Unknown (6 page)

'Is
he run mad, the man ?'

"Well
may you ask! But I think not. It is that he has a set and unyielding
mind. And believes that he is right - always he is right. And has
none, that he will listen to, who will tell him to his face that he
is wrong! Letters we have written -but they achieve nothing. Save to
put our necks at risk! I fear that we have that most dangerous of
rulers, Jamie - a righteous, unbending autocrat, who believes that
he, and he only, knows the mind of our God ! His father before him,
James the Sixth, called himself Christ's Vice-regent. The son, I
swear,
believes
it!'

'And
yet, he appeared a gentle man, noble. He served me less than kindly -
but in himself appeared to be kindly, no autocrat, no tyrant.'

'As
you say. Here in Scotland, when he came to his coronation near
three years past, all men conceived him as worthy, upright. Noble, as
you say. Indeed, I believe that in most things he is so - save this
of religion. And here, the sorrow of it, his uprightness becomes
menace, no less. In his inmost heart, Charles is brittle, unbending.
It grieves
me
to
say it, for I have served him and his father all my days. But now, it
seems, none may serve him save sycophants and toadies. That, James, I
will never be.'

At
the heavy solemnity of his friend's voice, Montrose shook his head.
This all makes of my small trouble a mere nothing, Archie,' he said.
The vexations of a halfling! I see well how the greater trouble will
grow, if it is not checked. Myself, I care not greatly whether a man
approaches his God through a bishop or a presbyter. Indeed, it may be
that neither need come between any true worshipper and his creator,
any more than need a Romish saint - only the Lord Christ's
intercession being necessary. But
...
I would give my blood to defend the right of every man to choose for
himself. This of the King could split the realm.'

'Well
and truly said. But, indeed, what Charles is doing is not so much
splitting his realm now as uniting it Uniting it against himself. You
mind how he forced through the Act of Revocation, in 1625 - to compel
the lords and lairds, who had won the Old Church's lands at the
Reformation, to yield them up again. For the support of his new
bishops. That drove a sore wedge between King and nobles. We both
lost no little by it, Jamie. Not a lord but is in fury against having
to pay tithes to the Kirk and rent to the Crown. But this concerned
the churchmen and ministers no whit. Nor the common folk. Indeed,
they chuckled, as we know well. But now, the King is forcing his
bishops and prayer-book down the throats of Kirk and people. He will
have all Scotland against him, lords, Kirk and folk. Save only, it
may be, the Catholics - ominous allies, on my soul! Our good and
upright liege lord is sowing the seeds of hatred, Jamie. And heeds no
good counsel.'

"You
have told him, besought him?'

'When
he was here, for his coronation, I spoke - and received but
small thanks, as you may guess. Since, I have written letters. As is
no more than my duty, as one of the King's ministers of state. And as
result am losing the King's regard, certain offices. I have had to
give up my Orkney estates, which I had of the Crown. Intriguers at
Court have them now. I am no longer Deputy Treasurer
...'

"But
that was yours for life, was it not?'

'Aye,
for life. But King Charles is displeased with me, and I was forced to
resign the office. I was compensated with monies — but what is
that, when I no longer have my master's trust? Not that I care
greatly for office, or aught else, since Margaret died - but I have
much experience, and ought to be able to advise the King. I am still
of the
Privy
Council
- but no longer is the Scots Council's word heeded
.'

‘
Dear
God - the folly of it! The waste.'

'It
is more than folly, waste, lad. It could spell disaster. Scotland
will never thole this burden. The freedom for which our fathers
fought, from Bruce's, Wallace's days, till this -it is not to be lost
at the scrape of a royal pen. More especially with an English
cleric's hand behind it
1
It
must not be,
will
not
be
‘I
am the King's most leal subject, but if he insists on this, by force
— which God forbid! - I, and many another like me, on whom he
could have relied, will not stand idly by and see it done.' The older
man's voice shook a little. 'To this end, James, to this evil end, I
have brought you home.'

For
long moments they looked at each other, there in the shadowy garden,
sombre-eyed, silent; until, in unspoken agreement they turned and
went indoors, the glowing May night gone sour on them.

3

IT
WAS
NOT
AT MUGDOCK
IN
THE
C
A
MPSIE
FOOTHILLS
NORTH
of
Glasgow, nor yet at Kincardine in the southern skirts of Strathearn,
nor even at Old Montrose on the Mearns seaboard, that James
Graham ended his three years' journeying; but at another's
house, not his own, in the wide valley of the South Esk in Angus
between the Grampians and the sea, admittedly not far from Montrose
but unconnected therewith - Kinnaird Castle, scat of the
Carnegies, whose lord had recently been raised to the status and
dignity of first Earl of Southesk. To this great house in its
spreading parkland, where the Esk coiled to join that strange
landlocked tidal basin of Montrose Bay, the Graham and his little
entourage rode down over the braes of Rossie Muir three evenings
later - and again with very mixed feelings. It was a fair place,
rich, settled, secure, and though it was not his home, he knew it as
well as any house of his, and loved it well. His mind had dwelt on it
long and often, and on what it contained, these past many months,
even ached to see its warm brown-stone towers, cattle-dotted parks
and spreading orchards, and to hear the voices that would assuredly
welcome him there. But now that he in fact approached it, he knew
strange doubts, qualms, almost reluctance. It had been so long. So
much had changed. He was indeed a different man from the youngster
who had ridden away, a man travelled, experienced, tried, mature,
where he had been little more than an enthusiastic but callow
stripling. All must inevitably be much altered -and not only in
himself.

They
had been seeing for some time the two columns of blue smoke ascending
high in the early evening air, before it dawned on him that these
were not woodsmen's fires but, sited on an eminence just to the west
of the castle, must be twin beacons, bonfires. He had sent word of
his coming, from Edinburgh; and these must have been blazing all day
to welcome him back. The recognition brought something of a lump into
Montrose's throat.

While
still almost a mile from the great house, they saw the file of
horsemen come spurring out from under the gatehouse arch, to
drum over the drawbridge timbers and come southwards at a canter,
obviously to meet him. Keen eyes had been watching. When a banner
unfolded itself, to stream in the breeze and flutter bravely at the
head of the oncoming party, James Graham's own eyes misted a little.
Even at that range he could see that it was of black and gold - and
the only black-and-gold heraldic banner of earl's size in all broad
Scotland bore the undifferenced arms of the chief of the Grahams,
An
Greumach
M
or
,
Besides
himself,
only one other could, or would, ride under that ensign.

As
they drew near it could be seen that of the five who rode to meet
them one was no more than a child, a small figure though mounted on
no pony; one was a richly dressed youngish man slightly older than
Montrose himself; one was a burly man of early middle-age, who bore
the banner; and the other two were grooms. Much moved, James Graham
slowed his horse to a walk.

A
few yards off, the man with the banner signed to the boy, who
promptly pulled off his mount with some style, at the same time
managing to doff his plumed hat with
a
flourish - even though it knocked against his horse's head and ears
in the process and almost fell from a small hand. Undeterred,
flushing a little, the large eyes bright, the lad jerked a bow from
the saddle.

‘
Greetings,
my lord,
¹
he said. 'I hope that I see your lordship well. And not wearied. My
lady-mother sends her dev
...
devotion.' That was of a gabble, but he got it out.

'Johnnie!'
Montrose said. It was not often that this adequate man made so
inadequate response.

The
twenty-four-year-old father and the six-year-old son sat their
sidling horses and stared at each other. Inevitably they were almost
strangers. The toddler of three whom the man had left behind him bore
little resemblance to this fine-featured, rather delicate-looking lad
with the big eyes and serious expression. Foolishly Montrose had
continued to think of him as he had last seen him. And the young Lord
Graham had scarcely been able to remember his sire at all —
save by the portrait by Master Jamesone, which hung in his mother's
chamber; and this fine gentleman hardly resembled that eager youth.

With
an effort the man restrained himself from spurring forward to clasp
that small, proud yet anxious figure to himself. That would
never do - not when the boy had come thus formally to meet him, under
that banner, playing the man, beside the Chamberlain, bringing his
mother's greeting.

‘
I
rejoice to see you, son,' he said, controlling his voice, like the
rest of him. 'So tall. So well grown. And well favoured. I thank you
for coming to meet me. You sit your horse fairly.'

The
lad flushed with pleasure. "He has been saddled all day awaiting
you,
¹
he said, in a rush. 'My Uncle James - my Lord Carnegie, I mean -
taught me to ride. He says that I am better than you were, at six
years .
..'
That tailed off in something of a gasp, as realisation dawned that
perhaps this might be thought scarcely tactful in the circumstances.