Page 16 of A Fire in Their Hearts

V IOLET IS FEVERISH AND LIES in my arms, murmuring and twitching in her troubled sleep.

It’s been over a year since we fled the south-west and although the Highlanders left the area after a few months, our names and descriptions have been circulated by the authorities; we are wanted for murder.

The rough life we’ve been forced to endure, combined with the constant feeling of being hunted, has taken its toll on us.

The winter has been fierce and we’ve survived only due to the kindness of folk who’ve often barely had enough food for themselves or fuel for the fire that we’ve sat around.

Violet mutters something I don’t catch. She fell ill a few days ago, although I suspect she’s been unwell for a while and hasn’t said anything.

We’re resting in a field near a small town somewhere in the east of Perthshire.

Whatever it’s called, we can’t stay in the open.

The temperature is dropping fast as the afternoon light fades.

We’ll have to trust to God’s protection.

‘Violet .?.?. Violet .?.?.’

It’s difficult to wake her, which worries me greatly.

‘Samuel?’

‘It’s time to move. We’ll ask for shelter in the town.’

‘Can we risk it?’

‘I fear we must. Come on, I’ll help you.’

*?*?*

I don’t know what makes me choose the manse; perhaps because I’m now struggling to carry Violet in my arms and it’s the first substantial house we come to.

Part of me screams that this is the last place we should seek help because if we’re discovered to be wanted Covenanters, the minister will be duty-bound to tell the authorities.

Despite this, I kick the front door and wait.

It’s opened by a powerfully built man of about forty, dressed in the black clothes of a Church of Scotland minister. Before I can even form the first words of asking for aid, he steps forward and lifts Violet out of my arms as if she weighs no more than a child.

‘Agnes!’ he shouts, moving quickly along the corridor. ‘Our help is needed.’ With these last few words he disappears into a room.

I’m so astonished at Violet being taken from me in such a manner that I stand like a fool in the doorway before gathering enough wits to go inside and close the door behind me. When I enter the room, a woman I take to be the minister’s wife is already removing Violet’s outer clothes.

‘These are soaked right through. This poor woman needs to be dried and cleaned and fed and – Bella! – kept warm and safe. Bella!’

‘And prayed over,’ says the minister.

‘I’ll leave that to you. Now out .?.?. OUT!’

This instruction is directed towards the minister and myself as we’re firmly pushed into the corridor.

He takes hold of my arm and leads me to the kitchen as a young maid rushes past. I’m physically put into a chair by the fire and it’s only then I realise I have been swaying on my feet.

The minister pours whisky into two goblets and hands one to me.

‘Sip that while I stoke up the fire and get you some food. You looked as though you were about to collapse at my front door.’

He sets about his tasks, cheerfully humming to himself. Despite my weariness, I find myself fascinated by this extraordinary man, who moves with a grace I would expect from a gentlewoman of high birth, not someone of such bulk. I sniff the liquid and my eyes water.

‘It’s not a bad batch that, not bad at all. A gift from a wealthy parishioner.’

I drink a little and immediately feel the heat of it down my gullet and into my belly.

‘Here, get this into you.’

I’m taken aback at how quickly he’s put food together and wonder if I’ve actually fallen asleep.

My goblet is on the table so I guess I did.

The plate he puts in my lap is like a feast and for an instant I just stare at it as if frightened that moving might make it disappear.

There are two cold chicken legs, plus slices of ham and a large hunk of bread thickly coated with butter.

I barely manage to say ‘thank you’ before cramming food into my mouth.

He kneels in front of me and for a moment I think he’s about to pray, then to my surprise he carefully removes my sodden footwear.

‘You’re wet as well, my friend, and these boots are doing you more harm than good.’

The food sticks in my mouth. That I should have feared coming to the manse, and now this stranger is so tenderly taking care of me. Tears flow down my cheeks. I’m ashamed. He pats me on the knee.

‘Eat your food and you can take more time. I promise no one will steal it. You’re safe here. Whatever has happened in the past, nobody is going to hurt you in my house.’

‘What minister are you?’

‘I’m Reverend Graham, and you, I suspect, are Covenanters.’

What’s the point of denying it? Violet lies in a fever in another room while I sit here with no boots, eating this man’s food.

‘How did you guess?’

He settles a kindly gaze on me. ‘I’ve encountered all manner of humanity over the years, and you, I’m certain, are no criminal. However, you have a wariness of the hunted about you.’

‘You’ll have to inform your bishop.’

‘I’ll do no such thing. He’s a fine enough man who lets me get on without much interference.

In fact, I don’t think I’ve seen him this side of a year.

However, he would feel obliged to inform the local garrison, so it’s best for everyone if we don’t put him in a difficult position.

We’ll just keep you out of sight until your wife – it is your wife? – recovers. What’s her name?’

‘Violet.’

‘And yours?’

‘Samuel.’

‘Well then, Samuel,’ he says, standing, ‘eat up while I fetch blankets and we’ll dry your clothes.’

With that he leaves, humming his tuneless hum as though he’s the most carefree man in the world.

*?*?*

Reverend Graham has been keen to hear our story, and although I’ve omitted parts, such as my involvement in Rullion Green, he probably guesses much of what I’ve tried to hide.

This evening there’s been an unusually long silence between us as we sit either side of the fire, drinking whisky while staring at the flames dancing in the hearth.

I am impressed by how much help he gives to his parishioners.

He’s not above chopping wood for an elderly widow or sitting up all night with someone who’s ill.

Yet, as I’ve recovered my strength, I’ve become tenser in his presence.

The fact that he lives in a manse and preaches in the kirk means that he cannot believe in the Covenanter cause and I am uneasy, despite the fact that he has not given us away.

‘You don’t know what to make of me, do you, Samuel?’ He observes me with keen eyes and gives me his easy smile. ‘I’ve taken you and Violet into my home and we’ve cared for you both as best we can, but I suspect you view me with suspicion. Your soul is in conflict.’

‘I won’t deny it, for you deserve nothing but honesty. You and Agnes have proved to be caring Christians and I probably can’t ever repay our debt. Are you an Episcopalian minister?’

‘No, as Presbyterian as you.’

‘So you’ve accepted the King’s Indulgence and that he is the head of the Kirk?’

‘I did what I had to back in sixty-two so that I could continue to care for the spiritual and physical needs of those in my parish.’

‘But the Scriptures are clear—’

‘Are they! Are they truly, my dear friend?

We may accept that the Scriptures represent the words of God but those words have been translated from another language and then their meaning has been interpreted by men – clever, honourable and righteous, I grant – but men nonetheless, and you know as well as I do how often contrasting conclusions are reached from those same holy sentences.

‘Even the famous National Covenant is a document so vague and open to different interpretations that many of the thousands of lairds, noblemen and common people who signed it believed they were agreeing to different things. The Covenanter cause has been split into various factions ever since, so how can anyone tell me that I’m wrong in my belief when you can’t even agree amongst yourselves? ’

We fall silent. A chasm has opened between us. I look down upon a huge void and fear that it’s me who will fall into the nothingness. I’m terrified by the possibility.

‘What are we here for, Samuel, as ordained Church of Scotland ministers?’

‘To spread the word of God,’ I reply immediately, by rote, almost.

‘All right, let’s consider that one point. Since you were ordained, how many sermons have you given? How often have you preached to a congregation? How have you spread the word of God?’

I open my mouth but have no defence. He knows me for the fraud I am, for I’ve done none of those things.

Since I took up arms for the cause, I have not even helped my fellow man in the simplest of ways – not even to chop wood.

I’ve benefitted no one, accomplished nothing outside of this never-ending conflict with the king.

‘Don’t punish yourself, Samuel. You’ve done what you believe to be right and suffered greatly for it.

I have done what I believe. God knows what’s in my heart and I don’t accept the king as the head of the Kirk, not where it matters.

As for being told what to do by a bishop, well, I hardly see him,’ he says with a shrug.

‘And if I baptise a baby at a font by the kirk door, is that really such an affront to God? By agreeing to such things, I’m able to continue to help the people in my parish in whatever way I can. So who’s right?’

‘The king shouldn’t have any power over the Church of Scotland,’ I reply, repeating the one argument that all Covenanters agree upon. ‘No man can put himself between his fellow man and God. Only our Saviour Jesus Christ can claim that throne and I will give my life fighting for the Kirk’s freedom.’

‘I understand, truly I do, Samuel, yet the Kirk is equally guilty of wanting control over secular matters. Church and state both believe in their divine right to be superior to the other – and in the meantime, Scotland is ripped apart, its fields and villages washed in the blood of Scotsmen. And have you killed, Samuel? Have you taken the life of another person in this quest that you’re so certain is correct? ’

I can’t answer for a long while, because the boy is there in front of me, saying please as I drive the spike of the halberd into his chest.

‘At Rullion Green,’ I say quietly, my voice lost somewhere on that battleground, ‘I lost count of the number I killed or maimed. I tell myself it was for God. I have to believe that, otherwise I’m merely a monstrous murderer and I can’t live with that thought.’

The reverend tilts his head at me, studying me with an expression I cannot fathom.

‘Look at us. I would say we’re decent, honest men of the Church, yet we face each other across this fire as though we’re a Frenchman and an Englishman with hatred entrenched in our souls.

I understand your cause, Samuel, and I’m not without sympathy for it.

Yet the actions of Covenanters are tearing families apart .

.?. and I don’t see an end to the killings. ’

In the deepest recesses of my heart, his words take root, and a fear kindles. I know, before long, I will be forced to kill again.

*?*?*

Violet and I sit in the kitchen with Agnes, enjoying a rare conversation about ordinary things, everyday events, swapping amusing stories.

Violet laughs over a tale about a man whose breeches are eaten by his pig and it sounds to me like the most beautiful music I’ve ever heard.

Our stay with the Reverend Graham and his wife has transformed her and she looks in better health than she has for a long time.

As for myself .?.?.

We stop talking when the front door opens and the familiar footsteps of Reverend Graham echo along the corridor. When he enters the room, it’s immediately apparent that something awful has happened.

‘What’s wrong, dear?’ asks Agnes.

‘Grim news. Grim news indeed,’ he replies, pacing the room. ‘Covenanters have murdered Archbishop Sharp!’

We cry out in shock at this. Sharp had been a Presbyterian minister and initially a staunch supporter of the Covenanter cause.

To everyone’s astonishment and dismay, he later accepted the position of Archbishop of St Andrews and became a hugely outspoken critic of the cause.

It was an enormous betrayal – one that made him a hated figure amongst Covenanters.

But to murder him?

‘The Devil has been at work,’ continues Reverend Graham.

‘The archbishop was on his way back to St Andrews and it was purely by chance that his coach was stopped on Magus Muir by a group of Covenanters who were hiding in the area with the intention of kidnapping the sheriff-depute of Fife. Apparently, they considered it providence that such a prize was handed to them. The poor archbishop was dragged from his carriage and, in plain sight of his daughter, stabbed by his assailants until he was dead!’

We’re stunned. ‘This is terrible,’ I say. ‘The persecution of Covenanters throughout Scotland will reach unknown levels because of the actions of a handful of fanatics. They’ve done more damage to our cause than the entire Pentland Rising.’

‘We can’t stay here,’ says Violet. ‘We’ll put you at too much risk and you’ve already done so much for us. We can never repay your kindness.’

Reverend Graham nods sadly. ‘No, we can no longer shelter you after such an evil deed, even though I know you had no part in it and condemn the actions.’

‘Where will you go?’ asks Agnes.

Violet looks to me to answer. They stare at me, waiting for my reply, yet in truth I have no idea .?.?. no idea at all.