Unicorn Rampant (14 page)

A servant came with wine. Lady Madderty did not reappear.

Sipping, their host changed the subject to the King, his health and that of Prince Charles.

Fairly quickly Ludovick finished his wine. "Time that we were on our way, John," he announced briskly. "I do not think that we are going to change my lord's mind on this matter. You must just go on with your labours and prove him wrong, hoping that he will thank you one day. My lord—your servant. Our respects to your lady . . ."

Madderty saw them out with evident discomfort.

"I see what you are up against, lad," the Duke said as they rode away. "These people resent you—and that is
my
fault, in the first place. And Madderty has no interest in improving his land or in aiding his people. He will only be convinced by proven facts—and his wife will not be convinced by anything! So you must show them how wrong they are—if it means sufficiently much to you. Ignore their disfavour. They cannot stop you."

"No, but they can turn others against me. The entire clan of Drummond, and their friends the Grahams."

"Surely not? The Drummonds are good enough folk. I have always found them fair neighbours."

"Yes. But they are great on the hunting. And Lord Madderty has great influence. Their chief, the young Earl of Perth, is his nephew—and much interested in his Cousin Janet."

"Ha—is that it? You do find problems for yourself, lad! Well, I was young myself once. I . .
."He
paused, and pointed. "Do you see what I see, Johnnie?" They were riding westwards along a grassy bank above the curves of the Earn, and a little way ahead, below them, a slender figure in light clothing was walking slowly along the riverside.

John nodded but said nothing.

"Myself," his father mentioned, "I am going to have a look at the Drummond graves at Innerpeffray Chapel, yonder. Most interesting. You, now, will have seen them many times. Why do you not go down there and pay your respects, and mine, to that young woman who was so shortly dismissed by her mother? I say that she deserves some small civility. See you, there is no haste. The graves will occupy me for some time. Come when you are ready."

"I thank you," his son acknowledged, and reined his horse left-handed.

John rode down into the haugh and on to the winding path which followed the bends of the river. The young woman heard his horse's hooves and turned to wait, smiling. And her smile was a joy.

"Janet!" he said.

"John! Or did I hear aright, back there? Should it now be Sir John?"

"Not to you." He dismounted and stood before her, looking doubtful.

"What. . . how did it come about? This knighting? You must tell me." She sounded eager to know.

"It was nothing. Or my part in it was. Little worth the telling. It was all a foolish mistake. At Edinburgh. They had arrested the King, and . . ."

"Arrested? The King! Surely not—that cannot be so? You cozen me . .
.!"

"It is true. They did not know that it was the King. A mistake, as I say. I was able to put the matter to rights. Then later I was able to do him some other small service. And when he was knighting Provost Nisbet he called me to him and knighted me also. That is all."

She stared at him. "I cannot believe that it was all so simple as that, John." She had a warm, throaty voice which affected him not a little. "You are not telling me the half of it! What really did you do?"

"Just what I say. I had to knock over the constables who were taking the King away—that is all. He is a strange man, easily affrighted. He was most foolishly grateful."

"You
knocked over constables? How many?"

"Only two. It was not difficult."

She wagged her lovely head in exasperation. "So you are a hero—but you will not tell me! This is unfair, unkind! What was the other service you did King James? I must hear."

"That was afterwards. After the knighting. And still less worth telling. Merely bringing the Earl
of
Buckingham to him, the King. And halting the cannonade at Edinburgh Castle until he came."

"I see that I shall have to discover all this from others! That was your, your father, the Duk
e, with you, was it not? Did he
see all this? Is he still with my parents?"

"No. He is gone to the chapel. To see the graves. We saw you down here, so . . ."

"So?" She considered that, and him. "He went on and left you to come to me here? I think that you must have a more accommodating father than have I, Sir John Stewart!"

He found nothing to say to that, and they walked on together along the riverside in silence, he leading his horse.

"Your mother and father, I fear, do not like me," he said at length. "What I am, nor what I am doing."

"I am sorry," she told him, not attempting to deny the truth of it. She sounded as though she meant it.

"I tried to tell him—your
father. As did the Duke. About
Methven Wood and Moss. But he would have none of it. He can see no good in what I do."

She nodded. "I also have tried to tell them. The worth of it. But I am only a girl, a lassie who knows nothing of such matters."

"I thank you, at least, for the trying."

"You will continue with your labours?"

"Oh, yes."

"You are a determined young man. I have
noted it before!"

"I cannot stop now, having put my hand to it. Would you have me otherwise?"

"Does it matter how I, or any, would have you?"

"It does, yes. It matters . . . much. To me. How
you
would have me."

She looked away. "Is
...
is that wise, John? As matters are?"

"Wise? I do not claim wisdom, Janet. But
...
I cannot help myself in this."

"You mean, of Methven Wood and Moss?"

"No—of you. Of your regard and, and esteem. Your well-wishing."

"You have these, John—my esteem and good wishes. You must know that. Not that they can greatly serve you, I fear
..."

"Not that. I mean more than just good wishes, lass." He reached out and caught her hand. "I seek more than that."

She looked troubled but did not disengage her hand. "John—what can I say? You have my regard, my very real regard, my friendship indeed. But—you must face the situation, the facts
..."

"Is it not fact enough that I love you, want you?" He drew her to him, strongly, dropping the horse's reins. "My dear—can you not see? I love and want you, need you . . ." Urgently he pulled her round, to kiss her brow, her eyes, her lips.

For moments she was unresistant in his arms. Then she twisted and drew away, shaking her head. "John—no! Please, no! This will do us no good, no service. You must know it, as I do." Anxiously she stepped further away, to look back. "If anyone should see us—my father! Or mother!"

Only the topmost storey and roofs of the castle were still in sight, so it was unlikely that they could be observed.

He sighed. "No one will see us here. But
...
if I have offended, I am sorry."

The young woman bit her lips. "Not offended . . . but, but misjudged, John. This is folly. Will bring but pain to us both. Surely you can see that?"

"I can see only that I love you. And believe that I can make you love me."

"Even if you do, and could, what good would there be in it? My parents would never permit our, our coming together. They are set against you. And they have
...
other, other plans for me, I fear
..."

"So? You accept them, then? Their prejudice and dislike for me? I would have believed you made of stronger stuff than that, Janet Drummond!"

She shook her head, silent.

"Is this to be the end, then? You offer me no hope? Nothing to sustain me? No word that even you wish me well?"

"I do wish you well, John—that you may be sure. But to what end? Wishes will not change anything for us. I am in my parents' hands.
I am but nineteen years. What I
wish is of little moment. You are determined on this Methven project. It will bring you into even greater enmity with my father
..."

Abruptly he turned away and flung himself up on to his horse in one lithe if complicated bound. He reined the beast round.

"You say that I am a determined man," he exclaimed. "I tell
you
that I am determined in more than Met
hven Wood and Moss
! Think on it!" And, waiting for no more, he spurred off to climb the grassy bank and make for Innerpeffray Chapel, riding fast.

She gazed after him unhappily.

As though to prove something, as much to himself as to the whole strath perhaps, John organised a great deer-drive for four days later, and invited all who cared to attend, near and far. Ostensibly it was to celebrate his father's return to Methven; but the Duke could take hunting or leave it, and was far from the moving spirit.

In the event, a large number of hunters turned up from up and down the strath; but it was noticeable that there were no Drummonds amongst them, and precious few Grahams either. They assembled, on a cool grey morning, on the high ground of Drumbuich and Keillor, north of Methven some three miles and about three hundred feet higher, between the straths of Earn and Almond, more than one hundred men, apart from the beaters. Of deer-hounds and other dogs there were as many.

This was no conventional hunt on horseback such as King James delighted in, but a drive after the Highland fashion. There was sport in it, but the object was to kill deer, many deer, rather than to prove the superiority of individual huntsmen or their hounds, a means of keeping down the great numbers of deer which roamed the hills and mountain-sides and descended on the farmers' crops to decimate them. The programme was to have an army of beaters march, in close-ordered but extended lines, across hillside and woodland scrub, with their dogs, with much hallooing and shouting and barking, to drive all the deer out before them. Permanent barriers of turf and peat, known as deer-dykes, were placed at strategic points, high enough to dissuade all but the most agile animals from trying to get over, and at carefully selected spots in these there were gaps left open, usually at right-angled bends and re-entrants, through which the fleeing deer might bolt. Here the hidden huntsmen placed themselves, armed mainly with bows and arrows and some cross-bows, and sought to bring down the running quarry. It still demanded good archery at swiftly-moving targets, and most escaped. But with some half-dozen barriers and as many gaps, the total bag could be quite large, for there was seldom any lack of game.

Today John had selected his dykes and gaps with much care. Normally the ultimate objective was to force the deer ever downhill, through various stages and shooting-points, until eventually they found sanctuary in the extensive glades
and
aisles of Methven Wood. But on this occasion that was not desired. John's purpose was to force the creatures to select other refuges throughout the strath, to prove his assertion that they were not dependent on Methven and that they would go to ground
in
other woods and wastelands. The entire operation was designed to demonstrate this and also that there was no lack of deer.

The forenoon's drive was a marked success, with forty-three beasts accounted for out of perhaps a couple of hundred driven past, John himself, no mean shot with a bow, having brought down four, from his chosen position in the rear of the beaters' line, where he could superintend the advance and at the same time deal with any game which might break back.

At this stage Mary Gray and a company of women arrived with pannier-ponies laden with a welcome repast of cold meats, oat-cakes, honey and ale. Less welcome was the news that a royal courier had arrived at Methven Castle with a message from King James at Dundee. He had changed his mind about going to
Aberdeen,
as taking too long and shortening his hunting at Falkland, and intended now to be at Perth on the last day of May, where he expected the Duke and his son to join him. He was due back in Edinburgh on 3
June.

This distressing news meant that they had only one further clear day here, for this was the 29th of the month. That John was expected to appear also, anticipated by his father as it was, was far from welcome to his mother and received with mixed feelings by the son. In a way he would not be sorry to get away from Strathearn for a little while; on the other hand, there was so much to be done here, so much to be sorted out
...