Auld Reekie (Old Edinburgh)

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acrylic, Auld Reekie, charcoal, Edinburgh

 

Which, if any, do you prefer?

A Hallowe’en Grisly Tale Part 1

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Auld Reekie, Blaw Wearie, Canongate, Girth Cross, grisly tale, guillotine, Heart of Midlothian, Holyrood, James VI, Kincaid, Lady Warriston, Leith, Lord Dunnipace, The Boot, The Maiden, The Wheel, Tolbooth

DEATH AND THE MAIDEN

 

It was the summer of 1600 when I was permitted to abandon my loom

and I climbed onto the roof of my mistress’ tenement in the Canongate,

from which an excellent view of the Girth Cross of Holyrood could

easily be discerned.  All around, the citizens of Auld Reekie had

adopted the same strategy and were well-established, in spite of the

early hour.  A  unison intake of breath unbalanced me on my precarious

eyrie, so that I had to grab Nelly’s sleeve for support.

The sinister outline of the Maiden, transported from Halifax, dominated

the scene, looming over the slender figure approaching it.  Well might the

Memorial later describe her as a woman and a bairn.  Apparently, like

myself, she was twenty one, but, she had a child of her own, whereas I

only minded my employers’ weans.

The buzz of conversations receded and I first heard snatches of that

melody which would quickly enter the consciousness of all

Lowland ballad lovers:

O Warriston, ye acted ill

To lift your hand to your ain lady…

Then a ripple of wheeshts surged through the crowds below and Jean

Livingstone, Lady Warriston, removed her gold brocade, stepped

forward on her twa weel-made feet and knelt in her sark.

The parlourmaid, Nelly, poked me in the ribs, observing, She is

as cheerful as if she were going to her own wedding.

The cook shifted her bulk and craned forward dangerously, before adding

sententiously: She appears ravished by a spirit higher than that of man

or woman.

We giggled; she always speaks like her aptly named minister, The Rev.

Andrew Cant.

However, we soon sobered up as the blade began to fall.

Later our chimney sweep, Peter, told us that the blade had fallen just as

she began to pray: Into Thy hand, O..  She had got no further.

He also reported that he had tried to make his way up to Castlehill, to

witness the strangulation and burning of her nurse, Janet Murdo, but the

authorities had arranged the ghastly ceremony simultaneously, in order,

unsuccessfully, to create a counter-attraction, drawing attention away

from the young noblewoman’s plight.

Both punishments had been well- publicised, although the crime had

only been perpetrated a matter of days beforehand.  However, the

timing had been set to maximise and to demonstrate the very satisfying

show of repentance by the Lady, who had been well-rehearsed by the

Revs. Balfour and Bruce, God rest her soul!

Peter said that many in the mob were surprised that her father, the Laird

of Dunnipace, had not exerted himself on her behalf.  He was a well-

known sook, or favourite of King James, who had apparently expressed

His regal regret that such a beautiful young woman should be sacrificed

to Justice:

I never saw a woman’s face

I was sae sorry to see dee.

 

 

Part 2 next post- having problems with formatting!

 

 

Death and the Maiden

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Auld Reekie, Blaw Wearie, Canongate, Castlehill, Edinburgh, Girth Cross, Heart of Midlothian, Holyrood, James VI, Janet Murdo, JeanLivingstone, Kincaid, Lady Warriston, Leith, Lord Dunnipace, Pimms cake, Rev Andrew Cant, Robert Weir, The Boot, The Maiden guillotine, The Wheel, Tolbooth, Winderstrawlee

So, you enjoyed your trip to Edinburgh, Candia?  Brassica asked me,

when we had settled down to our regular routines back home and had

sneaked off for a sly cappuccino .

Yes, its history still breathes and I was inspired to write a short story

in a rather macabre style, adopting the persona of Lady Warriston’s

servant, who witnesses her execution.

Rather grim! commented Brassie. But what is it about?

Read it and see! I said, passing her the copy.

DEATH AND THE MAIDEN

 

It was the summer of 1600 when I was permitted to abandon my loom

and I climbed onto the roof of my mistress’ tenement in the Canongate,

from which an excellent view of the Girth Cross of Holyrood could

easily be discerned.  All around, the citizens of Auld Reekie had

adopted the same strategy and were well-established, in spite of the

early hour.  A  unison intake of breath unbalanced me on my precarious

eyrie, so that I had to grab Nelly’s sleeve for support.

The sinister outline of the Maiden, transported from Halifax, dominated

the scene, looming over the slender figure approaching it.  Well might the

Memorial later describe her as a woman and a bairn.  Apparently, like

myself, she was twenty one, but, she had a child of her own, whereas I

only minded my employers’ weans.

The buzz of conversations receded and I first heard snatches of that

melody which would quickly enter the consciousness of all

Lowland ballad lovers:

O Warriston, ye acted ill

To lift your hand to your ain lady…

Then a ripple of wheeshts surged through the crowds below and Jean

Livingstone, Lady Warriston, removed her gold brocade, stepped

forward on her twa weel-made feet and knelt in her sark.

The parlourmaid, Nelly, poked me in the ribs, observing, She is

as cheerful as if she were going to her own wedding.

The cook shifted her bulk and craned forward dangerously, before adding

sententiously: She appears ravished by a spirit higher than that of man

or woman.

We giggled; she always speaks like her aptly named minister, The Rev.

Andrew Cant.

However, we soon sobered up as the blade began to fall.

Later our chimney sweep, Peter, told us that the blade had fallen just as

she began to pray: Into Thy hand, O…  She had got no further.

He also reported that he had tried to make his way up to Castlehill, to

witness the strangulation and burning of her nurse, Janet Murdo, but the

authorities had arranged the ghastly ceremony simultaneously, in order,

unsuccessfully, to create a counter-attraction, drawing attention away

from the young noblewoman’s plight.

Both punishments had been well- publicised, although the crime had

only been perpetrated a matter of days beforehand.  However, the

timing had been set to maximise and to demonstrate the very satisfying

show of repentance by the Lady, who had been well-rehearsed by the

Revs. Balfour and Bruce, God rest her soul!

Peter said that many in the mob were surprised that her father, the Laird

of Dunnipace, had not exerted himself on her behalf.  He was a well-

known sook, or favourite of King James, who had apparently expressed

His regal regret that such a beautiful young woman should be sacrificed

to Justice:

I never saw a woman’s face

I was sae sorry to see dee.

However, the Laird had seven other daughters to give in marriage and

seemed to want to wash his hands of his errant flesh and blood, in spite of

His Majesty’s hints of potential clemency.

Dunnipace was reputed to have stated:

Gar nail her in a tar barrel

And hurl her in the sea.

Though macabre, these words were to remain in folk memory for many a

month, assisted by their musical setting.

Later, when the ballads were printed on broadsheets, we had the

opportunity to piece the narrative puzzle together, trying to reason why

such a bonny lassie was to lose her head over such a diabolical affair.

Apparently, Jean Livingstone, as she had been christened, had felt ill-

prepared for wedlock and had told her hired woman that she hadna wit

to guide a man. She had learned her rede with admirable haste, many

would say, at the scaffold.

At fifteen she had been sent to John Kincaid, the Laird of Warriston and

her woman claimed to have witnessed violent altercations between them.

A dinner plate had been hurled at her mistress’ face by her furious

husband, cutting her lip badly.

Once when he returned to harbour, having been absent for nigh on a year,

Lady Warriston went to meet him on the shore, with the nurse cradling

their newborn son. Kincaid flew into a rage, struck his wife and cursed

the child, saying it was none of his.  Afterwards, the nurse told the hired

woman that her mistress had an impression of her husband’s teeth deeply

incised into her forearm.

Faithful though the nurse was to her mistress, she ill-advisedly interfered

and persuaded Lady Warriston to contact a groom who had worked for

her father, by the name of Robert Weir.  She pressurised her

by claiming that if they were not able to persuade the groom to do away

with the Laird, then she would do it herself.

Maybe it was the same young ostler who had led her mistress’ pony,

while the master was at sea.  Anyhow, it is too late for Jean Murdo, the

nurse, to express regrets, at the time of this conversation, as by now she is

a heap of ashes.

As for Robert, he was conspicuous by his absence, though

officers were scouring the Borders for him.

Weir, when summoned, came willingly enough and was secreted in

the cellar until the Laird and his brother had been plied with sufficient

alcohol and staggered to their repose.

Jean retired with her husband, but later rose and gave a signal at

midnight.  Her brother-in-law must have been more affected by his cups

than the Laird, who was awakened by the commotion the conspirators

created on entering the marital chamber.

Weir threw himself at Warriston and struck him in the jugular vein,

knocking him off the bed and kicking him on the floor.  Eventually he

strangled him.

Jean ran into the Hall and later admitted that though she had heard his

deathly screams, she had failed to produce even a counterfeit tear.

The groom escaped, gallantly telling Jean that if the crime were to be

discovered, he would take the blame. None dare pursue you, he

foolishly stated.

Perhaps the Laird’s brother had been roused, or the servants disturbed, for

the next morning, officers of justice arrived and took Lady Warriston,

Janet Murdo and two women to the Tolbooth, in The Heart of Midlothian.

Jean attested that the two female servants were innocent, but only one

was released.  It was this woman who had met Peter in a tavern, after the

event on Canongate and who had supplied the missing information over a

pint of porter.

She added that the Laird’s son bore an uncanny resemblance to young

Robert Weir.  Having narrowly escaped the stricture of the Boot, one

would have expected her to keep her trap shut.  She became a member of

the Rev. Balfour’s congregation thereafter and thanked God that she had

been spared.

Balfour told his flock that Lady Warriston’s dramatic repentance was a

miracle of grace.  At first she had repudiated spiritual counsel and

blasphemed, throwing his Bible to the floor of her cell.  Yet, once her

relatives cast her off, she naturally showed a greater interest in flitting to

God.

Even her brother-in-law forgave her, kissed her and wished that he could

take her to himself, she was so jimp about the middle/ As ony willy-

wand.  Fifteen Presbyterians kept her company on the night before her

execution, so I expect that she slept little and took their spiritual medicine

meekly.

Her father, Lord Kincaid, arranged for the child to be cared for by the

hired woman who was telling us the tale and this same servant afterwards

led a disguised Weir back to catch a glimpse of the sleeping boy in

his cot, four years later. Unfortunately Weir was apprehended as he bent

over the child and practically throttled before being taken to the scaffold

to be broken on the wheel.

For months thereafter his corpse was

exhibited on the road between Warriston and the town of Leith. Fortune

had turned full circle, but sometimes a passing stranger will detect what

appears to be a female voice singing, when the breezes blow over from

Winderstrawlee and Blaw Wearie:

Now a’ ye gentle maids,

Tak warning now by me

And never marry ane

But wha pleases your ee.

Candia, you’ve scared the living daylights out of me,

Brassie said in a dry-throated voice.  Can we just

return to twenty first century Suttonford, where things are a little less

brutal?  I think I need a slice of cake to give me a calorie boost.

And so it was that we fell on a plate of Pimms cake as if it was our last

meal on Earth.

 

 

You’ll Have Had Your Tea!

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44 Scotland Street, Abbotsinch, Alexander McCall Smith, Auld Reekie, Chris Hoy, creme de la creme, Gardez Loo!, Glasgow airport, Kelvinside, Miss Cranston's, Miss Jean Brodie, Morningside, Muriel Spark, Mussolini, Royal baby, Sauchiehall Street, Valvona and Crolla, Willow Tea Rooms

Chlamydia and I were back at our favourite haunt, the

Costamuchamoulah must-seen cafe in High Street,

Suttonford.  It seemed a million miles away from genteel Edinburgh

and the trendy Valvona and Crolla Vincaffe in the New Town.  Still, the

topic of conversation might have been identical: both sets of clientele

commenting on the amazing precocity of the new, Royal and (as yet)

nameless babe, who managed to wave endearingly from the woolly depths

of his swaddling.

THE NAMELESS ONE: Lang may its lum reek!

********************************

“SANDY”

Alexander McCall Smith may have made a fortune from weaving the foibles

and fancies of the inhabitants of 44 Scotland Street into a fictional web, but

I, Candia Dixon Stuart, am seeking a publisher for my observations on the

activities and lifestyle choices of Suttonford’s fairest inhabitants.

Yes, as I told Clammie, Edinburgh folks are generally well-mannered, and,

even the homeless bow their heads discreetly while begging on the streets.

I observed a grubby, long-bearded man who was carrying a 4xlitre carton of

semi-skimmed- for it had been purchased in health-conscious Auld Reekie.

Around 2:30pm, the aforesaid stopped in front of his acquaintance, the beggar

with his bull terrier, and frankly expostulated:

I would have thought you’d have retired for the day by now.

Clearly he was concerned that his friend had not had his tea.

But, as I explained to Clammie, I had also

visited Central Scotland’s other city.

How different is the patois of the Glaswegian!  On landing at Abbotsinch, or

Glasgow airport to the less au fait, even as we were instructed that it was only

now permissible to unfasten our seatbelts, enthusiastic locals were leaping up

to open the overhead lockers, in readiness for a speedy disembarkation which

would have impressed Chris Hoy.

I must have looked a little schoolmarmish, as the man who had been snoring

next to me for the duration, leapt up to reclaim his hand luggage, without any

apparent sign of chivalrous altruism.  But, judge not that ye be not judged; he

immediately looked down with Christian neighbourliness and regaled me with

this attentive interrogative:

Is that your hat ‘n that?

Aye, one has to look not on the outward appearance, but on the heart and,

rough quartzy Cairngorms though they have at their core, Kelvinside kindred

are just as likely, or perhaps more likely than the Morningside matrons, to

ensure that one will have had one’s refreshments, even if time is pressing

and there isn’t really time to linger:

You’ll surely take a wee moothfie a’ tea in your haun?

How disinhibited compared to the rather reserved partakers of creme de la

creme in the South’s Costamuchamoulah.  They probably think that Mussolini

is a shellfish starter and Gardez Loo! is a jardinage WC servicing the children’s

tree house and the gazebo.

Ah, Miss Cranston’s Tea Rooms it isnae. Suttonford High Street will

never aspire to the drama of Sauchiehall Street and the Willow Tea

Rooms.

As one looks around, Muriel Sparks’ words come to mind:

Ah well, ..I often wonder if we [are] all characters in one of God’s dreams.