CONTENTS
Cover
About the Book
Title Page
Epigraph
1. The Covenanters
2. Two Loyalties
3. My Lady Jean
4. John Graham of Claverhouse
5. The Dutch Painter
6. Portrait of a Dream
7. Wedding Favours
8. The Dark Lady’s Looking-glass
9. Hard Riding!
10. Captain Faa
11. ‘Wishful to go for a Sojer’
12. The Killing Time
13. Encounter Beyond Douglasdale
14. Two Kings
15. The Lords of Convention
16. The Lion of Scotland
17. Hare and Hounds
18. Meetings and Partings
19. Highland March
20. Summer in Lochaber
21. The Old Woman by the Ford
22. Dark Victory
23. Lament for Iain Dhub
24. The Black Tents of the Tinkler Kind
25. Farewell to Glenogilvie
26. Study of Hands with Almond Blossom
27. Autumn in Utrecht
About the Author
Also by Rosemary Sutcliff
Copyright
About the Book
It is seventeenth-century Scotland, and the Covenanters – those wanting religious freedom from the dictates of English rule – are gathering strength. Hugh Herriott, fresh from a Covenanting background, finds himself working for redcoat Colonel Claverhouse and his Lady Jean: first as the stable-lad and in later years, as galloper to Claverhouse. The tension mounts between the two sides of the divided country. Claverhouse, with Hugh always by his side, leads his troops in bloody battle against the Covenanters, through forest and valley, village and town, victory … and loss.
Bonnie Dundee
Rosemary Sutcliff
To the Lords of Convention, ’twas
Claver’se who spoke,
’Ere the King’s crown shall fall there are
crowns to be broke,
So let each Cavalier who loves honour and me
Come follow the bonnet of Bonnie Dundee!
Walter Scott
1
The Covenanters
MAYBE I COULD go back now. Some among us gained leave to return home years ago; but I’ve no stomach for Scotland under Hanoverian George. Oh, there’s times I grow homesick for my own hills, and I should be glad to think that you laddies might come to know them one day; but that will be for you to decide when you are grown men. Your grandmother and I do well enough here in Rotterdam. With all the Scottish merchants and the captains of the cross-channel trading vessels and tall East Indiamen that come and go, we are never out of touch with our own roots, and nor do we go hungry for the clack of the good Scots tongue among the broad flat speech of the Low Countries.
Sometimes there’s too much of either tongue, when the women get together. Aye.
Not three days since, as I was cleaning up my brushes and palette after the day’s work, your grandmother came in upon me with her eyes stormy and the colour flying like flags in her cheeks; and when I asked her what had put her in such a bonnie taking, ‘I was talking with Mistress Seton over a cup of chocolate,’ said she, ‘but I’ll not be entering her house again! She was asking me was it true, as she’d heard, that Claverhouse was used to hang men with his own hand for the pleasure of it, aye, and that he caused two God-fearing women to be tied to stakes on a sandbank in the Clyde, to drown when the tide came in.’
‘That’s nothing,’ said I, rubbing the last of the poppy-seed oil into my palette – a good mature palette, properly oiled after every use has a surface like satin, and to my mind should never be left to the journeyman’s tending. ‘Folks have talked about their betters since Adam and Eve were driven out of the Garden. I’ve heard it said before now that Claverhouse was in league with the Devil, and could not be killed save with a silver bullet. Aye, and that that great raking sorrel he used to ride was his Familiar.’
‘It is no laughing matter!’ said your grandmother.
‘Is it not? Whisht, woman, let the Whigs and the Covenanters tell what tales they please. We know what manner of man he was, and the truth of the stories.’
Your grandmother sat herself down in the big carved oak chair with the mermaid on the back, that I put my sitters in when they come to the house. ‘Aye, we know,’ she said. ‘But Johnnie and Jamie never saw him, and as for their bairns’ (that’s you) ‘how will they know what to believe, when folks tell such wicked lies, naming him Bloody Claver’se and all?’
‘I’ve told the true tales to John and James, often enough to weary them, Heaven knows,’ said I, ‘and I’ll be telling them to the bairns no doubt; they’re good tales for telling round the fire on winter nights.’
‘Telling is not enough,’ said she. ‘Folks forget, and stories get twisted, and memory tangles itself. What tales do you suppose the bairns will be telling their grandsons, by and by?’
I said nothing. I had not thought as far ahead as that, and she went on, ‘No, I was thinking all the way home from Mistress Seton’s – you must write it all down!’
I stared at her. ‘Write it down? Woman, if it’s a book you’re wanting, Philip of Amryclose did that long ago.’
She sniffed. ‘The Graemiad? All high words and heroies and written in Latin, forbye? No, Hugh Herriot, I was thinking just the tale, just the truth, for the bairns and their bairns after them. And now, before one day you begin to forget, too.’
‘Och away!’ I said.
But I began to think. And I thought what a sore pity it would be if all that I could tell was lost; for it is not many that followed Claverhouse and are yet alive and have the painter’s eye to tell of those days so that others may see them too. It is not many that made the great Highland March with him in the spring of 1689.
So here I sit, beginning the task; setting down on a ream of fair new paper the story of the Claverhouse I knew; Colonel John Graham of Claverhouse that became Viscount Dundee; him that the Covenanters called Bloody Claver’se, and the Highlanders called Iain Dhub Nan Cath, Black John of the Battles – which, come to think of it, is the story of my own youth as well.
It began in the great farm kitchen at Wauprigg, with the table pushed back, and the household and farm folk and neighbours gathered to hear Ezekiel Grey, the minister who had come to hold service for us. It was not the Sabbath. At that time the minister came when he could, and the word went round and the people gathered; sometimes just a handful in a farm kitchen, since our own kirks were forbidden to us; sometimes folk from miles around crowding in to one of the great conventicles out on the open moors under the sky, with lookouts posted against surprise by the King’s troopers.
I was standing among the farmhands well back against the walls. I was used to that, though indeed I was one of the family; for my mother had disgraced the name of Armstrong, so they thought, by running away to wed with a travelling painter, and roaming the country with him like a Tinkler lass. She had died when I was five, and even my memories of her were hazy, though it was a sunny haze. After that I had gone on stravaigling up and down Scotland like a dog at my father’s heels, as he plied his trade. Mostly it was just shop and inn signs, a pair of gilded spurs for a lorimer or a unicorn for a tavern of that name. But now and then some country squire would ask him to paint a favourite dog or horse or a new house. Those would be the times when we would bide more than three days in one place and have full bellies the while. The times when nobody wanted even a shop sign painting, we held horses for travellers and went hungry. My father was not as good a painter as he longed to be; but he always believed that one day I would be a better painter than he was; and beside teac
hing me all the things that belong to a painter’s boy – cleaning his brushes and grinding the paint and boiling up the black walnut oil – he taught me how to look at things, and even began to teach me how to draw their shapes in the soft brown-black paint called ingres. But when I was eleven he took sick with the lung fever – the winter was bad that year, and we had been sleeping hard – and went the way of my mother.
But before he died, he contrived to get word to my mother’s folk; and my grandfather came all across Scotland to Edinburgh to fetch me from the old besom in the cheap lodging-house – aye, and paid her again for my keep, though my father had left a fine just-finished sign for a silk mercer’s shop in our stinking room, that must have fetched more than enough for a few days’ keep for one laddie.
So here I was at Wauprigg, with my mother’s kin, and had been for upward of two years. And I had food enough, and a dry place to sleep, and even did lessons with the village dominie when I could be spared from work on the farm. That was a thing I had my grandfather to thank for; I’d have had no schooling but for him. For the rest, my Aunt Margaret never forgave me that my mother had shamed the family. And I daresay my looks, for I was narrow-built and dark like my father, among those big tawny-gold Armstrongs, made it easier to forget that I was kin of theirs.
Aye well, standing back with the farmhands against the wall, I could see the whole crowded kitchen as though it were a picture; and it was a picture that held the eye my father had trained in me.
There were the best wax candles glimmering on the chimney-piece, and the shutters tight closed over the windows though outside it would be scarcely dusk of the windy March day. My aunt’s finest linen cloth on the back-pushed table, and in front of it, Master Grey in his rusty black gown and Geneva bands, the candlelight haloing his thin hair with silver while it left his long narrow face in shadow. But it seemed to me that even in the shadow, as he launched into his sermon – I misremember what it was about, but it must have been about Hell-fire and the sins of the English and their bishops, for his sermons always were, which is why I had mostly given up listening to them and taken to following my own interests inside my own head – I could catch the fanatic blaze in his pale blue eyes. It’s a look I misliked even then.
And all around the kitchen, their faces lit by the candles that were at his back, kneeling with their hands folded before them, were the folk who had gathered to hear the Word of God. Folk from the few farms round-about, Forsyths and Patersons and Carmichaels, and the Wauprigg folk, my own folk, though I never felt them to be just that; my Aunt Margaret, beautiful but bleak – a bleak and bitter woman, and grown more so, I guessed, in the years since the soldiers had killed her man when Alan was but ten years old. Alan was fifteen now, and standing beside his mother; and ’twas he that held my gaze most strongly of all the souls in that room; aye, and something of my heart as well. A tall callant with a white freckled face under a burning bush of hair, and grey-green eyes that oft times had the Devil looking out of them; but he had tossed me a kind word from time to time, and whistled me to heel as a man whistles his dog. And I was aye a good follower, in my young days, and needed someone to follow.
There should by rights have been one more of us there, in the space kept clear for him by Aunt Margaret; but my grandfather, Armstrong of Wauprigg himself, was busy in the byre with a sick cow.
I had noticed before, how often my grandfather had some good reason for being elsewhere when the conventicles gathered. He had told me once how, when he was a laddie and the Covenant first came into being, the great Montrose himself, him that raised the Highlands for the first King Charles, had ridden the length and breadth of Scotland, with a knot of blue ribbons in his bonnet and the bonnets of his followers, heartening the folk to sign it, no matter what the cost, for the love of God and the freedom to worship Him in their own way, and not in ways forced upon them against their conscience by an English king who had forgotten that he was also a Scot and the bishop of his church. And how folks had flocked in from far and wide to sign, some in their own blood – my grandfather had shown me the tiny white nick-mark on his own wrist. But that had been in the shining days at the beginning, and the shine had gone, and things and folk had changed until the people who had been ready to die for the freedom of their faith sought to deny that same freedom to the English. And the thing had gone black and bitter, and when the Covenanters came to power they had driven the Episcopalian kirk into the wilderness in their turn. And Montrose had torn the blue ribbons from his bonnet and ridden south to carry his sword to the King. That had been more than forty years gone by, but the blackness and the bitterness remained. And now, with the second Charles upon the throne in London, we must again worship God in secret, and now we were willing not only to die for our faith but to kill for it in ugly ways. Only five years ago Archbishop Sharp had been pulled from his coach on the Edinburgh road, and his brains beaten out of his old grey head before his daughter’s eyes; and every good Covenanting house in Galloway and all the South West had smuggled Dutch muskets in the thatch or under the hearthstone. And Claverhouse was in the West again, and his troopers were for ever trampling up and down to keep the King’s peace and root out the forbidden gatherings.
My grandfather had small love for the Government troops who had killed his only son at Drumclog. But he was not a good hater, the like of my Aunt Margaret, and I’m thinking he had small love either for what the Covenanters – ‘The Saints’ as some of the leaders called themselves – had become. He was a peaceful man who wanted to be free to tend his own land and beasts in peace. He wanted an end to killing. And so he found a sick cow that needed him as often as might be when the Covenanting congregation gathered.
I did not know at that time whose side I was on. I would have liked to join my grandfather with the sick cow, and yet there was a cold excitement that drew me to the gatherings and the danger and the shuttered windows and hidden weapons. And Alan was for the Covenant. ‘We are fighting for Scotland’s freedom from the English yoke, as well as for our own way of worship,’ Alan said.
I suppose none of it was quite real to me as yet.
But it was to become real to me, that night.
I found that the minister was done with his preaching, and all the folk were getting to their feet; and the big smoke-darkened kitchen was filling with the deep murmur of the next psalm. Generally it was the more fierce and grievous of the metrical psalms we sang, but this one I joined in with sudden surprised delight, for it was one I loved well.
‘The Lord of Heaven confess,
On high his glory raise.
Him let all angels bless,
Him let all armies praise.
Him glorify
Sun, Moon, and Stars;
Ye higher spheres
And cloudy sky.’
What had possessed the minister, what had possessed the Godly congregation, to choose anything so joyful, I wondered.
‘Praise God from earth below,
Ye dragons and ye deeps:
Fire, hail, clouds, wind and snow…’
I looked across at Alan, wanting to catch his eye and share the splendour of the moment with him. But even as I looked his head whipped round towards the windows, and I saw that he was listening. A second or so later I caught it too, above the voices of the good folk; the sound of someone running, desperately, stumbling as they ran. A few seconds more and everybody heard it. The rhythmic murmur of the psalm dwindled and died away.
‘Douse the candles,’ said my Aunt Margaret.
Master Grey shook his head, ‘Yon’s no trooper. ’Tis one of our own – you can hear the brogues on his feet.’
For an instant the whole scene seemed frozen in the candlelight as I have seen a bee caught and held for all eternity in a drop of Baltic amber; while the running footsteps drew near and nearer yet, swung in through the steading gate and crossed the yard. The door burst open, and there in the dusk on the edge of the candles’ reach stood Willie, the cowherd from High Fold way. He div
ed in and slammed the door behind him – no one stood in an open doorway with a conventicle gathered within – and stood panting against it.
‘Willie,’ said Master Grey sternly as the scene melted back to life, ‘you come late to the worship of your God!’
We all knew what Willie would have been up to; he was the best poacher in those parts, and a fat hare would hold him from divine worship at any time. He did not even attempt to deny it, but stood there puffing and wagging his head until he had enough breath to speak.
‘I came by old Phemie’s alehouse,’ he got out at last. ‘Phemie Saunders has four of Claverhouse’s men inside. Three troopers an’ a wee drummer!’
There was a blink of silence; and then Master Forsyth from Arkle said one word, ‘Carbines!’
‘Three carbines, there’d be,’ said Willie, ‘no’ the laddie, of course, but three carbines is better than naught.’
‘Three would go halfway to replacing the muskets we lost when they searched the kirk last month,’ said Master Carmichael. ‘Right, then, Reverend, let’s be away!’ And together he and the minister heaved up the table – not the Lord’s Table any more, but the table of Wauprigg kitchen, and hauled it aside.
Underneath, with the loose flagstones that covered it laid by, was the shallow space before the hearth where the congregation put their weapons when they came to worship – quickly covered in case of need, and quickly got at also. Man after man stooped and came up with his own weapon. Two muskets, a carbine and a couple of old muzzle-loading hand guns, and several knives and hangers of one kind and another. But I was watching Alan as he stood in the inner doorway holding one of Grandfather’s pair of horse pistols – a fine breech-loader, old but in well-loved condition. Grandfather had shown them to me once; he had carried them when he followed Montrose and they were a part of his youth and the old shining days of the Covenanting cause.
I saw Alan’s face as he looked down at it in the candlelight. It was already loaded, but he cocked it to make last-minute sure, then pushed it into his belt. For a moment his eyes did meet mine, across the ordered bustle of the big crowded kitchen, and I saw the brightness in them that was somehow cold and unchancy like marsh fire.