By Rebecca Foy
Aileen raced through the darkness of the allies, darting between building and across streets in front of horses and people. She wove her way through the crowd in the chilly air of the October evening.
“Hey, watch where yer going!” yelled someone, cursing Aileen ignored him, pushing through the crowds of people. The twins clung to her skirts, toddling as fast as their little legs could carry them, trying to keep up. Cutting straight through town was the shortest way, though surely not the fastest. And there seemed to be so many people about today.
News of fines, arrests, and executions were a constant thing, expected almost as regularly as the sun rising in the east each morning. But this was different-- this… this was Tristan.
When she reached the forest, Sean was limping.
“Foot hurts,” he sniveled. “Thorn.” She scooped him up and put him on her back, hardly stopping at all as she did so. She glanced back at Peyton, who still jogged along at a decent pace. Now if they could just keep going like this for a little while longer--
Her skirt snagged on a briar, ripping the brown fabric down the side. She didn’t notice; all she cared about was finding Brother Murray.
By chance, there he was, tending to his beautiful roses just outside his cottage door. She set Sean down and dashed to meet him.
“What’s wrong, lass?” asked Brother Murray. “Why do ye rush about as if the devil were behind ye?”
“Tristan,” she choked out as she gasped for breath. “Tristan. They’ve taken ‘im.”
The man’s eyes grew wide.
“Surely not,” he said. “Surely yer mistaken.”
“Nae,” she shook her head. “Nae-- I saw them take him myself. He was preaching down in Burdock’s field, and the soldiers descended upon them like a cloud of wasps. I was coming along with Peyton and Sean-- late because Sean had got a thorn in ‘is foot and I’d had to stop and remove it, the poor lad-- and saw it all from the top of the brae. They-- they took Peyton, and I-- I ran here.”
They were Covenanters-- they believed that no man could be the spiritual head of the church, that only Jesus Christ deserved that place of honor. This view was not popular among the authorities, and the Covenanters were being persecuted for it. Arrests, interrogations, trials, and hangings happened daily, yet the Covenanters remained peaceful. But Aileen knew it wouldn’t be long before they had to fight back.
Brother Murray mumbled something. Aileen stared at him strangely for a moment, thinking he was speaking to her, and then realized that his eyes were closed and he was praying.
“He has been on the wrong side of the law a few times before,” said Aileen worriedly when he was finished. “What’ll they do if they recognize him?” She thought of the time Tristan had killed a nobleman and taken the gold coins from his pocket. Those had been desperate times for Tristan, before he knew Christ. Having a woman and two children to support, he had found himself in that difficult position between a hangman’s noose and three mouths to feed.
“I wouldnae worry about it if I were you,” said Brother Murray. “Being a true follower of Our Lord Jesus these days is enough to condemn a man to death already. They cannot kill him twice.” Aileen jerked her head up and glared at him with fire in her eyes.
“And if they kill him once?”
“Relax, lass. They shall not harm him, if we think this through. Come, let us pray together. Then, Lord willing, we shall have a plan.”
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As they got up off their knees, a thought suddenly occurred to Aileen.
The children. What to do with them? Sean and Peyton were in her custody. Aileen knew that Tristan would want her to put the children’s safety before his own, but...
Brother Murray seemed to follow her train of thought.
“They could stay at Granny MacPherson’s,” he suggested. “I’m sure our sister in the Lord wouldn’t mind a few more smiling faces in her brood,”
Granny MacPherson’s cottage. Of course.
“Come, Sean.” she said, trying to keep her voice calm and gentle. She smiled down at the little boy, who beamed back up at her. “Where’s Peyton?” Sean pointed behind her, and she turned to see the other child squatting down in the mud. A small, warty creature lay in the palms of his cupped hands.
“Puddock,” he said, holding up the little toad. “I found a puddock.”
“I see ye have been busy,” said Aileen. “Put the crature down afore ‘e hops away,” Peyton gave the toad its freedom and patted it on the head.
“Nice puddock.”
The two boys each took one of her hands and skipped along beside her. She looked down at them contentedly. They were all hers, although not her flesh and blood, to be sure. If they were, they would have her fiery red hair and green eyes. But as far as coloring went, they took after their mother, who had been a blue-eyed blonde British girl. And their faces were exact miri-replicas of their father, Tristan.
They would have to walk. It was a good two miles to Granny’s house, but being poor and practically an outlaw, Brother Murray did not have a horse or cart.
“May we sing, Mother?” asked Sean. Aileen paused a moment before answering. She didn’t really feel like singing, not now-- and if the dragoons should hear them-- but the little boy’s face was so sweet, and who knew when she’d see him next--
“Of course, Sean,” she said.
They began singing Psalm 119, Aileen’s soprano rising above Brother Murray’s baritone. Sean and Peyton squeaked along, too. They giggled as they groped for the words and mispronounced most of them, causing Brother Murray and even Aileen to laugh. It was a very cheerful group that arrived in the clearing by Granny MacPherson’s house.
As Granny’s cottage came into view, memories flowed through her mind like a river. She and Tristan had been raised here together. They had played together, worked together, gotten into mischief together. She had been a good girl who never strayed far from God. Tristan had been exactly the opposite; the stubborn boy had turned into an iron-willed man, and he had had his way at everything. He had married a British servant girl, who had been killed in a house fire not long after the twins were born.
Aileen and Tristan had remained good friends through all of this, and when Mary-- the twins’ mother-- had died, Tristan was devastated. Aileen had begged him to come to a conventicle with her. It was there that he had found the Lord. His life had been turned around drastically, and he became one of the Covenanter preachers. Needing a mother for his boys, and caring for Aileen very much, he had taken her as his wife.
And here she was, back where she had started.
“So I see yer safe returned, Aileen,” called a little woman. The skirt of her homespun dress swished around her feet as she walked quickly to greet them. Her hair, which Aileen noticed had faded to white, was bundled up neatly at the back of her head.
Widowed a full forty years before, Granny MacPherson had no children of her own. Her first child had been a stillborn, and her second had been swept away by fever. As another tragedy, her husband had died. But for all that loss and sorrow, her green eyes still sparkled with kindness.
Children were not hard to come by in town; they roamed the streets and alleys like stray dogs, begging for food and being kicked aside by shopkeepers and people tending to their business in town. Granny had made it her mission to take care of all the “wee bairns” she came across.
Granny was strong-armed, kind-hearted, and firmly believed that children were gifts from God. She fed them, clothed them, scrubbed them clean till their skin glowed red, read Bible stories to them on the Sabbath, and spanked them when the need for it arose. She grew her own food, spun her own fabric, and took in mending for extra cash.
“What trooubles ye?” Asked Granny. “I see it in yer eyes, lass.”
“Tristan,” said Aileen. “The dragoons ‘ave taken ‘im.”
The old woman’s eyes clouded over. “He’s a stubborn lad,” she said. “But strong in the Lord. We’ll be praying for him.”
“Aye, I thank you.”
“‘Tis dark already,” remarked Granny. “Will ye do me honor, and be me guests for the night?”
Brother Murray and Aileen agreed. There was not much they could do for Tristan tonight, anyway. They enjoyed fellowship with Granny that evening, and ate with her and the children around the crowded table. The house was loud, wild, hot, and quarters were close, but it was altogether a cozy and loving atmosphere. Aileen had such a grand time laughing and playing with the children that she almost got her mind off Tristan.
Almost, but not quite.
She dreamed of Tristan that night, of the day they had decided that the Covenanters needed more of their own songs.
“Most av the songs we sing now are old Catholic hymns,” Tristan had said, blue eyes sparkling as they did when he had an idea. “Those are good, but we should have a few more, just of our own. More original music. If we’re breaking apart from them, why are we bringing their music with us?”
“Aye,” she said. “We ought to write our own song.” She paused. “Here. Now.”
“What shall it be about?” They sat in silence for a moment. Though neither of them moved, they were both wandering through a forest of their own thoughts. This is what music is, she thought. Letting your thoughts wander off, and then translating them into melodies.
“Scotland is such a bonnie place,” she had said, sighing.“‘Tis so pleasing to the eyes.” Tristan smiled at her.
“Jesus is fairer,” he said. “And stronger, and purer, and brighter. It’s not with Scotland that our loyalty stands, no--” He stared off into the blue sky. “-- but with our Lord and Savior. He is surely fairest of them all.”
“Aye,” She agreed. “And there’s the first part of your song.”
“Hmm,” he said, thinking. He hummed a few notes, moving up and down the music scale with his voice. He found a combination that he liked-- three low notes, a higher one, a low one, and another high one. He sung that one a few times, then added a few words to it. “Fairest Lord Jesus…”
That was as far as they got. Their conversation was interrupted by a shrill scream. She and Tristan ran, flying over the hills, only to find that Peyton had slipped a squirming toad down the back of Sean’s shirt.
“Puddock!” Sean screamed. “Issa puddock in mah shirrrrrrrt!” Both she and Tristan had collapsed on the ground, laughing so hard it was difficult to breathe.
She awoke, sitting straight up in bed. She ran a hand over her face, feeling it become damp with the tears that had gathered there. Tristan.
She sent up a silent prayer for him, then laid back down. It’s in God’s hands now. she thought.Thy kingdom come, thy will be done…
In the morning, they set out for town, burdened with food from Granny’s kitchen. Donning cloaks that shielded their faces from the sharp wind, as well as keeping their identity secret, they began the journey back to town.
Aileen hesitated at the edge of the clearing, looking back over her shoulder.
“Dinnae worry yerself,” said Granny, raising her voice over the clamor of children. “The children’ll be fine here. I’ll gladly keep ‘em as long as ye need me to.” Aileen glanced over at the twins. Already, Peyton had found another toad and was chasing a shrieking little read-head with it. Sean was drawing in the dirt with a stick, having inherited artistic traits from his father. She smiled slightly, then offered a wave to Granny and turned back to the well-worn path.
Every night, a group of Covenanters met at a designated meeting point to discuss everything from arrests to new conversions to Bible passages. Tonight the meeting was at the house of a man by the name of Duncan. He was a tall, lanky man of about twenty-five, with a shock of red curls and a not much in the way of a beard.
Things were said of Tristan’s situation. Usually it took as many as twelve days to try a prisoner, but Tristan’s trial had been speedy and the verdict heavy: he would be executed atmidnight in the town square for heresy. Aileen was outraged. She stood up.
“How can they do such a thing!” she said, her voice rising. “We aren’t barbarians, carrying out our dirty deeds at night like our fathers in ancient times! Cowards! Show their faces in the sunlight, why don’t they-- see if they can stand the brightness.”
“Be calm, Aileen,” said Duncan gently. “Perhaps this midnight execution is a blessing in disguise.”
“How so?”
“It would be hard to rescue our brother Tristan in broad daylight,” said Brother Murray. “but under the shadow of darkness…” He trailed off, leaving Aileen to fill in the blanks. A smile slowly curved across her face. She sat down slowly.
“What did ye have in mind?”
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There were twenty of them that night, including Aileen. The men had firmly instructed her to stay out of the way, and she had meekly agreed. They had gathered round the gallows slowly, not wanting to draw attention. Aileen’s breath caught in her throat as she saw Tristan, standing still on the plank door of the gallows. Her heart clenched as they dropped the noose over his head. He stared straight ahead, not seeing her. She wanted to cry out, to run to him, to embrace him, but knew she could not. Not yet.
A puny little man on a horse read from a sheet of paper all the offenses Tristan had committed against his King and his country.
Lies. All lies.
Aileen glanced up at the big church tower. Midnight was drawing near much too quickly. There would not be time for the men to carry out their plan before the bell was rung. Her lip quivered as she drew a shaky breath, the color draining from her cheeks. She must do something-- but what?
She pushed her way through the crowd, breaking into a run as she raced into the church. The bellringer-- a rather deaf old man in a long brown robe-- didn’t notice her steal into the building and up the ladder to the bell. The big copper bell was half as tall as she as, and three times as wide. It glowed silver in the moonlight. How on earth was she to stop it from ringing?
Fabric. She could damper it with fabric. But she had none, and there was no time to fetch any.
She looked down. The gloom beneath her was like a giant hole, waiting to swallow her. If she should slip--
In the impulse of the moment, she jumped up and wrapped her hands around the bell. “Midnightmustn’t come.” she whispered. “The bell mustn’t ring.”
It was midnight. The soldiers and the crowd were waiting for the bell to sound. But it would not, she told herself. It would not. She hung on tightly as the bellringer yanked on the rope, muttering to himself that the bell felt heavier than usual today. Her hand struck the inside of the bell with great force. She bit back a cry of pain, chewing her lip as she swung back and forth. Again and again it struck her.
“Midnight mustn’t come,” she whispered to herself, to still the beating of her heart. “The bell shall not ring.” She hung on. Her arms ached, her hands banged against the metal with each pull of the rope. Blood dripped down her arm, staining her white skin crimson. At last the pulling stopped. The bellringer, who really was almost completely deaf, had not heard the bell ringing. He did not think it unusual because the sound of it never reached his ears anyway.
When at long last she ceased swaying, she slowly lowered her feet to the top rung of the ladder. She was shaking dreadfully now, like a flower in a tempest. She crept down the steps one by one, praying that she wouldn’t fall.
When she reached the bottom, she examined her hands. They were bleeding and torn. The bruised skin was turning black, as were the nails. But it mattered not-- Tristan was safe. She sat down against the cold stone wall. She knew not how long she sat there, but when she finally got up, all sounds of struggle from outside had stopped. To find out whether the mission had been a failure or a success, she would have to make her way back to the meeting place.
She slowly trudged her way towards Duncan’s house. The men would be there, if they hadn’t all been arrested.
“Aileen! Lass, where have ye been?” Brother Murray rushed out to greet her. “How did you stop the bell from ringing?”
She held out her hands.
“What-- how--?” He looked at her hands before him. The hands that had once been so dainty and little were now ragged and bruised. He touched one gingerly, and she yelped. “Lass-- ye have done the impossible. How did ye do it?”
Aileen shook her head. She didn’t know anything except that it had needed to be done and she had done it. God had prevailed.
“Tristan?” she asked breathlessly.
“In the house. Come with me, brave lass.”
Indeed, there was Tristan, free from his ropes. He looked quite exhausted. His hair was ruffled and his clothes were torn. Blood dripped from a slash in his sleeve. But Aileen had never been happier to see him. She rushed forward and was enfolded in an embrace that lasted a very, very long time.
“It’s finished,” he said.
“Aye, it’s over,” she said with a sigh.
“Nae,” he said. “I meant our song.”
“Our hymn? You-- finished it?”
“One hasn’t got much else to do when yer sittin’ on the floor of a jail cell for days,” he said wryly. But he smiled. “Aye, it’s finished. All of it.”
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They stood there in the sunshine, singing hand in hand the song that had been born of the misadventures of the past week.
“Fairest Lord Jesus! Ruler of all nature!
O Thou of God and man the Son!
Thee will I cherish, Thee will I honor,
Thou, my soul's glory, joy, and crown!’
Their voices rose in harmony, alone at first, wavering weakly towards the end as they wondered if the other Covenanters would approve. But the second time through there were more voices, making the melody stronger. Is this what it would be like in heaven-- all the voices weaving themselves around each other, floating through the air, resting above them like some mysterious benediction?
Midnight had come, and they had survived it. Whatever came next, Aileen knew they would be ready.
“Fair are the meadows, Fairer still the woodlands,
Robed in the blooming garb of spring:
Jesus is fairer, Jesus is purer,
Who makes the woeful heart to sing.
Fair is the sunshine, Fairer still the moonlight,
And all the twinkling starry host:
Jesus shines brighter, Jesus shines purer,
Than all the angels heav'n can boast.
Beautiful Saviour! Lord of the nations!
Son of God and Son of Man!
Glory and honor, Praise, adoration,
Now and forevermore be Thine!”
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