Chapter 14

 May 1890, Oliver 

Oliver Drummond sat at his desk in what served as both dining room and study, and stared into middle distance. He was finding it difficult to concentrate; his mind kept returning to the conversation he had had with Ellen Mackay, out on the headland. How she had startled him! He had been ruminating, with some bitterness, on the theme of the power of lovely women to blight lives, and that thought had brought him to Ulla. Her charms had apparently captivated two brothers, disastrously for both if the legend was to be believed, but he also wondered how the celibate Odrhan had fared in the encounter; clergymen never seemed to come off well in dealings with the fairer sex.

And then Ellen had arrived and touched on the very point. “But he loved her only as a godly man, not a lover?” she had asked, implying that godly love was a lesser, not a greater thing. And he thought briefly of the provost’s daughter, who had apparently felt the same, and then put the memory aside.

He should have chided Ellen for such words, of course, but they sprang from a naïveté that was childlike, almost fey. How charmingly unaffected she was! She might be able to read, but she was uneducated, rather susceptible, perhaps, with thoughts unchecked. And had she any idea how lovely she was? He allowed himself a moment to contemplate her blue-green eyes. Where had she sprung from, he wondered, to be so well-favoured, so delicate and fine-boned?

But the poor girl must live in a state of constant anxiety if what he understood of her mother’s illness was true, so small wonder that she took refuge in daydreams. And that, he supposed, was what he had been doing himself, musing on what he had read in Sir Donald’s book, trying to separate the facts from the romantic embroidery of the would-be poet baronet. No Byron he! Out there, though, beside Odrhan’s cell with water on three sides, it was all too easy to dream, suspended in time and space, with just a narrow causeway connecting the headland to the shore. Odrhan had chosen his site well, and Oliver felt himself very much in sympathy with the man, a missionary amongst the godless.

And then Ellen had appeared as if from nowhere, and expressed such unexpected ideas! The past was not lost, she had implied, just rendered invisible by the passing of the years; a sentiment with echoes of the pagan.

He pulled out the drawing he had made of the little oratory and studied it again. It was now little more than a pile of tumbled stones overgrown with thistles and nettles, but he had begun to discern a shape to it with courses built up by overlapping the stones towards a rounded roof, long since caved in. Had no one, in all these years, thought to ask what might be inside? He felt a thrill at the thought.

It would not be too great a job, surely, to shift the fallen roof stones and find out.

He sat, the sketchbook open before him, and stared out of the window. So far his duties had been light, his flock few in number and dutiful. Not godless, perhaps, but indifferent, and he was cynical enough to realise that his main purpose here was to provide support for Lady Sturrock, a good Christian woman, thoughtful of the tenants’ bodily needs and mindful of their souls; but he was learning that his presence brought resentment from other quarters. Resentment, and contempt—

He glanced across at the clock above the fireplace and put the sketchbook away, schooling his mind to the matter of his sermon. This evening he had been bidden to the big house for dinner and there would be no time later to complete it.

Following his arrival two months ago, Oliver had eaten several times at Sturrock House and found it something of an ordeal, compensated for, however, by the excellence of the food and wine. Would it be beef tonight, he wondered, as he selected the best of his shirts, ideally accompanied by a good rich claret? Fatted calf, perhaps, to greet the return of the Sturrock sons. Alexander Sturrock’s arrival had, he understood, been unexpected, and was for some reason contentious, so would he qualify as prodigal? Oliver considered the word as he dressed; as it embraced both the concept of repentant return and that of reckless waste, perhaps both sons, in their ways, could claim the fatted calf.

So it might be beef, then. He could only hope.

He dressed carefully, sponging a mark off his trouser leg. The Sturrocks usually dressed for dinner, but they seemed not to expect it from him, which was just as well. It was hard enough to make ends meet without unnecessary expenditure on smart evening clothes. His shoes, at least, he need not blush for. He kept them for such occasions, wearing stouter footwear to tramp the local paths and roads.

He left the manse and stepped carefully, mindful of them as he made his way across the stream and up the track towards Sturrock House, avoiding the marshy patches and thinking that it would be more difficult to do so on the way back, after dark.

He went through the garden gate and up the gravelled path to the front door, where a lantern had been hung to light his way. Sir Donald Sturrock greeted him as he was ushered into the drawing room. “Ah, Drummond! Come in, and for God’s sake bring some leaven to the party. You know Mungo, of course, but you’ve not met my younger son, Alexander. I rely on you to talk some sense into him.”

Oliver shook the proffered hand and felt an instant liking for the open-faced young man who stood smiling before him. He resembled his mother more than his father, with fine regular features and intelligent eyes, and he grimaced at his father’s words. “How d’ye do,” he said. Then Oliver bowed to Lady Sturrock and greeted her elder son, who was sat at his ease beside the fire. Mungo nodded in return.

Lady Sturrock, an elegant lady in her early fifties, patted the seat beside her. “How are you, Mr. Drummond?” There was no sign of Miss May Sturrock, Sir Donald’s ancient aunt, sister of the late baronet, who seemed to reside somewhere in the shadows of Sturrock House. Usually when Oliver came to dine she was present, and he had found conversation between the four of them heavy going, but tonight he sensed a more pressing tension in the air.

Mungo contemplated him with bored indifference while Alexander asked, in a friendly manner, where he hailed from. “I grew up in Cumnock,” Oliver replied, “though lately I have been in Glasgow completing my studies.”

“You hear that, Alexander, completing his studies,” his father remarked, handing Oliver a glass of whisky. It was a drink he abhorred, but he took it.

“Perhaps the church would suit Alick rather better than the law,” drawled his brother.

Alexander Sturrock ignored him. “I was in Edinburgh, though I spent time in Glasgow too,” he said, continuing to address Oliver. “Such a city of contrasts, don’t you think? Abject poverty and yet amongst it all such a flowering—”

“A flowering!” his father scoffed. “My son has seen fit to pack in his studies, Mr. Drummond, just a year before completing them, and chooses instead to flower as a writer.”

“No, Pa, a poet. He will flower as a poet,” Mungo corrected him, and Oliver glanced at the younger son with some sympathy but could think of no way of offering support. Alexander Sturrock, however, was viewing his assailants with amusement, and his eyes connected for a moment with his mother’s. Was there indulgence there? he wondered.

“I shall keep myself by teaching, as well as writing,” the young man said.

Sir Donald’s expletive was covered by Lady Sturrock’s calm voice: “And he has come home for a spell to think matters over.” Yes, Alexander Sturrock had an ally, and Oliver was glad of it.

At that point the door opened and May Sturrock slid soundlessly into the room, so frail a form that she seemed transparent. Oliver rose, but the old lady made no acknowledgement of his presence other than a slight dismissive gesture as Lady Sturrock bid her a good evening. Alexander rose to bring her chair closer to the fire and she sat, saying nothing, and stared ahead with the vacancy of extreme old age.

At dinner, Oliver found himself seated beside Alexander and opposite Mungo and Miss Sturrock. Sir Donald and his wife sat at either end of a table more lavishly set than usual with the crystal sparkling and an abundance of well-polished cutlery which indicated an extra course. A candelabra blazed in the centre. Perhaps the fatted calf had indeed been slaughtered! Oliver’s stomach rumbled in anticipation.

As the soup was being consumed, Lady Sturrock remarked on the recent bad weather which had wrecked two of the fishing boats, with lives only narrowly saved. “How are the families doing, Mr. Drummond, do you know?”

“Robbie MacDonnell was worst hurt, but he’s improving. His leg was badly broken and his shoulder damaged, and his wife is determined that he’ll not go to sea again.”

Sir Donald grunted, gesturing for the hock to be served. “And what does she propose he’ll do instead?”

Oliver hesitated; this was not a fence to be rushed. “Perhaps there will be work on the estate, sir—”

“Will he remain crippled?”

“I’ll have a basket sent over tomorrow,” his wife said, and gave Oliver a smile. “It was good of you to visit them, for they are not regular church attenders, are they?” Not at his church, Oliver thought as the fish course replaced the soup, but very regular at the Free Church three miles away. Like so many.

“They are God’s creatures nonetheless, aren’t they, Drummond?” Mungo Sturrock shot him a glinting look across the table.

Oliver sensed boredom behind the goading, as well as a general contempt for his ministry, and he had encountered the same attitude from the young man’s father, but Sir Donald at least had the courtesy to hide it. He returned Mungo a tight smile, saying nothing, and applied himself instead to the poached cod which was thick and succulent, superior in every way to the tasteless flounders his housekeeper provided, and the conversation moved on. As he scraped the last morsel from his plate, he became aware that Mungo was watching him: “And we can thank the Lord that at least some of the boats were able to bring home their catch, eh, Drummond, whichever church they attend.”

His successor at the manse in years to come would have a hard time of it when Mungo came into the baronetcy, Oliver decided. Handsome and brawny he might be, but Mungo was seemingly a young man without compassion or understanding. Confident and contemptuous. On the occasions when he did attend church, he made a point of yawning through the sermons, and Oliver had to try hard not to dislike him.

At least it was beef that was subsequently brought to the table, well cooked and plentiful. Conversation dragged, however, and Oliver, fortified by a claret which surpassed expectations, decided to put his idea to the test, a toe in the water, so to speak, and addressed his host: “Tell me, sir, has there ever been any investigation of the ruin on the headland?”

Alexander looked up. “Odrhan’s chapel?”

“I was looking at it this afternoon.”

“Whatever for?” asked Sir Donald.

“Curiosity, sir. Such an ancient site, and it would, perhaps, be worth examining it more closely. Clearing the fallen stones, perhaps, and looking at the shape of the place. There would be interest in Edinburgh—”

“I can’t imagine why.”

“Well, I can!” Alexander put down his knife and fork. “What an excellent idea, Mr. Drummond. I shall assist you. Who knows what we might find.”

“Bones.” May Sturrock spoke the single word between tiny mouthfuls.

“Bones, Aunt?”

“Some fell out during a storm years back, when half the headland was washed away.”

Alexander looked across at Oliver, eyebrows lifted. “Human bones?”

“Aye.”

“Perhaps there was a burial ground out there,” said Lady Sturrock, and Oliver saw the opportunity slipping away.

“Any graves encountered would not be disturbed,” he reassured her.

Miss Sturrock spoke up again. “It would be a bad thing if you did, for there are those who believe the bones were Ulla’s.”

Alexander paused, his fork half raised. “Ulla’s! Really, Aunt? Why have you never said?”

Miss Sturrock viewed her nephew through rheumy eyes. “You never asked.”

“Well, tell us now! Why Ulla?”

Oliver looked at the old woman, remembering his conversation with Ellen, and thought of the time span encompassed by Miss Sturrock’s memory, stretching back perhaps eighty of her ninety years—links in a far-reaching chain. Nowhere near enough, of course, but she was worth hearing.

“It was said Odrhan buried her there,” she said, “beside his cell, where he could watch over her, and pray.”

“Who said?” asked Oliver, drawn in, and accepting a second helping of potatoes.

She shifted her gaze to him. “Folk said.”

Folk. The tellers and keepers of tales. And he had an image of the chain forged by the retelling reaching back into a lost past, preserving precious pieces of knowledge. “A little gold cross was found at the same time, with the bones,” the old woman added. “Odrhan must have placed it with her.”

“Did it come from there? I didn’t know.” Alexander looked across at him again, his eyes sparkling. “I’ve not looked at it for years. Is it still in the library, Mama?” His mother nodded. “I’ll show it to you, Mr. Drummond, after dinner. And we’ll go out there tomorrow, shall we, and take a look?” And then an idea seemed to strike him. “Maybe I can write about the legend, develop it into an extended poem. Like Macpherson did—a new Ossian!”

His father snorted into his glass. “So that’s it, is it? Cobbling together some old nonsense and hoping to live on the proceeds? You’ll more likely starve.” He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “And besides, you’re too late, your grandfather was ahead of you.” He addressed Oliver. “What do you make of the book I lent you, Drummond?”

“It’s very informative—” he began, but Alexander cut across him.

“It’s hideous stuff! Romantic bilge with no attempt at a factual account.”

“Can a legend ever be factual, my dear?” asked his mother.

“Mr. Drummond and I will find out, Mama, starting tomorrow.”

“Mr. Drummond has his duties.”

“And shouldn’t be concerning himself with pagan ladies anyway,” Mungo added, sitting back and twirling the stem of his empty wine glass. “Especially not lovely ones who lead holy men astray.”

Oliver decided to let that one go but opened his mouth to refute any concerns about neglect of duties. Alexander, however, was before him again. “It’s a thought, you know! We’ve accepted the portrayal of Ulla as in Grandpapa’s dreadful poetry, but perhaps she was really a sort of Eve figure, offering temptations—”

“Alick, really!”

“Wait, Mama, and consider. We can’t know what actually happened, can we? We’re just told that Ulla arrived here with her lover, a beautiful pagan, fleeing the husband she had wronged, then was abandoned here when Harald died. And what does Odrhan do?”

“Seduces her,” said Mungo, who had gone to the sideboard and was carving himself another slice of meat, “if he’d any sense.” His father gave a snort of amusement, his mother a click of annoyance.

“You’re a fool, Mungo Sturrock,” said his aunt.

Everyone ignored her, and Alexander continued: “If the accepted story is correct and Odrhan did convert her, though, and thereby saved her soul and so forth—”

“And a blasphemer.”

That statement too was ignored and Alexander carried on: “—having already, with true Christian charity, tended the wounds of her dying lover—”

“Probably finished him off to clear the field.” Mungo came back to the table.

Alick laughed. “Perhaps so! And we’ll never know whether Ulla really did convert or not. What had she to gain, after all?” Only eternal salvation, thought Oliver dryly, but was this the moment to say so? “Anyway, Odrhan had the last laugh as he could bury her as a Christian regardless, and bring up Harald’s child in the faith.”

Oliver opened his mouth to speak, but this time Mungo interjected: “Harald’s child? I may be a fool, as my beloved aunt remarks, but not so great a one to believe that Ulla and Odrhan spent their time together studying the Good Book. First woman he’s seen for months? Ha! The child was his. What d’you think, Drummond?”

Oliver saw that two pink spots of annoyance had appeared on Lady Sturrock’s cheeks, and he returned Mungo’s look steadily. “No version of the legend I have read suggested that was the case.” And yet had not Ellen raised that very question? “But did he only love her as a godly man, not a lover?”

“And you won’t, because that’s the point,” Mungo returned. “The church created a winsome tale of a holy hermit tending a pagan’s wound, a converted sinner, and a redeemed infant just to hide the fact that Pádraig, their great patron, was conceived by a monk and a harlot during a wild summer of carnal—”

“That is quite enough, Mungo!” Lady Sturrock rose to her feet. “Sir Donald, if you do not think of the courtesies due to our guest, let alone my own and your aunt’s sensibilities, then I do.”

“Sit down, m’dear,” her husband said, waving her back to her seat with an ill-disguised smile. “Mungo, you go too far.”