He crossed the cobbled yard to the range of stabling and peered in at an open doorway. He had a mental picture of that other foaling he had attended only months before, at Theobalds Park. This rime only two people crouched there, a man and a woman. John's bulk in the doorway blocked out some of the light, and both attendant figures looked up. At first there was no further reaction, then, as the newcomer stepped inside and the daylight illumined his features for them, he heard a gasp, and Janet rose to her feet and came, almost running. Then she halted, staring, biting her lip.
"Janet!" he exclaimed, thickly. He too halted. So they stood, wordless.
Recovering herself, she said a word to the stableman and then came to him, restrainedly now. "A good day to you, Sir John," she said. "It is good to see you."
As he bowed, she took his arm lightly and moved out into the yard.
"Janet!" he said again, in that strangled voice.
"Not here, not now," she murmured, and led him, not to the house but across the cobbles to a side-door in the courtyard walling which gave access to the orchard. Side by side, tense, they walked under the apple trees to still another door, and through into the outer orchard. Here, away from all possible observation, she removed her hand and turned to face him.
He held out his arms to her, features working, but she shook her head, right-lipped.
"I did not know. That you were here," she said. "When?" "Two days. I could not. . . wait longer!" "Your wife? Is she with you?"
He swallowed. "No. God help me—no! I. . . oh, Janet! Janet!"
He saw her lip trembling now, but she controlled herself. "Should . . . you have come?"
"I had to. I had. to see you, I tell you. Oh, lass—I had to! I only learned . . . two nights ago ... of, of your state. His death."
She looked away.
"Too late. Too late, by only weeks! A month or two. I mean ..." He held out an open hand to her. "If only ..."
"If only, yes. If only you . . . had not married."
"I had to, Janet. The King . . . Although, I swear, had I but known, I would have fled the King's service, come here for you, whatever he said. And whatever she said!"
"She, yes. What of her, John? This other?"
"Can you ever forgive me, lass? Although I will never forgive myself. I, I lay with her. Margaret Hamilton, one of the Queen's ladies. She was . . . friendly. We had to work together, in the Queen's affairs. Then the King's also. I suppose that I needed a woman. I had no thought of marriage. She . . . offered herself. Very freely. I went to her. Then she became with child. The King owed her a place at court, his court. He could not employ a woman with a fatherless bairn. He declared that we must marry. I did not want to, but. . . what could I do? You, the only one I ever wanted to wed, were married. You see . . . ?"
"I see it, yes. A child! And this, your wife? To bear your child? What are your feelings for her?"
"At this moment, I hate her! Though that is unfair, I know. But I have never loved her, never loved anyone but you, Janet. You must believe that."
"I did believe it. And then . . . and then ..." She pointed
to a lichen-grown bench under the trees. "Let us sit, John. And try to think, and talk, more, more wisely. Although I never felt less wise!"
"Nor I. But. . . can you forgive me?"
"For what? Lying with another woman? I had no right to you, in that. I, after all, had lain with another man, my husband. Marrying her? If she was with child by you, I would I suppose, have expected it of you. So what is there to forgive? You could not know that I was to be a . . . widow."
"No. But I do not forgive myself, nevertheless. To have thrown away bliss, all joy, for a loveless marriage! To have squandered all our happiness, so . . ."
"Not all, John—not all. For you have restored to me some happiness this day, which I thought that I had lost for ever. This, that you still love me, and me only. It is wrong of me, I know. But always the worst hurt was that you had loved another. Enough to wed her. I did not know about the child. Now, I know that this was not true. That you have not stopped loving me. This may be wicked, to be sure. A man should love his wife, and another woman, myself, should not love him. But. . ."
She got no further. His arms went round her and pulled her to him, on that bench, his lips seeking hers, eagerly, hungrily. And for a moment or two she responded, almost as eager. Then she moved her head away, drew back in his embrace and put a finger up to cover those lips of his.
"No, John—no!" she panted. "This, this will not do. Any more than it did before. Whatever our feelings, my dear, we are still . . . not for each other. You are a married man, soon I suppose to be a father. We cannot shut our eyes to it, whatever we would wish. You have married a woman—as I married David. Without love, but still wed in the sight of God and man. I must not cheat this Margaret, nor must you. Is it not so?"
That, sounding almost like a plea, was hard indeed to agree with, a cry for help rather than any strong assertion. He, who needed all the help that he could get, groaned aloud. "What in God's name, then, are we to do?"
"I do not know. Save—not this! We must be strong,
John—honest. We each deserve it, of the other, do we not? And, after all, we are no worse off than before, are we? Then, I was wed to another and you could not have me. Now, you are wed to another and I cannot have you! If we could bear it before, we can bear it now."
Unconvinced, he shook his head, an arm still around her. That she allowed, at least.
"Must I still keep away from you?" he demanded. "As I have had to do, all this time?"
"It would be wise, I suppose."
"Wise! Wisdom I know little of, clearly! I must see you, lass, when I can. I will run mad otherwise, I think . . ."
"It will not make it easier for you, John—for either of us. But, I too ..."
"Where are you to be? Can you remain here, at Dalpatrick? Or must you go back to your parents at Innerpeffray?"
"I cannot tell. As to Dalpatrick. As you know, there is the custom that a childless widow is not put forth from her husband's property for at least nine months after his death, lest she is with child, and a son may be born to heir it. No child will be born to me. But I should be able to remain here until autumn, at least. David had no true heir nearer than his uncle, Drummond of Machany, who has his own greater property. He may turn me out—but I shall have my widow's portion, my jointure. I shall fare well enough."
"If you went back to your father's house, I would never be able to see you."
"That I shall not do, John—whether we see each other or no. I am my own woman now, in that, at least."
"Praise be for that!" He paused, and belatedly asked after her past troubles. "Your Davie . . . ? Was it very grievous? Latterly?"
"It was bad, yes. To see him waste away. To be able to do little for him. Once he knew that he was crippled for always, I think that he did not want to live. He was a man who required to be up and doing always, work and movement. He could not abide being still. He needed the company of others. He was a good man in most things, John. And I was a sore disappointment to him, I fear. I tried not to be. But..."
He nodded. "We all were losers in that folly. Why had it to be this way? Why could it not have been as it should? For his sake, as well as ours?"
"I have asked myself that, a thousand times. Profitlessly. No use in such thoughts, John. Tell me of your doings. In London. And at Dumbarton ..."
He remained with her most of that day, although they recognised that this was almost certainly unwise, and that the doings of such a kenspeckle character as Sir John Stewart of Methven, Governor of Dumbarton and Gentleman to the King, would not go undiscussed in every detail in Strathearn, however private their association seemed to be. But each was all too well aware, also, that it might well be long before they saw one another again, especially alone; and they just put off the parting. When finally he left her, it was as though they were being bodily severed however restrained their physical contacts.
At
Methven that night, when John appeared for his meal, his mother spoke of this and that, receiving scant response until, presently, she asked outright.
"Well, John—did you see her? And are you more content? Or less?"
"I shall never be content," he said flatly. "But—I am glad that I went to her."
"She received you kindly?"
"Yes. Or . . . sufficiently kindly. I do not wish to talk ofit."
"No. But others may!" "We were discreet."
"As well. For you do not lack for enemies, John, who would use aught against you. In especial use Janet Drummond, if they could."
"Do you think that we do not know that?"
"I speak only for your own good, and hers. What do you intend?"
"What can we intend? What can we do? We shall see each other, on occasion. At arm's length, Lord help us! But. . . we know that we love each other, despite all. I suppose that that must serve."
"I doubt if it will." But she eyed him understandingly.
"Discretion is apt to wear thin, where love is concerned. / should know! Your father and I scarcely maintained our discretion! So who am I to speak? But—are you prepared to hurt, and be hurt, further? You will, John, if you continue to see each other." "You did."
"Janet Drummond is not Mary Gray. Nor you the Duke of Lennox!"
"At least I would not marry again, for the third time. Knowing that you were free!"
She shook her head, but not in anger. "As I say, you are not the Duke. With a duke's responsibilities. I blame Ludovick nothing for this new marriage. He needs an heir—which I cannot give him now, even if he wed me. And the King requires it. What I have with your father no other woman can ever share. But—is Janet Drummond prepared to be in that position? Or you to put her there?"
He looked at her but did not answer.
"Think well then, Johnnie. I shall say no more. But think well. . ."
Two days later he was on his way south again.
At Dumbarton he picked up the money and took two of the garrison to act as armed escorts for the pannier-garrons bearing the coinage, until he should meet up with Will Alexander and his groom at Berwick. No one was to know how valuable was the load they carried.
He went by Glasgow and there interviewed a number of possible candidates for the New Scotland project. He obtained a rather more positive reaction than he had anticipated, accounted for no doubt by the fact that a fair proportion of the investors in James's previous and similar Ulster plantation scheme had emanated from this area, and the idea was familiar. Also Glasgow had .become very much a trading city since the Reformation, with its eyes on far places. New Scotland might seem not quite so far away, here on the Clyde, as it did elsewhere. And titles could appeal to the intense rivalry of merchants.
He left with fully a dozen probables and as many again showing some interest.
He went on westwards to Renfrew, Paisley and Greenock, where he did less well. But he felt that he had gained sufficient evidence for the King, and Will, to indicate that the project was probably viable; and he did not think that duty or friendship demanded much more of him. He still was less than enthusiastic. So he did not try very hard at Ayr and the Kennedy country of Carrick further south.
Thereafter, crossing the roof of Lowland Scotland by the Nithsdale and Lowther Hills to the headwaters of Tweed, wild country this, he followed that noble river down its twisting and very lovely hundred miles to its mouth at Berwick. He was two days early for the rendezvous.
Will arrived next day, and John could send his two escorts back to Dumbarton. Will was not exactly depressed, for that was not his nature, but was less enamoured of his project than he had been. He had found precious little eagerness to become involved, in Edinburgh or up the east coast areas. In .fact, John's comparative success at Glasgow represented the highlight of the trip, it seemed, ironically. Between them they had raised only about a score of probable investors, and not much more than that of possibles. Whether James would consider that sufficiently encouraging to go ahead with the scheme remained to be seen. However, on his journeyings, Will had composed most of a new poem—which was perhaps more important? It was on the subject of David and Jonathan, which, considering their manly love for one another, he reckoned might appeal to their odd monarch. What did John think?
John, who was no poetaster, murmured something suitable. For his part, Will thought that John's idea, of handing the Dumbarton collections directly to the King, was an excellent one. What Mar, Erskine and the Scots Privy Council would think, however, was another matter.
In due course they arrived at Theobalds Park, to discover that James had left for Whitehall only the day previously. So they rode on to London. At Whitehall they learned that the King was being entertained to a banquet in the city by the new Lord Mayor of London—who turned out to be none other than William Cockayne of the Merchant Venturers, formerly alderman and now newly knighted for the occasion. John did not imagine that paper, its manufacture and pricing, would be discussed at the mayoral table, but with James one never knew.
It was late, in consequence, before the monarch returned to Whitehall, but in excellent spirits. Ludovick, less joyful, came temporarily to his own quarters for money, and found John and Will waiting there. Glad to see them and asking news of Mary Gray, the Duke informed that James, tonight, was in an elevated mood, and was for once shunning his bed and determined to make a night of it, drinking. He was welcome to that but unfortunately he was also in a gaming mood. For the Duke himself playing cards and drinking was a fatal conjunction and he was commanded to take part. Those who played with the King needed a clear head. James liked to win; but he must not be allowed to win too handsomely or his victims could be ruined—and too much liquor could affect Ludovick's judgment in this matter, as he had learned from long experience. In the circumstances, he rather hailed the arrival of his son and Alexander. They should come with him to the royal chamber. They might possibly divert James's mind from the cards and wine, to some extent.
Somewhat doubtfully they went with the Duke.
They found the King settled before a roaring log-fire, although it was a warm May night, in the ante-room of his bedchamber, with two others, Francis Bacon, now Lord Verulam, and James Hay, Earl of Carlisle, one of the King's original Scots cronies. There was no sign of Steenie. Bottles and flagons were ranged conveniently on a table beside that on which cards and coins were stacked.
At sight of the two younger men, James, in the midst of a vehement exposition on something or other, stopped and looked distinctly displeased. Spluttering wetly, he pointed at the new arrivals and flapped a dismissive hand. Lennox, however, was probably the only man in two kingdoms who might ignore such royal gesture.
"These two have arrived from Scotland, James," he said cheerfully. "With good tidings which I think you will wish to hear."
"Maybe so. But the morn will dae fine, Vicky Stewart. I'll see them the morn."
"As you will, Sire. But siller and poetry make an unusual combination. I guessed that you would wish to hear of it forthwith."
"Eh? Eh? Siller and poetry, did you say? What's this, what's this? It was yon Acadia I sent them to speir aboot. Whatlike havers is this?"
Ludovick waved an encouraging hand at his two companions.
John and Will exchanged uncertain glances. It was the latter who found words first.
"We attended to the New Scotland project, Sire. And found some support. But, on my long travels, I composed a new poem, a heroic work, which I have entitled 'David and Jonathan', or perhaps just 'Jonathan'. And, and dedicated it, in humble service, to Your Majesty." That was the first John had heard of dedication.
"Hech, hech—is that a fact? Maist meritorious—if it has the quality, mind. Yon other bit you did, about 'Monarchick Tragedies' was it, had flaws, mind, flaws."
"Yes, Sire. But I took to heart Your Majesty's wise criticisms and advice and have sought to better my muse accordingly."
"Uh-huh. Creditable. Weel—let's hear it, man.
"
"Sire—it is a lengthy piece. Covering many pages. I have not brought it on my person. It is with my gear, in my lord Duke's lodging..."
James's face fell, even though those of his companions did not. He raised a minatory finger. "You shouldna raise false hopes, man. We are displeased." He turned on Ludovick. "You said poetry and siller, Vicky? Is this likewise no' to be forthcoming?"
"My son John will tell you, James."
John cleared his throat. He wondered at the wisdom of saying what he had to say in front of Verulam and Carlisle. But he could hardly voice his doubts.
"We spoke before of the revenues and taxes payable to the castle of Dumbarton, Sire, of which I have the honour to be Your Majesty's Keeper," he said. "I learned that none of the moneys so collected came to Your Majesty's person. This seemed to me . . . unsuitable, when all is collected in your royal name. So, on this occasion, instead of sending it to the Treasury in Scotland, as hitherto, I thought to bring some of it south with me, to hand over to Your Highness."
James stared, slack lips forming a wet circle. "You did that, Johnnie Stewart! How much?"
"Five hundred pounds, Sire. On this occasion."
"Guidsakes—£500!" Majesty looked around him, almost at a loss—which was unusual, to say the least. He took off his high hat, which he was wearing with his bed-robe over partial undress, looked inside it, and put it on again. "Man, Johnnie—a' that?"
"Yes, Sire. Did I do wrongly?"
"Och, well—no, no. Leastways ..." He scratched at his straggly beard. "Five hundred pounds sterling in siller! No notes o' hand? I could use £500, right enough. But—Johnnie Mar's no' going to like this!"
"Johnnie Mar, I think, has been doing very well for long, James," Ludovick observed.
"Ooh, aye. But he's the Treasurer, mind. Wi' much to see to. And an auld friend."
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