The impact of what Victor did to Matthew would
not become clear for some time. In the meanwhile,
things continued as usual. Children were educated,
adults farmed the land and looked after young and
old, and of course, some young people fell in love.
In this last point I was no exception.
Lying in a field of snowdrops and bluebells,
Jenny and I held hands and kissed each other gently
on the lips. It had been a beautiful spring day, a
Sunday, and the night was finally drawing in. After
church we had obtained permission to go out, both
making up a story to get out of spending time at
home. We spent the day walking and talking
together along Nairn beach before finally heading
back into Inverness. We had a plan, and it was a
good one!
Heaven knew we needed one, for ours was
no simple case. She was of noble birth, and I was of
mixed heritage. My father was a MacLeod, but only
distantly related to the MacLeods of Dunvegan and
therefore not nobility; my mother was what Father
called his "Gypsy Princess." She was part Jew, and
some said she was also related in some way to my
travelling friends who had given me books and in so
doing furthered my education considerably. At
times, her heritage had caused us difficulties
growing up. In England the infamous "bloody
code" had already started, and there were many
crimes punishable by death. One of those was
"being in the company of Gypsies for one month."
As we were subjects to British rule, this cruel and
bizarre law was also, in theory, in force in Scotland.
No distinction was made between Romani, Irish, or
Scots travellers—all were subject to persecution
from state and people alike. As for her Jewish
heritage, some mocked, "You crucified Christ." The
Roman Empire was never mentioned in these jibes,
nor the sins of the world. However, only a few got
to know of our heritage, and even those who did
limited their persecution to verbal abuse. This
mercy we continually thanked God for, as many
others had not been so fortunate.
Our love was a forbidden love, and well we
knew it, but we lingered as long as we could
together as the stars began appearing in the sky.
Finally we parted with a kiss and a long hug.
"I love you, Jenny."
She had the kindest smile, the kind that
would light up a room. Her bright blue eyes were
like the depth of the ocean, eyes that had seen
things, bad things, yet reflected a soul of wisdom, a
compassionate heart. She was internally aged before
her time, yet she carried herself gracefully in walk
and in manner. Her skin was gentle and soft, with
rose-blossom cheeks and tender hands of affection.
"I love you too, Davy."
We left one another with our plan burning in
our hearts. The next Sunday in the dead of night we
would borrow a horse from a friend at the Kilravock
Castle stables, and go to the chapel at the grey
friars' graveyard. Usually I walked everywhere, but
it was a long journey on foot, so a borrowed horse
would be much appreciated. I often went to this
chapel when I had leave to go into town. It was my
place to go when I needed to think. A week hence,
we would marry there. We would sneak out in the
dead of night and be united as husband and wife
beneath the stars and before our God.
It was my propensity to go the graveyard
that had led to the plan. One evening, sitting in the
graveyard on a tombstone table, feeling the breeze I
wrapped myself up tight in my sheepskins and
rubbed my hands together for warmth. I was about
to get up and go home, but then I saw the door of
the small chapel open. It was then, for the first time,
that I saw the kind hearted old monk who lived
there. He wore a brown habit tied with a cord at the
waist, and a simple wooden cross hung from his
neck. It seemed odd, but he appeared to be deep in
quiet conversation with a cat he was letting inside
the chapel and a pigeon sitting on a nearby
headstone. He threw a bread crumb toward the bird,
and it took it up onto the roof of the chapel where a
nest sat. I coughed a little, and the monk noticed
me.
"I have seen you here often," he said, "but
only tonight do I dare disturb your thoughts. You
must come inside with me into the warmth."
"Are you sure?"
"Of course. Come in, my friend."
"I'm not Catholic . . ."
He laughed. "A Protestant who likes to
spend time in my yard—that's a first."
"Actually, I'm not Protestant."
"Now I have heard everything," he said,
leading me into the chapel. "Take a seat, my
friend." He pulled up two wooden chairs next to the
fire.
"Thank you," I said, smiling and taking a
seat. They weren't exactly comfortable, but looking
around I admired the simplicity of this place, simple
much like the gospel. There were no pews, just a
few wooden chairs, the cross on the simple wooden
altar, some communion cups and plates made of
wood, and a small bed in the far corner of the room.
"So," he said, "what are you?"
I wasn't sure it was safe to talk so openly
about faith with this man—until he saw my
hesitation and explained that he was of the
Franciscan order and tended toward peace and
harmony with all living creatures. I reflected for a
moment as he asked the question again, then I
answered, "I truly trust in Jesus as my personal
Saviour, and I believe that salvation is by grace
alone through faith alone in Christ alone, but that
this grace should lead a person to bear fruit. I feel
uncomfortable in these times of conflict. I can't see
how killing in the name of reform or in the name of
a church can possibly fit with what Jesus taught."
The old monk held up the wooden cross that
was hanging around his neck. "I admire your words.
I met a fellow Franciscan monk when I was on
pilgrimage to Iona who said something similar. He
gave me an article by a wise man called George
Fox, who founded a Society of Friends in England
during the 1600s. It is one of my only possessions."
He showed me the article, which was written
on a ratty pamphlet and probably printed in an
underground printing press, much like many of the
books I had read. It was a beautiful copy none the
less, and I read how a people called the Quakers or
Friends had made a stand against the violence of all
fighters in the world. The message had been boldly
sent to King Charles and was signed by George Fox
and eleven other Friends. This bit stood out to me:
"All bloody principles and practices we do
utterly deny, with all outward wars, and strife, and
fightings with outward weapons, for any end, or
under any pretence whatsoever, and this is our
testimony to the whole world. That spirit of Christ
by which we are guided is not changeable, so as
once to command us from a thing as evil and again
to move unto it; and we do certainly know, and so
testify to the world, that the spirit of Christ, which
leads us into all Truth, will never move us to fight
and war against any man with outward weapons,
neither for the kingdom of Christ, nor for the
kingdoms of this world."
The monk smiled at the look of awe on my
face as I looked up from the strong words of these
persecuted people.
"The problem with churches of all sorts," he
continued, "is that so often they ignore the key
teachings of the Sermon on the Mount, like the
doctrine of love. So often we ask God to be on our
side instead of asking that we be blessed enough to
be on his. That said, the wheat and the tares must
grow up together, and in the days of harvest they
will be separated properly."
"Wise words, Brother . . ."
"Please, call me Peter."
I smiled. "Peter. I'm Davy."
"Well, it is nice to finally put a name to a
face. I couldn't help notice that today you seemed
deep in thought, more than usual. It may be none of
my business, but perhaps I can help? You're in love,
aren't you?"
I blinked in surprise. "How did you guess? "
"Let's just say I wasn't always a monk," he
said with a grin. We both laughed. But my heart was
too troubled to laugh for long. I leaned forward,
intense.
"It is love, Peter. Of that I am certain. But
the girl I love is of noble birth and the daughter of a
prominent redcoat, whilst I am clearly not."
"You love her?"
"More than life itself."
"Do you feel passionate toward her?"
"Yes."
"Have you thought of marriage?"
"But it is impossible! I wish . . ."
"Well, why not? You love her, and I presume
she loves you?"
"We mean the world to each other. I would
die for her if I had to."
He grinned from ear to ear and gave a hearty
chuckle of approval "That is true love. Don't run
from it, embrace it."
"How?"
"Ask her to be your wife. If she says yes,
come. We can arrange to have you married in this
chapel."
Although I knew this monk was of an
unusual leaning in these war-ridden times, I still
couldn't at that moment get past the fact that he was
a Catholic who by all accounts should be considered
my enemy. "But why would you do this for us? And
how will it be possible when our families are natural
rivals?"
"I would do this for you because I was once
in love, but I never asked her. She was a foreigner
with dark skin. She was a slave until I bought her
freedom. Her beauty was amazing, but I didn't do
anything about my love, and now here I am, old and
alone in a graveyard. As for the problem of rivalry,
ignore it. I didn't, and it was a great mistake. I was
scared of what people thought. Now all I have is
regret." The old monk turned his head away to hide
his tears.
"Do you know what happened to her?"
"She went on to marry another, or so I heard.
And then I became a monk."
"I want to marry Jenny so badly. She is so
beautiful—in looks, character, faith, hope, and love.
I will ask her."
I was true to my word. That lovely spring
day in the garden that was bursting into life, I asked
her on bended knee, and she said yes.
The night we made our plan, I hardly slept.
A week later, we went out to meet each other in the
middle of the night. Jenny climbed out of her
window on the second floor of the manor house in
Nairn and down the branches growing on the wall
of the house. She was wearing a lovely dress, and I
waited for her at the bottom astonished at the ease
and beautiful composure with which she scaled the
wall. It was clear she had done this before. Landing,
she straightened her long, black, flowing hair. Then
she grabbed a Prince's Flower from the garden and
put it in her hair. Taking my hand, she ran with me
through the woods of her ancestral estate to the
stables at the castle, where we met our friend with a
horse.
We reached town and stood among the
headstones, beneath the stars as we had planned,
and as we held hands, the monk prayed:
God of Love,
Thank you that you are love itself.
We praise you that it was for love that your
Son Jesus was born.
We praise you that it was for love that your
Son Jesus lived a perfect and holy life.
We praise you that it was for love that your
Son Jesus taught us to love.
We praise you that it was for love that your
Son Jesus taught us to love God.
We praise you that it was for love that your
Son Jesus taught us to love each other.
We praise you that it was for love that your
Son Jesus taught us to love even our
enemies.
We praise you that it was for love that your
Son Jesus died for us.
We praise you that it was for love that your
Son Jesus took the punishment for all our
sins.
We praise you that it was for love that your
Son Jesus defeated death and rose again.
We praise you that it was for love that your
Son Jesus set us free.
We praise you that Love Incarnate will
come again, and we thank you that you are
love itself.
In the name of the Son of Love,
Amen.
Then he blessed our union. Once the
ceremony was complete, we kissed, and the monk,
with tears in his eyes, hugged us both. He certainly
was a little unorthodox.
"Live a long and happy life together. Do not
waste it; instead, truly live. Be blessed."