Unicorn Rampant (12 page)

The Duke pointed out that there was a handsome pinnace moored to the timbers directly below, but James cried that it was to be approached only by a more deplorable ladder down which he would by no means descend. Bruce was at a loss, declaring that this was the only way down and that there were only a dozen or so rungs anyway; but Majesty would have none of it. He was not a Barbary ape, he asserted, to swing from branches and pendicles.

It appeared to be stalemate, with progress neither backwards nor forwards to be considered. John ventured a suggestion.

"If I was to take Your Highness on my back, pickapack . . . ?" "Eh? Eh?"

"If you clung to me, and I carried you down, all would be well, Sire. I am much used to ladders. At Methven
..."

James stared. It is probable that he would never for a moment have considered it; but he had come to look upon John as something like a saviour; moreover, no other solution offered itself. He bit trembling lip.

John turned, offering his sturdy back. The Duke urged James on, indeed assisted him up.

So, arms round John's neck, all but throttling him in fact, knees dug in at the waist with a horseman's grip—being better on a horse than on his feet no doubt helped—the sovereign of two kingdoms was brought to the ladder-head and lowered step by step, hat askew and babbling incoherent instructions. John was a fairly muscular young man and very fit, and did not feel the royal burden too sorely, although he could have done with less of the strangling. They reached the pinnace to paeans of thankfulness.

The others descended with no comparable difficulties and oarsmen soon had the boat heading shorewards. Bruce endeavoured to efface unfortunate impressions, and to distract the royal passenger from contemplating now death from drowning, by holding forth on the mutual advantages of coal and salt production, the coal being used to heat the great shallow pans of seawater which, evaporated, left the salt. The salt was used to preserve the fishermen's catch, which was then barrelled and exported to Muscovy and the Low Countries. The coal and salt were shipped in bulk also, of course. Moreover there were potteries using local fireclay and an iron foundry smelting local ironstone . . .

But James was not to be diverted from his contemplation of the dire dangers and potential perils he had just been in—and still was—and from which only Almighty God and Johnnie Stewart had rescued him. Sir George was much discountenanced.

Once safely ashore, the King would not hear of any further inspections, entertainments or refreshment. He was for Dunfermline, that was what, a decent godly place with no devilments and hazards. Alec Seton would conduct him there.

The Chancellor declared that he would rejoice to do so, even though somewhat earlier than anticipated. He was building a new palace there, in which His Majesty would be most comfortable, even though it was not yet completed. It was only another eight miles or so.

Sir George Bruce was left, dejected and with scant thanks, to send on the bulk of the entourage, still presumably roistering in the Abbey House, to follow their lord eastwards.

Dunfermline, quite a large and thriving town, the capital of Fothrif or West Fife, stood on rising ground well back from the Forth estuary, dominated by its great royal abbey, the first Romish one in Scotland, built by St Margaret, Malcolm Canmore's famous Queen. Here she was buried, along with her husband's reinterred remains and those of her sons, and successive Kings of Scots, down to and including Robert the Bruce. James expounded on this theme, as they drew near; but, when Chancellor Seton suggested a call to inspect the royal graves, the monarch made it quickly clear that he had had enough inspecting for one day and had been near enough to death's door without examining his predecessors' sepulchres. All he desired was some decent peace and quietude. Seton, Lord Fyvie, a discreet, sensitive and able man, a poet indeed and architect, knew his royal master well enough promptly to cancel the programme of welcome and display devised by the
town, and led them straight to
the palace.

Here James forgot his preoccupations sufficiently to exclaim over the great changes since he had been here last, in 1603. Malcolm Canmore's simple old stronghold had been replaced by a vastly finer and larger establishment, of graceful lines and excellent taste, designed by Seton himself. The situation was peculiar, in that, although it was still a royal palace, Fyvie was using his own money to rebuild it. He had been granted the abbey-lands of Dunfermline, very rich,
in commendam,
succeeding the Master of Gray, Mary's father, who had also acted Chancellor. A brother of the wealthy Lord Seton, he had already erected a splendid new castle at Fyvie in Aberdeenshire and had just finished another at Pinkie in Lothian. Here, at Dunfermline, the backward Prince Charles, now Prince of Wales since his brother Henry's death, had been put in Seton's care, as a child, and largely reared.

James exclaimed at all that was being done and what it all must be costing, remarking that being Chancellor of Scotland must be almost as effective a way of minting siller as was digging coals. He would have to see about this.

The magnificent interiors further impressed, but the King was glad enough to show them off to the English lords, with their proud Tudor mansions, as example of what the Scots could do in architectural excellence.

But, in the midst of all this admiration, James suddenly announced that he was going to his bed—wherever that might be in this supervacaneous house. His belly was upset —no doubt as a result of bad air in yon devilish pit and then tossing on the sea in the bit boat. Aye, and descending ladders. It had been a dire day and he had had sufficient of it. And tomorrow he was for Falkland and the hunting, nigh on twenty-five miles. All who had listened to James's nostalgic tales, in London, about Falkland's legendary and superlative sporting facilities were well aware that this was meant to be the real highlight and pinnacle of the monarch's return to his native land. It would be appalling, and all would suffer, if James was too unwell to hunt.

Alexander Seton was much concerned. He had arranged a notable banquet and entertainment, and the Dunfermline folk had even composed a special grace-before-meat which would be sung by the boys of the abbey choir. James suggested that he gave the feast to the choirboys and let them come and sing their bit grace below the window of his bedchamber. He would hear it fine from there.

So presently, whilst the rest of the company waited for their repast, all were treated to the clear young voices in glad refrain—Seton hastening to point out that it was not his own composition:

O Thou our God who does provide for all Thy servants' need And sends King James to be our guide, on him our minds to feed.

Our eyes to glad, our hearts to warm, our bellies full to fill, We thank Thee for his gracious form, who keeps us from all ill.

King James returns to his own land and all do bow before him. He shines his light on every hand, his ain folk do adore him.

Auld Scotland's Lion brave is he, in wisdom he is peerless, He glads our eyes his face to see, in all our cause most fearless.

"Lord save us," Ludovick Stewart murmured to John, "I scarce recognise our Cousin James! This ought to gladden
his
heart, too. Let us hope that it works suitably on his belly also, so that he is fully recovered by the morrow. For if he is sick and cannot go hunting, I fear that we will never get to Methven."

Ludovick drew rein where he always did when approaching Methven after an absence of any time, where the drove-road up Strathearn from Perth, having crossed the north flank of the waste of Tippermuir, rounded a hillock above the moss. Abruptly the wide and lovely mid-strath lay spread before them, and none of it fairer than the immediate foreground where the land dropped away gently to a green hollow, fertile after the brown moorland, embosoming a little loch. Behind this the ground rose again quite steeply to a tall, green ridge, from which soared dramatically the red-brown towers of Methven Castle. Serene and assured, it seemed to contemplate the rich and sylvan vale under the blue regard of the Highland mountains, a place to dream over.

"Why in God's good name do I continue to exist in that wretched court in London when I could and should be living here, with those I love?" he demanded.

John did not answer. He had heard that question asked too many times.

They rode on round the shore of Methven Loch and up the steep bank, by a zig-zagging track, with the cuckoos calling from the scattered hawthorn trees, and on to the terraced ridge on which the castle sat amongst its gardens and orchards. It was a lofty square building of four storeys and an attic, with crowstepped gables and a round tower at each of the four angles, all rising a storey higher and capped by graceful ogee-roofs of slate, the walls provided with shot-holes, but more mansion than fortalice. It had been there a long time, in some form and in Stewart hands, although much of its present appearance was Ludovick's own work.

They found Mary working in the orchard, in old clothes, hair windblown, but a picture of loveliness for all that.

She greeted them with surprise and delight, welcoming Ludovick to his true home and saying that she had not expected them so soon.

"We feared that ourselves," the Duke agreed. "Especially when James claimed to be sick, at Dunfermline. But he merely feigned it, I think, to avoid further engagements and undertakings, and was up with the dawn again yesterday morning. So we reached Falkland by noon, and he was a changed man, leading not led, off after the deer within the hour. Last night he was full of plans for driving the West Lomond and Bishop's Hills today. For that he by no means needed me—or even Johnnie! When I said that we required to visit Methven, he cared nothing. God bless the harts and hinds, I say! We left at sunrise—and here we are."

"Good, good. How long have you?"

"That depends on James. He did not say when he wanted me back. At Falkland he lives only for each day, caring for nothing else than the chase. But he knows where I am and will send for me, I have no doubt, when he decides to move on. It is less than thirty miles."

"Where does he go from Falkland?"

"St Andrews and Kinnaird. Then Dundee, even Aberdeen, before returning by Perth to Stirling and Edinburgh. He is due back at the Palace of Dalkeith, Morton's house, early in June, and will hold a parliament in Edinburgh in mid-month
..."

"But this is only the twentieth day of May. So if he leaves you here until he returns by Perth, as would be the obvious course, then we could have two whole weeks together!"

"One can never look for the obvious with Jamie Stewart!
But we can hope, my dear
..."
(

"There is so much to do and see,"John said. "I have been telling him."

"Just to be together," his mother amended.

Both were right, of course. For Mary and Ludovick it was enough to have each other's company, in the simple daily round and peace of home life. But for son and father it was otherwise, with a host of activities to essay, places to visit, improvements to inspect, projects to discuss and people to meet. Methven was a large and important estate and barony of over ten thousand acres, and, set on the verge of the Highlands, provided a great mixture of opportunities and problems—agricultural, stock-rearing, sporting and timber-producing; and of course of human employment and relationships. John had been running the property, with the help of an old steward, for years now, for he was Laird and Baron of Methven; it had all been put in his name from the first. And he was making an excellent job of it. But he did not fail to recognise that all really was the Duke's and that he was in duty bound to render account always to his father, to seek his guidance and naturally also to demonstrate his successes. So there was something of a tug-of-war for Ludovick's time and attention.

John had two main preoccupations at this time—the felling, sawing up and selling of timber, from Methven Wood in especial, but also from other parts; and the drainage of much of Methven Moss and part of Tippermuir, for agricultural purposes. The one helped to pay for the other. For drainage was a costly process, requiring much labour; and unfortunately the advantages which would accrue could be looked for only years hence. Meanwhile the profits from the timber were disappearing into endless miles of ditches, drains and culverts. But John had seen what could be done elsewhere, especially in Monteith and the upper valley of Forth, and was determined that Methven should hereafter blossom, and burgeon, with much prime grain-growing land, providing winter-feed for all their Highlands neighbours'—and their own—cattle. This in turn would mean that a vastly greater number of beasts could be kept, especially in breeding-stock, over the long winter when the hills produced no pasture, instead of having to be sent off in droves and sold in the South, or else killed off, as at present. So the Highland economy of Strathearn, utterly dependent on cattle, would flourish, as well as the milling trade in grain. But it did mean that, meantime, rather less money was available to forward for the Duke's expenses in London.

Ludovick, listening, and inspecting the far-flung drainage-works and lines of busy diggers, declared that
he
was not complaining. After all, he did have other sources of revenue!