Jane

She has no politic sense. She can talk of herbs or instinct—but ask her of kings and she sulks, shakes her head. She does not understand it, nor cares for it, and she has a manner of pouting behind her mane of hair which is childlike, and gives her a very innocent air.

She is both child and woman, Jane. In size and form, she is girlish—when I hear that the Glencoe men called her a faery, of some kind, I can almost believe it, for she is uncommon in appearance and might be thought of as a trick of the mind, or a strangeness of light. She is quick, in her movements. She has a habit of tugging her toes, and feeling the skin between them, and this reminds me of all our boys when they were very small—playing with their own bodies as if they’d never seen them before. There is also, of course, her voice. It is how a faery would speak, if they lived—high, shrill.

But Jane, there is no denying that the life this creature has lived—the treatment she has endured (and still endures) and the feelings she has harboured—are far from childlike. I know few people who have undergone such a solitary life, and one of such suffering. Moreover, I believe she is in love. I hear her, sometimes, as I walk up to her cell. In the dark, I hear her whispering, and it is his name she speaks over and over. Alasdair, she says—in the breathy, high voice of hers.

How he felt—or feels—about her is beyond my knowing, this far. He was a married man, and therefore I hope he adhered and respected God’s laws, and his own vows (although who can say what is respected, in Highland parts?). But I will say this to you, Jane—that for all her smell and strangeness, I suspect she could incite strong feelings in a man. I have them—I do, as a father does. I recognise them—for when I see her raw wrists which the shackles have given her it brings to mind the cut knees, the bloodied noses and the grazed hands of our little ones, as they learnt to walk or ran too fast. I wanted to kneel down to them, each time—and so it is with her. I want to soothe her, as a father does. But might she have stirred up more, in Alasdair? It is hard to say. She is like no other soul I’ve met.

I have written to this Dalrymple, Master of Stair. I asked him to think upon his conscience. I wrote, too much blood has been shed.

So I wait. There are a mere five days for my letter to reach him in Edinburgh, and for him to reply. But greater feats have come to pass, in this world—such as us. You and I. Are we not a great work? A blessing?

How I wish you were here. The snow softens, the birds sing a little more.

Charles