Unicorn Rampant (48 page)

So it was Scotland again. In view of the fact that Margaret must be nearing her time, little as she showed it, John only asked formally if she would wish to accompany them on this occasion—to be assured that she would not. She had quite enough on her hands with Katherine Manners and the Villiers woman, thank you! Besides, she was less enamoured of Scotland than John seemed to be.

On the road up, the two friends discussed procedure. John, actually, was not greatly in favour of the entire scheme, taking his father's line that, like the selling of knighthoods, it was a cheapening of the notion of honours and tides, doing nothing for the fount-of-honour himself, the King— save to fill his pockets. Will argued otherwise.. In the past men distinguished themselves by slaughtering others on the battlefield or in single combat, and were knighted in consequence. Or were accorded some honour because they were the sons of their fathers or frequently the bastards of the lofty. Was that so much better? Arguably, these people who would pay good money for lumps of land in far places, presumably with the intention of developing it, were more likely to be admirable subjects than those me
rely born
to privilege and position, prepared to exert themselves, to take a risk. And the blood of the nobility and ruling families required constant renewal from more lowly sources or they would become degenerate—as the Howards, fpr instance, had done. Was this not as good a method as any?

As a bastard of the lofty, John could scarcely contest that.

They drew up something of a list of possibles to approach. James had suggested rich merchants and their sons, and these were presumably to be found most likely in Edinburgh and Leith, in the Fife coastal towns, in Dundee, Aberdeen and the like. Will would tackle this major task, up the east coast; John, since he wished to visit Dumbarton anyway, would, as well as Perth, survey that area, Glasgow, which was growing in commercial importance, Renfrew, Paisley, Ayr and the south-west—although this was probably less hopeful territory. It was decided that they would meet again at Berwick-on-Tweed in a month's time.

John made his way first to the Water of Leith mills, and found all in order there, with much of the premises now converted to manufacture the required second-quality paper, and most of the extensions completed and coming into production, the labour force much increased. The notion of making a still coarser quality product for a new market was accepted by the Germans in principle, for it would enable them to use an ever-widened selection of rags gathered by their collectors. But there was just no room for such expansion at these mills, without affecting the present output. It would have to be done at the new Esk mills, where Vandervyk was now operating, with two mills out of the three working. So next day John rode south to the Esk valley, where he found the Dutchman well established, quite happy in his new life, with a comfortable house at Roslin. He was quite prepared to co-operate and expand. He said that his third mill, at Auchindinny, further south than these at Roslin and Polton, was nearing completion, and could easily be adapted to make the third-grade paper required; and of course the raw material for it and quality of the water was more readily available. He could use coarse rags and the downstream water—which meant that the two old meal-mills he had had his eye on but could not take up because of the less-than-pure water, could be brought into service. Well satisfied, John told him to go ahead.

From Edinburgh John made his way to Dumbarton, where he found all reasonably well, with Sandy Graham now established and quite enjoying his role as Deputy-Keeper. There had been no further word of Middlemas and no major difficulties in the collection of taxes and revenues. Sandy, as instructed from London soon after the Privy Council business, had taken most of the moneys he had accumulated to Edinburgh, where he had handed it over to old Sir Gideon Murray, the Deputy-Treasurer, who had given him a receipt and made no searching enquiries as to deductions, costs and the like, indeed seeming almost gratified to receive anything. The impression given was that the crown finances were in no very thriving state, nor very efficiently handled. There had been no more prisoners sent to Dumbarton.

John discussed with Sandy the New Scotland baronetcies project and gained from him the names of two or three individuals of means in Dumbarton town and vicinity whom he thought might conceivably be interested, his deputy having now become friendly with many in the neighbourhood where, to be sure, he was now an important figure. Next day, John paid a few calls locally, in consequence.

He was not notably successful in his sounding out of reaction—perhaps because of his own lack of enthusiasm. He spoke with four men, two local lairds of broad acres, one of them a cousin of Sheriff Napier; also a rich tobacco-importer and a ship-owner, first swearing all to secrecy as instructed. Neither of the lairds showed any real interest, and the merchant, although he sounded intrigued at first, did not commit himself. But the ship-owner went into the prospects in some detail, asking many questions, and indicated that he probably would be prepared to invest 6,000 merks. Would his wife become Lady Buchanan? He had no son, but his daughter was married and had a son. Could the title descend to him? John said that he was not sure but that he would find out.

He stayed three more days at Dumbarton, on one of them going round tax-collecting with Sandy, interested to see how this went. He found it all a less painful business than he had anticipated. Sandy had instituted a system of payment by instalments, which seemed to meet with approval—if anything could, in tax-paying. Indeed his methods and manner were such an improvement on Middlemas's that he seemed to be almost welcomed.

Sandy had another £900 of collections locked up in the castle. If the ducal four-in-ten proportion for the collection was adhered to, this would mean about £360 for himself— or at least for Dumbarton Castle—which seemed eminently satisfactory. It would pay for the £300 interest which his father had suggested that he pay to Middlemas, on the £3,000. And of course leave £540 for the crown. It had been John's intention to take this money in person to Stirling Castle, there to give it to Lord Erskine or whoever represented him or his father, Mar, the Treasurer, together with the £300 interest—on the assumption that they would know well enough where Middlemas was to be found, which he did not. But now it occurred to him, after hearing of the Deputy-Treasurer's reaction to the first payment, and being so well aware of James's desperate need for money, that perhaps he should just take the £540 south with him and hand it over to the King personally? After all, the revenues, customs and rentals for crown lands were all gathered in the King's name. Yet James had said that he never saw any of this money. It seemed ridiculous that the impoverished monarch of two realms should be reduced to scratching for funds in the most doubtful and undignified fashion when royal revenues such as Dumbarton's were going elsewhere. Just where they did go, John would have liked to know. But at least he could perhaps divert some small proportion into the royal pocket. He would send the £300 direct to the Privy Council, since it was on their order that he was paying it, leave say £60 with Sandy and take the rest to London.

He would pick it up on his way south, for he was going to Strathearn for a few days first.

At Methven his mother was glad to see him, of course, but he sensed that she was less carefree about his arrival than usual. He guessed that it might be because of his marriage, of which she possibly did not approve—he had sent a letter to her at the time. Or it might even be word of his father's impending remarriage which was upsetting her. Always very close to Mary Gray, at table that evening he had to try to get rid of whatever lay between them.

"My marriage," he said, abruptly. "It was . . . perhaps unfortunate."

"Was it, John? I rather feared so."

"Yes. I had been . . . foolish. And the King insisted. I had no choice."

"Save in getting this young woman with child in the first place?"

"Well—yes."

"And you do not love your wife?"

"No. How could I? When . .
.!"

"What had the King to do
with it?"

"She was the Queen's Maid-in-Waiting. James used her to take some of the Queen's jewellery, when she was sick and like to die. Before others could lay hands on it. And he used me to bring it from her to him. He promised Margaret some place at court;
his
court, if she did this. It went on for some rime. We saw much of each other, necessarily—and secretly.
I.
.
."

"I see. But there was no love? Real love. Does
she
love you,John?"

"No. I am sure not."

"I do not think that I greatly like my new good-daughter!"

"Oh, she has her points. She is cheerful, good company enough, well-connected, strong in some ways."

"When is the child due?"

"That is unsure. I think in June or July."

Mary Gray shook her lovely head. "I am sorry, John— sorry about it all. More than I can say. So much other than what I have wished for you. In especial, now. Now that
..."
Her voice trailed away—which was not like that woman.

"Now that what? There is no use in mourning over what might have been. I have made my bed, as it is said—now
I
must lie in it."

"What might have been, indeed," she repeated. "John— David Drummond of Dalpatrick is dead. He died a month past."

"Wha-a-at!" Her son rose to his feet, so abruptly as to knock over his chair. He stared at her. "Dead . . . ?"

"Yes. He had been failing. He had never been right since he fell from his horse
..."

"God! God in Heaven! Janet, Janet is . . . free! And I—I, damned and
wretched fool, accursed, lost, I
am bound! To Margaret Hamilton!" Turning, he kicked the fallen chair out of his way and strode from the table, over to the wall where he laid his brow against the panelling and beat on the wood with both clenched fists. "Christ God!" he groaned.

His mother watched him, with infinite pity. Presently she got up and went to him. "Johnnie, Johnnie! Forgive me for bringing you such tidings. It is hard, hard. My heart bleeds for you. So sore a price to pay, for
..."

He' pushed past her for the door, and out, out into the April dusk, to walk and walk. It was the small hours of the morning before Mary Gray, listening in her bedchamber, heard him come in and go to his room. She longed to go to him, to cradle him in her arms as once she had done—but made herself lie there. She could pray, at least.

Next day John was quiet, withdrawn, seemingly calm, out and about the property. He did not revert to the subject of his marriage, nor David Drummond's death, save, just before his early retiral to his room, he asked his mother whether Janet was still at Dalpatrick or had she returned to her parents' house? She was still at Dalpatrick, Mary said— and almost said more, but did not.

The following morning he rode westwards up the strath.

The house of Dalpatrick was a modest L-shaped fortalice of the previous century, tall and slender with two turrets and a stair-tower and many shot-holes, standing within a courtyard amidst orchards at a sharp bend of the Earn a mile or two upstream of Inchaffray Chapel. Dismounting in the yard, John made for the only door, in the foot of the stair-tower, under its heraldic panel with the Drummond arms. Here a maid-servant came to greet him. Her mistress, she said pointing, was over in the stables where a mare was foaling.

He crossed the cobbled yard to the range of stabling and peered in at an open doorway. He had a mental picture of that other foaling he had attended only months before, at Theobalds Park. This rime only two people crouched there, a man and a woman. John's bulk in the doorway blocked out some of the light, and both attendant figures looked up. At first there was no further reaction, then, as the newcomer stepped inside and the daylight illumined his features for them, he heard a gasp, and Janet rose to her feet and came, almost running. Then she halted, staring, biting her lip.

"Janet!" he exclaimed, thickly. He too halted. So they stood, wordless.

Recovering herself, she said a word to the stableman and then came to him, restrainedly now. "A good day to you, Sir John," she said. "It is good to see you."

As he bowed, she took his arm lightly and moved out into the yard.

"Janet!" he said again, in that strangled voice.

"Not here, not now," she murmured, and led him, not to the house but across the cobbles to a side-door in the courtyard walling which gave access to the orchard. Side by side, tense, they walked under the apple trees to still another door, and through into the outer orchard. Here, away from all possible observation, she removed her hand and turned to face him.

He held out his arms to her, features working, but she shook her head, right-lipped.

"I did not know. That you were here," she said. "When?" "Two days. I could not. . . wait longer!" "Your wife? Is she with you?"