Unicorn Rampant (52 page)

John took a deep breath. "I, I do not know what to say, Sire! You leave me . . . without words."

"Aye, weel—when you dinna ken what to say, it's aye best to say naething! So—off wi' you, and gie a man some peace in his bed!"

"Yes, Sire." John rose and backed out, to be halted at the door.

"A guid journey, lad. And dinna let yoursel' fret ower much. Life's for living, mind, no' for aye fretting. And you're a right fretter! Guidnight to you!"

19

John Stewart did something which he had never done in his life before—he avoided Methven and Mary Gray. Coming from the south, he crossed Earn at Ford o' Gask and turned westwards instead of north-east, directly for Dalpatrick— and felt guilty as he did so. It was already evening; and if he had gone home first he certainly would not have got over to Dalpatrick that night. He had ridden up from London all the way at almost break-neck speed, so eager was he to convey his tidings. He was not going to waste almost another day, now.

He reached Dalpatrick, to be told that the mistress was out, that she often went walking along the riverside of a summer evening. Would Sir John come in and wait? He said no, he would go seek her. Did she usually go upstream or down? Down, he was informed—she liked to visit the chapel. Nodding, he left his horse hitched, and, stiff as he was from long riding, strode off for the bank of the Earn. The chap
el could only be that of Innerpe
ffray, where they had twice foregathered. Let this be a more positive occasion than either of those.

It was peaceful by the waterside, with the last of the day's sand-martins darting, the first of the dusk's bats flitting and the mallards quacking sleepily from the backwaters. As he walked, the man felt something of the evening's calm touch him, not exactly settle on him, too much at stake for that; but at least the tip of peace's wing brushed him as he went to temper the agitation he had lived with for so long, temper but not banish.

It was over a mile to the chapel, with the sluggish Pow Burn to cross on water-worn stepping-stones. With the gloaming settling on the land and the shadows welling out of all the corries and hollows of the hills, and still no sign of

Janet, he began to wonder whether perhaps he was on the wrong track and that she had turned upstream this night, not down. He would go as far as the chapel itself before retracing his steps.

At the graveyard, the dusk deepened by the dark yews, amongst the moss-grown stones he still saw no sign of her, and was making doubtfully for the grey building where the bats made the congregation when, out of a corner of his eye he thought that he glimpsed movement amongst the tombstones. Was he mistaken, a trick of the half-light? There was no further stirring. But he turned in that direction.

"Janet—is it you?" he called, but quietly, out of some constraint.

He distinctly heard a gasp.

"Janet—are you there? It is me—John."

"John! John!" From behind one of the tombstones she came hastening, part-laughing, part-sobbing, arms out. "You
..
. ? Is it truly you?
John?
John Stewart? I feared
..."

He ran to her. "None other!" he cried, and caught her, picked her up and held her high, burying his face between her breasts, there to mumble and pant incoherencies.

"My dear, my very dear!" she whispered into his hair. "I was thinking of you, aching for you
..."

For long moments they held each other, inadequate words dispensed with, patting, stroking, while rime at least stood still.

At length, breathless, they moved apart sufficiently to look at each other—but still to hold hands as though they could not risk loss of contact.

"John—what. . . ? How is it
...
? Where have you come from? It is not two months . . ."Janet wondered.

"I have come home. Left London. For good. I am back. For good. Home, lass!"

"Home? You mean . . . ?"

"Yes. Come back to Scotland. To Strathearn. To
you,
my heart!"

"But . . . ?" She stared at him, emotions chasing each other across her face. "John—I do not understand. The King . . . ? Have you left him? His service?"

"Yes. Or, not wholly. But in the main, yes. I am still one of his people—
an Extra
Gentleman. But here, in Scotland. I have left the court. Thank God!"

"Oh, my dear, my dearest! This is good, beyond words, beyond belief! And, and your wife?"

"She remains. In London. Janet—all is changed!"

Briefly and bitterly he told her of events since his last journey south.

Janet turned, loosening her hold on him, and began to walk away, slowly. "Where does that leave
us,
then?" she asked, unevenly.

Following, he took her arm. "Lass—it leaves us at least with a choice. Which we did not have before. We can do this—see each other, on occasion, secretly. Oftener than before. For the rest, keeping our distance. Or we can be bolder, braver, ourselves!"

"And that means . . ."

"You
know
what it would mean, my heart. Perhaps too much for you? It would mean caring not what others said and thought. Taking our lives into our own hands, at last! Living together as man and wife, in the sight of God if not of others. Loving each other, openly, and letting the world judge as it will.
..!"

"But
would
it be man and wife in the sight of God, John? You took vows before God, at your marriage—as did I. I have been released from mine, by death. You have not."

"In a court of the law, if a man is proved to have lied, on oath, to pervert justice, then judgment is set aside. Is God's justice so much less fair than man's? I was tricked into making those vows. Is God tricked also?"

"I do not know, John—I do not know. It is that which troubles me—not the other, what folk would say."

"Then consider this. I
have had time to consider it well, all the way up from London. If I had gained a divorce, you would have come to me? Wed me?"

"Yes—oh, yes."

"But divorce is on
ly a device of man, is it not? D
id God institute divorce?"

"No-o-o. But His Church did. . ."

"The Church, yes. But the Church will not give me a divorce, for no reasons of G
od. But because the head of the
Church of England, King James, does not want it. He made that entirely clear. Were it not for the King, then, I could win a divorce. He needs Buckingham, whom he is going to make duke, untouched by scandal. For this wedding. And for a mission to Spain after. What has this to do with God?"

"Nothing, no. You must hate the King? I think that I do."

"No. I do not hate James. He is a strange man and not easy to serve. And I mislike his fondness for Villiers. But he is the King and sees matters differently from us. And he has much that is good to him. He has shown me kindness, as well as—this. I do not know for sure, but I think that he was telling me something, in his last words when I left him, his farewell. He said that I was not to let myself fret. That I was a fretter—although I had never thought of myself as that. He said that life was for living, not fretting. And we had just been speaking of this, of no divorce possible. He was telling me something, that I feel sure. I have thought much on it—and believe that he was advising me to live as though I
was
divorced, as though I did have the divorce which he would not allow. It was a strange thing to say—and said strangely."

"Strange, yes." They were at the riverside again, now. "Does he know about me, John? Of your love for me?"

"That I cannot say. I have never told him. But he is ever well-informed. He has a great thirst for knowledge, of great matters and small. A deep thinker and an auld wife both, ever surprising folk by what he knows about them, even unimportant folk. I suppose that he could have questioned my father."

"If he knew, and said that . . . ? To live your own life and not to fret—you think that he could mean that we should
...?"
,

"It could be, lass. I do not wish to make overmuch of it. But, even if not so, we can make up our own minds, surely."

"What would the Duke say? And your mother?" "I have no fears there. They have lived together as man and wife all these years, although unwed, my father married to others. They of all folk will understand. It is
your
father and mother who will make the trouble, I think." "They would be outraged, yes."

"And that would distress you? Greatly? Sufficiently to . . . ?"

"Although living so near, I see little of them now. Since they forced me to marry, we have not been close. My father is an ailing man, become old and
..."

"Janet—are you saying that their anger, then, this outrage, would not stop you? That you are prepared to consider it?"

"Where would we live, John? Not here, I think, at Dalpatrick. For that is something that my father
could
do, I fear. He could prevail on his brother to take Dalpatrick from me. To spite
you
"

"No, no, lass—I never thought of Dalpatrick. Methven is mine—it has always been in my name. I would not ask you to share house with my mother—and Methven is her home. But it is a large property. There are other houses. One deep in the hills perhaps—Keilour? Where we need care for none. And remember that I am Governor of Dumbarton. There is a Governor's House in the castle. We could live some of the time there. None could trouble you in Dumbarton. Janet—say that you will consider it!"

"I
am
considering it, my dear. It is a big step for a woman to take. Give me time
..."

Arm in arm they walked on along by the murmurous Earn in silence for a while, the evening turning to night around them; and every now and again he drew her round to kiss and be kissed. He had enough of wisdom not to press the matter of their future further at the moment. And they had no lack of other things to say to each other.

He carried her in his arms across the stepping-stones of the Pow Burn, at the run, laughing. He had not laughed like that for long.

When they came to the house, she led him in; and, having discovered that he had not eaten since mid-day, insisted that he must have a meal. So presently they sat down together, in the candle-light—and realised that this was in fact the first time that they had ever dined in each other's company, a further occasion for celebration.

Before they were finished, the hour was late. Reluctantly John noted the fact. "Time, and past time, that I was on my way," he said. "Loth as I am to leave you."

"Must you go? At this hour?" she asked. "It is a dozen miles to Methven. Near two hours' riding, in darkness. All will be abed. Your mother does not know that you are coming?"

"No. But if I do not go, your servants will know. And talk."

"They will talk anyway."

"You do not mind, Janet? If I stay here tonight?"

"I am saying that you should do so."

He reached for her hand and pressed it.

They sat for a while longer by the small birch-log fire that she had lit. Presently she rose.

"I will go see to a bed for you," she announced.

"Do not put yourself to trouble, this late. Anything will serve. . ."

She was gone some little time. When she returned, she was differently clad, in a long belted bed-robe, her hair hanging loose to her shoulders. He caught his breath at the sight of her.

"Janet—you are beautiful, beautiful beyond all telling!" he exclaimed. "You, you shatter me!"

She smiled and held out her hands towards him. "Douse that candle, John—and come."

Hand in hand they climbed the twisting turnpike stair to the second floor. There were three doors to the landing, but only one stood open, the soft glow of lamplight issuing. As they paused in the doorway, he saw that it was her own room—at least, her clothes lay strewn therein.

She did not release his hand, indeed her grip tightened. "Come,!' she said again.

His breath caught in his throat, as she led him in and closed the door behind them.

"Oh, lass, lass!" he got out, and only that.

She turned to face him, there beside the bed, eyes urgently searching his face. "You asked me to consider," she said, low-voiced but tense. "I have considered, John. Here is your answer."

Loosening the cord at her waist, her robe fell open. She was wholly unclothed beneath it, and of rich and promising loveliness.