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'The
King it was who spurned me - not Hamilton !' the other got out, from
behind clenched teeth. 'Whatever Hamilton may have said or done,
it was Charles Stewart who decided. Decided to reject Montrose.
Before all. I did not proffer my hand and fealty and name, to
Hamilton!'

At
the bitterness in his friend's voice, so unusual, so
out-of-character, Kilpont shook his head.

'I
am sorry, James - sorry. But
..
. what next? Will you try again ? Discover what Hamilton is at - and
face him with it? Challenge the arrogant lickspittle! Approach
Charles again
...'

'I
will not. I ride for Scotland tomorrow, as fast as horseflesh
will carry me. Shake the dust of this place off my feet. And wish
that I had sailed home direct from France! That I had never thought
to visit this London, to pay my duty. It is Scotland again, for me -
tomorrow.'

'Damn
it, if I will not ride with you, James! On my oath, I will! I've had
enough of this city of fawning spaniels and toad-eaters! And I gain
no advantage for my father, here. A breath or two of our snell Scots
air - that is what we both need. And leave London to its stews, its
stinks and its jackals and trucklers. Especially its Scots ones!'

The
other nodded. 'Aye - I long to feel the wind off the heather again,
the scents of bracken and pine, hear the crackle of whins in the sun.
I have been away too long, Johnnie. It is time I was home. Time...'

2

James
Graham had never had any pronounced affection
for
Edinburgh, a city he had little known or had occasion to know. In
friendly small Glasgow he had lived as a child, in the house of Lord
Justice Clerk Elphinstone, with his own Mugdock Castle near by to the
north. Of Perth he was fond, near his favourite home of Kincardine
Castle, on the southern verge of Strathearn; and Stirling, to the
south of this, was almost a Graham town. Montrose itself, where he
had been born, though a smaller place, always pleased him. And St
Andrews, where he had studied and spent his high youth gloriously, he
loved as the finest little city, not only in Scotland but in all
Christendom - better than Paris, Rome, Venice or Padua. But in
Edinburgh, on its hills above the silver Forth, he somehow felt
alien, chilled - not so much by its everlasting winds which, after
all, were no colder than those of St Andrews - but by some quality in
the folk, the temper of its people. He ever felt small, under the
soaring tenements, the dizzy grey stone 'lands' which huddled so
close on the climbing ridge between Holyroodhouse and the frowning
Castle, projecting inwards over the narrow streets and wynds, so as
almost to cut out the very sky - but never those winds. Yet this
early May day of brittle sunlight, stinging showers and
rain-washed colour, as he rode in beneath Arthur's Seat, past the
Abbey and Palace, and up the Canon-gate and under the Netherbow Port,
he almost embraced the place to him, acknowledging its magnificent
setting, cherishing even its smells - and the blustering winds
which made them more bearable than those of London and Paris -
looking kindly on its craggy-jawed, bonneted men and shawled
women, however little his benevolent glances were returned, and shook
the glistening raindrops from his travelling-cloak with more cheer
than he had shown for days. It was Scotland, stem and stark and
authentic, but vivid, challenging and self-sufficient as was nowhere
else that he had come across in all his three years of travels - his
own place, the land his love for which he had only truly discovered
when far away.

He
and Kilpont parted company in the Grassmarkct, the latter to ride on
westwards, out again by the West Port and so by Corstorphine and
Linlithgow to Airth, short of Stirling, in whose small castle his
sick and broken father roosted inconsolate; while Montrose, with
young Graham of Morphie his esquire, Master John Lambie his
secretary, his body-servant Dod Graham, and the six armed troopers
who had ridden as his guard the length and breadth of Europe, turned
southwards up the Candlemaker Row, climbing steeply, to issue from
the city at the Bristo'Port, and jingle at a trot across the Meadows,
swinging westwards around the eminence where workmen were still
busily erecting the great Geordie Heriot's Hospital, begun eight
whole years ago and not finished yet. And now they were climbing on
to the Burgh Muir, all whins and broom and rocky outcrops, where the
burghers' thin cattle grazed, and the insolent herd-boys threw stones
and lewd pleasantries at the horsemen, ready to dodge for safety
amongst their shaggy charges at first sign of retaliation. Even this,
today, commended itself to James Graham. Surely only in Scotland,
where the independent spirit ruled all, would herd-laddies throw
stones at a belted earl and his party of armed cavaliers.

Across
the Burgh Muir, the ground ever rising, with the Braid and Pentland
Hills soaring behind and further gladdening the travellers'
hearts after too long in at countries, they passed near the turrets
and steep roofs of Wrightshouse, the Napier house of a kinsman. But
they did not halt, pressing on to a long ridge of yellow-blazing
whins, crackling in the sun as Montrose had ached to hear so many a
time. And here they saw, on the slightly downward slope beyond, a
tall stone tower rising sheerly out of the orchards and formal
pleasance-gardens, a strong, stout battlemented keep of five storeys
and garret within the parapet, complete with wall-walk,
curtain-walled courtyard and gatehouse, trim, self-contained,
indomitable - and not a little arrogant — typical of the land
and the people.

At
sight of it Montrose reined in a little, and his fine eyes clouded.
'Merchiston,' he murmured, to himself. 'Och, Margaret!' Then he
shook his head under the splendid wide-brimmed and feathered hat, and
kneed his mount on.

Under
the gatehouse arch of Merchiston Castle they rode clattering into the
cobbled courtyard, a stout porter in leather doublet and the
inevitable blue bonnet coming bustling out to take the head of
Montrose's magnificent stallion.

'Hech,
my lord, my lord - it's yourself !' he cried. 'Man, Lord James,
you're back! Guidsakes - here's a blessed day!'

'Aye,
Wattie - I'm back. At last. To find you fatter than ever. Fat as an
in-piggilt, I vow!'

'Och,
comfortable just,' the other averred complacently, handing the Earl
down, 'Nae mair'n that. Yoursel', you look braw, my lord.- braw. Aye,
you've changed. The right cavalier now, beardie and all
1
She
.
..
she wouldn'a . . . och, man - my leddy
...
!' He shook his greying head, and turned ruddy face away.

'Aye,
Watty - as you say.' That came thinly, stiffly. Then he touched the
porter's shoulder, lightly. 'Is your master at home?'

'Ooh,
aye. He's up in his ain bit chamber, at the top o' the house. He's
aye there, writing, writing. He has little heart for aught else, the
man, these days. Awa' up wi' you.'

Leaving
the others to their own devices, Montrose climbed the detached
forestair, crossed the little removable timber gangway, and so
entered the keep at first-floor level -
a
device
which ensured a second line of defence should the outer curtain-wall
be breached. Then on up the narrow, winding turnpike in the thickness
of the walling - eight-foot thickness — lit only by arrowslits,
the steps hollowed by mailed feet. At the top, the little garret
watch-chamber within the dizzy parapet wall-walk, was the room with
the splendid views which his brother-in-law had made his study. He
knocked and entered.

The
greying, lean, grave-faced man in the shabby clothing turned at his
deck by one of the dormer windows, to look, peer, and then jump up,
rather sombre features lit up.

'Jamie!
Jamie!' he cried. 'God is good - Jamie Graham! It's yourself.' His
voice little different from that of his gate-porter below, Archibald
first Lord Napier of Merchiston, Privy Councillor, Treasurer Deputy
of Scotland for life, former Lord Justice Clerk and still
extraordinary Lord of Sessions, came forward to greet the younger man
in warmest welcome.

They
embraced each other with undisguised affection, for they were the
greatest of friends, these two, despite the discrepancy in age.
Napier, when a man of forty, had married Montrose's second sister
Margaret when she was eighteen, making her an excellent husband. More
than that, he had made a second father for the boy who had lost his
own sire at fourteen, and had to take on the formidable business of
being
An
Greumach Mor,
chief
of all the Grahams, and fifth Ear! of Montrose while still with five
years of his teens to run. Lord Napier was long past the fathering
stage, as that of legal guardian - but he remained the wise and
trusted friend.

'Archie!
Here's joy.' James Graham held the other hack, to look at him - and
only just stopped himself from blurting out how he had aged in three
years. He recognised, too, that he perhaps should not have used that
word joy. 'It has been a long time,' he said. 'Too long, Archie.'

'Aye,
too long, lad.'

The
other looked away, moistening his lips. 'Margaret,' he said. 'I am
sorry Dear God — I am sorry!'

Napier
nodded. 'We are the poorer, Jamie. Perhaps, somewhere, some are the
richer? Who knows? Your father. Mother. But
...
it is scant comfort.'

Margaret
Graham had died less than a year after her brother's departure for
the Continent, after a dozen years of marriage, leaving three
children and the still-born infant whose birth killed her. Like any
husband in the circumstances, Archibald Napier could not absolve
himself altogether from blame.

'She
was the best of us,' Montrose said. 'The kindest, truest, most
excellent. I grieve for us all - but for you above all.'

'God's
will be done,' the other answered quietly.

'Was
it God's will, then ? You, a judge. Great in the Kirk. Tell me.' And
then, at sight of the older man's perplexed and sorrowful face, he
reached out impulsively to grasp his arm. ‘I am sorry, Archie
Forgive my ill tongue. I have learned to question much that before I
accepted, these last years -perhaps too much. I did not mean to hurt
you further.'

'Do
not blame yourself, Jamie. But . . . questioning fate, destiny, what
is ordained by the Lord God Omnipotent, serves nothing, brings no
comfort but only more sorrow. This I have learned the sore way, God
knows. A man must learn to accept.
¹

'But
you yourself taught me to be a seeker. Ever a seeker, not an
acceptor. Did you not?'

The
other inclined his head, 'Aye. But now I seek God's
purpose
with
men. And to accept His will - if I may. But - enough of this, lad.
What of your other seeking? Your other sister? What of Katherine,
Jamie? You still have not found her?'