Unicorn Rampant (32 page)

"I do sufficiently well, young man. I have my good house, my friends and my ale. Your Scotland is far away."

"Do not tell me that you would not wish to be doing what you were bred to do, what you can do so well, what you came to England to do? That I will not believe!"

"You—or your King—must want me very much in this Scotland, I reckon."

"We do, yes. But—it is good to be wanted, is it not?"

"I am no longer a young man, to dig up my roots and move to another land. They say that Scotland is a hard land, cold
..."

"No colder nor wetter than Holland, I think. And the folk are more like the Dutch than are the English, they tell me. And we have good ale there, stronger than here."

"Man, man, do you never take no? When I am well enough content here?"

"It is the King's wish—and these are royal commands, Menheer Vandervyk," Alexander mentioned warningly.

"His Majesty will compensate you handsomely for your mill and property here," John put in quickly. "You will gain much, in all ways. How much would you desire,

in money, for your m
ill and house? How much, think ?
.

The other rubbed his chin thoughtfully, eyelids narrowed. Clearly this was different, a new note struck—pounds, shillings and pence. "Now, that," Vandervyk said, "that would take me a little time to reckon. Yes, indeed—a little time."

"Then take you your time, friend," John said, finishing his ale. "We bide here tonight. Sleep on it, if you will."

"Do that," Sir William added. "But recollect that this is the King's wish. And His Majesty likes to have his wishes carried out."

They left it at that, and Vandervyk to his consideration.

Alexander made John excellent company and they spent quite a pleasant evening setting the world to rights in the Bull's Head.

In the morning, they had to wait quite some time before the Hollander appeared at the tavern. When he did, he was amiable enough but non-committal, avoiding any real discussion of the situation, so that presently Alexander began to register impatience. But when Vandervyk suggested that they paid a visit to his mill, John felt encouraged. Why should they go to the mill unless some positive reaction was envisaged?

So they walked up the riverside and were shown over the mill and warehouse, with the paper-making process explained to them in some detail. John was concerned to make knowledgeable comments and to ask questions, suitable to his role as one already in the trade—although once or twice he caught the Dutchman looking a little strangely at him.

At the end of this, however, Vandervyk, scratching his chin, observed that the mill was a valuable property, representing much labour, knowledge and experience, as well as the mere buildings, equipment and stock; very valuable, not to be disposed of lightly or for a mere pittance.

John, catching Alexander's eye, knew that they had won their case.

"Oh, I agree, friend," he said. "We never thought otherwise. How much do you value it at, then?"

The other's keen glance darted. "Difficult, sir—yes, difficult." That was the first time that he had called the younger man sir. "Much to consider. But . . ." He took a deep breath, and plunged. "Two hundreds of pounds!"

John pretended to debate, scratching the ground with his boot. He looked at Alexander.

"I
know nothing of paper-making," that man said. "But £200 seems a lot of money."

"It
is
a lot of money," John agreed.

"But this is the only paper-mill in England," Vandervyk pointed out.

"That is so. But no more paper will be made here. This is compensation, not a trade sale."

"I
...
I could accept £190. No less."

"M'ram. I think that might just be possible. If. . ." It was John's turn to be slightly hesitant. "If the charter, the Queen's charter, of fifty years ago, is handed over, with the mill. Just in case
..."

"That old paper? Yes, yes—I will find it somewhere. In some box
..."

The younger man swallowed. Was it possible that this, the kernel of the entire matter, was going to be so easy?

"That is well," he said. "If you can get me that, I think that I can promise you £190 of compensation. When would you be ready to leave?"

"Leave
..
. ?"

"For Scotland. I will be taking you there."

"By God, man—you go fast! Is there so much haste?"

"Perhaps not. But the King likes his affairs to be dealt with expeditiously. And this is His Majesty's business."

"Who knows, he might show some special favour towards you, Menheer," Alexander added, significantly.

"A sennight, then? Will that serve?"

"To be sure. I will come for you seven days from this, with horses for your belongings. But first, will you find me that charter . . . ?"

As the two Scots rode back for Hertfordshire that afternoon, the Elizabeth monopoly in John's pocket, they, congratulated themselves on a successful mission. Alexander declared that he could do with a visit home to Menstrie, where he had not been for three years; he would see whether it could be contrived that he accompanied the other two. Now that Prince Charles was so much involved with Steenie Villiers there was the less need for his own services. And, as the King's Master of Requests, he was scarcely kept busy.

11

It was not the time of year that anyone would have chosen for a long journey but, since the King would hear of no delay, John accepted that it was an unlooked-for opportunity to be home at Methven for Yuletide. It would be cutting it fine, for the heavy Vandervyk was no horseman, and they had a groom and three pack-horses bearing his gear. Also travelling conditions were scarcely favourable for long days in the saddle; in fact the days were the shortest of the year, so that twenty miles each day was a good average—and they had over four hundred miles to go to Edinburgh from Dartford. Fortunately they had no snow and not a great deal of rain, mainly still frosty days, with long evenings in country inns and parish rest-houses. The Dutchman proved to be quite good company, however averse to haste; and Sir William's groom, a Hillfoots Scot, had a rich tenor voice and a talent for singing old songs of the countryside, which helped to pass many a long mile, and evenings by an innkeeper's fire. They seemed to drink an inordinate quantity of ale.

In the event it was 20 December, the Eve of St Thomas, before they reached Edinburgh and, anxious to be home before Christmas Day, John decided to postpone introducing Vandervyk to his new paper-making colleagues and establishment and to take him up to Methven with them for his first Yuletide in this strange land. This, however, meant informing him that he was really Sir John Stewart thereof and no Master Methven, and this took a little explaining away, although he was able, and truthfully, to lay the blame on their sovereign-lord. Vandervyk made little comment. John invited Will Alexander also, since that man had nobody particularly close at Menstrie Castle and he seemed glad to accept. John knew his mother well enough to reckon that she would not object.

They spent a night at Menstrie, near Stirling, on their way north, where an aunt kept house for Alexander in a grey, L-shaped fortalice in the plain of Forth directly under the steeply-rising Ochil Hills. A smaller place than Methven, it seemed to crouch beneath the great escarpment, whereas Methven stood high and proud above its loch.

They made it to Strathearn the next day, where Mary Gray welcomed them joyfully, obviously not at all put out by the unexpected guests. She declared that the King's service seemed to entail a lot of travelling—which suited her, so long as the traveller came north to Scotland thus frequently. From the first she got on famously with Will Alexander, and charmed the more stolid Vandervyk. Clearly the Yuletide was going to be a pleasant one.

Asking for Janet Drummond, John learned that his mother had seen her recently and had found her quiet, subdued but wearing a sort of applied serenity. No, Mary would not say that she was positively unhappy; but nor was she the joyful young wife. David Drummond, Younger of Dalpatrick, was a decent and moderate man, and she might have done so very much worse. Moreover, Janet was a strong-minded young woman. But. . .

John was sorely tempted to go to see her, but decided that this would help neither of them. However, the matter was taken out of his hands. The cold, dry and frosty weather continued and intensified, and three days after Christmas all the ponds and shallow lochans were frozen hard. It so happened that the largest of these lay on Methven Moss, really only a winter-time overflow of the Cowgask Burn, a favourite venue for the sport of curling when weather conditions were propitious. If this coincided with Yuletide, when folk were in holiday mood, then a bonspiel, as a major curling gathering was called, was always held, expected by all. So John was more or less bound to organise such an event, the more so as he had always been keen on the roaring-game.

So, on Hogmanay, the last day of 1617, all Strathearn and district flocked to Methven Moss, some to curl, some to sledge, some to skate, others merely to watch, to meet folk, to gossip and feast—for it was traditional that great fires should be lit around the rims of the ponds, and beef, venison and mutton roasted on spits for all to partake, with hot stew for those who preferred it, and barrels of ale to wash it down.

This took a deal of arranging and served to keep John's mind from too much preoccupation with his lost love. Will Alexander entered into it all with much goodwill and even Vandervyk played his part.

Great crowds turned up, on
a still, cold day of pale blue
skies, gleaming white mountains and glittering ice, the ordinary folk mixing easily with the lairdly ones and gentry, children sliding and shouting, dogs barking, even fiddlers playing for dancing on the ice. There were skating contests, sledge-races, the sleds being pulled by teams of husky young men, skirling females aboard, tugs-of-war with more on their bottoms than on their feet, and other games adapted for the ice.

The curling, of course, was to be taken more seriously. Teams of four-a-side, under a captain or skip, competed from up and down the strath and all its side-glens, almost every estate and lairdship producing its quota. A dozen matches went on at once, each of two teams, the winners of each bout meeting other winners until the championship was decided. Each pair of teams competed on a rink forty yards long, playing from opposite ends, using heavy curling stones of polished granite, shaped like Gouda cheeses, each weighing up to fifty pounds, with iron handles. These were propelled over the ice, demanding much skill and no little force, with a fascinating ringing sound, rather in the manner of a game of bowls but with very different aspects and scoring. The skips were very much in command, ordering each shot and pointing out where a cannon-shot from one of his team could knock an opponent's stone off course. All contestants were armed with brooms or besoms, with which to run in front of their stones to sweep away snow, ice-crumbs or anything else which might impede, with shouts of "Soop! Soop!", cries of encouragement or groans of disappointment. The object was to get one or more of a team's stones as near centrally, as was possible, into a circle drawn on the ice at the head of the other's
rink,
forty yards away. It was all a noisy, inspiriting affair, demanding skill, energy and much liquid refreshment.

John was skip of his own Methven team. They had won their first two matches when, glancing up after sending down a devastating riding-stone to scatter two of his opponents' stones, he saw Janet Drummond standing watching him from only a few yards off. Their eyes locked.

For a few tense moments curling and all else was forgotten, the acclaim for his cannon-shot fallen on deaf ears, the demands of his team for what to do next ignored. The young woman, cheeks flushed with the cold, eyes gleaming, bare-headed but her person wrapped in furs, had never looked more lovely.

He forced himself back to present realities. Scores of eyes were upon him, possibly on her also. Any failure in his curling enthusiasm would be noted and discussed. He must behave normally, keep his mind on the game . . .

It is to be feared that John was rather less successful in that than he would have wished, however hard he tried, for after a good start, his team lost the match by a mere couple of points; and, moreover, lost the next one also, which put them out of the running for the final. Whether anyone, his team-mates in especial, recognised that the trouble started from those few moments was not to be known, although nobody actually reproached him.

Curling over, he looked for Janet but she was no longer where she had been standing. Against his own probably wiser judgment, he could not restrain himself from going in search of her amongst the crowd.

He saw her husband presently, talking with a group of Strathallan gentry, but he and David Drummond had never been friendly and he could avoid him without comment. He found the young woman at one of the fires, nibbling at a venison rib in company with his mother and Will Alexander, and was grateful that he could thus approach her without it being in any way noteworthy - which no doubt was Mary Gray's intention.