James smiled for the first time since Aberdeen. It felt so good to be by Rollo’s side once more. They’d grown up together, and he’d missed the man who’d become like a brother to him.
“Have you need of assistance?” he asked, seeing Rollo struggle with his saddle. Though a riding accident as a child had damaged his friend’s back and left his legs without much feeling, the near-constant spasms had rendered them unusually strong. Sheer determination and grit drove him and, once seated, he was one of the greatest horsemen James knew.
“I’m lame, James,” he bit out, “not a half-wit.” Rollo pulled himself into place and, bending to adjust the thick straps, grumbled, “I think I am capable of buckling my own leathers.”
He sat up, nodding grimly at James. Will Rollo cut a regal figure, sitting tall on his gray-speckled stallion, an unusual, and pricey, mount for a Scotsman. If it weren’t for so many straps and the extra-high pommel and cantle of his custom saddle, one would never guess the pain and stiffness he suffered.
“I find you cheerful as ever, my dear friend.” He erupted in laughter, which Rollo answered with a begrudging smile.
James inhaled, savoring once again the tang of sea in his throat. Though the coast was at his back, he could feel its distant pulse like the snore of a slumbering monster, and it was something that never ceased to bolster him.
Abandoning Magda to Napier’s care had been a blow, but he’d seen no other choice. Though he hoped he’d ensured her safety by leaving her, it did nothing to ease the torture of separation. Traitorous thoughts had flickered, taunting him.Perhaps Napier won’t find Lonan. Perhaps she’ll choose to stay. Perhaps, whenthis madness is through, she’ll be in Montrose. Waiting.
He pushed such notions from his mind. They were too painful. He needed to focus on the task at hand. If James couldn’t have Magda in his life, he’d sacrifice his life to his cause.
Seeing Will Rollo again had done much to take the edge off his melancholy, but it was something about the rhythm of the tides that reminded him of his true calling. That pounding of wave on rock was as much a part of him as it was a part of Scotland. And it was for Scotland that he rode now, to pursue what was best for his beloved country.
“I will hear news of Montrose,” James said, nudging his horse into a brisk walk. “I find I’ve yearned for the sea.”
Rollo appeared beside him, staring sternly at the road ahead. “As Margaret tells it, you’ve been yearning for something considerably more feminine these past days.”
Astonished, James swung his head to look at his friend, whose mouth was still set in a grim line. “You devil!” Standing in his stirrups, he leaned back to clap Rollo’s horse hard on the rump.
And even Rollo spared a laugh when both horses broke into a gallop, as the two friends rode south to parley with the king.
“The spires of Oxford!” James shouted, pointing across a tangled field to distant towers that rose to elegant points on the horizon.
“It’s been a fortnight of hard riding,” Rollo said dourly, leaning to massage his legs. “I was beginning to doubt their existence.”
“Such a lack of faith.” Jamestsked, pulling his mount up to ride shoulder to shoulder. “A fortnight is superb time for such a distance.”
“Now we just need to cross these mucky fields,” Rollo grumbled. “Another fine pasture of sheep dung. I weary of the sheep dung, James.”
“Don’t sound so fashed. I promise to find us a good pub upon our arrival.”
“Well at least, miraculously, there’s no rain to greet us. Merely gray spires in a gray sky.”
“There’s the spirit,” James said sarcastically.
Wary of the uneven meadow, they kept their mounts to a tentative trot. The meadow was rutted and muddy from winter’s melted snows, and it would do no good to lame a horse so close to their journey’s end.
A short ride brought them to Oxford proper, and the men looked around in disbelief as they walked their horses slowly down Broad Street. Gone from Oxford was any sense of scholarly atmosphere, nor was there much indication that it had ever functioned as a university at all. Soldiers roamed the streets as far as the eye could see, and the town seemed to James a tinderbox of bored men anxious for battle.
“We’ll find ourselves a pay house and settle in.”
“Aye,” Rollo replied, “if the town is taking civilians.” He looked around warily. “King’s men as far as the eye can see. If I hadn’t called myself a Royalist before, I shall now.”
“These infernal Puritans. So hostile!” The king distractedly held a small gilded looking glass above his head to study the fall of his hair atop his broad lace collar. “I have enough to concern me here in England without Scottish noblemen stirring the pot.”
“Your Majesty?” The painter gestured, gently reminding him to return to his former pose.
“Yes, yes.” Charles nodded impatiently. Settling back into position, the king canted his head slightly to keep one eye on the man pacing the room. Colonel Sibbald was an old soldier, and just the sort he’d need to subdue the Covenanters. The king had thought the militia in Aberdeen could put a neat stop to Campbell and Graham, and had been surprised when the city fell. The Covenanters had relied on more than might that day; Graham led them, and exercised military tactics more refined than Charles had expected.
But word had it there was now dissention between him and the Campbell. If Charles could convince Graham to leave the Covenanters and join his Royalists, it might give him hope of quelling this uprising once and for all.
“So this Graham comes for an audience?”
“If it pleases Your Majesty,” the colonel replied, surreptitiously pouring his third glass of brandy.
