Montrose

Send comments to: Jamiwilsen@hotmail.com

Note: Iain is pronounced `Ian'; the character is based upon the Bard of Keppoch, Iain Lom of the MacDonalds. Most of the personal references and descriptions of Montrose are based on historical fact, though the romantic connection between the two is extrapolated unashamedly from certain interesting verses the Bard wrote in praise of one who signed himself in later letters as "Your very loving and trew friend to command". It is also certain that Iain Lom did exchange many letters and poems, and followed the exploits of Montrose's year of brilliant victories that followed the time-setting of this short story. Inspired by the last great gentleman-cavalier, I offer apologies to any readers who may feel that this story does not do one of Scotland's greatest military leaders justice!

• * * * * * * * MONTROSE

The fire was still strong as Iain sat outside the croft. He absently regarded the lowering clouds gathering about the peaks of the surrounding mountains. He had been filled with worry through the passing storms but anxiety had been replaced with anticipation. Now that the time had finally come, he found himself checking and rechecking the little path that led winding up the hills through this secret valley. The mountains were silent enough by day; as night crept upon them in the mute blaze of sunset and dark shadows engulfing the glen, he fancied he heard the whispers of hidden elvish watchers. The shimmering leaves of the nearby trees and the tinkling stream gave voices to the imagined creatures.

Almost nervous he was, and he chuckled at himself; why, he was acting like a smitten swain. True, the one for whom he waited was a hunted man, an outlaw and, despite all his deeds and words to the opposite, a heralded enemy and renowned traitor of the land. Those arrayed against the King feared his champion more than the monarch himself. Lord James Graham of Montrose had been proclaimed worth over fifteen thousand pounds alive for bounty. It'd not be collected. Iain smiled: there was not one Highland native of this mountainous country that would not risk life and limb for the King's man and it was for this that Iain was proudly secure in the hope that the Graham would take an evening out of campaigning and politicking. And he chuckled, remembering again the indignance in his friend's response when he'd learned of his excommunication from the gentry and government of this fair but divided country. It had actually not come as a surprise to most who knew him well; the Graham had made his name during his debut in political campaigning with the start of the Covenant and steadfastedly claimed complete loyalty to King Charles I despite the obvious contradiction such a statement held. Why, many had flocked to the signing of the newly-drafted and drawn Covenant in Edinburgh because of their high feelings concerning Charles' Catholic injustices towards the Protestant population of Scotland. James Graham was himself a Protestant but the depraved, ambitiously selfish and twisted machinations of the nobles gathering under the Covenant's banner, confusedly mingling with the soldiers and original founders to muddy their own ambitions for an oligarchy, had driven him to finally choose sides. He had not wanted to. He never meant for it to come to actual conflict. James had hoped that the King merely needed persuasion, not the ensuing clashes with the Covenanter armies, which James himself had led - to victory, no less. Now, men were talking of joining the King's cause merely for the Graham. Iain had even heard it rumoured that the Graham would travel down to Oxford, to meet the King in England to obtain troops, cavalry and support.

But blast it, where was he? Surely he'd remembered this evening's appointment? And that it would be here, at his croft, in this glen? Iain shook his head, peeved with himself. Worry was not a healthy habit. His friend would be fine. Now that one could surely ride, had bested each and every opponent and, come to think of it, he'd never known him to let down anyone - from casual acquaintances to the King himself. He'd have sent word, wouldn't he?

He sighed, impatience surging through him, as well as a little chagrin at his state of mind. Why should he trouble himself if the man didn't make it?

He wasn't worried about being snubbed; it made no difference to him that he was only a poor poet to his friend's grave, courageous champion. No; it was, he decided, pure selfishness on his part to expect him to drop all honorable concerns and go hiding out of his way into this lonely corner of the world simply to meet him He finally identified the cause of his worry. It was not that he was afraid James would not make it to this clandestine meeting, as it must be, for enemies abounded and waited for opportunities to entrap him, no; it was that he couldn't imagine why it would be important enough for him to remember. The good Lord Above surely knew that though it may not be important in the grand scheme of things, that it was quite important to him, famed scribbler. The young nobleman had fired the inspiration of many Highland poets and writers as well as most of the towns and glens and even the sons of the very same worthies opposing the King. Iain therefore regarded himself as the luckiest of the lot, to have gained the trust and friendship of such a heroic yet chivalrous fellow. But he couldn't stop; he worried that in attempting to come, James had been captured by enemies.

In his clouded thoughts he almost missed the striding step of the younger man as he appeared from out of the gloom, purposefully moving up towards the tree-sheltered croft. Iain stood. "Lord Jamie! Well met; I see you made it past the wolves at the gate!"

James Graham, fifth Earl and chief of the clan, was not quite out of breath, used to marching at a quick pace, but he slowed as he drew near. Iain waited until he drew a few breaths and came to a halt before him. James shook his head. "Aye, wolves indeed. I was worried I'd not make it here by nightfall. Why, I had to detour around the friendly Shepherd himself!"

Iain raised his eyebrows. "You went around that peak? It's no wonder you're hours late, man!" He made no mention of the way James was dressed: innocuously enough, with a simple plaid and a cloak against the wind and rain despite the decidely summery-clime for this time of year. It was just so out of character. His white shirt was mostly hidden beneath his travel-stained cloak, betraying the origins of fine lace and linen under his uncharacteristic dress. Indeed, the midgies would have feasted well had they both been not used to living out-of-doors. The Graham usually dressed up, not down; nothing ostentatious, mind; merely well as befitted a man of his station and breeding. But nothing could disguise Lord Graham's elegant movements, the pride in his bloodline and heritage implicit in the grace with which he moved. He was a spare, lean figure but his appearance was made larger than life by the pure beauty of his face. Not to say that he lacked masculinity - in that department he was virile enough, for despite his rather slight frame and stature he carried himself as a noble born and bred. His eyes were a deep gray and thoughtful, his mouth betraying a subtle humor. His serious countenance once broken by a smile positively glowed with disarming charm. His hair was fastidiously kept, though it surely proved a task for he had an abundant mane of chestnut curls. The fashionable, pointed beard and tiny moustache that he kept neatly trimmed to a minimum did nothing to hide the vitality and vigor of his youthful idealism, though he was no longer a stripling. A true cavalier, and didn't he look it. Iain suspected he was edging thirty, though could not remember off-hand the age he'd been when he'd seen him leave for Europe after that wayward sister of his. Twenty? There was an implacable strength and integrity in his very bearing that made all respect him upon first meeting, softened only by his carriage, a demeanour which could only be likened to a stag. A very noble cavalier. Iain had himself likened him in verse to a king's son in more ways than one.

All in all, quite a change from the slight, boyish figure who had left for Europe to search for his eloped sister so many years before. Beside him, Iain felt coarse and rough; he had never noticed it before, nor minded it in other company. But then, he'd not seen him for a long while. Their relationship had consisted purely of verses exchanged across the distance between lonely Glen Etive and the Graham's various residences - Kinnaird, Kincardine and Brechin. For a moment, he wondered; the unlikeliness of their abiding friendship, the Bard of Keppoch and the Graham... but he knew the glue that held it together was a profound respect that James had for him and his ready coin and supper for any poet who called in at his castle. Not to mention Iain's own steady support as a slightly older man, a Highland native and advocate of the King's cause, though privately he harboured a much deeper regard for James that went way beyond what even he dared ken. When strong drink made him too honest he knew there existed something akin to hero-worship in his heart, though why he kept this hidden even from himself, he could not say.

Iain added, "Did you meet any sentinels at the entrance to this glen of mine? I'd `a thought this was too lonely a place to be watching out for such as yourself."

"Aye, a few Campbells camping out. Naught to worry. I hope you weren't fussing in dread over my foolish bones? What a bracing climb! Come, let's eat; I'm starving!"

He sat himself down by the fire and removed his boots, wearily stretching his legs out before him.

Iain dished out stew into two pans and handed one over with a suspicious eye. "Where's your horse, Jamie?"

He only laughed. "Grazing in the copse down there. Don't worry, I tethered him. He prefers it down with the deer to standing up here on this windy hill all night. Not that I'm complaining, mind. I envy you this spot. So peaceful. Far removed from that hectic, politic rabble. I've had a bellyful of it, all of it."

Iain sat likewise, his bowl before him, wondering at the young lord's tone. James had always been the relentless and untiring champion of the Royalist cause, in fact any cause that begged justice and truth, yet he seemed ill at heart and disillusioned. Aware he was pressing the matter, he said, "Is aught amiss? I've never known you to lose a battle yet; nor an argument, at that."

"Nay, my friend. Another kind of battle, a losing one that I cannot hope to win, yet must try anyway. I can't abide the hypocrisy and decadence that seems to be the primary corrupting force of this fair land at this time. I noticed it when I returned from Europe - my sister..."

"Have you had any word of her?"

"No." Jamie was curt, obviously not wanting to digress. "But it all seems to have increased in the last few years. It will be a hard winter for them, I promise before God!" His cultured lowland accent of course stood out, particularly when he became heated about something. He would betray himself sometime if he weren't careful, thought Iain. What with his forgetting to address in Gaelic and being unable to disguise himself. Not that it was his fault. And not for the first, Iain felt a twinge of jealousy. Well, not everyone could be born an earl. Funny, that he actually looked the part whilst the others more resembled elderly dried lizards. But it remained a liability for James that no matter how careful the disguise he donned, he could never hide his identity from others. It was particularly the way that he moved and carried himself, as though he were a monarch himself. Ironically, this was all very unconscious.

Iain regarded his fervent expression. Jamie's eyes were haunted with unspoken musings and lit with a keen vengeance; he was thankful that he was his friend, not foe. Quietly, he said, "How long has it been since you could forget all that for a while? What have you been doing since you returned? Have you written anything?"

Jamie grinned at him, gratefully. "That is what I've been looking forward to. I can honestly say that I was able to enjoy travelling here. Often I'm moving so fast that I can barely register my surroundings. And at night, too! How I envy you, with your life of an itinerate, lyric dreamer, welcome at every door, calmly lazing about up here in the Highlands. I enjoy the hills and the paths round here, particularly."

"You also enjoy dashing about," Iain scoffed accusedly. "So, out with it!

What have you composed?"

Hesitating, Jamie threw him a glance and pretended to be engaged with his stew. But Iain was patient and continued to glare at him. Finally, Jamie threw down his spoon. "Yes, alright; enough. I admit I've done nothing, I have no offerings. Nothing finished, anyway. That doesn't mean that we cannot compose some now, on the spot. However," and Iain braced himself, for he could feel it coming, as he usually could, "I give you my solemn, sworn oath, upon my honor, the King, upon his cause and the loyalty I bear him, that I will always in future enactments of war and other tragic melodramas write such words of stirring glory or misery as move me. And I shall make time to send them to you."

Iain raised his brows and lifted his spoon to his mouth as he replied around a mouthful. "Very dramatic. I thank you; I, in turn, swear to always return the favour. Favour? Honor, rather! Whereas I, on the other hand, have composed various pieces in my hours of indolence and sloth that you may find passable. I've got them inside." He motioned with a jerk of his chin towards the dimly-lit croft behind them, sheltering the fire from the rising, whipping wind.

James chuckled, the humour in his face transforming him from a coldly beautiful, noble figure to a lively and easy friend. "What are they doing in there?" He brandished his spoon at him. "And after laying down my guilt so readily, too!"

Iain shook his head, grinning. "Best not to look at them now. I was drunk at the time; we should wait until we have reached that state ourselves. I'm thinking, perhaps you could tell me what you have been up to after all this time. You sent no word of events, only future dates and promises. I am short of news up here, though the place swims with Campbells. The MacDonalds have all been behind the King's cause, but there are many others who are not. Still, those who have not come forward tend to be the real allies. The Lords of the Isles may also surprise you yet, Jamie."

James shrugged and placed his finished plate on the ground. He stretched out along his side by the fire and regarded it as he pulled his cloak about him. "Be that as it may, I will not count on anything. Forgive me, my friend, I cannot bear to speak of either politics or religion this evening."

"Very well," remarked Iain, his hand going halfway to his pouch before remembering that James abhorred tobacco, especially the smoke. He didn't make a habit of it himself but only when he had visitors so he would definitely refrain in his present company. He considered getting his flask of whisky he'd been saving and decided to wait. He too stretched out, on the opposite side of the fire. "How is Magdalene? And little John, and James? I trust they are well?"

A sudden proud smile lit James' face at the mention of his sons. "Aye, they are very well. James is a sight for a father to behold and John, well, he is growing to be every part a true and brave man. I swear they do the Grahams proud. Little James takes such delight in bettering his riding skills."

Iain noticed his friend's reticence on the issue of his wife. Clearing his throat, he said, "And Magdalene.?"

Sighing, James turned to lay on his back and regard the clouds scudding across the stars which had begun to show. The giant bowl of the sky encircled by the majesty of the Etive mountains never showed the same face twice and right now they were forbidding and mysterious as if hiding the two of them within their valley-folds. "The poor dear. She doesn't understand me, what drives me, inspires me. What makes me believe in glory and honor, valor! She strives so to be supportive, wifely and good. I haven't the heart to complain of anything she does. But she is, well," he stopped.

Iain said nothing, merely nodded. Waited. Obviously the good woman, married to her childhood friend at sixteen and having not seen him for many years, had been taken aback to find her boy-husband returned from Europe a grown man with a man's notions rather than the fancies of the adolescent she had married. And she'd not been the only one; no doubt the father, Lord Carnegie, under whose roof his daughter remained at Kinnaird Castle, had also found Lord Jamie changed.

James burst out, certainly needing someone to express all of this to, "She is a good and dutiful spouse. But her mind belongs to her father and her heart to her sons. There is no room for me. Oh, to be sure she is my wife in deed as well as name but there is only that." He shook his head. "We were starry-eyed once, happy to be comfortable in the security of being wedded. I believe - I believe that our children are the only thing that keep us together, now."

Sympathy rose in Iain. "Well," he answered, attempting to give some words of encouragement, "many marriages, especially ones begun so young as yours, need children and duty to keep them going. Often affection and duty take the place of love."

"Love?" scoffed James. "There is no romance in the thing at all. It is an institution, no more. My one love has always been this land and its freedom. No one person can ever take the place of that. My heart is Scotland's, forever."

This new attitude of James' was a slightly less idealistic and rather depressed view than was his previous wont. Iain was sure that it was his years and experiences with Scotland's nobles that had so disappointed him, not just his maturing in Europe. But this was too miserable. He had to bolster his friend's spirits. He grinned at him. "Well, how is she to compete with a mistress like that?"

James ruefully lay back, relaxing once more. "You're right, of course. But even dear silly Kate, though a woman, could understand what I'm on about!"

"Oh, aye! And she being your close sister, a firebrand and now lost to that dark warlock who tempted her away..."

"Well, I'm hardly alone. There's Archie Napier, and his wife - not to mention yourself," James dissembled.

Iain laughed outright at him. "I'm every bit as much a man as Lord Napier, Jamie. I wonder if the climb hasn't addled your wits. Or was it all the weeks you've been spending in Holyrood of late?"

James' brow lifted. "I, in Edinburgh? Give me your lonely Shepherd's peak over that farce any day! Nay, I've been hieing round the provinces, trying to gather clan support. And see here, you've got me going again. Enough of this. Do or do you not have anything to drink?" He rose to a sitting position, glaring over at Iain accusatorily.

"Very well," rumbled Iain, feigning resignation. He got to his feet. "I'll bring it out." He went into the cottage and retrieved the bottle he'd been saving, as well as two beakers. "This is the spirit for tonight. A good brew of mine, if I dare say so myself."

"You distilled this?" Jamie sat up straight, gingerly taking the proffered cup from Iain. He lifted it to his nose while waiting for Iain to seat himself. "Dare I try?" he quipped in speculation.

Unable to hide the smug pride from his voice, Iain replied, "Aye. I've been saving it up now for two years. I kept it under the loose floorboard. Wouldn't do to have roving Campbells stealing it." He lifted his hand high and said with a little more solemnity, "To your good health and success, m'Lord. May the Graham ever remain in Heaven's regard."

James scowled a little. "And let us add, too, to our long and lasting friendship - may we always remember each other in our prayers, whatever the future brings. There are clouds gathering on the horizon and they stretch much farther south than Edinburgh."

He lifted the cup higher and then drank.

Iain hesitated briefly, then followed suit. He looked away and waited a few minutes before asking, "Do you refer to the King's troubles with English Parliament? Or to Ireland?"

James shrugged. "Does it matter? He is beset on all sides, and at home as well as abroad. Shameful, that there is no-one without who would lend aide to our monarch but then they have wars enough of their own."

Suddenly, the thought struck Iain: that perhaps his dear friend was no longer happy. His one enduring impression of Jamie Graham was of a serious mind and a cheerful, composed countenance who was easy to smile and given to good humor. But now his strong, deeply religious and righteous soul was riding the waves of a turbulent sea. "Are you troubled, Jamie?" he asked, quietly.

James gazed down at the fire, thrust a branch into it, turning it, the sparks flying up and lost in the wind that caught at them as it blew from behind the croft. "No, but there are troubles coming. And, I fear, war."

Iain closed his eyes momentarily. "So the summer reveries are over. Ah well, there’s glory and valorous deeds to be had as well as blood spilled."

"Hm. And perhaps, though the danger to yourself would be as great, you would accept the invitation to travel with what army I can muster, to compose romantic epics of the glorious blood-spilling of clansmen on our soil?"

Iain stared at him. "You think I would not? By Our Lady, you'd have to imprison me if you didn't want me following the troops' progressions - you know I can out-march you over hill and heather."

James shook a finger at him. "Aye, but not a true march, my friend. You'd have to stay behind with the women and camp-followers. It'd be the safest thing, after all. I'll not see our nation's treasure so endangered."

Iain sucked in a breath. "Now you do sorely jest with me. But be warned, my pen is mightier than yours, and we have yet to see what your sword can do. Or are you but wild boasts? Your little skirmishes with the Royalists are nothing to what you may have to face with the Covenant troops you yourself led against them!"

James grinned at him. "You would challenge me?"

"You misunderstand. I challenge you to a duel of words. Let the best man win, once we have soused ourselves." And he held up the bottle of whisky once more, wickedly. Iain made a great show of pouring it out and insisting on filling their cups over again, but he could not help regarding his friend surreptitiously. His spirits appeared to have lifted, so that was all well and good. But what was this sweet ache that had grown within his own breast? He longed to comfort James somehow. He respected him too much to dare follow that train of thought very far, yet his could not keep his eyes from straying along the length of his body down to his stockinged feet. He even had to suck in his breath at one point and keep to his own cup, for surely his own laughter was slightly strained and unhinged. And yet - the boy truly had become a man, and in a way that surely tugged at the interest of other men as well as the ladies. Iain scowled to himself, privately, pretending that his glowers were aimed at his now-empty cup but in truth he was uneasy.

He had never hidden his adoration or respect from this man but now, alone together amidst this setting that they both enjoyed so well, it became... inescapable. It disturbed him, for he'd never felt so inclined toward any other man in his life. Every time Lord Jamie's lips curled up in a smile as their light-hearted banter continued, Iain found himself wondering what it would be like to press his own mouth to his; warmly, intimately. To hold down the smaller, younger man beneath him and feel his body moving under his, desperately, even passionately... This would never do, he berated himself once more, catching himself in the act of actually fantasizing of physical union, forbidden caresses. And a sudden notion came to him. Aye, he loved this man, more than any woman who had ever inspired his romantic poet's heart, especially because he was so much more than a mere man, an extraordinary individual. Others certainly worshipped Montrose in their own ways but he feared this was becoming an obsession. Suddenly, jealousy bit deep; that all he should have was this brief, shared interlude and that unappreciative, ungrateful woman should have his affections so chastely and so dutifully, so exclusively...

"My dear bard, have you heard a word I've said?" Jamie's eyebrows were lifted, regarding him with an amused and quizzical expression.

"Eh?" He started. "My apologies, milord, I was worried I'd gone dry again." He pointedly frowned into his cup again.

"Yes, you seem to be knocking it back with abandon tonight," commented Jamie drily. "Drowning your sorrows or some such. But you still haven't answered me."

Uh-oh. "Er, which part?"

Jamie stared at him thoughtfully for a moment. Then swirled the contents of his own cup and said, before draining it, "Upon my offer."

"W-which one?" Mercy on me, he thought, had the drink loosened his tongue as well as his brains? He'd have to watch what he said.

The Graham's left brow rose pointedly. "To share your latest verses. As I mentioned earlier, I have started a composition that needs revising by some notable figure in the field. Yourself, perhaps."

"Oh, very well," he grumbled, rousing himself sufficiently to stagger back into the wee croft in the dark and shuffle through his books. He finally laid hands upon the parchment in question and brought out the binding with it to shelter it from stray raindrops should they appear. The sky was now dark and the Shepherd did not look to be lenient with them tonight. He cursed his own flushed face heated by the drink as he took his place by the fire once more. A glance at James showed the drink had not spared him either, though he rather suspected it was more becoming upon his countenance. In fact, Iain mused despite himself, Jamie's skin was fair enough to betray even the slightest stain of rose and the heat brought out a healthy glow that was too becoming. At least in his present state. He forcefully cast his eyes down to the pages and mumbled, "I have committed them to memory, of course, but I would not wish to marr the rhythm by stumbling."

"And you're drunk," Jamie added, grinning.

"Yes. Now, here. 'To all who hold such places dear, as true as honor'd hearts may be, none may hold this fair one near, though live 'neath skies as free, for she is grander than all designs, beyond all mortal schemes, and she created in Heaven's signs, the hope of all men's dreams.'" He intoned softly, growing ever more slowly towards the end of his recital, lost in his own words and lost in the feeling of them. He read the poem in its entirety, feeling the rising swell of the magic, the spell of writing. The bewitchment that words cast upon the mind and eye. He looked up suddenly. "Not as good as your own offering, I daresay. I have treasured the one you sent me, 'My Dear and Only Love'. I confess that one has inspired me."

Jamie shrugged. "Be that as it may, yours is your own. I cannot claim to see a resemblance but for the subject. Fair Scotland." Iain was scowling at him. "What?" he demanded, "Why glower at me so? I only speak the truth; you know me better than to think I'd flatter you."

Iain shook his head. "No, I want to hear your piece. I have a suspicion that it is more than worthy."

But Jamie only sniffed in reply and composed himself for a moment, to gather his memory up. "Well. 'When Heav'n's great Jove had made the world's round frame, Earth, water, air and fire; above the same, the ruling orbs, the planets, spheres, and all, the lesser creatures in the Earth's vast ball: but, as a curious alchemist still draws, from a grosser metals finer, and from those, extracts another, and from that again, another that doth far excel the same, so fram'd he man of elements combin'd, t' excel that substance where he was refin'd, but that poor creature, drawn from his breast, excelleth him, as he excelled the rest, or as a stubborn stalk, whereon there grows, a dainty lilly, or a fragrant rose, the stalk may boast, and set it's virtues forth, but, take away the flower, where is it's worth?'" He fell silent. He lay back, his eyes closed, the firelight dancing on the shadows and planes of his face. Presently, he said, "I have spent too long concerned with transient things, Iain. I long to replenish my spirit with simple verse and the smell of the heather here. This gathering storm has swept me up and now I am powerless to fight the pull. The current is too strong." He opened his grey eyes and gazed directly into Iain's own, the simple action so direct that a shock of quite indefinable proportions stabbed at Iain's belly and he felt his heart constrict with the surge of emotion that arrived upon its heel. He was quite incapable of interrupting as the Graham continued, "There are sadly very few kindred souls such as yourself who can actually find the beauty in words to describe the scene as fits. My own offerings are quite paltry compared to yours. What they own in conviction are lacking in beauty and they are quite crude despite my sincerity."

"Nonsense! 'Tis the sincerity that holds the beauty." Iain himself was quite sincere. "What have you called it?"

"Ah. You could not tell, from the obvious remarks about creation and man?" Jamie was jesting with him.

"Just tell me what it is," stated Iain.

"'In Praise of Women.' It is not finished," he added, hastily. "There are a few more lines I'm working on. As soon as I complete it, I'll write it up and send it to you."

Iain couldn't help rolling his eyes heavenwards. "M'Lord Montrose, you are quite incorrigible. I can do nothing with you; you're beyond all hope. Be careful, lest you flay the wrong man with that wit of yours sometime. Those who stand against you have no idea that your pen is as mighty as your sword."

"I have hardly yet drawn my sword!" Jamie laughed. "And I meant only to thank you in gratitude for your friendship. For it is as I said: there are very few who share the love of verse as we do. I have but few acquaintances who can claim a poet's soul."

"Fine," Iain conceded. "Shall I offer my services then, as a learned scribbler, to tutor your lines to completion?"

"Ah. And what other areas do you find me lacking, I wonder? I'm sure that your pen is mightier than my blade."

Iain stared. "I can't think what you mean by that."

"Can you not?" Jamie was wearing an enigmatic smile, his head propped upon his hand, one hand tightening the end of his cloak about him against the wind which was now beginning to blow sparks from the dying fire. "You have composed verses raising me to the level of a king's son, haven't you? You could just as easily bring me lower than that snake, Argyll. A cattle reaver, perhaps. Or even a Catholic."

"Now that is going to far," exclaimed Iain in mock severity. "I? Question your devotion to the Protestant cause, after defending it so staunchly against Charles and his bishops? Perish the notion, m'Lord!"

But his sarcasm had not gone astray and Jamie actually laughed out loud, the laughter caught by the gusts of wind as Iain finally gave in and poked a stick at the fire.

"We should go in, I think," Iain suggested. "T''is not getting any lighter yet. And I don't want you running about the hillsides after dark in a drunken condition. Too many roving Campbells."

The fire had been too sheltered by the slight rise of the rocky outcropping surrounding them to betray their presence to anyone beneath that particular altitude. James followed Iain into the little shed. Iain roused the smouldering hearth and set it going, a much happier flame than the one outside. And turned to find the Earl of Montrose stretched out as contentedly as a born-crofter on the mat on the floor. He sat down, afraid to examine the feelings that arose as he realised that he had the man himself in his dwelling, on his bed.

Drowsily, his voice slurred by drink, James remarked quietly, "Don't wake me, my friend, for the morrow is ours. I have a particular urge to take a boat upon Loch Etive in the rising sun."

Iain commented, "I thought that your time was precious. Are you not meant to be back by the morning after?"

"Actually, yes." James cleared his throat. "By Heaven Above, you would begrudge me a single day of truancy?! I think I have earned it, do you not?

Besides, Magdalene will hardly miss me."

The mention of his wife's name sent a burning brand of jealously spiking through Iain again and he hardly knew he spoke as he retorted, "That simple-minded, disloyal trollop hardly comprehends what she has, and abuses you in ignorance and misplaced marital dudgeon! She certainly doesn't deserve a husband as true nor as possessing such honor fit to replace the king himself! I wouldn't be surprised if she had accepted any man her father chose for her. It was only fate that decided you to be her nearest neighbour. And I doubt that even at this moment she thinks of you, but instead lies stiff and cold beneath her borrowed covers in her father's house, worrying that your 'wavering' loyalties to king and covenant may place her father's good name at a disadvantage. Nary a thought to your sufferings in the name of valor and what is right!" He spat the words out heatedly, before he realized it and belatedly caught himself mid-tirade. He closed his mouth and swiftly glanced at James, who was propped up on both elbows regarding him in utter astonishment. He wished he had kept his mouth shut and leaned back against the wall on the other side of the hearth, awaiting Jamie's disapproval at his strident, shaming abuse of his wife in his presence, and in her absence. But it didn't come. Instead, James seemed lost for words, for once. It took a lot to do that and for a moment Iain wanted to enjoy the triumph. To catch the Graham off-guard, who always had a ready reply, eloquent and with a strong command of several languages under his employ, was no mean feat.

James' voice had a note of respect as well as surprise. "She is only a woman, after all. By my faith, Iain, she can hardly help herself. It's her father that is to blame, he keeps her torn between he and I and unfairly I might add. That's most likely to end now that I have taken King Charles' side at last. It was my alliance and my part in the Covenant that was disapproved of by the family, not me or my person."

"Forgive me, Jamie," begged Iain, quite contrite. "It was the drink; I had no right to speak of her in such a manner."

"Nevermind. I quite agree with you, in any case. It is partly her that inspired me to write 'My Dear and Only Love'. What good is love if it cannot stand up in honor and truth against what is evil and unjust?"

"Quite." Iain was mortified to find himself frighted now to even lie down beside him. He was worried at the feelings raging inside him. This was more than respect or love for a comrade, a companion and a friend. It was more than the fancy for a fair face. It was more than devotion to a lord or even a king. This went beyond the bounds of propriety. This was love, but love of a sort he had never imagined could exist within him. He wanted to follow him like a hound through whatever venture he might pursue, and to hold him close against any ill; to comfort and support him if he should need in any way, and be with him in both companionship and- and what? To lie with him like a common street-wench? he asked himself in scorn. The thought of James atop Magdalene filled him with rage, loneliness, despair and even a little frisson of excitement. Did she lie beneath her lord and husband like a limp fish out of the loch, or did she writhe beneath him with unbidden, unwanted lust? Did she feel shame at arousal, or did she indeed feel nothing but a sisterly fondness for a man she had known as a child?

"You've gone very quiet," James observed, "I cannot help but wonder if you've gone morbid as is your wont at this stage of the drinking process."

Hastily Iain acknowledged, "You know me too well. You must not worry, for you won't have to talk me out of it. I do think we should sleep, anyway, if we intend to drift around Etive in the morning. I'll need my rest if I'm to make it through that, first thing."

With one eye open, James muttered, "Hm. Your judgement is still fairly gone, my friend. Surely you don't mean to sleep with your back hunched up against the wall?"

Swallowing, Iain got up and tended the fire. After dithering about he finally could not put it off any longer and stretched himself out awkwardly beside him on the floor, on the mat previously laid down adjacent to his. After a few moments however, he knew the cold wind outside was reached its fingers in to pluck at them and he got up to gather the blankets by the light of the glowing embers. When they had settled down and an amiable, tacitly agreed silence sprang up, Iain lay awake in the dim confines of the cottage, whose walls seemed to be fluctuating wildly with the half-light and the whisky which still sang in his blood. He offered up a silent prayer to be able to forget the warmth and the sound of the quiet breathing that emanated from the man beside him. Sure enough, he'd always been fond of Jamie the lad, and as he'd always been, James the Lord and Nobleman, the Friend, but... James the King's General and Champion? James the Lover? He looked over at him. He was seemingly asleep, his breathing slow and even. He felt the stirring in his groin and the heated tingle as it gripped him. He fought the urge to reach over, to touch him. So close. He closed his eyes and turned away, sighing. What would he think of him if he knew? Where did James himself draw the line? Would he be angry, disgusted? Offended? Secretly pleased or flattered?

He tried to ignore the fact that James was lying a few scant inches away and busied his whirling thoughts with musings on what they would do in the morning. An unexpected day granted him with his favorite, truest friend. What a boon! Thoughts of his boat and the possibility of swimming should the day prove clear and warm rose to occupy his mind sufficiently. Before he knew it, he was drifting off in the whisky haze.

It was many hours later and a cold, pale light was in the sky as he awoke with a start. The fire was dead. He felt stiff and uncomfortable; cold, even. His thoughts were fuzzy but his mind wasn't, the effects of the whisky had long worn off. In fact, he needed to relieve his bladder desperately. He sat up groggily, startled by the sight of James' feet sticking out from under a blanket beside him, silent and prone. The instantaneous rush of memory brought him fully awake and he carefully crept outside to go relieve himself behind the croft. Dawn was not far away. He was shivering soon, as he stood surveying the mist as it settled all about the mountains and curled around the hillsides like ghostly dragons. The golden stream finally dwindled and he absently shook himself. He was momentarily distracted, standing there holding his own cock, because he began wondering if he were to physically enjoy union with Jamie, would he be too big? Would he hurt him? Never having engaged in such congress, he had only imagination based on crude jests and description to go on. By the time he got back inside the relative warmth of his croft, his teeth were nearly chattering. As he settled himself back down quietly, he gingerly wished for a moment simply for heat's sake that he could press himself against the back of the man who lay on his side, facing away from him towards the wall. And then he remembered that would mean touching him; putting his arms around him, even. And then he thought, why not? Slyly, so as to make him think that he was only seeking warmth, himself.

Innocent in itself, the act. Nothing to arouse any suspicion of unnatural desire or intent. Hardly breathing, he edged forward and wondered how to proceed. He felt clumsy; should he be too forward now, he'd undoubtedly wake him. He decided to just lean against him. There, no harm done. And now one knee pressed into the inside of his, just like that. Now, don't move. Wait.

Tired as he was, Iain almost dozed off once more. The sudden shifting startled him awake as James stirred, unconsciously drawn by the warmth of his body so close to him. He pressed back against him, leaving Iain to inhale sharply as he felt the full impact of James' back and shoulders against him through his light shirt and blanket, his thighs resting against his. Iain's skin was burning, he could feel the heat from James searing him through the clothing they both wore. To his mortification, he felt himself growing quite hard from the continued contact. Not to mention also from the knowledge that it was James Graham of Montrose laying with him spoon-fashion in his sleep. Iain wondered how much he should shift his hips back lest his erection actually press against James in any way. But he lost this completely as James sighed deeply in slumber, settling back even more. It was easy now to put an arm around him, holding him in place in this current embrace. He didn't want to move; this was too wonderful. And there was nothing wrong with holding him in mutual comfort, friendship and warmth, was there? His conscience pricked him at that thought, for he knew very well that he was taking advantage of a situation that James might very well disapprove of had he been awake. After all, that was no sheathed blade or mere stick that was prodding against the sleeping man's upper legs. But he was paralyzed. Seemingly of its own volition, his cock had decided that this was the most excellent thing that had ever transpired and refused to go down. He gave up trying to will it so and surrendered to the pure pleasure of holding the Earl of Montrose in his arms.

It would be so easy to slip his hands down along his waist, to his hip, to his bare skin... no, no! Don't do it. He swallowed, trying to stop the trembling in his legs and hands. He didn't want him to wake.

But James sighed again, leaning his head back farther so that Iain couldn't help but find himself lost in the fragrance of his thick and glorious hair, laced with some unnamable spicy scent. He couldn't place it and after mulling it over as he breathed it in, realized it was James' own scent, not some expensive herbal wash. A tremor shook him, not of cold this time but of undiluted lust. He pressed his face close behind James and against the back of his neck. His arms tightened around him, his heart threatening to burst in his chest. Indeed, the pounding of it was loud in his own ears and thudded harshly in the silence. That alone would awaken him, he feared. But he was no longer thinking, for James moaned softly in his sleep and moved against him once more. Too late now, for if he pulled away he would most definitely wake him...

The sleeping lord was now pressed completely against him quite comfortably. Iain could hold out no longer and planted a slow, warm kiss on his neck, followed by another. He found himself mouthing his neck tenderly, his lips moving to just behind his ear. He was intoxicated. His arm tightened around him instinctively to hold him in place. There was no mistaking the little shudder that ran through Jamie as Iain continued to kiss him gently. So he stopped. Jamie moaned again, the sound piercing him to the core. He wanted to hear him cry out. With pleasure. He lessened his grip, worried that the shaking of his limbs would yet betray him. He found himself wondering if Jamie imagined he was with Magdalene, or with another woman, was dreaming of it while he held him. And then he wondered if Jamie were as hard as he just now. Sheer curiosity overwhelmed him and he decided to dare it: he moved his hand down along his chest, past his flat stomach, to feel through the blankets wrapped around his body. Sure enough, there was a telltale bulge. He grinned behind him. And moved his hand up again only to slip it between the covers and beneath his breeches.

His skin was hot and delicious. Iain's hand moved lower, finally encountering Jamie's hard shaft. He was rigid and Iain moved his thumb over the slit, wetting the head with the copious precum. This illicited an involuntary gasp from Jamie who brought up his own hand to grasp Iain's through the thin, coarse material of the clothing. Iain froze but Jamie didn't take his hand off of him, merely began to move in a motion that quite robbed him of breath and made his head swim. Sleeping or not, James wanted him unmistakably to continue. Well, who was he to deny him anything? He began to pull on his long, slender member with long, gentle strokes. Continuous shudders now racked Jamie, sending his body jolting against Iain's own hard erection which made matters worse for him. Every time Jamie's upper thigh rubbed against his now-raging hardness, he fought against the desire to simply push him onto his stomach and strip down his clothing to reveal his naked ass. The thought of it made him pump Jamie's cock faster and now Jamie was almost bucking in short, irregular staccato movements. He gave up pretending and eagerly mouthed Jamie's neck once more, even nibbling on his earlobe. His cock was hot in his hand, and pulsing with the anxiety for release. But the confines of his clothing made it difficult for Iain to do the job properly and he found Jamie's own hand jerkily attempting to pull his clothing away. Iain let go his throbbing cock and pulled his hand out, sitting up and quickly throwing the blankets off of the both of them, like lightening. He divested himself of his own clothing right enough. He helped Jamie out of his shirt and then stripped the breeches down past his knees, off of his feet, to be discarded on the floor. He quickly pushed him down upon his stomach and moved to lay upon him full-length.

As he carefully wedged his own thick cock between Jamie's smooth, pale buttocks, Jamie convulsed slightly, obviously worried. But Iain only settled upon him warmly, his hands moving to pin Jamie's arms under him, using his superior weight to keep him prisoner beneath him, just as he'd envisioned the previous evening. He didn't move further, not wishing to alarm him. He simply enjoyed holding him there, kissing the back of his neck softly, knowing Jamie's cock was trapped beneath his own stomach and the mat, and that his own cock was dripping so steadily he wouldn't need to avail himself of the lard beside the breakfast provisions. Ah, the moment of truth, of glory. The anticipation of a pleasure so painful that it made him shudder atop the smaller man.

Jamie was whispering something and Iain leaned close. Jamie was repeating himself. "Please, please..."

A wave of heat washed over Iain and he found himself gripping him even more tightly, rocking slightly with his ample cock still lodged firmly in place. "So, my lord wants to be fucked, does he?" he growled hoarsely, feeling the sweat trickling from his arms and sides onto Jamie's skin. If this was sin, then surely the volcanic heat would sear them senseless in sulphur and brimstone if they proceeded further for Iain had gone too far to stop now. James began bucking back against him, the act of doing so rubbing Iain along the length of his crack and transporting him to another realm of desire. He realised that this was precisely what he'd been wanting, had been yearning for since they'd first met. And amazingly, Jamie seemed to share the sentiment! So much for waiting... he drew back carefully and pressed the tip of his cock against Jamie's waiting rosebud mouth, so tight, and pushed slowly. Resistance at first, with Jamie going rigid with tense pain under him, but the slickness of his own arousal lent aid and even Jamie's virgin hole could not help but surrender to this slow penetration. As it went on, and on, each progressive inch was more devastating than the one before, and still he pushed forward. The charge had been mounted and he felt Jamie's buttocks clamp on his cock like a hot vise. But no matter how stiffly he held himself beneath Iain, the thick, erect cock that speared him thrust deeper and deeper until finally, after agonizingly slow minutes later, it was buried to the hilt.

Panting above him, Iain stopped where he was lodged so deliciously and whispered tenderly, "Are you alright? Do you want me to pull out?" As if Jamie would believe that he would stop, now... now that he had finally claimed his body and proven that his sword was, after all, mighty in its own right.

"No! Just - just give me a moment!" Jamie's breathing was as labored, and strained as he added, "I didn't know it would feel like this."

"I don't want to hurt you. You must tell me-"

"No, I'm alright! Just let me adjust. I - I want this. I always have."

Iain pressed his cheek to his, saying softly, "Not as much as I. I have wanted to do this to you for years."

There was a moment's silence and then James burst out, "By Our Lady, what kept you, man?! If I'd only known..."

Chuckling slightly, Iain said with as much relief as mirth, "I'm just glad I'm the first."

"First?"

"To have you, m'Lord Montrose. Or didn't you know; half the population of Scotland's youth are in love with you?"

"What?! Don't talk havers! That's absurd."

"Is it? Everyone claims you are an angelic herald from the divine king Himself."

This bordered on blasphemy and in outrage, Jamie attempted to struggle out from under him. But Iain was ready for it and grasped him once more. Lifting himself up and settling down between Jamie's spread legs which were still firmly in place, he began pulling his cock out and then forced himself into him a little more roughly. His hands went to his hips to help him balance himself as he did so. This brought a gasp from James that Iain was quite overcome by and could no longer help himself as he repeated the action again, and then again, beginning a steady rhythm as he pounded his arse with more abandon.

Crying out, James found himself thrusting his hips back to meet each collision with a sensual surrender that surprised his sensibilities no end. This, James said silently to himself, was what had been missing in all his sexual escapades with women, and he'd certainly had no dearth of experience - what with all his travels in the exotic East and courts of Europe. But never this; perhaps it was the mutual regard in which they both held each other that stimulated this final coupling to higher heights of requitement than he could ever have imagined.

Iain was thrusting faster and faster, losing control, his own cries of passion ripped from him as he plunged into him like a rutting beast. This was pure animal, pure sensation. But he could not deny that this was way past sex now, he was fulfilling a desire that had been so long in the growing that mere release was not going to be enough. He knew it instinctively, even as the relentless motion of his fucking the incredibly sweet, tight ass beneath him increased in speed and strength until Jamie's cries under him became almost pleading. Oh, the thrill and power of being able to make this man squirm helplessly... even as Jamie spurted wildly, his voice reaching an intensity that engulfed the senses of the man driving into him, Iain felt white stars explode in his head as his own orgasm finally erupted, uncontainable, over and over, emptying into Jamie's body in a hot fountain.

Release was more than a relaxed calm after a simple sequence of spasms: Iain had a very long series of moments before he could recollect his surroundings. Speechless, he managed, "I've never felt like that. It was never like that for me before."

Jamie was quiet, breathing hard beneath him. Suddenly contrite, Iain moved off of him and grabbed a blanket to wipe himself, then turned to face the sight of Jamie laying prone yet. Now worried, he touched his shoulder. "Did I hurt you?"

"No. You have no idea, do you, you simple fool? Do you really believe this changes nothing? Faith, how can I ever face Magdalene again, now. After ... this." He rolled onto his back, his limbs relaxed in the lassitude of his afterglow. He brought his arm up to his forehead and rested it there, his eyes flickering over to Iain where he sat somewhat concernedly. Seeing his worry, James chuckled slightly and sat up, reaching over to pull him against him in a clumsy embrace. "Are you not glad that we have the day as well?" he asked, mischievously.

Iain found himself fumbling for words. "Jamie," he managed to choke out, "Do you ken at all how much I love you?" He clung to him desperately; trying to hold the sudden swelling of hot tears that tried to gather in his eyes. Blinking, he waited.

Jamie sighed against him in contentment. "Of course. I'm not blind. You blush almost as easily as I. I began to suspect last night that you had something on your mind other than poetry. But I never dreamed you'd..." he trailed off.

Iain remained as he was, holding the only man he'd ever truly loved closely and heatedly. "So final, it is. And yet still a beginning. I'm afraid once is not enough; such beauty has to be tasted again to be satisfying, don't you agree?"

Considering, Jamie replied, "Surely. But it is my turn now. 'T'is only fair, yes?"

Suddenly smiling quite evilly, Iain shook his head. "I'm afraid not, milord. You see," he said, using the advantage of surprise and pushing him down, "I am bigger than you are and this is one sport in which you cannot best me!" He took the threat from his words by covering his hot skin with feverish kisses, that white skin and flawless, fit figure; trim from exertions and with a perfectly-formed chest, his nipples standing perked by the chill air and the contrasting warm ticklishness of the kisses Iain kept bestowing. James tried to regain his position but found himself being held down yet again by his now-fervent friend. And found further that he didn't wish to struggle very hard, although his legs were being lifted now, too. The logic was after all very agreeable - a repetition of that first explosion of oceans falling and boiling pleasure screaming throughout his entire body was more than welcome. Surprisingly quickly after such a thorough exercising, his straining member agreed with him most vehemently.

Incoherently, Iain found himself saying, "Jamie, Jamie; you don't know how much I've wanted you, wanted to do this to you; wanted to fuck you, make love to you. Oh my sweet lord...to fuck you, hard...oh, Gooood!!" Quickly spearing Jamie's ass again, Iain was facing him this time and was glad of it, for now he could possess his mouth as well.

The shock of finally kissing him for the first time sent a pulse of fire shooting through his belly and his heart as he felt Jamie's lips part and let his tongue probe deeply to claim his lips, his mouth, his taste, and to enter him simultaneously, to have him as he would a woman.

That last hurtled Iain past the barrier once more and he found himself fucking him fiercely as Jamie seemed to cry out like a drowning man under him, muffled against his mouth, moaning into him, meeting his own voice to create a mingling spiral of lust that circled higher and higher. The sound of Iain's ample, tightly drawn-up balls slapping against his flesh was inescapable but matched by the sounds of a no-longer-virgin arse receiving a second lesson in lusty desire and fulfillment.

Iain scarcely noticed the tears that found freedom to be lost amidst the storm. Staring down into his eyes, he was riveted, lost in that tranquil but relentless gaze. The passionate fire in his own being was mirrored there. He found himself saying over and over, "I love you," gibbering in between kisses so deep as to be awesomely distracting.

And for once, Jamie was glad to finally lose control. There was no need for him to be in control of this, could finally admit that he did not want to. The sheer gratification of this admission filled him with such satisfaction that he was able to let go completely, to give in to the stabbing penetration that Iain was driving into him with such concentration.

As the dam broke over them, their simultaneous release spilled and exhaustedly came to a rest - it took forever to come back down.

As the dawn took its turn to break over the sky in a blaze of gold and white, the first streamers of the sunrise illuminated the perfect tableau within the high and lonely cottage in the glen - the two naked lovers inside, their hearts and bodies finally basking in the treasure they'd sought and found: each other.

END