“The Master of Stair,” said Breadalbane. “Being the Secretary and a close friend of the King, he can do what he will with Scotland.”
“Yet I do think he is the most hated man in the country,” mused the Countess. “I did notice a fury of hate in Edinburgh against his father and him—he couldna’ be more unpopular.”
“I dinna care,” smiled Breadalbane. “He has the power—and a fine ability. He wasna’ for buying the Hielands. Put the money into powder and shot, he said—and now, when we’ve been dealing with them for two years in vain—he says the same.”
“Weel, then,” she cried. “All ye have to do is to wait till after the first day of January. Then get the letters of fire and sword—and the Master of Stair will support ye.”
“Both he and his father,” he answered. “Both the Dalrymples. If any take the oaths, weel, they’ll be within the law—but, as the King said to Balcarras—let those who stay without the law, look to it—as they must expect to be left to the law.”
He rose abruptly and crossed to the fire, where the last light from the glowing embers was reflected in his cuirass.
His wife followed him with shining eyes; it was the first time even she had so enjoyed his confidence; the first time he had so spoken of his affairs, though he had always been assured of her passionate sympathy. He fell into silence as he leaned against the heavy chimneypiece and she noticed that his delicate face had fallen into lines of weariness.
“Ye look tired, Jock,” she said tenderly.
“Unlace me,” he smiled. “This thing is heavy.”
She came up and unstrapped his armor; as he shook himself free of it, he gave a sigh of relief.