"He will not hold Saltoun much longer, will he, Andrew?" his hostess asked. "Now that King James seems to have fallen?"
"That I do not know. Indeed I know little or nothing of the situation here in Scotland now. In England, all hangs in the balance. I think that William will win the day. There. For James is hated. But here? How is William esteemed? How strong is James's grip? Or, at least, that of his supporters?"
"It is hard to tell," Johnnie admitted. "On the face of it, all is as it was. James is still King of Scots and his minions hold all power and positions. But they are uneasy, no doubt of that. They draw in their horns somewhat. They are mainly Catholics, of course - or pretended Catholics! Whilst the people are staunchly Protestant. The people are for William, I think. He is half-Stewart, after all, and married to a Stewart."
"Yes, the people. But unhappily, it is not the people who make the decisions, but their betters! Men like yourself and myself, Johnnie - God forgive us! The nobility and gentry, man - what say they?"
"Damned little, Andrew. In this pass. Keeping their eyes and ears open and their mouths shut, for the most part. Waiting to see how the cat jumps!"
"Aye - the leaders of the nation! Must it always be so ? But -if the English accept William as King, will they? A Dutchman?"
"I do not know. Would you? You, who have suggested before now that the crowns might be separated again?"
"That was a threat. When the King was behaving tyrannically from London. I still say that it may be necessary, and right. But not to keep James Stewart on our throne. If so be it that the new monarch will rule as the King of Scots should, in and through Parliament, preserving our ancient liberties, then there is little harm in him being King in England, too."
"And your William will do so?"
"William must be shown that only so can he be King of Scots."
"You will tell him so?"
"I have already told him so. And it will be my endeavour to see that the Scots Parliament tells him so also, in no uncertain voice."
"Aye - so Scotland has its old Andrew Fletcher back again! And not before time. For there is much amiss, much to be done. Not only in Parliament House. But you will have to take your time, Andrew. To watch your step. Go cautiously at first. You could still be arrested and executed without trial. For you are tried already, in absence, and found guilty of treason. Whether they would dare to do it, I do not know. But they might, man, they might, for you could be a thorn in their flesh."
"I will watch, never fear. I have learned how to survive, in these last years. Is the country quiet, or is there much unrest?"
"Quiet! Lord, Dand - you ask that? The land is in a constant commotion. It is all but mob-rule in many parts. This shire of Haddington is not so bad. We are douce folk here. But elsewhere, in the West, in especial, it is bad, bad."
"You mean persecution still?"
"No, no. Rabbling. That is what they are calling it. The mobs hounding out the bishops' men, the King's Curates as they are called now, the ministers who took up episcopacy, on King Charles's orders. They are a sorry lot, on the whole, as you know - but they scarcely deserve this."
"You mean that the churchmen are being attacked again? The clergy. In their persons?"
"Just that. Worse than ever before. Up and down the land they are being turned out of their manses, dragged through the streets, assaulted, some even slain. I heard that as many as two hundred had been violently driven from their livings, their wives and bairns made game of, by the mobs. Even the bishops themselves have gone into hiding."
"But surely this is not tolerated? I have no love for the bishops and their minions, who have cost Scotland dear. But this is no way to deal with them. Is the law not protecting them? The sheriffs and officers? Their own kind . . . ?"
"I told you, our present masters are lying very low. Besides, being in the main Catholics, they are not greatly concerned. They do not love Episcopalians either. To them, it is but one Protestant party savaging another, I suppose. And remember, your friend Claverhouse, who is an Episcopalian, is out of the country with his army — the troops who could have protected these curates."
"And what of his chief, this Dumbarton?"
"A Catholic, they say. He would be, for his mother was a daughter of old Huntly."
"Dear God - and this is Scotland! Like a rudderless ship in a storm! Is there nobody left in the land to grasp the helm? No spirit surviving in this ancient nation? Have we become a race of serfs, cowards and toadies?"
"Not that, Andrew - never that, surely. But... we require a lead. It is leadership we lack. Our natural leaders seem to have died out. Many, to be sure have been executed, or driven into exile. As were you. But you, at least, have come back!"
"Yes, yes - we have a leader, one leader again!" Margaret exclaimed, in a rush, eyes shining. "Grandfather always said that you. were the hope for the future. Johnnie too, of course — but you in especial. I mind him saying it in this very room, before your first election. But - oh, Andrew, you will be careful? Promise that you will be careful!"
"Sakes, lass, it sounds as though there were sufficient of careful men in Scotland, as it is! But do not look on me as one of Scotland's leaders, see you. I have neither the stature nor the station and standing. But I will do what I can. Oh, yes -1 will do what I can, God aiding me!"
"In my small way, I will aid you too, Dand!" Lord Belhaven said.
* *
Andrew delayed his arrival at Saltoun, next day, until evening, as he had done at Beil, and for the same reason - so that here, where he was known by all, he might slip in unnoticed.
There were two Saltoun villages, East and West, about a mile apart, with the Hall in its demesne-land another mile north of both. The East or Kirkton of Saltoun, climbed a gentle slope of one of the foothill ridges, its parish church a landmark; but West or Milton of Saltoun lay hidden in a valley, sheltered amongst old trees, with the Birns Water splashing though the midst. Here were the two mills, the tannery, brewery and other necessary estate utilities. The dower-house stood in its own triangle of land near the western of the two bridges which spanned the river. It was a modest-enough house, compared with the great castellated pile of the Hall, grown out of an earlier miller's house - indeed the original mill-buildings and wheel were still incorporated in the stableyard - improved and extended for the use of the lairdly family's dowagers, unmarried daughters and suchlike dependents. Andrew rode into the dark yard, tethered his horse to a post and, schooling himself and his emotions, went to rasp the tirling-pin at the back door.
Leezie Duncan, Margaret's former personal maid, opened almost immediately. "Losh, you're early, Maister!" she exclaimed, in her strong Mearns accent. "I heard you ride in. It's right dirty night to ride frae Embro in this . . ." Suddenly she stopped, to peer into the outer darkness. "Guidsakes! It's, it's . . . it's no' himsel'? It's - losh, it's the laird!"
"None other, Leezie. Back from my travels. It is good to see you. Is your mistress here? I gather that my brother is not?"
"Aye, sir - or no, sir. Och, sir - here's a right joy! She's ben the hoose. Sakes, but she'll be fair whummled to see you! Here — gie's your wet cloakie and come awa' ben. Eh, but you're looking fine, Laird, for a' that!"
He followed the exclamatory abigail through to the front of the house, to be all but propelled into a pleasant firelit and lamplit room.
"See wha we've gotten here, Mistress Meg!" Leezie cried, with a son of triumph, and stood in the doorway, arms folded over ample bosom.
Margaret was sitting in a wing-chair by the fire, a book in her hand. Eyes widening at what she saw she rose slowly to her feet. She was lovelier even than he had remembered her, now in her twenty-ninth year, still slender but with a superb figure, all woman now, girlhood past.
The man, staring, swallowed, shook his head and found no single word to say.
Behind him there was a kind of whinnied laugh which ended in a choke, and then the door clicked shut.
"Andrew! Oh, Andrew, my dear it is
you! Andrew — at last! At last!" Book falling unheeded to the floor, she came running to him, to throw herself into his outstretched arms.
Hungrily he embraced and kissed her, her hair, brow, eyes, lips - and it was their first kissing. She did not repel him; indeed she kissed him back, twice, then buried her head against his chest, clutching at him, with something between strangled sobs and laughter.
So they stood holding each other, for long moments - and the stir of her emotion within his arms was no help to a hot-blooded man who, whatever the appearances, was seeking to restrain himself. They did not actually speak, whatever sounds they made.
At length, abruptly, she drew back - but not so far back that she could not still grip both his hands and so held him there, searching his face and features in the mellow light as though for confirmation of something, something vitally important. Presumably she found it, for she nodded, two or three times, even though she sighed as she did so.
"Margaret!" he said, and again, "Margaret!" lingering over the syllables. He did not require to say more, just then.
Again she nodded, as though he had enunciated the whole truth of the matter and no more need be said. But for good measure she added, "Andrew!" again, and led him over to the fireside, hands still in his.
"So long," he got out hoarsely. "So very long. To wait. So hard. The waiting. And now . . . and now . . . !"
"Yes," she said. "I know."
"You are beautiful. And true. And kind. Always you were that. A joy and a warmth, at the very heart of me. An anchor, in all the storms. That kept me secure. But now . . . !"
"But now I am your brother's wife!" she said, levelly, since one of them had to say it.
Pursing his lips he inclined his head and their hands parted.
"It. . . had to be, Andrew," she declared, low-voiced. "And Henry is good, fine. We are . . . very happy."
"I am glad of that, at least!" That was stiff.
"It was for the best," she said, looking into a flickering, aromatic birch-log fire.
"Good! For the best is always . . . admirable!"
"Andrew." She laid a hand on his arm. "You must understand. Or all is ... a ruin."
He took a deep breath. "Yes. Oh, yes - you are right. Understanding. That is what is required."
"It will come, my dear." She straightened up. "Now - you will be hungry, tired. You will wish to wash, whilst I see to a meal." With relief to both she became the busy, effective housewife, little as he had thought of her as such. "A glass of wine, first? Have you ridden far today?"
"No. Only from Beil . . ."
Later, as they sat at table, with Leezie departed again, although both carefully sought to avoid the subject of the marriage for a while, inevitably they came round to it. They had got to the matter of Henry's release from Haddington Tolbooth when Margaret, in her account of it, hesitated.
"They . . . they required tokens, proofs. That he would no longer work against them, against the government," she said. "It was necessary to give these, give something to convince them."
"But Henry was not working against them, was he? He was never the one for that." "He was sending you moneys." "My own moneys."
"Yes. But you were an active enemy of the government, condemned. An outlaw. So Henry was - how did Father put it? - compounding your offence. So they imprisoned him and forfeited your estate."
"Yet moneys continued to come. Less, but still some. From whom?"
"Shall we say from your friends, Andrew?" "From you, Margaret?"
"Only a little. I have not much money. Only what my mother left me." "Your father, then?" "And others. Well-wishers."
"All, all compounding my offence! You and your father and others all putting themselves at risk, for me. Oh, Margaret, Margaret!"
"It was the least that we could do. It had to be."
"Had to be? That is what you said before. About your marriage. It had to be. Why?"
"Do you not see? I told you, tokens were required, to win Henry's release. Here was one. If he was to wed Sir David Carnegie's daughter, we, the Carnegies, would stand as, as sureties. I think that is the word. Sureties for his good behaviour . . ."
"Lord! So you sold yourself to get him out! Because of my offence. Of a mercy - not that!"
"No, no - that is nonsense, Andrew. Foolish talk. I did not sell myself. I have always been fond of Henry and he of me. It might have . . . come to that, anyway. He had asked me, more than once. To be his wife. So now, it was . . . convenient."
"Convenient! Convenient for Henry, yes! But you! And me . . . and me . . . !"
"Yes, for you, too, Andrew. Moneys could still be sent to you. Henry could watch over your estate, for this Lord Dumbarton in name but really for you. I think, not married to a Carnegie, that would not have been possible."
"Damn the estate and the moneys! What of we?"
"Yes, what of you, Andrew?"
He blinked at the way she said that, and at her direct gaze across the table. He swallowed.
"I loved you. Love you, now. Always shall do. And hoped. Hoped and prayed . . ."
She moistened her lips. "I am sorry, sorry! But-hoping and praying were not enough, my dear. Did you ever say so? Ever write it in words? Ever act the lover?"
"I could not. How could I? A rebel, a hunted man with a price on my head. How could I offer myself to any woman? But I loved you. And thought that you knew it. And, and might, in your heart . . ." He left the rest unsaid.
She said no word either, for a little, but a single tear trickled down her cheek.
He shook his head, then reached out and touched her arm. "Forgive me, lass. It is done and cannot be undone. You are my brother's wife. It will be difficult for me. But difficulties are made to be overcome, they say!"
"Henry and I are . . . happy, Andrew," she said - and that was almost a plea.
"Yes. So you said. I shall not forget, never fear! Now-tell me of your cousin, John Graham, now so great. I saw him in London. But Johnnie Belhaven tells me that he has married .. . ?"
"Yes. To Jean Cochrane, granddaughter of the Earl of Dundonald ..."
When, presently, it was time to retire, Andrew took her gently in his arms and kissed her brow.
"My dear," he said. "We have new burdens to bear, I fear. I do not wish to add to yours. But... I am going to require your good help. You will know that, and understand? I do, and say, unwise things, at times. We will, we must, inevitably see much of each other. It will not be easy. But with your aid and forbearance, I will contrive it. Not to hurt Henry. Nor yourself."
"I shall need help, too, Andrew - do not think otherwise. Go now, my dear - and good night."
Henry Fletcher arrived back from Edinburgh the next afternoon; and however mixed were Andrew's feelings over this reunion, those of his brother were of sheer, uncomplicated joy and affection. Which in turn, of course, helped the other to keep his own in order. Henry had changed, in appearance and manner, remarkably little over the intervening years, still the slight, sensitive, vulnerable-seeming young man, attractive in a boyish way, so essentially prepossessing. Whatever his previous doubts and fears as to their relationship in these new circumstances, it was not long before Andrew was feeling as protective as ever towards his younger brother - with, inevitably, a consequent strengthening of his resolve to keep those relations on a right and proper footing vis-a-vis Margaret. He fairly quickly perceived, also, that the protective fondness was not confined to himself, that Margaret's undisguised affection for her husband had quite a degree of motherliness about it - which, somehow, was no little comfort to himself.
Henry, naturally, was eager to learn all that had befallen his admired brother during their long separation and Andrew had to satisfy this to some extent before he could do his own questioning. Since Margaret had heard much of it, he suggested that Henry and he should go for a walk, whilst the light lasted, for he longed for some sight of his own place and old haunts. But Henry strongly advised against this, pointing out that there were now many of Lor
d Dumbarton's people about the Saltoun district, managing the estate, farms, mills and so on, and these must not learn of the Laird's return lest they inform the authorities. Their own folk, no doubt, were to be trusted; but even these would be bound to talk amongst themselves and the word could soon reach other ears. Little as Andrew might relish hiding furtively on his own property, he could not blink the realities of the situation. There was still a price of £1,000 for his head, dead or alive.
So the brothers had to talk walking round and round the comparatively small walled-garden and orchard of the dowery-house, on that crisp afternoon of early January. On the subject of Andrew's danger, Henry admitted that he was in two minds. His political enemies were still in power and undoubtedly would wish to apprehend him; but whether they would actually execute him now would depend on the dynastic situation and how much protection Andrew could expect from William of Orange.
"I have served William reasonably well. We may not see eye to eye on all matters, but I do not think he would smile on any who maltreated me, Henry."
"So I would have calculated. If he were King. But how likely is he to become King?"
"In England, I think, very likely. But here, is another matter."
"You believe James could remain King of Scots, with William King of England?"
"Could, yes. In law and theory. They are still two kingdoms with two parliaments. But in practice, who knows? All will depend on opinion in Scotland. Which not only I but William wishes me to ascertain."
"So? You have come home still in his service?"
"Not so. I am entirely my own man. But he asked me to discover, and inform him."
"So he will protect you?"
"He would probably wish to."
"You do not sound too sure of him, Dand."
"I am not. I admire him as a man and a soldier. He is, I think, honest and no tyrant. And a good Protestant. But whether he would make a good king for Scotland, I am not convinced."
"He could not be worse than James?"
"That at least is certain! But we need better than that."
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