Lady Of The Glen Part 30

That, she knew. "Then I may go home?"

"For now," he agreed. "I must go first to London, then to the king in Flanders. But you need not despair; you will be a countess yet."

Cat laughed. "Do you think it will be so simple a thing to bring him back? He is your son; he may have grown a spine at last."

" 'Tis possible," he acceded. "And it maybe that John becomes earl in his brother's place. That would not displease me."

She had known that. Everyone knew that, even Duncan. Especially Duncan.

"But you would still be a countess," Breadalbane said.

It made no sense. "John is wed already."

The humor, now, was more marked. "But I am not dead yet."

"No, but-" And then she knew. She understood at once. "I will not!"

For the first time in her life she saw the earl smile. "I am desolate," he said dryly, "to know I am held in such low repute. You must be the only la.s.s in all of Scotland who would spurn my wealth."

"You," she said in shock and equal parts horror. It was all she could manage.

"I've buried three wives," he said. "I wouldna mind another."

"To bury?"

Indeed, the ice of his eyes had thawed. "Wasted on Duncan . . . but a worthy match for me, aye?-and one your father would welcome."

What did one say to a man so powerful, the man who ruled the Highlands? One who understood so well the working of a mind, and certainly her father's.

"It would be worth it," Breadalbane said, "to see MacDonald's face."

Illumination. "That is why," she blurted.

He took the cup of whisky extended by his gillie. "Among other things."

John Hill set down the quill and capped the inkhorn. His hand shook as he did so; his health yet again deteriorated. He took off the spectacles, set them aside, and rubbed at hollowed sockets to ease the tension away. So much responsibility- The knock at the door was diffident, as if the aide suspected the governor might be asleep. But Hill had not blown out a lamp before midnight for too many evenings, and raised his voice in permission to enter.

The aide came into the light, features severe. "That Scot," he said. "I've told him to wait until morning, sir. He has the effrontery to decline."

'That Scot' could apply to anyone. "Which Scot?" Hill asked mildly.

"The boy. The Cameron boy. He says he bears a message, sir. Shall I tell him again to wait?"

Hill tensed. "Have him in at once."

"Sir." The aide saluted crisply and shut the door. A moment later he returned, gesturing the "Cameron boy" to present himself to the governor.

It was as Hill suspected: Ewan Cameron's lad, bonnet doffed and rusty hair mussed. His jaw, as before, was stubbled. Hill rose. "Come in." He gestured for the aide to leave them alone.

The boy was hollow-cheeked and gaunt. Either he grew too fast for the food he ate, or there was not enough. "I am come with a message," he said huskily. "The laird has said you're a fair man withal, despite your Sa.s.senach ways."

It was an admission Hill found gratifying as well as surprising. "I believe we are all the same in the Lord's eyes," he said. "Sa.s.senach and Highlander; G.o.d makes no judgment of names or birth."

"You've guns on the walls," the boy said bluntly. "And boats off the Isles."

"And soldiers in the heather, and a patrol boat on Loch Linnhe," Hill elaborated. He put out a hand to steady himself against his writing desk.

The boy saw it. "I'll sit," he said, as if understanding that Hill offered unprecedented respect by not seating himself in his presence. "This bench will do, aye?" And hooked it over from the wall with a bare foot, though he did not sit at once.

The governor seated himself. This was nothing like the meeting they had shared but three weeks before. "How may I help you?"

"I've a message from Lochiel, though not of his making." The young man reached into his scrip and pulled forth a crumpled paper. " 'Twas sent to him, aye?-from Charles Edwards. Dundee's chaplain."

Viscount Dundee was dead two years, killed at Killiecrankie even as victory was a.s.sured. That his chaplain saw fit now to write Lochiel was indeed news, and possibly distressing in view of the fact Lochiel sent word of it to William's governor.

Hill accepted the letter as the Highlander sat down upon the bench. He did not read it immediately. "Do you know what it concerns?"

The grin was quick and fleeting, but wholly disarming. "I'm the laird's son, aye?-he does tell me what he's about."

Lochiel's son. There was more to the message, then, than simple courtesy. "Will you tell me?" Hill invited. It was a mark of confidence to trust the Cameron's word, rather than reading in his presence.

It satisfied. Ewan Cameron's boy smiled again, but it faded away too quickly into an unwonted severity at odds with his features. "Edwards says the promises made at Achallader mean naught. That Breadalbane intends to ruin the clans, and the lies of indemnity are part of it."

Hill drew in a shallow breath; it hurt too much to breathe deeply. "It is not indemnity," he said. "It is a truce only, an agreement lasting until October." Two months left. Only two months.

The boy agreed. "I ken that. 'Tis part of the plan, aye?"

"Then Lochiel is certain the earl plots deceit?"

"Breadalbane serves himself, no' the Highlands. The letter says the Pope has given King James silver; we would do better, my father says, to trust the word of Dundee's man than the word of Breadalbane."

It struck Hill as ironic that the Highlanders would disparage Catholics while accepting that their Stuart king was one, as well as Papist coin. But they were nothing if not realistic. It was, after all, an identical att.i.tude that had shaped Breadalbane.

Hill looked at the crumpled letter in his hands. Idly he smoothed it, grooming the creases away. "Why does he send word to me?"

"Because you have guns on the walls and boats off the Isles," came the prompt and obvious answer. "And soldiers in the heather, and a patrol boat on Loch Linnhe."

He smiled at the boy; bald honesty. This lad and his father were not of Breadalbane's house. "Tell Lochiel I am grateful."

The laird's son rose. "He said you're a fair man, aye?-and deserving to ken the truth of what is said of Achallader." He nodded at the letter. "He's sent it to all, ye ken. Edwards. To all the chiefs and lairds."

Stunned, Hill pushed to his feet. "This has been sent? To everyone?"

Lochiel's son nodded, perplexed by the reaction.

Hill's breath ran fast. "May G.o.d in Heaven have mercy on us all . . ." His lips were dry; he had not drunk usquabae. "Tell your father-tell him I am grateful. And tell him also that if he has word with others, it might behoove the clans to put no trust in this letter."

Deep-set eyes narrowed. "He was Dundee's man. His chaplain."

It was warning, and Hill accepted it as such. "I understand," he said. "But if there is to be a truce, no matter the duration, there must first be trust. Whatever you think of the earl, he must be given a chance."

He had lost the boy's respect. That was blatantly clear in the arrogant posture.

"Wait-" Hill took a step toward the young Cameron; he did not know why it was so important the boy understand, but it was. "You must see it . . . you must understand-"

"I've brought it," the boy said, and turned to the door. "You must do as ye will."

Indictment in the words. Hill tried once more. "I have no power," he said, "but in the orders of my king. And he is not yours."

"I ken that," the Cameron declared.

Hill put a trembling hand on the boy's arm. It was stiff beneath his touch, rigid as wood. A Sa.s.senach touched a Highlander. "If any chief acts on this letter, the treaty is nullified. And the orders I am given may not be kindly ones." He gripped the arm more tightly. "You serve your father," he said, "and I serve my king. It is duty. It is honor. No matter what I may prefer. "

Four.

Breadalbane likened it to a meeting of royalty, save neither of them were kings. They were merely men, and Scots, but the power of a realm was theirs. It was he who fashioned the future, he and the Master of Stair; between them they would determine who died, and who survived.

The preliminaries were over. King William had been apprised of Breadalbane's Achallader Treaty, though details were not mentioned; William, despite his ancestry, was no true Scot and understood little of them. He need be told nothing but what their efforts wrought, he and Stair, so the Dutchman could yea or nay them. Could extend his royal blessing.

Flanders, the earl felt, was no more congenial than the Highlands, with autumn approaching. But the room was warmer, as was Stair's welcome.

Sir James Dalrymple, Master of Stair, was now Secretary of Scotland and sole possessor of the position. Stair was much in favor with the king, and Breadalbane, who disliked the Lowland Scot for his pretentious manner of speaking as well as other faults, nonetheless admired him for securing a place so close to the king. While he himself labored in Scotland, Stair walked the halls of Parliament and of Kensington Palace. Just now he was in Approbaix, accompanying the king.

They sat near a mullioned window, full in the light of a fading sunset. Each held a fine Venetian gla.s.s filled with brandywine. Stair was a short man but fleshy, with small dark eyes. The preposterous wig he wore was not in proportion to his size, and gave him, Breadalbane felt, the look of an imbecile. Until one heard his words.

"We will have to give them something," Stair said quietly, swirling brandywine in his gla.s.s. "I know enough of Highlanders to be certain they will demand payment for anything approaching peace."

Breadalbane, himself Highland-born, forbore to answer.

"If we are to expect them to come forward of their own volition and accept King William as sovereign in place of James, we must promise them something." Stair looked at his visitor. "You are a Highlander. What is your suggestion of a thing they will value, and count it worth the doing?"

The earl sipped meticulously, then carried the gla.s.s away. Less robust than whisky, the liquor nontheless warmed him. "Silver," he said succinctly, and added other conditions as Stair gestured impatience. "Time for consideration, for travel in poor weather. And indemnities."

"Against what?"

"Past crimes," he answered easily. "The clans are riddled with thieves and murderers, and as many of them are chiefs as they are loyal tacksmen. 'Tis the lairds and chiefs we must appeal to; the others will follow them."

"Very well. Money. Time. Indemnities." Stair looked out the window. The setting sun painted his sallow face gilt and gold. "Twelve thousand pounds sterling to the landowners, thus lifting from the chiefs their need to support such men. A pardon of such things as we warrant are crimes, so no man may be hanged in his effort to sign the Oath of Allegiance. And a Proclamation of Indemnity, pardoning even the worst of the offenders, under the Great Seal of the King."

Breadalbane smiled appreciation.

"Post it at the Mercat Cross of Edinburgh, and copies in such other burghs as will be appropriate." The Secretary of Scotland tapped an idle fingernail against Venetian gla.s.s. "They shall have through the end of the year to make good their faith. They are to understand that if they fail to come forth and sign the Oath of Allegiance by the first of the new year, the pardon shall expire, and any man withholding himself shall be punished to the utmost extremity of the law." He looked blandly at the earl. "Will this be sufficient?"

It was opportunity, and Breadalbane took it. "For a wise man, aye."

After a moment of silence, Stair nodded comprehension. "Unwise men can be troublesome. Therefore, it may be necessary to prove to the clans the full measure of our power and the seriousness of our intent." He pursed his lips. "One must provide an example to others not as certain of the wisdom of their course."

The earl's answer was judicious, but no less telling for its diplomacy. "Surely hesitation or delay must be construed as treason, and punished accordingly."

Stair did not smile, though something of amus.e.m.e.nt glinted briefly in dark eyes. "And who among them, in your experience, is the least likely to be wise?"

The answer was obvious, and as easily declared. "MacDonalds," the earl said. "MacIain, of Glencoe."

MacIain's huge hand closed on his son's shoulder. Dair winced. "Aye," the father said, "you'd do well to recall it. I'll have you do as I say, aye?-not pleasing yourself where Breadalbane might see."

The pressure increased, then relaxed. It was a squeeze of affection, not punishment. "Aye," Dair said, "but I wasna thinking of the earl just at that moment-"

"No. That Campbell bizzem . . ." But MacIain amended it as he sat down at the table across from his son. "La.s.s," he said. "What is her name?"

Dair tensed. "Catriona. Cat."

"Cat." MacIain raised his silver-rimmed gla.s.s, brought from Paris years before, and downed his whisky.

He had defeated his youngest at chess but moments before and was in good humor. They inhabited the fine stone house at Carnoch companionably, with Lady Glencoe across the glen at Achtriachtan to visit her grandson, Young Sandy. It was dusk, and the lamps were lighted, lending an ocherous wash to the wood-panelled room.

"Jean was a likely la.s.s," MacIain observed blandly, as if he moved a p.a.w.n.

Dair recognized the gambit and refused to play. Instead he poured his gla.s.s full again and drank his own usquabae.

Yet idly: "Will ye go and fetch her back?"

"I will not."

"You have before. Or she's come for you." MacIain set down his gla.s.s. " 'Tis something to have a la.s.s like that in your bed."

"I will go to her," Dair explained with commendable mildness, "to tell her this parting is for good. I owe her that much, aye?"

"And will you tell her of the Campbell bizzem?" This time MacIain did not amend the term.

"She kens it already," Dair said, while the whisky churned in his belly. "There was a question, my mother said, of looking into a mirror . . . but I had carried it to Cat. And Jean learned of it." "From your mother." In the awkward silence the sound of his father's inhalation was loud. "That French mirror?"

Dair flicked a wary glance at the huge man. "She gave it freely to me, when I told her the tale." He drank the remains of his whisky and set the cup down with a thump of finality. "We are much to blame for their losses."

"Whose losses? Campbell losses? Faugh!" The idle curiosity bled away from MacIain's tone. "They've lifted enough of MacDonalds over the years. Dinna spill so many tears for them, Alasdair!"

"She would spit in your face as soon as cry," Dair said plainly. "You'll no' blame her for her father's foolishness."

"I will do as I will," MacIain said softly. "As you will do as I say."

The bruises had faded, save for one upon his jaw that still smudged sickly yellow. The split lip was healed, and the broken tooth caused him no pain. But Dair recalled very well the thundering in his head after his father was done with his skelping.

"You have an heir," he said. "And he has an heir. What am I but another body?"