XXXII
HAD anyone been keeping lookout from the crumbling walls of Crookham Castle, they could hardly have failed to spot the two horsemen as they crested the hill. Silhouetted against the rising sun, they galloped over the ridge and down a wooded slope still wreathed in the dawn mist.
But there was no lookout. The Earl of Edinburgh had hardly even considered the possibility of a rescue attempt, and consequently the garrison of the semi-derelict castle consisted of a mere five men-at-arms—all of whom were soundly asleep at this early hour.
Bothwell had hoped to take the garrison by surprise, but even he would have expected to face a far more formidable force. Yet as he and Jock Armstrong warily approached the walls of Crookham, they could only guess at what dangers awaited them within. At least he had the redoubtable Armstrong with him, Bothwell thought.
Only a few hours before, placing his trust in his own skill and daring, Bothwell had climbed out of the tower window at Norham. Climbing down that tower had been a nightmare, as the ancient masonry crumbled under his feet and hands, but somehow he had not fallen. As he sat exhausted in the shadows at the foot of the castle wall, his spirits had soared when he saw the unmistakable figure of Jock Armstrong coming towards him out of the dark. And he had not only brought the two horses, he had also taken the liberty of procuring swords, dirks and a pair of long wheel-lock pistols. What could he not achieve with a hundred rock-solid borderers like Armstrong at his back, Bothwell thought!
As they skirted round the castle walls, Bothwell and Armstrong were careful to make no sound. They had left the horses in the woods at the bottom of the hill and, taking only their weapons with them, they crossed the stream on foot. Coming to the gateway, they were astonished to find the rusting iron gate unlocked, as it swung open with a harsh creak. More importantly, it seemed to be unguarded. For a moment Bothwell began to fear they were too late, that Gavin was already dead and his captors flown. Then, from above came a cry of ‘Who goes there!’ instantly followed by the crash of musket fire and the sound of a bullet ricocheting off the gate.
Without the slightest hesitation, Armstrong rushed up the steps of the keep with Bothwell close behind, their pistols and dirks at the ready. By the time Bothwell reached the top of the winding staircase Armstrong was already struggling with the man who had fired at them. His musket, now discharged and useless, lay at his feet and the two men faced each other, dirks flashing in the sunlight that streamed in through the narrow windows. In a second it was over, as Armstrong rushed forward and drove his dirk into his opponent’s stomach. The man fell in a crumpled groaning heap, but by now his comrades were wide awake and rushing up the stairs. Two died as soon as they emerged into the light, shot clean through the head, as first Bothwell and then Armstrong fired their pistols. The others were not so bold and waited in the chamber below.
Again neither Bothwell nor Armstrong hesitated, they rushed as one down into the room below. As they hurtled through the door they were met by the shattering report of a musket, as one of their opponents fired at them from point blank range. With a terrible cry, Armstrong fell where he stood, but Bothwell rushed on, sword and dirk in hand, and ran the musketeer through with his sword. As the acrid smoke from the musket cleared, Bothwell found himself facing the last survivor of the garrison—a terrified old man who clutched an ancient sword in his trembling hand.
‘Spare me, sir, I beg you! For pity’s sake!’
Bothwell looked at the pathetic creature with disgust.
‘Put down that sword, old man. Fear not, I would not soil this good sword with your unworthy blood!’
The old man flung his sword away and collapsed, whimpering, in a corner.
Bothwell turned to look at Armstrong. He had been struck in the shoulder by the musket ball, but his wound did not look too bad.
‘How goes it Jock? I think yon fellow has made a pretty mess of your sword-arm!’
‘Aye, maybe he has,’ Jock grimaced, as the pain subsided, ‘but I doubt he’ll be doing it again in a hurry!’ And they both laughed heartily.
After tying up the old man, and binding Armstrong’s wound, they set about searching for Gavin. It did not take them long, as the first place they looked was the dungeons.
Deep in the bowels of the castle, Gavin had heard the first musket shot. Two more shots rang out, then another, then silence. Gavin strained to hear what was going on. He had almost given up hope of ever getting out of Crookham alive. And now at long last maybe his prayers were going to be answered!
The muffled sound of laughter echoed down from the chamber above, and Gavin’s heart sank. The last time he had heard laughter like that had been when Guthrie Jamieson took his leave all those months ago. If Jamieson had returned, then Gavin knew he was done for.
Then he heard the sound of heavy footsteps descending from above and coming towards the door of his cell. Gavin steeled himself to face his tormentor, but when the door burst open he was astonished to see the smiling face of James Hepburn, Earl of Bothwell.
‘Bothwell! Thank God! How did you find me?’
‘Ah, that’s a long story, my friend,’ Bothwell replied, as he swiftly untied Gavin’s hands. Looking at his friend, Bothwell was shocked at his appearance. He had clearly suffered much in the last few months.
‘For now, the main thing is to get you out of this place. I have no wish to linger here in case any more of Jamieson’s lackeys appear. I have had more than enough swordplay for one day!’
Without delay, they climbed the stairs from the dungeon and Gavin emerged into the light of day for the first time in many weeks. Then they hurried away from the castle without a backward glance. Jock Armstrong was waiting for them with the horses at the edge of the woods. He had liberated an extra horse for Gavin from the castle; its former owner would not be needing it where he was going, he told Bothwell with a grin.
From Crookham they rode west to Smailholm, a gaunt fortified tower in the hills near Melrose, and along the way Bothwell told Gavin all about his meeting with Armstrong and the escape from Norham. The Laird of Smailholm turned out to be a good friend of Bothwell’s, and he was more than happy to give the three men shelter for the night. After a long day in the saddle, and feeling the effects of his wound, Armstrong quickly took to his bed, leaving Gavin and Bothwell to talk as they sat in front of a roaring log fire.
Gavin told his friend everything that had happened—the Earl of Edinburgh’s treachery, including his plan to ruin him and steal Marie from him, and the desperate privations he had suffered during his lengthy incarceration at Crookham.
‘By God, Bothwell, I thought things were bad all those years ago when I was a prisoner after Pinkie. But this was far worse. Jamieson had left word that I was to be slowly starved to death, and his men carried out his orders to the letter. If it hadn’t been for one old man amongst them who took pity on me and passed the occasional bit of food to me, I would not be here now.’
Bothwell told Gavin about the old man whose life he had spared.
‘Yes! That was him. I am glad to hear he survived. As for the rest, they deserved no mercy.’
‘What will you do now?’ Bothwell asked.
‘I have unfinished business with Guthrie Jamieson, and I must leave at dawn for Naughton. No doubt I will find him there and, God willing, he will never see another sunrise if I have anything to do with it!’ Gavin’s eyes flashed with hatred.
‘I understand your haste, my dear Gavin, but you are in no state for swordplay just yet. I have arranged with our host that we shall all remain here for a week or so. That should give both yourself and Jock time to recover your full strength. Then you will be ready to face Jamieson.’
‘Yes, perhaps you are right,’ Gavin conceded wearily.
‘I only wish I could come with you,’ Bothwell continued, ‘but I cannot show my face just now, or I will find myself under lock and key once more. I fear I may have to take ship to France and live in exile until I can overcome my present troubles.’
‘Think nothing of it, my friend. Bothwell always keeps his word. You saved me that night in Edinburgh, and I have merely returned the favour. And now we must sleep, for we have all earned a damned good night’s rest.’
One week later, the two friends parted, Gavin galloping away to the north, leaving Bothwell and Armstrong at Smailholm. As they watched Gavin disappear into the distance, Bothwell turned to Armstrong.
‘So Jock, what’s it to be? Is your thirst for adventure quenched, or do you ride with Bothwell to who knows where?’
‘I think ye already ken the answer to that my Lord!’ Armstrong replied, and the two men turned their horses to the south and rode off into the morning mist.
XXXIII
AT Naughton Castle everything was being made ready for the banquet to celebrate the betrothal of Marie and the Earl of Edinburgh. The Queen would be there and a lavish feast was being prepared, not to mention the wonderful music and entertainment that had been arranged—all of it paid for by Guthrie Jamieson.
Effie was in her customary state of high excitement.
‘Oh Marie!’ she exclaimed, ‘at long last everything has turned out for the best! I know Gavin’s loss was a grievous blow, but that is all behind us now. Once you marry the Earl, we will never want for anything. He is such a fine and generous gentleman.’
Marie wasn’t listening, her mind was far away as she thought back over the dramatic changes that had occurred in her life. She thought once more of her childhood at Spynie, the loss of Donald, the death of Machar, and her time with the Queen in France—how long ago it all seemed now. Marrying Gavin McNaughton had closed the door on her past, she had thought; all the sadness and heartache were finished. How wrong she had been. Her life with Gavin had not been perfect, but she could never have guessed that their time together would be so short. She was proud that he had died a hero, but how she wished he had never set eyes on the Earl of Bothwell.
Now, yet again she was making a fresh start. Whatever doubts she might have had about Guthrie Jamieson, they had to be banished from her mind. And anyway, what did her own happiness matter when set against the future security of her children? If she didn’t marry Jamieson, they would have no future—Naughton would be lost and they would be ruined. What was past was past. Now, she looked to the future.
‘Marie! Did you hear what I just said?’
‘Yes, mother. I always take heed of everything you say,’ Marie replied wearily.
‘I’m glad to hear it. I expect you are preoccupied with the preparations for the arrival of the Queen?’
Marie had hardly seen the Queen since Gavin’s death, but even Mary had insisted that marrying the Earl of Edinburgh was the best thing she could do.
‘It’s what Gavin would have wanted, Marie,’ Mary had told her. ‘He and Guthrie were dear friends, and was it not your husband’s dying wish that Guthrie should look after you?’
Marie could not deny the sense in what the Queen said. But somehow she could not rid herself of the lingering doubts about Guthrie Jamieson. He had certainly done everything he possibly could for her and the children, but she could not forget his old ruthlessness and cunning. He seemed to have changed, cast off his old self, and become the true gentleman he had always pretended to be. But Marie was not sure. How could she ever be sure about a man like Guthrie?
It was too late for doubts now. The Queen would be arriving that very evening and the wedding would take place the following day. The die was cast, and Marie would have to make the best of it, for the sake of the children, if not herself.
The Queen arrived attended by her faithful companions, the four Marys, and her bodyguard of about a dozen men-at-arms. Marie greeted her in the Great Hall.
‘Your Majesty, I am honoured to see you here.’
‘I am glad to be here, my dear Marie, on so happy an occasion as this. I trust you are well?’
After a few minutes’ conversation the Queen was led away to her chamber.
The other invited guests were beginning to arrive en masse, including nearly all the great nobles and courtiers. Magnus Hepburn and the Bishop of Moray were there—even though Marie would have preferred not to invite them. But Effie had insisted.
‘How can you not invite your own father to your wedding? He may not be the man he once was, but he is still influential. This will be an excellent opportunity to bury all the differences that have grown up between you. And as for your half-brother Magnus, well, he was a close friend of Gavin’s was he not? It would dishonour your late husband’s memory to exclude him. No, they must both come to the wedding!’
For once in her life, Marie conceded, Effie was right. And she had invited them both.
Soon the Great Hall was buzzing with animated conversation as the guests greeted each other and looked forward to the next day’s celebrations. After a while they began to ascend the stairs to their chambers—a good night’s sleep would be essential if they were to enjoy the following day to the full. After checking that everything was ready for the next day, Marie too retired to her chamber and fell into an exhausted, dreamless sleep.
In his chamber at the opposite end of the castle, Guthrie Jamieson was wide awake. His mind was filled with thoughts of the past, intermingled with eager anticipation of what tomorrow would bring—the culmination of all his schemes. He could hardly believe how easy it had all been in the months since he had tricked Gavin McNaughton into going to Crookham.
Now, here he was, about to become the Master of Naughton and the husband of Marie. He remembered the first time he had ever seen her—the night he murdered Machar in this very room. The irony of it! Machar would surely be spinning in his grave! His charm and cunning had now won her over, or so he thought, and she was to be his. He wondered if he loved her. Had he ever loved anyone? And to his surprise, he found himself unable to answer either question. There was no doubt that he wanted to marry her—but perhaps he just wanted to possess her in the same way he wanted to take McNaughton’s lands? Well, what did it matter? If she bored him, if he tired of her, he would soon find a way of disposing of her.
As Jamieson blew out the candle by his bedside, his final thought was of Gavin McNaughton. ‘I think by now he has had long enough to contemplate his ruin. Tomorrow I must send word to Crookham. It is about time the young Duke really went to meet his maker.’
XXXIV
MARIE awoke early the next morning, as the pale autumn sunlight was just beginning to filter through the tapestry curtains of her four-poster bed. It was not long before her maid arrived to dress her in the sumptuous wedding gown of silk and velvet. Effie arrived soon after.
‘What a vision of beauty!’ she exclaimed as she saw Marie resplendent in all her finery. ‘This is going to be a day we will never forget!’
Marie felt numb. It was as though all this was happening to someone else. It felt as though it was nothing to do with her, that she was being dragged along by the tide of everyone else’s expectations. It had been so different the day she married Gavin.
The ceremony was to take place in the ornate chapel adjoining the Great Hall. The chapel was lit by elaborate stained-glass windows which overlooked the courtyard. Already the guests, arrayed in all their finery, were starting to assemble in the Great Hall, waiting to follow the Queen into the chapel.
When the Queen arrived, sweeping down the great staircase followed by her maids and various courtiers, an honour guard of her own bodyguard was waiting for her at the foot of the stairs.
Finally, entering through separate doorways, Marie and Jamieson came into the hall. They knelt together in front of the Queen as she gave them her blessing.
‘My two dear friends, what pleasure it gives me to see you here. May your life together be prosperous and happy.’
Then Marie and Jamieson rose and walked together towards the chapel, closely foll
owed by the Queen and the rest of the guests, amongst them the Bishop of Moray. In that vast hall, he was not the only one who found himself thinking back to another wedding celebration at Naughton, one winter’s night many years before.
Just as the procession reached the entrance to the chapel, a terrible cry rang out, echoing around the vaulting of the Great Hall.
‘In the name of God! Stop!’
Everyone halted in mid stride, looking around to see where the shout had come from.
At the far end of the Great Hall stood a dishevelled, menacing figure. His filthy, tattered clothes and his unkempt beard made him unrecognisable as the former master of Naughton Castle. Sword in hand, his mind filled only with thoughts of revenge, Gavin McNaughton had come home.
As he advanced towards them, the guests hastily moved out of his way. They had no idea who he was or what he wanted, but they could see from the look in his eye that he was a very dangerous man.
The Queen turned to Jamieson and asked, ‘Who is this fellow who comes to Naughton in rags?’
‘I have not the faintest idea, your Majesty,’ lied Jamieson, ‘but I will see he is dealt with! Guards!’ he shouted. ‘Seize that man!’
Jamieson had recognised the intruder at once. How on earth had Gavin escaped? By God he would have the heads of those idle dogs at Crookham for this! But that could wait. For the moment everything depended on silencing McNaughton before he could utter another word. Drawing his own sword, Jamieson pushed his way through the crowd and the advancing guards, before coming face to face with his nemesis.
The Queen and the wedding guests looked on aghast. No-one moved, their eyes fixed on the strange intruder and the Earl of Edinburgh. Marie rushed to the Queen’s side, unable to believe what she was seeing. Can this really be happening, she thought? Her mind reeled from the shock—she was the only other person in the room who had recognised Gavin. She tried to cry out, but no sound emerged from her mouth.
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