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Let him come. Let him do his purpose, even if it hurts. Even if it’s pins, or his turn to say whore, or hag. For I am still living. Ones I love are still living, and so what pain can come to me? What is there to fear?

Lives mean far more than deaths ever do. It is what we remember – the life. Not how they died, but how warm and bright-eyed they were, and how they lived their lives.

The Argyll Inn

Inverary

26th February

Darling Jane

You will be glad, I think, to see where I write this from. I have made it safely to the town of Inverary – though there were times in our journey when I doubted that we would. It was arduous, my love. It was wild with blizzards. We passed such dark, desolate water, and the wind howled like a demon at night. I thought of the stitched kneeler my mother made – remember? It says ‘So we say with confidence, “The Lord is my helper; I will not be afraid. What can man do to me?”’ (Hebrews 13.6) – and it is His doing alone, His loving care, which brought us to Inverary, in the end.

It is an attractive town, despite the weather. Placed on the edge of Loch Fyne, it has an air of money and civility which is welcome at this time. My lodgings here are warm, and dry. They are by the water, in a coaching inn which seems lively by day and more so at night. My rooms have a fire, and a window which looks out across the loch and its clinking ice (I take a rather childish pleasure in seeing such coldness, whilst I am warm. I write this, and see the blueness) and I wonder at the hardiness of these people, who live amongst such mountains and wind. The Campbells are also generous men. Their allegiance may not be my own, but I have eaten well in this inn, and our two remaining horses which have served us so well seem as happy as I am for the food and rest. I confess to being better in my spirits than I was. I have even eaten venison, Jane. I am still picking my teeth from it, but it is a good, restorative meat.

On to my purpose.

I have heard plenty of Glencoe. In the corners of the inn, it is all they speak about. I dined, and overheard such things that chilled me – the Chief, they say, was shot as he rose from his bed. His lady wife was injured in such a manner that she died, naked, out in the snow. Her rings, I hear, were bitten from her hands, so that her hands were mauled most savagely. Dreadful, despicable deeds.

I know this from my landlord. You’d smile, I think, at him – he has the reddest hair I’ve ever known, and red cheeks. He brims with words, and I have been in Inverary for a mere afternoon – four hours, at most! – yet he has already accosted me more than once. Even as I arrived I felt his stealth. He said, staying long? I replied that I, like all travellers, am at the Lord’s mercy, and that He and the weather will decide on my length of stay. I think he will pry, Jane. But this may prove of use, in its way. For if he pries with me, does he not pry with others? He may know plenty, in time.

Thinking this, I asked very casually, is that infamous glen in these parts?

How he liked that! He came near, said aye, what remains of it. Burnt and butchered, it was. His eyes blackened, and he leant closer in. Mark me, he said – it is no loss. Those that were cut down in that glen will not be missed…He caught himself then – for I am a stranger to him, so he said what is your name, sir? You have not given it.

May God forgive me, Jane – for I spoke falsely. With my true purpose in mind, I did not give my own name – rather, I fashioned a name from scraps that we know. I used, my love, your unmarried name. For what if they had heard of me? And my teachings? And my Jacobite ways? I could not risk the townsfolk learning where my sympathies lie.

Charles Griffin, I told him. Reverend.

Reverend? And what is your purpose? You are far from home, friend.

I said I’ve come to spread the Lord’s loving word in the northern, lawless parts. For I hear the Highlands are full of sin.

They are! To the north of here? Catholics and criminals, dishonest men…He polished his glass, shook his head. Brimful with cruelty and barbarous ways. They shame us! And, he said, a finger raised, the north is full of traitors. Ones who plot against the King.

William?

Aye, King William. God protect him. Thank the Lord he came across – a well-named revolution, was it not?

I took a sip of my ale. I would call it far from glorious, but did not say so.

He said do you know of the witch?

I was surprised at this – who would not be? I swallowed, said, no. I know that this country – indeed, our own – has been troubled in the past times with the matter of witches, and other black deeds on which I do not choose to dwell. But this was brazen talk. He said there’s one here in Inverary. She is chained up in the tollbooth for her malicious ways. I hear, he said, she crawls with lice, and her teeth are gone. She faces her death for her evil. Sir, she was in Glencoe…

Jane. My dearest.

We have spoken of this matter in the past, you and I – in the gardens in Glaslough, by the willow tree. Do you remember? You wore the blue shawl that makes your eyes bluer, and I talked of enchantment – so we spoke of witchcraft, by that tree. I know we disagreed. Men of my faith and profession know of it – of the Devil’s work. We know there are folk who serve him – perhaps not by choice, but they do. It is bedevilment, and a threat to a safe and civil nation. Some say no one who meddles in such a way must be allowed to live, and so must be purged by fire or water, for their own sake. Plenty think this. You know that I am with them? That such women cannot be endured? It worries you, I know – my feeling on this. But do we not have enough foes at this time, Jane? Do we not have enough to fight against – other faiths, and false kings, and wars – without being troubled by such Devil-lovers too? Who truly knows their power? If there is a God, there is a Devil – and there are both, as we know. There is enough wickedness, my love, in this world. It favours the pure parts of it to rid ourselves of the black.

I know your heart. I remember. Your blue eyes filled with water. You do not believe in witch, or rather you don’t trust the men who call it out – I know. You think such women are ill, perhaps. That they suffer delusions, or grief, or fear men. You said you felt sorry for such creatures – in your blue shawl, beneath the willow tree.

I love that trusting part of you – that faith in ones you have not met.

But there is evil, Jane, in this world – I promise it. It casts its darkness everywhere. It hopes to choke virtue, and decency, and I will spend my life fighting to prevent this – as my father did. There is a righteous path. My life’s purpose is to return all men to it – for us to walk, once more, in God’s light.

I hope I stay briefly in this town. It is merely a resting place, before I head north to this ravaged glen. This witch was there, my love. She was at the murders, and saw them with her eyes. I am not keen to visit her, or to spend time with such a cankered, godless piece – nor do I wish to get her lice. But I must remember my cause. If she was at these deaths then she must have her uses. She will have seen the red-coats – and any word, even a witch’s, is a better word than none.

It is late. Past midnight – my pocket watch tells me so. I will conclude this letter with assuring you how much I miss you. They are small words. But to look out of my window is to see Loch Fyne, and the sea, and I look west across it, which makes me think of you. I tell myself that Ireland is across that water. You are across it, and our boys, all that I love in the world beside God.

Keep strong. I know my absence asks much of you, and you endure a hardship by being alone. Forgive me. I ask this, but I know that I am forgiven already, for your faith and love of God is as mine is. I have slept in damp beds and I will talk to witches for His glory and for James, but I also think of you as I do it. I hope I make you proud.

It still snows. I might grumble at it, but it looks soft and beautiful with you, my wife, in mind.

My love to you, from across Loch Fyne, and all that is between us.

Charles