The Young Montrose

by Nigel Tranter

Genres: Historical Fiction; Sagas

Synopsis

Nigel Tranter tells the fascinating yet desperate story of a gallant nobleman from the initial snub he received from Charles I, the monarch he is to devote his life to serving. A brilliant leader, a renowned strategist, a talented moderate in a bigoted age: James Graham, the Marquis of Montrose, is a man of great charm and steadfast loyalty. Reluctantly involved in in national affairs, his most hated enemy is Archibald Campbell, Marquis of Argyll. It seems that nothing can stand in the way of Montrose's triumph. 'Through his imaginative dialogue, he provides a voice for Scotland's heroes' Scotland on Sunday

Release date: August 30, 2012

Publisher: Hodder & Stoughton

Print pages: 416

Sample

JAMES GRAHAM STOOD, TAPPING THE TOE OF HIS HIGH-HEELED silken shoe on the waxed floor, and eyed his fellow men and women with scant approval. He was not aware that this showed rather plainly – or indeed, at all – on his handsome features; nor even that impatience was evident in his toe-tapping. For he was a young man of principle as well as of determined courtesy, and desired to offend none, except perhaps in chivalrous fashion and in a suitable cause. But these people were, in the main, deplorable to a man of any sensibility, women as well as men, unfortunately. James Graham approved of women, normally.

That there were not a few Scots amongst the posturing, painted, scented, chattering crew, was probably half the trouble. James Graham was philosophically and broad-mindedly prepared to find the English courtier more or less like this – just as he had made thoughtful allowances for the inanities and perversions of Paris, Seville, Venice, Padua, Florence, and even the Papal Court at Rome, from which he had just come; but to see Scots like John Maitland, Master of Lauderdale, with rouged cheeks and painted lips; Patrick Leslie, Lord Lindores, simpering and ogling behind upraised scented gloves; and the handsome Elizabeth Murray, though she could be no more than sixteen, not only with her gown cut so low that her breasts escaped whenever she stooped or bowed – which she did with marked regularity – but chose to find her garters in constant need of adjustment, with consequent extra stooping and disarray; all this was unedifying. The last might be all very well, indeed perhaps commendable, in private. But not in public, not in the Palace of Whitehall, surely. Here it seemed not only a betrayal of sound Presbyterian Scotland, but in the worst of taste. Not that the thronging, overdressed crowd found it so, most evidently, since all were of a similar pattern. As though determined to demonstrate that the wretched Puritans had no place here. Yet the King was a sober and religious man, much more godly than was James Graham – and Scots-born at that. That he should tolerate this sort of behaviour at his Court was scarcely believable. His flighty little French wife, of course, was otherwise, they said – and the doting Charles denied her nothing. No doubt this was Henrietta Maria’s doing.

The Graham had had half an hour of this already, and wondered how much more he could, or should, stand. He was a young man not used to being kept waiting. Hamilton had said to be here at six prompt. In that half-hour he had barely spoken to a soul; just stood, apart a little, feeling out-of-place and somehow conspicuous – which last at least was no illusion, for James Graham in any company was conspicuous, of a sheer beauty of countenance which, though wholly masculine and virile, was allied to a proud grace of bearing that never failed to draw all eyes – even though fullest appreciation thereof was not necessarily the reaction of every one of his own sex.

Though he recognised many, he did not really know anyone here – nor indeed greatly desired to. Perhaps something of this attitude escaped him, despite his carefully courteous intentions. Three years on the Continent had made a stranger of him, even to the Scots present – and he had been only just of age, after all, when he left on his rather unusual Grand Tour. Nor had he ever previously visited the Court at London. It seemed that he had missed little thereby.

His foot was tap-tapping again, when a voice at his elbow turned him.

‘Egad, James – it’s yourself! On my soul, I scarce knew you! I heard you were home. But . . .’

‘Home, Johnnie . . .?’ the other repeated, high brows higher. But he quickly relented, and smiled, warmly – and thereby transformed the proudly beautiful face into one of quite extraordinary attraction and charm. ‘It is good to see a kent face – and an honest one! They seem scarce here! What brings you to Whitehall, Johnnie? A long way from the Carse of Forth.’

‘What brings anyone to Court, James? The hope of betterment. Of justice, if you like.’ The Lord Kilpont grimaced plain, boyish features. ‘Not that I look like to win either, ’fore God! And yourself? What brings you, of all men?’

‘Not betterment Nor yet justice, I think,’ the other returned – and his slightly scornful enunciation of the word betterment was eloquent Then, as so often, he shook his head briefly, as though to throw off an involuntary reaction in favour of an amended and kinder one. ‘I am sorry that you are not finding success, Johnnie. Or justice. For, i’ faith, if all I hear is true, that you much deserve. Your father’s ill-treatment was a crying scandal. Are you hoping for a reversal of the forfeiture?’

‘Nothing so great. Only some small office of profit, some help with our creditors. The Customs of Airth and Alloa, perhaps. We are near penniless, James. Things have gone from bad to worse, while you have been gone. My father is a done and broken man. He will not last long, I fear. He is dunned, day in, day out. But he is too proud to ask the King’s mercy, or aid. So I come. But to little benefit . . .’

‘Poor Menteith! I did not know that it was so bad. I heard only snatches of it all, garbled. In Padua, I was then. This of Menteith is sore tidings . . .’

‘Hush, man! Do not mention that name. Even to breathe the word Menteith today is next to high treason! My lord of Airth only, if you please!’

James Graham eyed his far-out kinsman with a perplexed frown. ‘You mean this, Johnnie? Surely not! Surely Charles is not thus. A godly man, all say, and honest. Noble, indeed . . .’

‘Perhaps. But weak, James – or, if not weak, with great weaknesses. Stupidities, ’fore God! The worst, that he relies on favourites who are fools or knaves. More of the first than the other, I do believe-but the end is the same! Aye, Charles Stewart looks noble enough, sounds noble – but how noble are his acts? Ask William Graham, my father!’

Lord Kilpont, a year younger than his chief, was son and heir to William, who until two years before had been eighteenth Earl of Menteith, one of the greatest nobles and proudest names in Scotland; and who, because in a rash moment, flushed with wine, had been heard to boast that his own blood was more truly royal than the King’s, had been summarily forfeited, deprived of his ancient earldom with all its great revenues, and allowed to retain only his small barony of Airth, in the Carse of Stirling, with the scornfully new-minted title of Earl of Airth – this by King Charles’s personal command, who, on the advice of sundry ill-wishers of Menteith’s, was pleased to sense a threat to his throne and dignity in the Graham’s bibulous boast, true as it was. For the Grahams were of royal descent, and closer to the main stem of the ancient Scots ruling line than was Charles Stewart himself. The new Earl of Airth, who should also have been Earl of Strathearn, a semi-royal and illustrious earldom, was a ruined man.

The imputation that the dignified and stately monarch was weak – and worse, stupid – disturbed James Graham. ‘I think you mistake, my friend,’ he said. ‘His Grace was ill-advised in this, to be sure. I have not all the truth of it – I was a year gone when it was done, was I not? All that I may do, to put it right, I will do. But – you go too far, naming the King weak and stupid. Charles Stewart is no weakling, no fool, I swear. God forbid!’

‘You have not spoken with him, I think? Even seen him?’

‘No. But all declare him worshipful, wise, good.’

‘I could name you some who do not!’ Kilpont said grimly. But at the other’s expression he wisely changed the subject. ‘And you, James – what do you seek from His Grace?’

‘Seek? I seek nothing. Only to offer him my services. As is my simple duty.’

‘Your services . . .?’

‘To be sure. What else? I am Montrose.’

‘Mm. An Greumach Mor! In Scotland that means much,’ the Viscount acceded. ‘But here . . .?’

‘It is in Scotland, naturally, that I would serve him. Not here.’ The other’s glance around him was sufficiently eloquent. ‘Are you of Hamilton’s mind, then, about the King?’

‘Hamilton? Does that one have a mind? Pray, James – of a mercy, do not speak my name in the same breath with that . . . lickspittle! That empty-headed, ill-disposed, vapouring toady!’

‘Save us, Johnnie – what’s come to you, man? You were not always so sour! Myself, I do not greatly love Hamilton – but he is great with the King. Has his ear. And is the foremost man in Scotland today, they say.’

‘In Scotland! That mincing popinjay would no more set his dainty foot in Scotland today than in Muscovy! He is the worst of all the crew of fawning, lying, sycophants who surround the King. All you may say is that Scotland is well quit of James Hamilton and his like!’ Clearly, boyish as he still looked, Kilpont was a very different man from the laughing, heedless twenty-year-old James Graham had left behind him. Then he paused in his vituperation to ask, ‘What was it you meant about my lord Marquis? His mind, anent the King?’

‘Merely that he warned me that the King was much offended with Scotland, these days. That I should take care how I mention his ancient kingdom to His Grace – lest it serve me but ill. Myself, I cannot believe this. Scotland, after all, is his true realm. Where he was born, where his line belongs. It is but thirty years since the Stewarts have sat on this English throne. That he should hate Scotland is unthinkable . . .’

‘So Hamilton said that?’ Kilpont fingered the wispy hair on his chin which he was trying to grow – with an envious glance at the neatly luxuriant moustache and trim underlip beard of his friend and chief. ‘I wonder why, egad? He has his reasons, that one, no doubt.’

‘You believe it to be untrue, then? Yet you hinted, did you not, that here my name may mean but little . . .’

Montrose paused, as another man came sauntering up to them, an exquisite this, in sky-blue satin and brocade, lace, jewelled buckles, earrings and ivory-handled, shoulder-high, ribboned walking-staff.

‘Save us, Basil – you too!’ he exclaimed. ‘Got up like a mummer at a fair, as bad as the rest! I vow, all you require now is a dancing-bear!’

‘At Court, one must be a courtier, my dear James – or nothing! And I would be something, as you know,’ the newcomer declared, laughing, and flourishing a lace-edged, scented handkerchief. A plump-featured, silky-haired, genial young man, he pointed, with the head of that ridiculous staff. ‘You, now – you serve yourself but ill, dressed so. I swear it! Even the beauteous and poetic Earl of Montrose! You will but seem to rebuke others – and so smell curst Calvinist to His Majesty. See if you do not.’

James Graham looked down at his own attire, and shrugged. ‘I think I am very well,’ he said. ‘It served well enough for half the Courts of Europe. Why not here?’

‘Why not indeed?’ Kilpont agreed. ‘You are the most distinguished-seeming man in this Audience Chamber, for a wager!’

And that, in fact, was true. Distinguished was the apt word for this man. Without seeking to do so, he ever bore himself with a distinction, a separateness, and assurance of carriage which was something different again from the lithe natural grace and the fine features. That he should be dressed all in black, slashed with silver – even though of satin and velvet – apart from the deep white lace collar and ruffles at wrists, did further set him apart, and dramatically so, in the kaleidoscopic riot of colours in that great hall, although this was in fact his normal style for high occasions.

‘Truly said,’ the Englishman acceded. ‘But distinction can be costly – against the undistinguished! I have said so before, James – being not troubled that way myself! But . . . I have not the privilege of this gentleman’s name . . .?’

‘Ha – of course. A kinsman, John Graham, Lord Kilpont, heir to the Earl of Menteith . . .’

‘A mercy, James – I told you! Not that Never that The name is as forbidden as that of MacGregor! Airth, if you please – to my sorrow!’

‘Very well. Heir to the first Earl of Airth, though eighteenth otherwise! A sorry story. And this, Johnnie, is my good friend Basil, Viscount Fielding, who was my companion through most of the lands and cities of Europe. Heir to my lord Earl of Denbigh.’

Kilpont nodded, and Fielding made an elaborate leg, with which was associated a twirling of his staff and a flourish of the handkerchief.

‘Honoured,’ the latter commented. ‘You Scots are so deucedly good at figures! I fear that I could never count. Eighteenth, you said? And that from the fifth Earl of Montrose . . .!’

‘But eighth Lord Graham, and twenty-third chief of the name, An Greumach Mor,’ Kilpont interpolated carefully.

‘Quite – oh quite! As I say – I never could add. As well, since my father is one of the new men. The first Earl! Makes it easy for me, you see . . .’

‘Enough of such nonsense,’ Montrose said. ‘The English can count, I think, as well as we, when it comes to most matters. Gold pieces, for instance. Acres. Houses. Servants. Pay no heed to Basil’s mockery, Johnnie – his tongue is the worst of him. For myself, it is the King’s counting that concerns me. Of time! Hamilton said to be here by six o’clock. Now it is nearer seven.’

‘His Majesty never appears before seven, I am told,’ Fielding mentioned. ‘He is a staid man, of set custom and habit. Not like his appalling and unpredictable sire. Ah – forgive me! He was a Scot also, of course! My tongue, again . . .’

‘Is that truth? That the King never comes before seven o’clock? Then why did Hamilton have me here at six?’ James Graham’s pleasantly modulated, almost musical, voice, with the slight Highland intonation, went level, thin.

‘I told you. The man’s a fool,’ Kilpont insisted. ‘Hamilton. Or . . . perhaps he designed to keep you waiting!’

‘Hamilton? The Marquis? Is he your sponsor, James?’ Fielding asked. ‘A strange man as I should know! My brother-in-law, no less! Married Margaret my sister – at the age of seven!’

‘Sponsor, no.’ That was short. ‘Montrose needs no sponsor with his liege lord. I but sought his guidance, as how conveniently to approach His Grace. We are related at a distance. And his brother, Lanark, was with me at college . . .’

A sudden fanfare of trumpets from without interrupted him. The chatter in the huge gilded apartment stilled, and all eyes turned towards the top end, where great doors were flung open. Two files of Yeoman of the Guard, in scarlet and black, marched in, pikes on shoulders, to pace onward down the chamber. Right and left before them the company fell back, leaving a clear and red-lined central avenue. Behind, a gorgeously apparelled usher in heraldic tabard stalked in, and as the fanfare died away, thumped his rod on the floor.

‘Silence for His most excellent Majesty Charles, by the Grace of God, King!’ he cried. And everywhere men bowed low and women sank in deepest curtsy.

It was all highly impressive, dignified, suitable. Unfortunately, what followed was less so. A crowd of men came surging into the hall, some backing, sidling, even skipping, as they eddied round a small central group of three, bowing, flourishing, gesticulating, in a fatuous display of adulation. And within this capering perimeter the trio sauntered, one tall, in a peach-yellow satin, one short and tubby in rich, vaguely clerical habit, and one slender and slight in purple velvet, wearing a wide-brimmed black hat with a large curling golden ostrich-feather. Because of the hat, and the fact that its wearer was not very tail, Montrose, like most others, could not see the man’s features behind his escort.

If this entrance lacked something in dignity, no less so did the waiting company’s reception. Straight from their bowing and curtsying, there was a jostling rush forward, men and women pushing and elbowing each other to be foremost on either side of the lines of inward-facing Yeomen of the Guard. James Graham, astonished, found himself shouldered aside in the scramble, and although he had been waiting in a good position all this while, now was quickly edged into the background.

‘Come – or we will not win near the King,’ Kilpont exclaimed, starting to push, in turn.

‘Never!’ the other jerked. ‘Think you Montrose should act so? In such rabble!’

‘You heard Fielding. At Court, do as the courtiers do! See – he does.’

‘Let him. I bide here.’

‘Then the King will not see you. What you came here for.’

‘So be it, then. But . . . Hamilton knows that I am here.’

The Marquis of Hamilton was the tall man in yellow at the King’s right; and because of his height, he could see over the heads of most of the crowd. Already, almost as soon as he entered the room, his glance had caught that of his fellow Scot – and though he looked away at once, without any sign, Montrose knew that he had recognised him. He was a fine figure of a man, though ridiculously overdressed and prinked up with a plethora of ribbons, bows, rosettes, costume-jewellery and the like on top of his peach satin slashed with scarlet. The royal right hand rested on his puffed and pearl-seeded sleeve.

It was some little while before James Graham could catch a glimpse of the King’s face, when he momentarily took off his hat to greet a genuflecting lady presented to him by one of his troupe. But at the sight, the younger man’s offence and ill-humour left him, melted promptly like snow in the sun. For Charles Stewart was all and more than he had hoped to see, his features noble, splendid, stately, kingly indeed, but never proudly arrogant or distant. Sensitive, compassionate, almost sad, his great lustrous Stewart eyes looked beneath his lofty forehead and delicately arching brows. The face was long and narrow, an impression accentuated by the pointed beard, longer than was usual for the period, and the shoulder-length curling auburn hair; and the general expression was grave. But the smile, when vouchsafed, was warm and kindly. Every inch and line and movement of the man was implicit with dignity.

‘’Fore God, man – you said he was stupid! Weak and stupid! I think your troubles must have cost you your wits, Johnnie!’

‘Perhaps.’ The other shrugged. ‘He looks a king, yes. But he acts . . . otherwise. You will learn!’

The King passed slowly up the avenue formed by the Guard, pausing here and there to speak to some low-bowing man or dipping woman either singled out by himself or presented by one of his posturing minions – and always, when it was a woman, he briefly removed his great feathered hat with a gesture of the most gracious courtesy. Quite soon he was past a point level with Montrose, and no sign or glance given.

‘You see,’ Kilpont said. ‘You are not noticed. Here it is deil tak the hindmost!’

‘Wait, you,’ the other answered.

They had a lengthy wait, for Majesty was in no hurry, and many people were spoken to and presented. Before long, James Graham’s toe began to tap-tap the floor again.

When Charles at length turned, at the far end of the room, to move slowly back, the tubby man with the slightly clerical look about his plum-coloured velvet and lace, seemed to take over from Hamilton m making the majority of presentations. And he found more to catch his eye than had the Marquis – especially amongst the women – to the Graham’s ill-concealed impatience.

‘That man – who is he? A churchman – but with a good conceit of himself!’

‘That is William Laud, the Archbishop. The King’s close confessor! An Armenian – and the most unpopular man in England! Yet Charles loves him well – even better than Hamilton, they say. He has turned the Church here upside-down. And is seeking to do the same in Scotland . . .’

‘Scotland? The Archbishop of Canterbury? What has such to do with Scotland?’

‘Well may you ask! But King Charles heeds him in all things. And Charles is still King of Scots.’

Slowly the courteous monarch worked his way down the long room again. And despite himself, James Graham edged a little forward. When he saw Basil Fielding briefly enjoying the royal attention, he subconsciously smoothed the lace at his throat and the ruffles at his wrists, waiting to catch Hamilton’s signal the while. But the Marquis looked anywhere but at Montrose; and the King gradually passed by.

‘God’s curse!’ the Graham swore, beneath his breath. ‘This is too much!’

Kilpont eyed his chief sidelong, and decided to hold his tongue.

Biting his lip, Montrose watched his sovereign’s gracious retreating back.

Fielding came pushing his way to his friend’s side again. ‘James! Sink me – what’s this? he exclaimed. ‘You are ignored. This is beyond all belief. The Earl of Montrose – spumed. On your first visit to Court. You should have pushed forward, man. As I did. As all do . . .’

‘I should not,’ the other snapped. ‘Besides, they know that I am here. Hamilton does. He looked at me. And his brother, Lanark, mincing there. I saw him peering – and pretending not to. Yet he has brought half a dozen to the King . . .’

‘It is damnable. See – people are looking. Staring. I heard many whispering your name . . .’

‘Let them . . .’

‘James – if you slipped round there, to near the door, behind these, you would win close enough. As they go out. There is still time . . .’

‘I will do no such thing. Think you I must dodge and jouk and crawl for any man? Even Charles Stewart?’

‘But . . . if he does not know that you are here?’

‘Then it is Hamilton’s doing. And, ’fore God, I will not crawl for Hamilton!’

In silence the trio waited. And now there was no question but that many eyes were turned in their direction. Close by, a woman tittered.

Then, as the King was about to leave the room, and trumpeters were raising their instruments for the valedictory fanfare, Hamilton stooped, and spoke in the royal ear, turning to glance back directly at Montrose.

Charles Stewart paused, turned also, grave-faced, and waited.

Everywhere a sudden hush fell on the great company. Fielding grabbed his friend’s arm.

James Graham stood where he was, head high, motionless, as grave-faced as his monarch.

Moments passed thus, sudden tension in the air. Hamilton was an abruptly changed man, prominent eyes darting, nibbling at his silky moustache. Then, frowning, he flicked a gloved hand at his younger brother, the Earl of Lanark, a flick that ended in a finger pointing at Montrose. William Hamilton came hurrying, pushing his way through the throng, to where the Graham stood.

‘My lord . . .’ he gasped, all but panted. ‘James – His Grace . . . His Majesty will see you now. Come. Come quickly – in God’s name!’

The other waited a second or two longer, then bowed formally. He moved forward unhurriedly.

‘Haste ye, man.’ Lanark, already well ahead, turned anxiously, to mutter, ‘You’ll not keep the King waiting!’

The Graham said nothing to that, and increased his pace no whit.

The dandified Lanark reached the royal presence a deal before his charge. His brother looking angry, flushed, began to speak, then changed his mind. The King’s expression, like his bearing, had not changed.

‘Your Majesty, have I leave to present my lord Earl of Montrose?’ Hamilton jerked, at last.

‘Ah, yes. I know of my lord,’ Charles said mildly, inclining his head. He neither smiled nor frowned. But he extended his hand.

James Graham bowed low, and reached out to take the royal hand. But he did not take it in the usual way, to raise to his lips; instead he placed the long slender fingers between his own two palms, and bowed over it, in the traditional gesture of fealty.

‘Your Grace’s true and devoted servant to command,’ he said, low-voiced.

The King, regaining his hand, considered the younger man from those lustrous sad eyes, but without his famed warmth. ‘I did not see you come to honour my Coronation at Edinburgh, near three years ago, along with my other Scots lords,’ he observed, his voice even.

‘To my sorrow. I was then in Padua, Your Grace.’

‘Indeed. Then I trust that Padua served you will. I bid you a good day, my lord of Montrose.’ Charles inclined his head again, and turned away.

‘Sire . . .!’ Montrose exclaimed, and then bit back the flood of words which surged to his lips, as the King strolled off through the wide doorway, and the ring of his entourage closed round him.

The clamour of talk and exclamation rose again in the Audience Chamber behind, as the trumpets rang out.

Biting his lips, James Graham stared after the sovereign lord he had come to offer service and loyalty to, the service of a great and powerful house, great wealth, great man-power, and blood as proud as the Stewarts’. Then he flung himself round, and went stalking long-strided down the huge apartment, past the re-forming Yeomen, looking neither right nor left, caring nothing for the stares, the smirks or the tinkling laughter, making for the entrance at the far end.

He was down crossing the open palace courtyard before Kilpont caught up with him.

‘Save us, James – here’s your bonnet!’ the other panted, clapping on his own wide hat. ‘A plague on them – that was ill done! A studied insult! But, why? Why? To you?’

Montrose vouchsafed no answer.

‘A mercy – no need for such haste, surely!’ Kilpont was almost having to run to keep up with his companion’s great striding. ‘It was Hamilton’s doing – that I swear. He has put the King against you. I was watching him. Charles is a fool, yes – but he does not lack civility. Even to me he was more civil than that – although he has not heeded my pleas. It was Hamilton . . .’

‘The King it was who spumed me – not Hamilton!’ the other got out, from behind clenched teeth. ‘Whatever Hamilton may have said or done, it was Charles Stewart who decided. Decided to reject Montrose. Before all. I did not proffer my hand and fealty and name, to Hamilton!’

At the bitterness in his friend’s voice, so unusual, so out-of-character, Kilpont shook his head.

‘I am sorry, James – sorry. But . . .’ what next? Will you try again? Discover what Hamilton is at – and face him with it? Challenge the arrogant lickspittle! Approach Charles again . . .’

‘I will not. I ride for Scotland tomorrow, as fast as horseflesh will carry me. Shake the dust of this place off my feet. And wish that I had sailed home direct from France! That I had never thought to visit this London, to pay my duty. It is Scotland again, for me – tomorrow.’

‘Damn it, if I will not ride with you, James! On my oath, I will! I’ve had enough of this city of fawning spaniels and toad-eaters! And I gain no advantage for my father, here. A breath or two of our snell Scots air – that is what we both need. And leave London to its stews, its stinks and its jackals and trucklers. Especially its Scots ones!’

The other nodded. ‘Aye – I long to feel the wind off the heather again, the scents of bracken and pine, hear the crackle of whins in the sun. I have been away too long, Johnnie. It is time I was home. Time . . .’

JAMES GRAHAM HAD NEVER HAD ANY PRONOUNCED AFFECTION for Edinburgh, a city he had little known or had occasion to know. In friendly small Glasgow he had lived as a child, in the house of Lord Justice Clerk Elphinstone, with his own Mugdock Castle near by to the north. Of Perth he was fond, near his favourite home of Kincardine Castle, on the southern verge of Strathearn; and Stirling, to the south of this, was almost a Graham town. Montrose itself, where he had been born, though a smaller place, always pleased him. And St Andrews, where he had studied and spent his high youth gloriously, he loved as the finest little city, not only in Scotland but in all Christendom – better than Paris, Rome, Venice or Padua. But in Edinburgh, on its hills above the silver Forth, he somehow felt alien, chilled – not so much by its everlasting winds which, after all, were no colder than those of St Andrews – but by some quality in the folk, the temper of its people. He ever felt small, under the soaring tenements, the dizzy grey stone ‘lands’ which huddled so close on the climbing ridge between Holyroodhouse and the frowning Castle, projecting inwards over the narrow streets and wynds, so as almost to cut out the very sky – but never those winds. Yet this early May day of brittle sunlight, stinging showers and rain-washed colour, as he rode in beneath Arthur’s Seat, past the Abbey and Palace, and up the Canongate and under the Netherbow Port, he almost embraced the place to him, acknowledging its magnificent setting, cherishing even its smells – and the blustering winds which made them more bearable than those of London and Paris – looking kindly on its craggy-jawed, bonneted men and shawled women, however little his benevolent glances were returned, and shook the glistening raindrops from his travelling-cloak with more cheer than he had shown for days. It was Scotland, stern and stark and authentic, but vivid, challenging and self-sufficient as was nowhere else that he had come across in all his three years of travels – his own place, the land his love for which he had only truly discovered when far away.

He and Kilpont parted company in the Grassmarket, the latter to r