Tears stung his eyes. He had been Ilene’s protector all of her life and by that, he had earned her love. Now, without meaning to, and with his usual casual cruelty, he had taken Ilene’s young heart in his hands and crushed it. He realised he could have made a different decision and that he need not abandon her. But she would eventually forget him, for he was nothing, and besides, he had resolved to make his own way in the world, dependent on no one’s charity.
London - January 1649
The King shuffled out into the cutting wind swirling around the grand buildings of Whitehall. His gait was hesitant, and he flinched when his eyes found the block. Reed-thin and sallow-faced, he was not very impressive in person, but this man had laid waste to battlefields and lives. As he began to force out his last words the crowd fell silent. Surprisingly his voice was steadfast, and to Murray, there was courage in it. Having been forced to display such a quality many times in the sixteen harsh years of his life he could readily acknowledge it in others.
The king spoke of liberty and freedom, but then his last words revealed everything about this self-righteous, arrogant man. ‘A subject and sovereign are clear different things,’ he said, with absolute conviction. So through all the years of conflict with Parliament, the lives ripped apart by his inability to compromise, the blood spilt to uphold his divine right to rule, this man stood before his executioners still clinging to the belief that he had been chosen by God and was therefore irreplaceable. So in all his life, he had learned absolutely nothing.
When the axe met his neck, severing the head in one devastating blow, the crowd gasped as one. Murray did not make a sound nor did he flinch from the sight, though he was disgusted by it. And it was not because they were executing Charles, King of England, anointed by God to rule over men. Murray had scant regard for such notions of rank and privilege. Nor was it because the man’s brutal end now placed England in the iron grip of the dour Oliver Cromwell. It was because the King had died on his knees and most likely shitting his breeches in the process. There was never any dignity in dying, Murray knew that much, but to meet your maker on such terms was unthinkable. When death came calling you should go down fighting, not be dragged to your end like a lamb to the butcher’s block.
Some hours later he stared morosely into a glass of ale, trying to overcome the sense of black doom which had dogged him since the execution. Murray had a feeling that with the slaughter of a king by his own subjects the world had stumbled and tipped over somehow, nothing was certain any more.
His life had already changed in an ill way these last few weeks since he had left Cailleach behind. At the memory of his leaving his face burned with shame, making him oblivious to the bustle of the tavern and the smell of boiled mutton, stale ale and old sweat which clung to its walls.
He had mixed feelings about his home in the Highlands of Scotland. His life had started when he had arrived there, when Duncan and Ailsa Campbell had taken him in, after finding him starving and nearing death in the burnt out ruins of a cottage. He had been as good as a slave to its owners, a greedy couple who had forced him to work his fingers to the bone for them. Murray did not mourn their passing, he was merely glad he had survived the raid where they had been slain, in a dispute over cattle reiving.
His father he never knew. His mother had been blonde and in his hazy memories, beautiful. Murray must have been about four years old when she had died and he had been left destitute, though there was no way of knowing his age for certain. Where he came from, or who his family were, he had no idea. Most likely his mother had been a whore and his father, one of the many men passing through her life for a few coins.
Murray had become displaced by life and disconnected from others. It was not really living at all, more just surviving against all the odds. He remembered being constantly cold through the bitter Scottish winters, with barely rags to cover him, hiding in barns and outhouses for shelter until he was, inevitably, discovered and driven off. He remembered the desperate pangs of hunger driving him to gnaw on old bones and rotten scraps that no one else wanted, so disgusting that they made him heave and retch. But he soon feasted on finer pickings when he became good at stealing. Every day, it seemed, he had to dodge the brutal kicks and punches that were bestowed on such a low creature as he. Moving from place to place, he had become almost an animal. Was it sheer malevolence that had kept him alive back then? Did he survive just out of spite at the world?
‘Want company do ye?’ The whore’s words pulled him out of his thoughts.
She was pretty, in a rough kind of way, but her face had a hopelessness to it that aged her. She reminded him of a rose which, having bloomed too long, was now losing its bright petals to the wind, one by one until only a dry stalk remained. Murray laughed inwardly at the image the poet in him had conjured. Hiding his disgust, with her and with himself, he smiled into her eyes, for whenever it suited him, he could turn on the charm. Why not have her for the night, that way it would be easier to face the morning?
‘I might if the cost is not too much,’ he replied
‘I’ll earn every penny, I promise, and you’ll not regret it,’ she replied, stroking his arm with dirty fingers and trying her best to look seductive.
Just then, another patron who had spied her charms grabbed her arm and tried to drag her away. She protested violently, cursing and struggling, but he persisted. ‘Come on girl, to hell with this young whelp, come and bed a man instead’
‘Leave her,’ growled Murray, feeling a black anger uncoil in his chest.
‘Run back to your mother and suckle at her breast you runt, and leave a man to give this little bitch a good…’
The blow crushed the thug’s nose, propelling him backwards into the wall. He slid down it, unconscious and gushing blood, onto the filthy floor.
Shaking out his fist and stepping over him, Murray turned to the girl. ‘Do you have a place?’
She nodded. Grabbing her arm, he pulled her quickly away and when they reached a shabby room at the back of the inn, he slammed the door shut.
‘My name is Maggie,’ she said in a shaky voice, ‘might I know yours.’
‘Not important,’ he replied. When he saw the look on her face, he reined in the anger that surged through him. ‘Don’t fear me, Maggie. I’ll not hurt you like I hurt that brute.’
‘I’m glad you hit him,’ she replied, with a weak smile.
‘So am I. He deserved it, for being impolite to a lady.’ Then he grinned, his handsome face changing from intimidating to seductive. ‘Let’s keep each other warm this cold night,’ he said, holding out his hand.
***
As he took Maggie by the light of a smoky candle, he felt anew the dread of earlier. She made a show of enjoying him, whispering into his ear as she wriggled beneath him, but her sighs and panting were merely a distraction, so eventually, he put a hand firmly, but not unkindly, over her mouth and bid her be quiet so that he could finish. Later sleep eluded him, and homesickness gnawed at him, as he lay listening to Maggie’s soft snores. He missed his old life and he missed them.
He had loved Duncan Campbell like a father, but he enforced so many rules, so many constraints on his wild nature, in an effort to contain it, that they had inevitably clashed. And as Ailsa and Duncan went on to have two fine sons, he was canny enough to realise that they took precedence over him. They were first in line for Ailsa’s affection and were the focus of Duncan’s ambitions for the future of his clan. Murray had felt ousted, placed further down the pecking order, no matter how he resisted it, and no matter that they showed him only love and acceptance, fed, clothed and educated him. His resentment of the Campbell children intensified as they grew up.
The exception to this was their first-born, Ilene, who was but a baby when he first came to Cailleach, when Murray could scarcely believe his good fortune in finally having a home and a fine family, when he still had faith in the future and the fairness of the world. That child had somehow wormed her way into his heart and made a home there, but he could hardly bear to think of her now.
No point in lying here, it had to be faced - the point of no return. As he dressed, shivering at the cold, Maggie stirred.
‘You are going…so soon?’ She seemed softer in the dawn light, with a smile lighting up her sweet face.