Unicorn Rampant (19 page)

Mary laughed amusedly. "You see what it is to have a duke as father," she said. "However illicit!"

6

John Stewart had had enough of attending parliament as
a
mere spectator, and, since the King did not seem to require him at this stage and during the sessions, nor even to remember his existence apparently, he decided to slip away back to Methven for a few days before the projected move south. Although he still hoped that somehow he might be able to avoid making that uncalled-for journey—not that it seemed likely now that his father had succeeded in arranging the Dumbarton business with James. Mary Gray remained in Edinburgh, where the Duke of course was still attending the parliament.

So John had to go on the assumption that he would be gone from Methven for some time and to make the necessary arrangements. Especially for the reclamation work on Methven Moss to continue, with the tree-felling to pay for it, as well as sundry other essential matters. Still more urgent, perhaps, was the need to see Janet Drummond.

He put considerable thought into how this last was to be achieved, without upset, since he could hardly just present himself at Innerpeffray Castle again and expect to be well received—even though Lord Madderty was attending the parliament in Edinburgh; unfortunately his lady was not. Eventually he hit on the idea of seeking the good offices of a mutual friend, a young woman with whom he had done some juvenile sweethearting, Alison Moncrieff by name, now safely married to the old Lady Tippermuir's grandson and mother of a bouncing boy. He would request her to call at Innerpeffray and ask Janet to take her to see the chapel, where long generations bf Drummonds were buried, and where, since the Reformation, services were no longer held, and it was kept locked; like most other denizens of Strathearn, Alison had some Drummond blood in her veins. John would be waiting for them there.

When he called at Tippermuir
House, Alison, incurably
romantic, was only too happy to oblige the King's new knight, for old rimes' sake. She would go the very next day.

So, the following afternoon, John hid his horse in the surrounding woodland and stationed himself amongst the Drummond gravestones to wait. There was a distinct possibility, of course, that his plan might fail. Janet might not agree to come. After their last meeting and his abrupt departure, she might feel disinclined. She might be away from home or otherwise engaged.

However, in due course, the two young women came walking along the riverbank, and John's heart bounded. Their greeting, nevertheless, probably disappointed the romantic Alison, for Janet was restrained and John was stiff, despite feeling as he did. After a distinctly formal exchange of courtesies, a disconcerting silence developed.

Alison plunged in volubly. If Janet would give her the key to the chapel she would go look. No need to accompany her—indeed she would rather be alone. With the past, you know, the dead . . .

They were left most evidently alone.

They both started to speak at the same moment, and both stopped.

Almost roughly John took the young woman's arm to lead her further away from the chapel. She did not hold back, but she gently disengaged.

. "It was good of you to come, Janet," he jerked. "After . . . after my leaving you so, last time."

"Alison was very pressing," she answered.

"Yes—I asked her to be. She is kind. I had to see you. I am going away."

"Oh!" she faltered in her step, just a little.

"Yes. The King commands that I go south with him. With my father. To London. I do not want to go, to tell truth, but have no choice. It is a royal command."

"I see. Will you be gone long?"

"That is the difficulty of it. I do not know for how long. It seems that I cannot leave the court without the King's permission. And James can be exacting, contrary. So nothing is certain."

"That must be . . . unsettling for you."

"Yes. It is."

They had halted at the graveyard wall. Abruptly John lost patience with this polite exchange.

"Look you, Janet," he cried, "this is damnable! To be leaving you like this. At such time. Leaving all at odds between us."

"As well, perhaps," she said, low-voiced.

"No! It is not. To be parted, with nothing resolved."

"More resolved than you think, John, I fear! My mother and father
..."

"Your mother and father do not approve of me, no. I am not good enough for their daughter. A bastard—aye, and son of a bastard mother! But hear you this. The King has appointed me Captain and Hereditary Keeper of Dumbarton Castle, with its duties and revenues. So, so . . .!"

"So you are a great man! All that!" She seemed less than elated.

"But—do you not see? Could this not change all? The knighthood and now this. It gives me standing. A namely position. That is why it was done, to give me a position at court. But it will serve as well nearer home, some position in Scotland. One of the royal officers. And the revenues. I have now the wherewithal to marry. I would not be too humble to wed even Lord Madderty's daughter!"

She shook her head, unhappily. "No—do not think it is that. I am glad for you, John—believe me. But I fear it cannot be . . ."

"Why not? Does this not change all? Your father cannot . . ."He paused. "Or is it
you?
You who will not have it?"

"No, no—not that. Or, leastways
..."

"See you—it would be good for more than just our, our joy. If I could tell King James that I must come home here to be married, that all was arranged, he would surely never hold me in London. We could decide on a day, and so I could get away. If you do not wish to dwell in my mother's house of Methven, we could live at Dumbarton Castle
..."

"John—hear me. Listen to me. You do not understand. I am to be married—but not to you! My father has hastened to arrange it. I, I blame myse
lf. After that last day, I told
them that I.. . that I was fond of you. I protested at how my father and mother had dealt with you. They were angry, berating me. Hard words were spoken. And thereafter my father went off and arranged a marriage between me and David Drummond, my cousin. Or half-cousin."

John drew a long quivering breath.

She looked at him quickly, and then away. "Davie is the son of my father's cousin, Drummond of Dalpatrick. You know him. His lands adjoin ours. My parents look on it as an excellent match!"

John still could not trust himself to words.

She touched his arm. "I am sorry, John—sorry! This is no wish of mine, I promise you. I like Davie well enough, but
..."

"Davie Drummond!" he got out, through clenched teeth. "That, that. . ."He swallowed the rest. Janet was silent, now, unhappy.

For a while there seemed to be nothing to say. Then, level-voiced, John spoke.

"You are prepared to abide by your father's wishes in this? To be, to be exchanged for property, like some dumb beast!"

"That is unfair!" she declared, but not hotly. "I can do no other. You know it. I am not yet of age. My marriage is in my father's hands, his right. He may give me to whom he will. Do you think that I have not pleaded with him, besought him?"

"Yes. I am sorry. When is it to be—the wedding?"

"Soon. He says the sooner the better."

"So there is an end to it? Nothing to be done? We accept all, as of the will of God!"

"Can
you
think of anything that can be done?"

"Aye. We could go off together. Secretly. Run off. Leave all, to be together."

"You, you would do that, John? For me? Abandon Methven? Offend the King? Throw aside your position at court? Lose this of Dumbarton Castle? For Janet Drummond?"

"Yes," he said shortly.

"Then I thank you. With all my heart. But—Janet

Drummond would
not\
I would never do that to you, John—never! You must know in your heart that I would not, could not?"

"I know nothing such
..."

"Surely you must. No honest woman could."

"Do you refuse for my sake? Or for your own?"

She hesitated. "For both. This is not the way for love, John—true love. To ruin a man's life. Possibly to ruin mine also. For could love survive that? The loss, the hurt, the dashing of hopes . . . ?"

"You say love, Janet? True love. Do you mean that? Do you indeed love me, then?"

She swallowed and bit her lip. "Yes," she got out at length, strangled-voiced.

"Dear God!" He swung on her, to grasp her to him. "Oh, Janet, Janet!" Hungrily he kissed her, her hair, her brow.

She did not struggle nor push him away. But she kept her head down, denying him her lips. He fek her trembling in his arms.

At length, as on that other day, she gently disengaged. "This serves nothing, John—will only make it worse. I think that we should go find Alison. We but hurt ourselves."

"If you truly love me, how can you do this, Janet? Send me away and wed another?" He sought to hold her back.

"I can because I must. One of us has to be strong. Do you not see? It is fated this way. Whatever we feel, we were not meant for each other. I am my father's daughter, in his hands. And you are . . . Sir John Stewart of Methven!" She moved on.

Shaking his head helplessly, he followed on.

Alison was waiting patiently just inside the chapel doorway. She looked from one to the other eagerly, almost anxiously. Her face fell at their expressions. She did not speak.

"I think that we should go home now, Alison," Janet said evenly. "Sir John and I have had our talk. If you are ready?"

John took his leave of them, where he had met them, almost as stiff and formal as had been his greeting. Long he stared after them as the two girls walked off along the river-bank. Alison looked back once, but Janet did not.

He went to mount and ride back to Methven, features set.

PART
TWO

7

Despite his father's warnings, John Stewart was disappointed with his first impressions of London. Used to Scottish cities and towns, which tended all to be set in or around dramatic natural features, great defensive rocks, hill-passes, river-crossings and the like, the low and level lands of southern England offered little challenge to the eye. Used by now to the more humdrum appearance of English towns, having been all too long, as it seemed to him, on the way south from Carlisle through the Midlands, nevertheless, without consciously thinking about it, London, he had assumed, would be different, one of the great cities of the world. Yet, as the royal train made its approach, there was little to arrest the attention save far-flung building, admittedly punctuated by church-spires and towers, and smoke, a vast pall of smoke, for it was now autumn and fires were necessary; and, as they drew nearer, smells. Never had John smelled such comprehensive and enduring stink. Edinburgh could smell sufficiently badly, admittedly; but there, like elsewhere in Scotland, the wind always blew, on account of hills and sea, and tended to disperse the odours of humanity in the mass, with its livestock. Here there was little or no wind apparently and the stench was appalling. The river, when they reached it, the renowned Thames, seemed to be if not the main source of smells, then the principal repository and amplifier thereof, receptacle for all the filth, refuse, carcases and scourings of the vast city. Gagging, John rode on, in his fairly humble position in the lengthy cavalcade—even so, much smaller than that which had arrived in Scotland, for many of the English notables had dropped off on their progress down through England.

They wound their slow way through seemingly endless narrow streets, mere
lanes most of them, by the West
Bourne from Dudden Hill and past Campden Hill to Bridge Creek and Chelsey, and so along the riverside to Whitehall. These streets were even more congested than Edinburgh's, more crushed and crowded-seeming, largely because the houses were built of wood, not stone, and above the ground floor at street level each storey was projected somewhat on, as it
were, brackets, so that by the t
ime they reached the top, these galleries were all but touching those on the other side of the street, cutting out daylight and putting all below into a sort of twilight—also enclosing the stinks.

The royal guard cleared the way for them as best they could through all this—at least, for the King at the head of the column, the narrowness of all lengthening the procession to a mile at least, with John perhaps halfway down. No crowds cheered them on their way—there was no room for that, even if the Londoners were so inclined—although folk hung out of windows, some screeched, and urchins managed to run alongside, often amongst the horses' legs, dogs barked and church-bells rang as welcome.