So John had to go on the assumption that he would be gone from Methven for some time and to make the necessary arrangements. Especially for the reclamation work on Methven Moss to continue, with the tree-felling to pay for it, as well as sundry other essential matters. Still more urgent, perhaps, was the need to see Janet Drummond.
He put considerable thought into how this last was to be achieved, without upset, since he could hardly just present himself at Innerpeffray Castle again and expect to be well received—even though Lord Madderty was attending the parliament in Edinburgh; unfortunately his lady was not. Eventually he hit on the idea of seeking the good offices of a mutual friend, a young woman with whom he had done some juvenile sweethearting, Alison Moncrieff by name, now safely married to the old Lady Tippermuir's grandson and mother of a bouncing boy. He would request her to call at Innerpeffray and ask Janet to take her to see the chapel, where long generations bf Drummonds were buried, and where, since the Reformation, services were no longer held, and it was kept locked; like most other denizens of Strathearn, Alison had some Drummond blood in her veins. John would be waiting for them there.
When he called at Tippermuir House, Alison, incurably romantic, was only too happy to oblige the King's new knight, for old rimes' sake. She would go the very next day.
So, the following afternoon, John hid his horse in the surrounding woodland and stationed himself amongst the Drummond gravestones to wait. There was a distinct possibility, of course, that his plan might fail. Janet might not agree to come. After their last meeting and his abrupt departure, she might feel disinclined. She might be away from home or otherwise engaged.
However, in due course, the two young women came walking along the riverbank, and John's heart bounded. Their greeting, nevertheless, probably disappointed the romantic Alison, for Janet was restrained and John was stiff, despite feeling as he did. After a distinctly formal exchange of courtesies, a disconcerting silence developed.
Alison plunged in volubly. If Janet would give her the key to the chapel she would go look. No need to accompany her—indeed she would rather be alone. With the past, you know, the dead . . .
They were left most evidently alone.
They both started to speak at the same moment, and both stopped.
Almost roughly John took the young woman's arm to lead her further away from the chapel. She did not hold back, but she gently disengaged.
. "It was good of you to come, Janet," he jerked. "After . . . after my leaving you so, last time."
"Alison was very pressing," she answered.
"Yes—I asked her to be. She is kind. I had to see you. I am going away."
"Oh!" she faltered in her step, just a little.
"Yes. The King commands that I go south with him. With my father. To London. I do not want to go, to tell truth, but have no choice. It is a royal command."
"I see. Will you be gone long?"
"That is the difficulty of it. I do not know for how long. It seems that I cannot leave the court without the King's permission. And James can be exacting, contrary. So nothing is certain."
"That must be . . . unsettling for you."
"Yes. It is."
They had halted at the graveyard wall. Abruptly John lost patience with this polite exchange.
"Look you, Janet," he cried, "this is damnable! To be leaving you like this. At such time. Leaving all at odds between us."
"As well, perhaps," she said, low-voiced.
"No! It is not. To be parted, with nothing resolved."
"More resolved than you think, John, I fear! My mother and father..."
"Your mother and father do not approve of me, no. I am not good enough for their daughter. A bastard—aye, and son of a bastard mother! But hear you this. The King has appointed me Captain and Hereditary Keeper of Dumbarton Castle, with its duties and revenues. So, so . . .!"
"So you are a great man! All that!" She seemed less than elated.
"But—do you not see? Could this not change all? The knighthood and now this. It gives me standing. A namely position. That is why it was done, to give me a position at court. But it will serve as well nearer home, some position in Scotland. One of the royal officers. And the revenues. I have now the wherewithal to marry. I would not be too humble to wed even Lord Madderty's daughter!"
She shook her head, unhappily. "No—do not think it is that. I am glad for you, John—believe me. But I fear it cannot be . . ."
"Why not? Does this not change all? Your father cannot . . ."He paused. "Or is it you? You who will not have it?"
"No, no—not that. Or, leastways ..."
"See you—it would be good for more than just our, our joy. If I could tell King James that I must come home here to be married, that all was arranged, he would surely never hold me in London. We could decide on a day, and so I could get away. If you do not wish to dwell in my mother's house of Methven, we could live at Dumbarton Castle..."
"John—hear me. Listen to me. You do not understand. I am to be married—but not to you! My father has hastened to arrange it. I, I blame myself. After that last day, I told them that I.. . that I was fond of you. I protested at how my father and mother had dealt with you. They were angry, berating me. Hard words were spoken. And thereafter my father went off and arranged a marriage between me and David Drummond, my cousin. Or half-cousin."
John drew a long quivering breath.
She looked at him quickly, and then away. "Davie is the son of my father's cousin, Drummond of Dalpatrick. You know him. His lands adjoin ours. My parents look on it as an excellent match!"
John still could not trust himself to words.
She touched his arm. "I am sorry, John—sorry! This is no wish of mine, I promise you. I like Davie well enough, but..."
"Davie Drummond!" he got out, through clenched teeth. "That, that. . ."He swallowed the rest. Janet was silent, now, unhappy.
For a while there seemed to be nothing to say. Then, level-voiced, John spoke.
"You are prepared to abide by your father's wishes in this? To be, to be exchanged for property, like some dumb beast!"
"That is unfair!" she declared, but not hotly. "I can do no other. You know it. I am not yet of age. My marriage is in my father's hands, his right. He may give me to whom he will. Do you think that I have not pleaded with him, besought him?"
"Yes. I am sorry. When is it to be—the wedding?"
"Soon. He says the sooner the better."
"So there is an end to it? Nothing to be done? We accept all, as of the will of God!"
"Can you think of anything that can be done?"
"Aye. We could go off together. Secretly. Run off. Leave all, to be together."
"You, you would do that, John? For me? Abandon Methven? Offend the King? Throw aside your position at court? Lose this of Dumbarton Castle? For Janet Drummond?"
"Yes," he said shortly.
"Then I thank you. With all my heart. But—Janet
Drummond would not I would never do that to you, John—never! You must know in your heart that I would not, could not?"
"I know nothing such ..."
"Surely you must. No honest woman could."
"Do you refuse for my sake? Or for your own?"
She hesitated. "For both. This is not the way for love, John—true love. To ruin a man's life. Possibly to ruin mine also. For could love survive that? The loss, the hurt, the dashing of hopes . . . ?"
"You say love, Janet? True love. Do you mean that? Do you indeed love me, then?"
She swallowed and bit her lip. "Yes," she got out at length, strangled-voiced.
"Dear God!" He swung on her, to grasp her to him. "Oh, Janet, Janet!" Hungrily he kissed her, her hair, her brow.
She did not struggle nor push him away. But she kept her head down, denying him her lips. He fek her trembling in his arms.
At length, as on that other day, she gently disengaged. "This serves nothing, John—will only make it worse. I think that we should go find Alison. We but h
urt ourselves."
"If you truly love me, how can you do this, Janet? Send me away and wed another?" He sought to hold her back.
"I can because I must. One of us has to be strong. Do you not see? It is fated this way. Whatever we feel, we were not meant for each other. I am my father's daughter, in his hands. And you are . . . Sir John Stewart of Methven!" She moved on.
Shaking his head helplessly, he followed on.
Alison was waiting patiently just inside the chapel doorway. She looked from one to the other eagerly, almost anxiously. Her face fell at their expressions. She did not speak.
"I think that we should go home now, Alison," Janet said evenly. "Sir John and I have had our talk. If you are ready?"
John took his leave of them, where he had met them, almost as stiff and formal as had been his greeting. Long he stared after them as the two girls walked off along the river-bank. Alison looked back once, but Janet did not.
He went to mount and ride back to Methven, features set.
PART TWO
7
Despite his father's warnings, John Stewart was disappointed with his first impressions of London. Used to Scottish cities and towns, which tended all to be set in or around dramatic natural features, great defensive rocks, hill-passes, river-crossings and the like, the low and level lands of southern England offered little challenge to the eye. Used by now to the more humdrum appearance of English towns, having been all too long, as it seemed to him, on the way south from Carlisle through the Midlands, nevertheless, without consciously thinking about it, London, he had assumed, would be different, one of the great cities of the world. Yet, as the royal train made its approach, there was little to arrest the attention save far-flung building, admittedly punctuated by church-spires and towers, and smoke, a vast pall of smoke, for it was now autumn and fires were necessary; and, as they drew nearer, smells. Never had John smelled such comprehensive and enduring stink. Edinburgh could smell sufficiently badly, admittedly; but there, like elsewhere in Scotland, the wind always blew, on account of hills and sea, and tended to disperse the odours of humanity in the mass, with its livestock. Here there was little or no wind apparently and the stench was appalling. The river, when they reached it, the renowned Thames, seemed to be if not the main source of smells, then the principal repository and amplifier thereof, receptacle for all the filth, refuse, carcases and scourings of the vast city. Gagging, John rode on, in his fairly humble position in the lengthy cavalcade—even so, much smaller than that which had arrived in Scotland, for many of the English notables had dropped off on their progress down through England.
They wound their slow way through seemingly endless narrow streets, mere lanes most of them, by the West Bourne from Dudden Hill and past Campden Hill to Bridge Creek and Chelsey, and so along the riverside to Whitehall. These streets were even more congested than Edinburgh's, more crushed and crowded-seeming, largely because the houses were built of wood, not stone, and above the ground floor at street level each storey was projected somewhat on, as it were, brackets, so that by the time they reached the top, these galleries were all but touching those on the other side of the street, cutting out daylight and putting all below into a sort of twilight—also enclosing the stinks.
The royal guard cleared the way for them as best they could through all this—at least, for the King at the head of the column, the narrowness of all lengthening the procession to a mile at least, with John perhaps halfway down. No crowds cheered them on their way—there was no room for that, even if the Londoners were so inclined—although folk hung out of windows, some screeched, and urchins managed to run alongside, often amongst the horses' legs, dogs barked and church-bells rang as welcome.
At length they turned in from the Thames to the palace, through a vast tilting-yard flanking splendid gardens out of which rose no fewer than thirty-four stone columns, each topped by a heraldic beast. Whitehall looked almost like a town of itself, huge, sprawling, with liveried guards and attendants everywhere, musicians playing, courtiers milling around and confusion reigning. Sundry great lords were already greeting the monarch as John rode up, and he heard them acquainting James with what presumably was the latest news—Queen Anne was unwell again at her own palace of Somerset House; Charles, Prince of Wales, was at Theobalds Park, or Tibbalds as the King called it; the Earl of Pembroke had suffered a fall from his horse and damaged his shoulder; the Attorney-General, Sir Francis Bacon, had produced a new addition to his essay on the Advancement of Learning, dedicated to His Majesty—but was at the same time condemning the system of monopolies. And so on. . James seemed interested in little of this, although he frowned darkly at the monopolies item. As for his wife's health, he declared that it would just be the gout, and hadn't he himself been suffering from the same disorder all the way from Carlisle, and that compounded by the arthritis, forby? What he was concerned with was whether that limmer Walter Ralegh was returned yet with his treasure from yon Orinoco place? That was fell important. The information that there was no word of Ralegh yet sent James stamping into his palace, muttering.
John was fortunate in being able to obtain a room in his father's quarters in Whitehall, for despite its size the palace was apparently full to overflowing, and the King was not the man to demean himself by finding accommodation for hangers-on. Except for the Villiers family, that is. An entire clan of them seemed to have taken up residence, mother, brothers, sisters, uncles, aunts and cousins, to the undisguised disgust of most of the court, especially of the Howard faction, who were also there in strength and sounding so greatly more important, the most illustrious house in England even if somewhat waning in influence.
John quickly learned that the Palace of Whitehall was in fact something of a battleground and that the wise newcomer would be well-advised not to get involved if he could help it. The main factions were the Howards and the new Villiers and their supporters; but there were others also, at differing levels, all seeking to attain power and prestige by influencing the King. At first John was looked upon by almost all with grave suspicion, as yet another personable young man to whom James had presumably taken a fancy. But the fact that he was the Duke of Lennox's bastard and therefore in some sort of blood relationship to the monarch, helped, especially as Ludovick was assiduous in letting it be known that James was not interested intimately in his new courtier.
In fact James did not appear to be interested in the newcomer in any other way either, as the days passed. If the King was aware of his presence in the palace he did not show it. John asked himself, and his father, why he was here at all, what was the point in bringing him all this way just to ignore him? The Duke said to be patient, James would call for him in due course—whereupon John perversely wondered whether he would not prefer just to be forgotten and rejected so that he could go home to Methven unhindered. He was, of course, in a distinctly disillusioned frame of mind these days. Janet Drummond, although unreachable and so very far away, was seldom long out of his mind.
The fact was that the King, as well as suffering from his gout and arthritis, had returned to two pressing and immediate concerns. One was a quarrel with his Privy Council over money, or at least the means of raising it—for parliament still continued to keep the royal purse-strings tight; and this of Bacon's campaign against monopolies was very relevant. The other was the marriage of Steenie's brother John Villiers, which James had promised to stage, if that was the word, and for which the most ambitious plans were well ahead—and which was going to cost a lot of money, nothing apparently being too good for Steenie and his family. These preoccupations helped to explain James's disappointment that Ralegh had not yet returned from Spanish America with the ships' loads of gold and treasure which he had promised to bring the monarch, in exchange for his freedom from the Tower of London and sentence of death. The wedding had been fixed for 29 September, at Hampton Court Palace—part-reason for some of the haste of the return journey from Scotland—and all the court was commanded to attend. John could not unders
tand why the King should be so concerned about this marriage of a young man whom he himself termed a witless loon, to a daughter of a man whom he had always disliked, Sir Edward Coke, formerly Lord Chief Justice. His father explained. Apart from the fact that James doted on Steenie, the bridegroom's brother, politics and rule entered into this. The King was anxious to limit and indeed reduce the enormous power and influence of the Howard family and their allies, who between them controlled far too many of the high places of state, with no fewer than five earldoms and the suppressed dukedom of Norfolk. The last favourite, Carr, Earl of Somerset, was their nominee, married to one of them, and he was now in the Tower, after scandals a many. James was now seeking to raise up a new dynasty, dependent upon himself—as the Howards were not—to counter their influence and wealth. But shrewdly he did not want this to replace the Howards in entrenched power, so he was using the comparatively humble, little-known and not notably clever Villiers tribe, whom he could manipulate and use, and when necessary put down again, without difficulty. He had learned the lessons of divide-and-rule in a hard school, in Scotland. This wedding was a step along that road.
Just how important a step James considered it to be was demonstrated the day before the ceremony, when the monarch sent for Ludovick Stewart and commanded him to repair to Somerset House and escort Queen Anne to Hampton Court. He added that Annie likely would be stickit and awkward, for she did not want to go, being wickedly incommodious towards Steenie. But she was to be fetched, willshe, nillshe—and Vicky was the only one to whom he could entrust the task. She must attend.
So to Somerset House the Duke went, that same day, and John with him. Anne of Denmark had had her own palace and small court for years now, in general distinctly out-of-sympathy with her husband and his ways—as perhaps who will blame her? She went her own way, was not always the soul of discretion and was wildly extravagant; but she was the Queen and, almost more important, the King of Denmark's sister—and had to be humoured to some extent. But every now and again James put his foot down, as on this occasion.
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