The Low Road (16 page)

The door opened again and the guard pushed me into the room. I stood, swaying with fatigue, barely able to focus on the faces of my interrogators, who sat with their backs to the window.

‘Monsieur Lebecque.' It was the thin one who spoke.

‘Yes, sir.'

‘You are a man of God, are you not?'

‘Yes, sir.'

‘A priest?'

‘Yes, sir.' God forgive me for lying.

The young man butted in. ‘You were sent here to perform an act of treason against the King, weren't you, Lebecque?'

‘No, sir.'

‘Then why are you here?' His voice raised to a scream. The veins in his neck bulged, and I thought that a boil on his neck was about to burst.

‘I came as a tutor to the Gordon family of Loch Linnhe, sir.'

‘You lie!' He choked on his own spittle and gasped for breath for some minutes.

The fat governor took over. ‘Who are your contacts in Scotland, Monsieur? That is all we need to know.'

‘Contacts, sir? I have no friends. Only the good lady my employer and her son.'

‘Hmm. Mrs Gordon.'

‘The widow of a notorious rebel, sir,' supplied the thin one, with a voice like paper.

‘A woman of spotless reputation,' I added.

‘Silence!' boomed the governor. ‘Do you understand where you are, Lebecque?'

‘Yes sir, I believe so.'

‘Then you must know that your life is in question.'

‘I accept my fate.'

‘Damn you, priest!' squealed the young one, finding his voice again.

‘You alone have the power to save yourself', resumed the governor, joining his fingertips to form a cage. ‘Name your contacts. That is all I ask. You will be returned to your own people.' I caught a sidelong glance between
the other two; he was lying, of course. I am a seasoned enough politician to know that.

‘I have told you, sir, that I know nobody. As a priest of the Roman church—'

‘A filthy Jesuit spy!'

I ignored the interruption. As a priest, I lead a greatly restricted life. I am not, like you gentlemen, a man of affairs.' My knees were trembling, due only to the unaccustomed effort of standing. They interpreted it as fear, to my disgust. It was, however, a happy accident.

‘Look at him,' said the young one, ‘he's fit to soil himself.'

‘So this is your soldier, your spy,' said the governor. ‘A cowering priest who's so weak he can barely hold his head up. Oh yes, a great danger to His Majesty, I'm sure.'

‘We have papers from London—' began the thin one, but he was silenced.

‘Enough!' roared the governor, his jowls shaking like the wattles of a turkey. ‘This is the result of your intelligence! For this I have expended the resources of my meagre staff. God help me! Never again will I listen to the council of fools. Guards! Take him down to the main prison.'

‘With respect, sir,' said the young one in tones of false obsequiousness, ‘I maintain that he should be kept in solitary confinement—' The governor's look was enough to silence him.

‘Take him out of my sight!'

The guards took me by the arms and marched me out of the office. My neck, for the time being, was safe.

From the frying pan, however, I was delivered into the fire, or so I thought. The main part of the prison was a huge dungeon in which some two dozen poor souls languished, chained to the walls, sharing one disgusting pail into which all were forced to relieve themselves. The guards
had me secured in a moment and walked away jangling their keys.

As soon as they were out of earshot, the voices began.

‘Oh ho, who's this?'

‘It's the priest.'

‘A Frenchman, they say.'

‘A dirty foreigner.'

‘A frog.'

‘Hey, Frenchie, I'm going to cut you.'

‘You're going to get it tonight, you dirty bastard.'

I could not tell where the words were coming from; I sat on my haunches and buried my face in my hands. I tried to pray. I tried to remember the light and air of the Gordon Hall estates, the sight of you running naked into the clean waters of the loch, laughing at me as I waded around in my shirt tails. All I could hear was the hissing of hate, which filled my ears as the stench of the bucket filled my nostrils.

The hours passed. Every so often the guards would roam through the dungeon, rattling their keys and laughing. A meagre meal of broken meats and water was served, upon which the convicts fell like a pack of dogs. I did-n't have the heart to fight, and went hungry. As soon as the guards had gone, the threats began again.

‘It was priests who betrayed Scotland,' said one.

‘The French let us down, the traitorous bastards.'

‘You die tonight, priest.'

Fortunately for me, there was little that they could do to hurt me, chained as they were to the walls. I suffered what blows from feet and hands could reach me. The night wore on, but the voices never rested.

‘I've got a blade, priest.'

‘We're going to cut your balls off.'

‘Hey priest, start praying...'

I felt hands on my legs, holding them down. Two of the prisoners had crawled to the furthest extent of their chains and were leading a concerted attack on me. I shrank back to the wall and felt their hands clawing at me in the darkness. They found me again, and a sharp jab ripped into the flesh of my calf. I cried out as the cruel blade was twisted in the wound. Again they stabbed and slashed, cutting my feet. If only I could move further against the wall. Sleep would be impossible; I might at best survive the night without further injury.

More hands were laid on me; I could not see where they were coming from. Perhaps their eyes were more accustomed to the darkness than mine. Again, the jabbing pain, the twisting, the wetness of blood on my legs.

I had given up all hope of my life, when from right beside me I heard a sudden snoring, a spluttering and a curse. One of my assailants had missed his mark; the blade had ended up embedded in the thigh of my neighbour who, miraculously, had slept through the foregoing. Now, however, he sat up and bellowed. I didn't need to see him to realise that he was a very large and powerful man.

‘Who the fuck did that?'

The other prisoners were silent.

‘I asked a question.'

There was a faint moaning and gibbering from the four corners of the cell. My fellow prisoners were clearly terrified of this giant. Finally one of them piped up in a weaselly voice.

‘It was the priest. He done it.'

The others joined in. ‘That's right, Morgan, it was the Frenchie.'

Morgan growled. I felt certain that what the authorities had failed to achieve, Morgan would now do for them. But he said nothing as they made their cringing accusations. I heard him move beside me, expecting at any moment to feel hands around my throat. Instead I heard two words, not
loud, in a voice that demanded obedience.

‘Leave him.'

The others were instantly silent. Morgan shifted and lay down again. When peace seemed at last to have been restored to the cell, I relaxed sufficiently to stretch out on the ground. My protector shifted a little closer to me, threw one massive arm across my upper body and thus, huddled together for warmth (and for my protection) we spent the rest of the night.

Morning brought light into the cell; not God's light, but a few dismal tapers that were stuck into holes in the wall by the guards, who threw us our breakfast and removed the slops. Again, the jackals fell on the food and I went without; starvation, rather than violence, now seemed my greatest enemy. Morgan, however, had other ideas. He sat aside during the ugly scramble for meat and bread, a huge ape of a man with a shaven head, beetling brows and a long, livid scar down the left side of his face. His arms, in which I had spent the night, looked so powerful that I could understand why none dared disobey him. The manacles and chains that held him to the wall, though, were stronger.

Sitting on his haunches, he reached out one massive hand, swatted one of the prisoners around the head and waited. The prisoner, nursing his ringing ear, reluctantly handed over a sizeable piece of cold mutton and a thick crust of bread, into which sunk his teeth. He must have seen my eyes bulging out of my skull with hunger, and with another blow to a cellmate's head he furnished me with the best meal I had enjoyed in weeks. I bolted the food like a starving dog, and immediately felt sick. Morgan handed me a cup of water - not the cleanest, but to me it tasted like the fresh mountain burn that runs down into Loch Linnhe. I guzzled it in one draught, choked and spluttered and sat wet-eyed and gasping for breath. Morgan saw my predicament, laughed and clapped me on the back so vigorously
that it would have sent me sprawling across the cell floor had it not been for my chains.

With food inside me I felt human again, and began to hope that the governor's indecision had won for me a reprieve. Hope, I have always found, is much easier on a full belly. My situation was also greatly improved by the protection I had won from Morgan - although God only knows why he decided to champion me. He was not, I assumed, a religious man. Perhaps it was some spark of fair play that would not allow him to see one man destroyed by the mob. Whatever the reason, the rest of the prisoners gave me a wide berth, and I spent the day in peace and relative happiness beside my giant guardian.

He was not a talkative man. I tried on a few occasions to engage him in conversation, but got nothing back other than a few grunts and guffaws. It was only when I asked about his home life that he seemed to take an interest.

‘I've a wife at home.'

‘What's her name?'

‘Margaret.'

And children?'

‘A little girl of five years old.'

‘When did you last see them?'

‘A year ago.'

‘Why are you here?'

That was the wrong question to ask. He dammed up again, rubbed the scar on his face and turned his back on me. Some of the other prisoners had been listening to our conversation, and now they rolled their eyes and stuck out their tongues as if they would tell me if they could - and then I would find out what a fine fellow my new friend was! I didn't care what he had done - after all, how many of us were there for ‘crimes' no more serious than mine? - it was enough for me that he had obeyed the law of
Christ, and shared with one less fortunate than himself.

The day wore on in a foetid silence. The guards brought lunch, a foul slop that, I suppose, was meant to be soup, which we drank from dirty wooden bowls. It was disgusting, but it was better than nothing. We took it in turns to relieve ourselves, then many settled down to sleep. The cell was silent apart from the buzzing of flies, the groaning and farting of the sleeping prisoners. I lay wide awake, curled up against the huge bulk of Morgan's stomach and chest. I guessed, from the regularity of his breathing, that he too was asleep. I was wrong.

‘Father...'

‘Yes?' Now was no time to tell him that I wasn't really a priest.

‘Can you write?'

‘Of course... er... my son.'

‘Will you write a letter to my Margaret?'

‘With a good will, Morgan. But I have no paper and no pen.'

He smiled, showing teeth that looked more like the fangs of a dog, and pulled back his mattress. There, pressed flat by his weight, were two sheets of folded paper and a battered old pen. He took them carefully out and handed them to me with a look of pride and delight on his face.

And ink?'

He held up a finger, spat on to it and started rubbing it against the crumbling brick of the wall behind us. Soon he had worked up enough reddish-black paste to make a small blob the size of a penny piece in the bottom of the one of the wooden bowls. He diluted it with a small draught from his drinking cup and handed it to me.

‘Ink.'

I had to admire his resourcefulness. Seeing my surprise, he laughed softly and rubbed my head, then took my hand, thrust the pen into it and waited for me to prepare my pen. The ink was lumpy and full of grit, but
astonishingly it worked. I made a few exploratory marks on the paper, then waited for his dictation.

He seemed lost in thought. ‘I want to tell her that I love her and miss her,' he said, ‘but I want it to sound nice. You write it, Father.'

‘Dear Margaret,' I began, and paused. What words would a man use to his wife? I had no idea. Morgan scowled and looked impatient, motioning me to carry on. I would have to use my imagination.

‘It is many months now since last I saw you, but you are ever-present in my mind,' I wrote, drawing on my own innermost feelings for inspiration. Although I live in darkness, I have a light that shines in my heart: the light of our love. I pray that you are safe and well, and that you have not forgotten me. One day, in this world or the next, we will be together again.' I need not tell you, Charles, that these words might just as well have been addressed from me to you.

‘That's good, Father. But—'

‘Yes?'

‘I want to tell her that I miss her in another way as well.'

‘Yes?'

‘You know...' He pointed awkwardly down to his groin. ‘That way.'

‘I see.' This was a harder commission. I thought for a while, and started to write. ‘I think about the good times we had together, and I hope you do too. My body is...' I scratched the last words out. I couldn't think of what to say. My experience of love, as you know, has been somewhat limited. Morgan, in deep thought, scratched his head. I scratched my chin. We looked for all the world like two unlikely scholars bent over a book of Latin verse. Finally his face lit up with inspiration.