Gemini - Dorothy Dunnett [375]
Nicholas said, ‘Whatever it is? Good or bad?’
‘You have my word,’ said Andreas.
THEN IT ALL came to an end, because of Leithie Preston.
THOUGHTLESSLY AGGRESSIVE AS he had always been, Leithie himself would have enjoyed it. No one else did. For all their elaborate preparations, no one expected it. As the Day of the Nativity approached and then dawned, it seemed to all those charged with the safety of the kingdom—the legislators, the controllers, the administrators, the men who had not experienced normal life for six months—that the reverence and joy of the season had brought its own temporary peace, overlaying anger and fear and resentment with its solemn language and slow, familiar rituals. The calm face of the Church moved through the streets and into great chambers; men listened, and prayed. Nowie Sinclair, who had brokered the deal, was not even present when Pate Leitch, Alex Inglis’s successor, crossed to the King as he changed dress in his chambers in David’s Tower, and reminded him that Ruthven and his son required to get back to St Johnstoun of Perth, and there was a charter to sign.
It was a moment when the three uncles were absent, but Chancellor Laing could be reached with the Great Seal, and there were enough people for witnesses—Constable Erroll, the King’s friend Davie Lindsay, now Household Controller, and three or four others, including a peely-wally James of Dunkeld. Master Whitelaw had a table brought in. Pate Leitch, a Paris-educated man, had been Rector of the University there sixteen years ago and, despite his crisp style, was on good terms with the King, as were most of the men there, including the beneficiary. James knew the laird of Ruthven of old, and his son, and the charter was simple enough, handing back to young Ruthven land that the father had once leased to the late Thomas Preston, known as Leithie.
It seemed to James, then and now, that both Cochrane and Preston had deserved commendation, not forfeiture. They had been trying to march with the guns and save Berwick. He was not supposed to say so aloud. His limbs were aching; he had just swallowed the latest of several libations to soothe them, and he felt like saying so aloud. It came out with satisfactory vehemence, perhaps because his brother Sandy had just entered the room. James lifted the parchment and waved it at Ruthven. ‘Do you need this land, Will? Do you? I say, let it go to Tom Preston’s widow and son. Cochrane, the best Constable I ever had at Kildrummy. And Preston: brave man, brave man. They didn’t turn on their sovereign lord and put him in prison.’
Master Whitelaw, pen in hand, gazed at the King over his spectacles. ‘No, my lord, they didn’t. They did what they thought was for the best. But the rest of us knew that you would have been captured or killed by the English. It was my lord of Albany there who saved us all by crossing back to your side, and hastening the English army out of the realm. The Preston family have had their reward, and will never notice the loss of Middle Pitcairn. Whereas it’s in the middle of the barony of Ruthven and ought rightly to return there, as your grace will remember. Here’s the pen.’
The grating voice, pitched in the way it had been pitched for the last twenty years, saying, ‘I told you. Remember?’
He supposed he did remember. If it came to war, the Prestons would fight against England, no matter what. So indeed would the Ruthvens, but, given their strategic connections, a little extra encouragement was being offered. He put down the parchment and stared at it, unwilling to appear to give in. Sandy, leaning over his shoulder, said, ‘Come on, James. Shall I sign it after you?’ He smelled of wine, and spoke in a way that brought back their boyhood. It was Christmas Day, after all. His brother was here, and his sisters not far away. They had all been to the Abbey; it was time for eating and drinking and dancing, not for huddling over a board stinking of ink and vellum and wax.
He had better sign it. The men standing behind him, in discreet