This time he eyed her directly. “I think, madam, that you might have left it less late in teaching me such lessons! I have been your son for some time now! And heir to Douglas for three years. I could have been learning these things before this.”
The Countess inclined her fair head. “That is true, Will — to my sorrow. You should have been prepared for the position you would hold. Many times I spoke to your father. Pleaded with him. But he would do nothing, and have nothing done. In this as in other matters, I think . . . I think that he feared you. Saw you as something of a threat. A finger, pointing. A reproach to his own sloth. He would not permit that I do anything. In this, as in much else, his commands were that he be not troubled. It was all part of his sickness. Can you understand, Will?”
“I understand that I was begotten by a slug, rather than a man!” he cried.
“Not so.” She was quietly patient. “He who begot you was no slug. Then. Was it a slug who took Berwick town from the English, in 1045, and burned it to the ground? Was it a slug who fought and slew Sir David Fleming, one of the most notable knights in Scotland? Was it a slug who could hold the offices of Warden of the Marches and Justicier-General of Scotland? My lord was all man, once. His son must not forget it. As I do not.”
Will did not speak.
“There is more that can be done to restore Douglas to its rightful place, Will, than wedding Margaret of Galloway,” his mother went on, after a slight pause. “Much more. Without recourse to the sword. There are your brothers and sisters. They must play their part. There is another great heiress in Scotland. Elizabeth Dunbar of Moray, Countess in her own right. One of your brothers should marry her. Gain with her the earldom of Moray. It is a rich heritage. Elizabeth is only young — twelve, I think. But girls have married younger than that. And my brother, Orkney, is one of her guardians.”
Her son drew a deep breath, but did not venture on words.
“One of the twins. Which should it be? You know them best, Will. Which shall be Earl of Moray?”
He shook his head, in wonder, exasperation and a kind of helplessness. “This is crazy-mad!” he exclaimed. “What are we? Cattle, to be traded? Bulls for heifers!”
Levelly she considered him. “You are the representatives of the greatest house in Scotland — that is what you are. You have run free too long, I think. Now it is time to act the man, not the child. Jamie and Archie also. Margaret and Beatrix likewise — they must play their part.”
“You would marry them off, too?”
“It is their destiny. And by the looks of them, they are ready for it. Wisely wed they can contribute greatly to the power and glory of Douglas. For Margaret, I have no doubts. The great Lordship of Dalkeith is one of the most potent branches of Douglas. Unhappilly its present lord is little more than an idiot, fatuous. But he has a brother, Harry Douglas of Borgue, unmarried and of sound mind. The lordship placed in his hands, and married to Margaret, he could serve you well — for Dalkeith disposes of much of Lothian, as well as the Morton lands flanking Galloway.”
“You have thought of it all, I see. Nothing overlooked! Save our wishes in the matter! Our desires!”
“I have had long to think, Will. Years. I knew this day would come. And someone must needs do the thinking. As to wishes and desires — what do you, any of you, know of what is best, fitting, possible? In this new situation. In this you are all still but bairns. Lacking all experience, you must be guided by me. You will perhaps thank me, one day. Desires, at your age, Will, can change with the moon. Only this desire would I vouch for — that you would, that you must, desire revenge for the hurt done to Douglas by Crichton and Livingstone. Your cousins’ blood cries out for vengeance. Is that not your desire?”
“Aye,” he said. “That, at least.”
“Then, believe me — here is how you may best achieve it.” The Countess actually reached out to lay hand on her son’s wrist, a rare gesture indeed. “You have not told me — which of the twins had best be Earl of Moray?”
He took a pace or two into the little room, and back. “Why ask me who shall be saddled with this child of twelve, for wife! It is your notion, and they are your sons. Choose you!”
She refused to be roused. “There is more to the choice than just the marriage, Will,” she told him. “You know their natures better than do I — and much could hang on this. Have you thought of it? Until you have a son of your own, one of them is heir to Douglas. You have to consider this. If you are taken — which God forbid — who would you have to succeed you as Earl of Douglas? This choice, I say, should be yours, not mine.”
That brought him to a halt in his pacing. “Surely that falls to him who was first born? They are twins — but one must have been born before the other?”
“No doubt. But who knows? I was in a swoon. As babes they were very alike. The chamber-woman confused them. None knows which came first. It mattered little, till this. Now it is important. You should make the choice. One shall be Master of Douglas, the other Earl of Moray.”
“Saints aid me — here is a hard thing! Archie has the spirit. He would ever take the lead, but not always in the right direction! Jamie is gentle, but true. He would make a better priest than an earl, I think.”
“Archie, then, would be best on the battlefield. But battles are fought but rarely. Who would be best in the council-chamber?”
“There, Jamie. Aye, Jamie, to be sure. I would trust Jamie’s head, to Archie’s, any day.”
“Very well. Then the choice is made, is it not? Let Archie play Earl of Moray and husband to Elizabeth Dunbar. Jamie will be Master of Douglas, your lieutenant, and meantime your heir. It is, I think, the choice I would have made myself — for lacking your stronger hand, Douglas would be safer with him than with headstrong Archie. So be it. I shall declare that Jamie was the first-born twin. None can assert otherwise.”
“Aye. So all is settled! To your satisfaction.”
His mother ignored the sarcasm. “Almost all, Will. I must think of a husband for Beatrix. One I had in mind — but he is not strong enough, I think. She is going to need a strong hand, that girl, if I mistake not. An older man. A widower, belike. But there is time for that.”
“No doubt your wits will not fail you in such small matter! Now — have I your permission to retire?”
“Permission? You are Earl of Douglas. The only permission you need ever seek is the King’s. Go, if you will.” She sighed just a little. “Do you hate me, Will?”
“Eh . . .? Hate? Save us — no! Why should I hate you? I . . . I scarce know you!”
She looked away quickly. It was the woman’s turn to be silent.
“Shall I send your ladies to you?”
“Thank you — no. Where . . . where are you going, Will?”
“Why — home. Where else?”
“Home,” she repeated, and there was an unusual hesitation in her normally calmly melodious voice. “Where is . . . home?”
“Ettrick, of course. Newark, in the Forest. Where else?”
“The Earl of Douglas cannot hide himself away in Ettrick Forest. Amongst the deer and outlawed men. Your father hid you there, yes. But now . . .”
‘Where would you have me go, then?”
“I had hoped, back to Abercorn with me. To be near the Court.”
“No. Thank you — but no. Not yet. You must give me time. I am not ready for that. I must consider. My head is too full, now. I must have time.”
The Countess rose. “You are your own master now. Mine also, indeed. You will do as you will. But remember always — the proudest name in all this land is in your keeping. You cannot avoid it, escape it, even if you would. You have greater opportunity than any other in Scotland — even the young King. He is a deal less free than are you. If you will take it.”
He nodded shortly. “I shall not forget it, never fear.” He crossed to the door, and opened it for his mother. The chatter of women’s voices beyond died away.
“I thank you, my lord,” Beatrix St.
Clair said clearly, as she passed him. “All shall be as you say.”
Will strode through the outer room without a glance at its highly interested occupants. He made for a narrow servants’ stairway in the thickness of the keep walling which would take him down to the courtyard without having to pass through the Hall beneath. He wanted no more interviews or advice that day.
CHAPTER THREE
WILL DOUGLAS rode through the blithe and sparkling April morning whistling to rival the larks which soared and shouted all around him, while he gazed about him eagerly, over the wide-spreading rolling countryside, appreciating, approving all that he saw. It was a scene which he had never actually looked on before, much as he had heard of it, intimately as he knew it at second hand. He picked out the various green knolls and grassy mounds, cattle-dotted and peaceful now, that rose beyond the wide valley of the winding burn, as though recognising them all. There, on that long brae, with the red roofs and grey walls of St. Ninians village showing behind — that would be Brock’s Brae, and on its summit would lie the Bore Stone where the standard of Scotland had flown so proudly that day, one hundred and twenty-nine years before. The round lump west of the village would be Cockshot Hill, where his great-grandsire, the Good Sir James, had besought Bruce to let him ride to his friend Randolph’s aid — and then stopped short when he saw Randolph prevailing, lest he should rob him of any of the glory. The forerunner, that small victory, that was to herald the mighty victory of the next day. There, near the burn itself, was a mill, the Park Mill it would be, opposite which the Scots centre had based itself that great June day. So that, to its left, in the morass, still reeds and bog, the left wing, commanded by Walter the Steward and his great-grandsire, must have waited. Waited to good effect. There stood while wave after wave of English chivalry beat through the quagmire to reach them, and went down into it until it was more blood than mud. Stood unyielding through all the livelong day, while the battle raged and surged this way and that on either flank. And then, at even, with fifty thousand English dead, Gloucester slain and Edward himself so dazed with fatigue that he had to have his bridle taken and be led off the field — then Douglas had moved at last. Moved forward now, and chased the proud English king no less than forty grim miles, killing all the way, towards Dunbar and the Border. That was the day of days, when Scotland’s freedom was forged anew — the Scotland which the jackals now rent and snarled over.
As Will rode over the Bannockburn braes, the whistling died on him. Emotions surged within. Pride, anger, doubts, confusion — and determination. Determination most of all. Those days, the days which culminated in Bannockburn, might not be wholly gone yet. The blood was still the same, surely? Ran in the veins of men. Not only in his own veins but in those of all the descendants of the men who fought so gloriously that day? Could that blood not be roused again, to cherish and uphold what Bannockburn had so dearly bought? To purge the corrupt body of the realm? To unite the nation again, and drive out the jackals? Could Douglas play the part that Douglas once had played?. . .
The young man stared on, beyond the foothill braes and knowes, northwards over the land that sank in great green waves and folds to the level plain of Forth, out of which abruptly rose the majestic tall, fortress-crowned rock of Sterling, Scotland’s stem but lovely heart, challenge and guardian in one, proudly fronting the fertile carselands, the green bastions of the Ochils, the wide blue estuary of the Firth of Forth, and all the serried purple infinity of the Highland mountains. Fronting all — and held by one of the jackals. Narrow-eyed, aware, Will Douglas rode on to Stirling.
It was three weeks since his father’s funeral. He had had opportunity to think, to talk with his brothers and with Margaret — since Beatrix alone had decided to go back with her mother to Abercorn and the high life of fashion, elegance and the Court, the other young Douglases choosing to return that same evening of the funeral the long, hilly road to Ettrick, with Will. There had been time, and occasion, for great talking, argument, declamation, discussion, and out of it all some decisions — not all of these spoken decisions. It was as an outcome of the undeclared sort that Will now made his way alone, well-mounted, well-armed but clad more like any poor Border lairdling than a great lord, on the road to Stirling.
He was well aware that what he did was open to criticism; dangerous, according to Jamie, downright foolish according to Archie, lacking in dignity according to Abbot George. Even Margaret had advised against it. But Will could be stubborn, and, the decision made, nothing would budge him. He would ride alone, unattended, to the King — but not unawares or unprepared. After all, he knew what had happened to his cousins. This was the way he must commence his warfare. For warfare it must be; of that he had no doubts.
From St. Ninians village he rode down through ever more populous countryside to the low land flanking the great river, out of which towered the mighty citadel and the grey narrow-streeted town which climbed the skirts of the castle rock. He was interested in all he saw — and there was much to see, for at St. Ninians he had joined the road that roughly followed the Forth, linking the two seats of government in Scotland, the King’s — and, more important, his guardian’s — seat of Stirling; and the Chancellor’s and Secretariat’s seat of Edinburgh. There was inevitably traffic between these. Indeed, soon after leaving the village Will suffered, not altogether humbly, the experience of being shouted at and hustled out of the way by a hard-riding tight-knit group of men-at-arms in steel and red and white livery, who swept all lesser folk clear of the road for a richly clad, fine-looking man who rode behind, attended by two esquires and a further following troop of men. Slightly flushed, and cursing indiscreetly, Will was passed without a glance. That, it seemed, was the way for lords to travel the King’s highway.
A mile nearer Stirling, it was his turn to seek passage. He was not really hurrying, as the others had been, but even so he found himself held up behind a pacing procession that quite filled the roadway — which in this low-lying riverside area was something of a narrow causeway built across undrained water-meadows where cattle stood knee deep. There were more men-at-arms here, but on foot, strolling along unhurriedly, halberds over their shoulders, chatting and laughing together. Ahead of them, Will could see two white jennets pacing side by side, with a canopied litter slung between them, and led by a couple of servitors in white surcoats over chain mail. There were further armed men in front. Will was assuming that this must be some great lady’s entourage, when he perceived that, at the front of the procession, was carried a tall cross on the end of a stave, gleaming golden in the April sunshine. Enquiries from the rearmost file of the escort as to which prelate this might be, elicited stares, facetious remarks and scorn, that anyone should be clodhopper enough not to know that this was Master Adam, sub-Abbot and Steward of the Abbey. Will’s question as to which abbey, brought forth considerable hilarity before he gathered that Cambuskenneth Abbey lay just ahead, in an almost islanded bend of the river, below the castle rock. Since by no means would the churchmen move aside to let him past — and he was damned if he was going to plouter through the mire for them — Will had time to ponder over the fact that if even sub-abbots took the road in such style, then he himself must make a notably unimpressive figure. It occurred to him, as he paced his horse, with only moderate patience, behind the clerical company, that it would have been informative to have seen how the fast-riding lordly troop had got past; possibly Holy Church would concede where pressure was sufficient.
In the busy narrow streets of the town itself, however, the lone traveller was content enough to follow on behind the sub-Abbot’s party, for however crowded the causeway, the folk all pressed respectfully aside — as well they might considering the way the escort laid about them with their halberd staves. When, at the foot of the steep ascent to the castle, the abbey party headed straight on towards Cambuskenneth and the bridge. Will found it altogether a different matter to make his individual way upwards through the idle, gossiping throng, none of whom showed any inclin
ation to stand aside for him. All Stirling seemed to be congregated in the streets this sunny forenoon, apparently with little to do. It was as well that it was a typically breezy spring day, or the smells would have turned a stomach reared in the clean air of Ettrick Forest.
At last Will, having worked his way up and up, stood on the high platform of open space before the great gatehouse of the outer bailey of Stirling Castle, under the frowning regard of battlements, bartisans, curtain-walls, gunloops and towers, from the topmost of which flew the Royal Standard of Scotland’s Lion Rampant. This was the most powerful fortress in the land, and even to Will, used to castellations, it looked daunting, not so much a castle as a bristling walled city up there crowning the summit of the mighty rock. But if the architectural impression and siting was of fierce authority, at the moment the human atmosphere was otherwise. The open forecourt was full of stir, but an easy stir. Men-at-arms strolled and chatted and laughed. Groups of horses were tethered here and there, pulling at bundles of hay. Booths were set up, like any fair, and townsfolk came and went, while children played and dogs barked. Though the great gatehouse tower looked formidable to a degree, the portcullis was up, the gates wide, and the drawbridge down over the broad ditch. All looked entirely peaceable. After noting how men passed in and out through the gatehouse pend, apparently without question, Will rode on and through. None sought his business.
He found himself in another wide space between the outer and inner baileys, evidently used as a tilting-yard, for there was quite a thick carpeting of crumbled peat strewn on the ground, no doubt very necessary for the hooves of charging horses on the naked out-cropping rock. There were lean-to buildings around this area, stables, barracks for men-at-arms, kitchens storerooms and the like. Beyond was another deep ditch, backed by a barrier of wall, in which a second large gatehouse opened, surmounted by a parapet and walk, a sort of open defensive gallery. Just now, however, it was being used as a grandstand. Many people thronged it, above the gateway and the second lowered drawbridge, looking down. Many others crowded round something that was going on below.
Black Douglas (Coronet Books) Page 6
