Page 2 of A Fire in Their Hearts

W E’RE THIRTEEN YEARS OLD AND I’ve loved Samuel since that day when we were six and he presented me with five violets tied together with a blade of grass.

And Samuel loves me, although, being a boy, he hasn’t grasped this fact yet, even though we spend every single minute we can together.

Our parents simply expect that we’ll be married one day.

So do I. When Samuel’s a bit older, I’ll let him know.

We’re surrounded by heather on a hill that’s halfway between our two homes.

There’s a depression on the top that allows us to be out of sight of anyone below and this is our usual meeting place.

As so often happens, I’m lying on the ground while he sits and draws.

I watch as his hand makes quick, precise movements across the paper, stopping occasionally to glance up before continuing.

I know this scene well, yet I’m still fascinated by Samuel being so totally lost in concentration as he sketches in minute detail whatever has captured his interest. He must have dozens of similar drawings.

‘Don’t you tire of having me as your subject?’ I ask him.

‘Of course not. Each time is new .?.?. the light, your face, your hair.’

‘How can my face be new? It’s the same one I’ve always had.’

He looks up briefly to cast me an amused look.

‘Violet, you obviously change with every year that passes. And you’d be surprised how much you give away.

You’re so .?.?.’ He searches for the right word, trying to sound more grown up than he is.

‘.?.?. brilliantly expressive,’ he finally says, flashing me a quick smile.

Well, I don’t know about my face being ‘brilliantly expressive’. I do know that it’s unlikely anyone would ever consider me attractive, yet that’s strangely never bothered me. I’m tall and strong and, despite Samuel’s enthusiasm, I’ve always considered my face to be .?.?. sturdy.

‘Now your father—’

‘Careful.’ I cut him off in case he says something inappropriate, for no one is allowed to criticise Father in my company. ‘And don’t forget who pays for all your painting materials.’

‘Well, of course he’s very generous, but you have to admit he’s a bit dour. His expression is nearly always the same, whatever he feels inside. I think a single sketch of him would capture his personality.’

‘What about your father!’

‘He’s meant to be dour. He’s a Church of Scotland minister. There .?.?.’

Samuel turns around the papers on his knee so that I can see what he has created with nothing but a small piece of graphite held within a brass holder. I can’t help a small gasp; he has such skill, such an eye for the hidden wonder in this world.

‘See,’ he says, ‘because your head is propped on your elbow, your long black hair falls towards the ground in a certain way, and it’s moved by the breeze in a certain way.

No matter how often you lie again in that same position, your hair will never fall exactly the way it just has.

Nor will the sun shine on the curves of your nose and chin in the way it has this morning. ’

He carefully puts the papers and the brass holder into a canvas case then lies down, curling up into my side with his head on my chest. My breasts are small mounds, and despite Samuel’s artist’s eye, I doubt he’s even noticed those particular changes in me.

He’s intelligent and sensitive, yet maddeningly naive and impulsive.

I’m not certain who takes care of whom at times.

For a while, I hold him tightly against my body. His beautiful wavy ginger hair is only inches from my face. It seems to grow at the speed of a galloping horse, and I often tease him that if he had been a girl such a striking colour would see him accused of being a witch.

I just .?.?. love him so much. Sometimes it feels frightening.

‘If you weren’t meant to become a minister, you would be good enough to be an artist.’

‘And you would like to follow your father into medicine,’ he says.

My father sailed around the world as a ship’s surgeon and returned to Scotland with ideas and knowledge that he takes great pleasure in secretly passing on to me.

We spend hours together in his study during the evenings.

My twin brother, Hamish, and Mother are wary of this private tuition and insist that I never mention such unnatural activity outside of the house.

As if I would be stupid enough to do so.

‘Well, that would never be allowed,’ I say, angry at the unfairness of it.

Samuel lies on his back, staring at the clouds above with a frown between his brows. It’s always a sign that he’s about to say something serious.

‘You know the minister over at Maybole was forcibly thrown out of his manse last week?’ he says. ‘Then beaten up while he was merely trying to gather his few possessions off the ground.’

‘That’s awful!’

‘My parents can barely sleep for worry at the moment. Every day there are more stories about the growing violence towards Covenanters from the king’s army. And it’s getting closer.’

Despite the heat of the day, I’m suddenly chilled by the thought of our families being in danger. ‘My father,’ I tell him, my voice thick with concern, ‘says Scotland is heading towards a civil war the likes of which no one has ever seen.’

‘A throne can never be for more than one,’ adds Samuel, whose life as a minister may be stopped before it’s even started. ‘I’m frightened neighbours will end up fighting neighbours and even families will turn against one another.’

‘It can’t get that bad?’

In my heart I believe it can, but I just want to hear him say everything will be all right.

‘Kirks will be split like logs on the cutting block. Many parishioners will stay loyal to their minister, like my father, because he’s always been there for them, christening their babies, burying their dead and providing spiritual guidance and help when they most need it.

Ordinary folk who are completely loyal to the monarch will still be in danger of his Royalist army. ’

I stroke his hair. Samuel is strong and brave, but sometimes he’s so vulnerable, although I would never say that to him.

I’m suddenly aware of shouting in the distance.

‘Listen!’

We’re silent for a few moments before picking up the frantic calls of Samuel’s eight-year-old brother, Calum. We jump up, gather our things, and run towards the sound. We soon meet the boy, who’s so out of breath we have to wait for him to recover enough to speak.

My Samuel is handsome, but his brother is the image of an angel, even with his face red from exertion and with snot running from his nose.

His long blond hair is the envy of all the local girls and any one of them would willingly lose an eye for the chance to marry him when he’s older.

His mother says the angels take care of Calum because he looks like them.

He’s so innocent – and I hope he may remain so for as long as possible.

‘Soldiers, Sam! Soldiers at the house threatening Father.’

Samuel starts forward but I grab him by the elbow. Just because he is already as tall as many grown men does not mean he’s capable of fighting them.

‘Don’t even think about doing something foolish,’ I tell him. ‘How many soldiers, Calum?’

‘Four plus a sergeant.’

‘Run and get my father.’

‘What can your father do?’ asks Samuel, agitated at our delay.

‘He’s a man of high standing in the community. I think soldiers are less likely to start a fight if he’s there.’

At least, I hope so.

Samuel nods his agreement, then the three of us set off as if the Devil himself is at our backs.

There are two soldiers outside the manse looking after five horses, which means the other three must be inside.

We’re panting hard and I take Samuel’s hand to make him slow down so that we’re walking by the time we pass the men.

One of them makes a lewd comment about me and I feel Samuel tense, but I tighten my grip to prevent him from responding.

When we enter, I go with Samuel to stand beside his mother. The Reverend Colvil is in a fierce argument with the sergeant.

‘I’ll have you know, sergeant,’ says Samuel’s father, ‘that I’ve been the minister here for more than ten years.’ The reverend is a tall, powerfully built man, not easily intimidated, and yet I sense the situation is fast slipping from his grasp.

‘I don’t care how long you’ve been minister,’ sneers the sergeant, ‘we’ll return at noon tomorrow, and if you’ve not left by then, you’ll be forcibly thrown out. And that won’t be all!’

Samuel’s mother is shaking. We press in a little closer to her but dare not speak.

‘This is a disgrace!’ protests the reverend.

‘Take it up with the king!’

The two men are locked in a tense stare when outside, the sound of a galloping horse approaches. Moments later, my father strides through the open doorway. He takes in the room with a sweep of his gaze, pausing on me, no doubt making sure that I appear all right.

‘Andrew, are you all safe?’ he asks Reverend Colvil.

‘Douglas, thank you for coming. We’re unhurt but have to leave the parish by noon tomorrow.’

‘That’s a ridiculously short time. What are your orders, sergeant?’

‘Who the hell are you?’ the man barks at Father.

‘I’m Doctor Milligan, and you’ll mind your tone when speaking to me.’

‘This traitor is being thrown out of the parish because of his disloyalty to the king – and he’s lucky to be alive if you ask me.’

‘Well, if you’ve delivered the king’s instructions, there’s no reason to remain. The minister and his family can hardly pack their belongings with you lot standing in the way.’

The sergeant glares at my father. ‘We’ll be back at noon,’ he shouts as he storms out, followed by his men.

When the soldiers ride away in a thunder of hooves, the tension in the room finally breaks and we all sigh with relief.

Mrs Colvil goes to her husband and he puts his arms around her.

Samuel hugs me. At that moment, Calum comes rushing into the house.

He goes straight into his mother’s embrace and bursts into tears.

‘Where will you go, Andrew?’ asks Father.

‘I’m waiting for God’s guidance on that.’

‘Stay with us.’

Father says what I’m already hoping. In so many ways, we’re like one big family. Hamish and Samuel are close friends and I treat Calum as a young brother.

‘I appreciate the offer, Douglas,’ says Reverend Colvil, ‘but helping us would put you at risk and I won’t allow that. We need to stay hidden for a while, at least until those particular soldiers have left the area. Then we’ll see who wins between God and king.’

I catch Father’s eye, and I see in his face the fear he has spoken out loud so often recently: war is brewing in Scotland.

And for us, it begins here, right now.