Angelos

Angelos opens on the field of Culloden, Scotland, as the legendary battle of 1746 has ended and the wounded Jacobites are being shot or clubbed to death. Davy MacLeod holds a gun to the head of his former friend, his hands shaking, ready to pull the trigger on this man who betrayed him and delivered his family to death. This man who took even his beloved from him...

DavidTHoldsworth · História

Classificações insuficientes

8 Chs

Chapter 4

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.