

  ‘Nothing would please me more.’

  This was a cue for the clarsach to be brought out and tea served.

  As these leisurely days passed in the glen, any sense of imminent crisis waned. Clan McIvor seemed to have dispersed further afield, and the afternoon lessons lengthened as the weather became warmer.

  Nearly three weeks had gone by when Fergus announced that the hunt had been arranged. The gathering of clans for a communal deer drive was an ancient Highland tradition, as Flora explained. But it appeared that this year’s assembly was to be the largest in a generation. No chief worthy of his lineage would be absent. Flora McIvor insisted on going with her brother and Waverley to the rendezvous. They were accompanied by a small army of McIvor clansman in full regalia.

  Neither Flora nor Waverley understood the geography of their journey north, but it took them into an ever widening landscape of mountains and high glens. The meeting place was at the confluence of two valleys beneath a spectacular precipice, where the foaming rivers met. Yet in the mouth of both glens were green slopes ideal for camping, rich in pasture and abundant fresh water. Flora described these as sheilings, though the temporary shelters erected by the clans were on a scale far removed from the humble pastoral shelters she had seen the previous summer. Pine trees were cut and trimmed to create long rafters dressed with fir branches and heather. Rough hewn benches and tables were set up beneath these canopies to accommodate the numbers of clansmen, along with the copious quantities of meat and drink required for their nightly entertainment.

  Waverley kept close to Flora, since he could not follow the run of conversation nor keep up with the McIvor’s whirlwind diplomacy. The chiefs in general seemed to be in constant motion receiving and bestowing hospitality. Support was being canvassed for armed revolt against the Hanoverian regime in London, but Flora was careful to conceal this from Waverley. As one of the few women present it was easy for her to avoid private discussions and bring the young Englishman to social gatherings. Moreover her ties with the Jacobite Court made her reluctant to enter into speculation about the intentions of King James and his more unpredictable son and heir, Charles Edward Stuart.

  The plan was that those chiefs who committed to the rising would meet further north when the hunt was concluded. Flora would return to Castle McIvor with Waverley and accompany him back to Tullyveolan to visit Rose.

  After three days of feasting, the chiefs were at last called out with their retinues to take up position for the main business of the hunt. Flora and Waverley were amongst those drawn up at the mouth of the glens which rose steadily northward. The gillies had been out in force since before dawn with their dogs, spreading across the neighbouring hills and glens in order to gather in the maximum possible number of deer. Forming a wide-flung ring they gradually tightened their trap, driving the disturbed animals before them.

  The huntsmen were positioned at the foot of the valley and on its near sides, along which hurdles had been erected so that the herds would be channelled towards the marksmen. As Flora waited amongst the chiefs she could hear a rising clamour of dogs, men shouting and some musket shots. The first deer appeared amidst foxes, hares and a few startled goats, breaking over the slope in twos and threes. They were picked off at long range by those with the keenest aim.

  Then in a few moments the upper ridge of the glen was a thicket of antlers. The foremost animals appeared to pause as following hinds massed behind them. Flora had never seen so many deer. She exchanged a glance with Waverley who was astonished at the sight and flushed with excitement. Fergus was several paces to the fore with the musket butt already at his shoulder.

  As if by silent decision, the ridge moved becoming a wave of cantering flesh. Firing burst out on all sides, dogs were unleashed and commands were lost in the mêlée. But something was wrong, and the more experienced huntsmen sensed it. Instead of scattering before fire, the deer kept coming. The canter burst into a gallop and the massed herd charged towards their enemy sweeping the flimsy hurdles aside. With cries of alarm weapons were thrown aside, heedless of rank or dignity, and chiefs flung themselves onto the ground letting the deer pound over them.

  But Waverley did not understand the warning shouts and stood his ground, only to be hurled down bodily by Fergus who pressed him flat with an iron grip as the deer trampled onwards. The horde hurtled past and thundered into the lower glen. Flora picked herself up and hurried towards the prostrate Englishman. Soon others were at her side turning Waverley gently over. He was writhing with pain. Then under Fergus’s supervision four men lifted him on their linked arms and bore him rapidly off to a shelter.

  The physician was called and Waverley was cupped, bled and dosed with a herbal infusion. Each stage of the treatment was accompanied with muttered incantations, and every so often a full voiced melodious chant. Waverley fell into a restive sleep, though not before multiple contusions, cuts and a broken ankle had been catalogued. Flora sat by the heather couch until it was clear that the patient was not fevered before going to find her brother.

  Fergus was pacing up and down under the McIvor canopy, wearing the expression with which Flora had been familiar since childhood. He did not like his plans disarranged.

  ‘The Englishman will not be able to travel back tomorrow.’

  ‘He was lucky to escape with his life, Fergus – only your quick thinking prevented him being gored.’

  ‘I have to go north, but Waverley could rest at our cousin McKeachen’s house till he can ride. Someone will need to look after him.’

  There was a silence as Fergus came to a halt, looking directly at Flora.

  ‘Has McKeachen no retainers?’

  ‘I am sure Waverley would prefer a gentler attendant, and in this case so would I, Flora.’

  ‘What interest do you have in the matter?’

  ‘Don’t be awkward. You know that we must persuade Waverley to join the rising. This could be a perfect opportunity.’

  ‘I know no such thing, Fergus. I do not keep my loyalties secret – influence whom they may – but I shall not apply pressure to make anyone act dishonourably against their own principles.’

  ‘I am not speaking of pressure.’

  ‘Then of what are you speaking?’

  ‘Don’t be naive, Flora, you can see that he is smitten.’

  ‘I see no such thing. How can you even suggest it, and with the same breath urge me to be nurse at his bedside? I shall return to Castle McIvor tomorrow as arranged. Calum can stay with Waverley at McKeachen’s until your business in the north is concluded. God willing, your persuasions there will be successful. Everything depends on the northern clans coming out.’

  Before Fergus could disagree or comment, Flora left the shelter, staying out in the cooling air until the feasting commenced. However the day’s events, not least the injuries suffered by an honoured guest, seemed to have lowered the general good spirits. Thoughts were turning towards the difficult decisions ahead.

  The next morning Flora returned to Castle McIvor. She took no farewell of Waverley whom she understood to be weak but comfortable. On arrival she immediately sent word to Rose Bradwardine that any visit to Tullyveolan would have to be delayed.

  The old tower seemed very quiet due to the absence of the clansmen in the north, but the chief’s sister established a quiet routine with the remaining servants, and waited for news. As far as Flora could remember, she had longed for the re
turn of the Stuarts to Scotland, and for her own homecoming. Now both events appeared to be happening at the same time. These inactive days were a chance to come to terms with the speed of events.

  Could the impetuous Charles Edward be relied on to lead this expedition, and would the French actually allow him to leave for Scotland? Flora could imagine the letters weighted with caution that would be coming north from the Palazzo Muti. King James was not beyond encouraging the French to restrain his disaffected son, if he knew where Charles was and what he was intending. The prince was not beyond acting on his own initiative regardless of James’ vacillations. If a campaign started Fergus would soon be embroiled in the politics of its leadership. Pray God the rising would begin soon, for the Highland clans could not afford to be in readiness for long, or to risk further sanctions.

  As for Waverley, Flora went back over their conversations to see if she had given any misleading signal. She thought not, yet she had tried to encourage his patriotic feelings. Was it Fergus who had thrown him some kind of hint or encouragement, and slewed his reactions? She would now have to be doubly on guard, for she had no intention of marriage, whatever Fergus might hope for Clan McIvor’s fortunes. Flora was determined to follow events at firsthand, and if possible play her own part.

  As the week dragged on the messenger came back from Tullyveolan with letters for Waverley and newspapers for Fergus. Then on the sixth day they appeared together without warning, coming slowly down the glen. The Englishman was riding on a pony and though pale was able to dismount and limp into the hall leaning on a stick. One look at Fergus was enough to show that there was important news, but both men dispersed to read their mail without comment. There was no sign of the armed clansmen. Flora went back to her rooms and summoned Nicolette to help lay out a worktable so that the women could begin making white cockades.

  But within a short time, Waverley and then hard on his heels Fergus burst into the drawing room, scattering the work party.