Black Douglas (Coronet Books)

by Nigel Tranter

  Will moved forward to the edge of the crowd. Being still mounted, he could see over the heads. A baiting was in progress. A composite baiting. A bull and a bear were involved, as well as sundry dogs. The bull was not like one of the wild forest creatures Will knew, but a big, black, heavy brute, comparatively short of hide and of horn — horns that were red-tipped now, and hide stained with sweat and in some places hanging off in bloody strips. The bear was big but very lean, its shaggy coat patchy and seeming to hang too loosely. There was a great gaping gash on the animal’s massive shoulder. Both bull and bear were shackled with iron and chains, the former on all four legs, so that it could not move freely, the latter only on the hind legs.

  There was a considerable noise, men shouting and urging on the protagonists, dogs yelping. The combatants, however, paid as little attention to the one as to the other — though there was one dead dog lying almost flattened near by. The bear, growling deeply with a steady rumbling, was slowly circling the bull, on its hind legs, great forepaws, with huge white claws, extended and weaving. The bull, head down, snorting and grunting, turned and backed and sidled awkwardly because of the shackles, breathing hate. The dogs nipped in here and there snarling, to bite at one or other of the principals — but mainly at the bull’s hindquarters, that being the least dangerous target.

  Obviously the fight had been going on for some time, for both bull and bear were showing signs of weariness and loss of blood — and the watchers were clearly less enthralled than they might have been. Every now and again, however, the lumbering bear would lash out, with almost unbelievable swiftness, with one or other of those great claw-armed paws, sometimes scoring a hit which left deep parallel rents on the sweating black hide. Less frequently the bull would make a violent, vicious twisting lunge with a short straight horn — none of which actually touched the bear while Will watched, though one sideways sweep did catch and eviscerate an already limping mongrel, to the glee of the audience.

  Personally, Will Douglas did not think much of the entertainment. After fighting wild bulls on their own ground, this shackled contest was as dull as it was unsavoury. The bear was clearly half-starved, and the bull in bad condition, and too hampered to put up a good fight. As for the dogs, they were a foolish intrusion. After only a minute or so of it, he rode on over the drawbridge and the gatehouse arch.

  Three guards in half-armour were here. They, in fact, were all standing on the stone porters’ bench that flanked the archway, the better to see over the heads of the crowd round the baiting. As Will rode up, however, they turned to challenge him.

  “Where away, fellow?” one demanded.

  “In yonder,” Will nodded. “To speak with the King’s Grace.”

  “Ha! You say so!” The spokesman eyed him up and down. “To speak wi’ the King’s Grace, quo’ he!”

  “That is what I said, yes.”

  “On what business? Eh, my cock? None pass here without good cause.”

  “My cause is good enough. And my business is with King James. And the keeper of his castle. Not with you, sirrah. I am Douglas. Let me past.”

  “Guidsakes! Hear him! Business wi’ the King! Him! . . .”

  “No horses past this gate,” a second man jerked, older than the first, as Will began to heel his mount forward. The speaker reached for his halberd, alean against the wall.

  “Very well.” Will dismounted, a little stiffly from long riding. “Take my beast.”

  “Hold his nag for him, now!” the first guard cried. “Hark to the cockerel!”’

  Will held himself in. “I will wait, then. Go tell you whoever is your master. Tell him that Douglas seeks audience with His Grace. I will wait — but not overlong!”

  “You will wait, will you! A pox — you will not! Off wi’ you — if you ken what’s good for you! D’ye think the likes o’ you can come chapping at Sir Alexander Livingstone’s door? . . .”

  “The King’s door, is it not?”

  “Ha! Watch your tongue, laddie! If you would keep it in your dolt’s head. Be off, now — before you go feet foremost!” The guard took a threatening step towards him.

  Will Douglas’s dark eyes flashed in a fashion that his brothers knew well, and respected mightily. He leaned forward just a little, swaying on the toes of his long riding-boots. “Fool!” he said softly. “I told you. I am Douglas. I will see the King. See to it, or . . . Stop you!” That was a sibilant but menacing whisper. “One hand on me, and you will rue it! . . .”

  The man’s hand dropped to his sword-hilt. He came on.

  Will acted with explosive speed. Instead of reaching for his own sword, which hung at his hip from a shoulder baldric, he jumped further forward, to grab the guard with both hands, pinioning his arms, and in the same movement, jerking him nearer, hard against himself. As he did so, his left leg kicked round behind the other’s knees. With a fierce burst of strength, in the opposite direction, he thrust the other way again, backwards. Over the bent leg he went, feet going from under him. As he floundered, toppling, Will let him go, and drawing back his right fist, smashed it hard under the unprotected chin. The guard went over like a ninepin, to hit the drawbridge timbers with a hollow crash. His helmet went clattering.

  It was all the work of no more than three seconds.

  Even so, it had taken almost too long. The other two guards had not stood still. One was tugging out his sword, while the older man with the halberd, had it couched like a lance. He came rushing, with it levelled, spear-point stabbing.

  Will leapt aside, for his life. The point of the halberd nevertheless thrust in through the baldric, ripping the good homespun of his best doublet at his left side. The force of the thrust spun him round so that he almost overbalanced. Had the third guard been quicker at unsheathing his sword, all would have been over then.

  Grabbing the six-foot long shaft of the halberd, Will jerked it violently towards him — and the wielder, clutching, was pulled stumbling with it. Twisting the thing over and round, the younger man wrenched it right out of the guard’s grip.

  He had no time to adjust his hold on the weapon, to use it as a pole-axe, for the third soldier was running at him now, sword out. Grasping the handle like a quarter-staff before him, with both hands, he flung it and himself on to its onwards-staggering owner, and locking himself against the other, swung both round so that the fellow was between himself and the advancing swordsman, masking any thrust.

  He kept up the impetus, while his present victim was still off-balance, pushing and circling. There was only limited space on that drawbridge. The sworder had to back and skip sideways, or he would have been forced over the edge — for such bridge could have no parapet. Using the same device as he had done with the first guard, Will thrust his left leg behind the older man’s knees, and heaved. The unfortunate halberdier collapsed backwards, and falling bodily, hit the edge of the drawbridge. Clutch as he would, nothing could save him. He plunged over, into the ditch twenty feet below.

  Will, only too well aware of his danger from the third man, was flinging that halberd round in a wild windmill-like swing from the very moment that he thrust its owner away — all but capsizing himself in the process. As well that he did, or the steel would have had him. As it was, the flailing pole knocked the sword aside, and its wielder had to leap back swiftly, morined head ducking, to avoid the axe-head’s sweep.

  For the moment the odds were evened. By the time the swordsman could come dancing in again Will had the swinging halberd under control, and his own footing steadied. Panting, he faced the other.

  He was no expert with a halberd, an unwieldy implement at the best. But he had no time to cast it aside and draw his own sword. At least, its six foot length gave him the advantages of range. They circled each other warily, weapons feinting and probing.

  But the interval was brief indeed. The first guard, though shaken, had got to his feet, and was lurching for his own halberd, left leaning beside the porters’ bench. Worse, men-at-arms were now coming streaming fro
m the baiting ring. Will was vaguely aware of the change in the shouting, and that the attention of the watchers, above and below, had been transferred to this more lively contest. He had only moments to improve this situation, before he would be overwhelmed by sheer numbers. But what opportunity had he left to exploit?

  His horse! The animal, though it had sidled away alarmedly from the clash of steel, was still standing near the drawbridge end. There was no other horse in the vicinity.

  Will backed, in their tense, cautious fencing. He could spare only two or three seconds. Suddenly he raised the halberd high, horizontally, and launched it like a javelin at the sworder. Deliberately he hurled it at the fellow’s left side — which meant that to avoid it he must sidestep swiftly to his right. And at that side he was near the edge of the bridge. Aware of it, the man flung himself as much back as sideways, a complicated movement which made for stumbling footwork. The halberd missed him by inches, and its top-heavy iron head plunged into and splintered the bridge timbers.

  Will, the moment the weapon had left his hand, swung about and raced the few remaining paces to his horse. Shouts arose all around. His flapping sheathed sword was an impediment, but he could spare no hand for it meantime. A yard or so from the nervous beast, he sprang, projecting himself forwards and upwards. He could not actually vault so high as on to the animal’s back, but he managed to fling himself bodily over the saddle, on his stomach, clutching at the mane. Again the sword got in the way, and for a moment it was touch and go whether he could maintain position and balance as the horse pranced and backed. But at least this was no deliberately bucking, horn-lashing bull. Kicking the dangling sword away, he flung his leg up and over, and with a supreme effort steadied and raised himself. As the beast cavorted round, Will sat approximately upright in the saddle, his toes feeling for the stirrups.

  Men were all around him now — but keeping heedful distance from those flailing hooves. Confusion reigned, the two advancing guards being somewhat lost in the crowd from the baiting. Other swords were out, and varied orders and advices with them.

  Will managed to draw his own sword at last. At the screech of it, the nearest throngers pressed backwards — for few men on foot would choose to cross swords with one mounted. In a bent figure of eight motion, he slashed the blade downward, right and left, sweeping one side then the other. Savagely he dug in his spurs.

  ‘A Douglas! A Douglas!’ he yelled, and drove the rearing, curveting horse back on to the drawbridge, straight towards the gatehouse arch.

  Undoubtedly this move took most by surprise. The bridge was no more than ten feet wide — which gave little enough space for sharing with a frightened horse and sword-lashing rider. Such as found themselves that side of the intruder had to do something about it very quickly. One or two managed to dart round to the side, but those actually on the drawbridge, including the two original guards, could not do this. The ditch was twenty feet deep and sheersided. They turned and ran. A heavy six-foot halberd being little aid to running, the first guard tossed it into the ditch as he went.

  The drumming of hooves on the bridge planks changed to a clatter as the horse’s shoes struck sparks from the cobblestones under the gatehouse pend. Like rabbits into their holes the four or five men before him darted or fell into the open guardroom doorways on either side. In only a few brief seconds after his slogan shouting, Will Douglas was through, and cantering up the steeply-rising slope within the inner bailey towards the tall buildings which flanked the great courtyard of the castle.

  There were men about — but none in a position to know what had transpired below, however surprised they may have been to see the single horseman’s drawn sword. There was shouting behind — but there had been shouting at the bear and bull baiting for some time. No one attempted to halt Will at any rate. Sheathing his sword, but not greatly slowing his mount, he drove on up and into the courtyard. At the most important-looking doorway therein, in the side of a splendidly lofty and decorative range of building, he drew up, and dismounted, before another trio of steel-clad guards.

  “Douglas to see the King’s Grace,” he panted. “Take my horse.”

  These men were of a different kidney from those below. One came down the few steps, at once, to take the horse’s bridle. Another spoke respectfully.

  “His Grace is down at the gate. With Sir James. Sir James Livingstone. Did you no’ see him sir? Watching the sport. Sir James has a bear yonder, they say. If you have letters for Sir Alexander? . . .”

  “The King? Down there? Watching? . . .” Will gulped, frowning.

  “Aye. But no’ Sir Alexander. I’ll take you to him, sir. You have letters? Papers? No doubt Will’s breathlessness and general dishevelment gave the impression that he had ridden far in great haste, a courier with urgent tidings for Livingstone.

  “No. It is the King. I would see the young King.” With a swift glance over his heaving shoulder, he drew himself up. “Take me to His Grace, man. Quickly. It is important.”

  “Aye, sir.” The spokesman jerked his head to his third colleague, and leaving the man with the horse one on either side of him, they escorted Will back whence he had come. That young man was aware of a greater trepidation now than he had known throughout the entire proceedings. He frowned the blacker.

  Turning out of the courtyard again, to face the cobbled slope to the inner bailey, they found themselves confronting a climbing crowd. Scores, possibly hundreds of people were coming up the hill, on foot, with haste and urgency most evident, filling all the roadway.

  “Here comes Sir James. And the Constable. With His Grace,” the guard said. “The sport must be by with.”

  Will cleared his throat — and sought to clear his head likewise.

  Though there were many men-at-arms, soldiers and servitors amongst the throng, there were not a few richly dressed walkers. In the middle of the front row, a boy hurried, chattering and obviously excited, between two men. There was nothing kingly about his appearance, manner or behaviour. He was not particularly well apparelled. He was short for his thirteen years, but stocky. And though he had eager darting eyes, he was plain-faced to a degree, with a great red birthmark on his cheek — which gave him the nickname of Fiery-face. The men on either side of him were both tall and splendid. The younger, garbed in the height of fashion was handsome in a dissipated way, slender, arrogant of manner. The other, in early middle years was the lord who had passed Will in cavalier haste at St. Ninians, still wearing his travelling cloak.

  “It is he, I tell you!” The shrill boyish voice was crying. “Have these two taken him? Unhorsed him? I do not think they could. See — he still has his sword. But sheathed . . .”

  Neither of his companions appeared to be answering their monarch. Both were looking doubtful, one grimly, the other fleeringly. As Will approached, they paused, holding the boy back. All around them, hands were on sword-hilts, but no steel was drawn. Only the High Constable of Scotland might draw sword in the King’s presence — and the Constable forbore.

  Not so Will Douglas. As he neared the waiting company, unfaltering of step however unsure within himself, he reached down to draw his sword once more — and the shrill sound of it bred a swift intake of breath from many present. But in the same movement, the young man tossed the weapon up, hilt foremost, into the air, to catch it round the blade halfway to the pommel. Holding it before him so, he strode ahead of his escort the few paces, to sink down on one knee before the eager-eyed nervous boy.

  “Sire,” he said, “My sword. Take it. Yours. My sorrow — I did not know that Your Grace was there. To draw sword. In your presence. I crave mercy. Forgiveness. I did not know . . .” The words came out jerking, awkward, not as he would have said them.

  James, King of Scots, second of that name, stared at the sword-hilt held up, almost thrust under his nose, and bit his lip. He looked from one to another of his companions.

  “Do not touch it, Sire,” the tall slender elegant rapped out. “Leave this insolent rascal to others.
” He reached down, and himself grasped the proffered hilt. “Guard — take this . . .”

  His words broke off abruptly, as he was jerked forward. The weapon was pulled vigorously out of his clutch, and presented towards the young monarch again.

  “My sword is only for the King!” Will exclaimed, looking up with an expression anything but humbly dutiful.

  “God damn you! . . .”

  “Touch it, Sire,” the older man, on the boy’s left, said quietly but clearly. “But touch the hilt. That is all. Have no fear. This fellow may be a rogue — but he means no ill, now, I think.”

  The boy put out a rather hesitant, nail-bitten and distinctly grubby hand, touched the sword-hilt as though it had been red-hot, and thrust the hand behind his back thereafter, saying nothing.

  “This is folly!” his younger adviser cried. “Giving recognition to a brawling bravo . . .”

  The clatter of the sword on the cobbles drowned his strictures. Now, without changing his half-kneeling posture, Will held out his two hands, palms together but an inch or two apart.

  “Sire,” he said, “I am Your Grace’s man. I would do my homage.”

  James coughed. “Yes. Homage, aye. Homage. I . . . I . . .”

  “By the Rude — this is beyond all! The rascal is crazed! A madman!”

  “He fought well, Sir James,” the boy said. “He fought . . . not as though crazed! Did he? Sir William — what shall I do?”

  “Have his name, Your Grace. Before you give him your royal hand. Your name, sirrah? And what you do here?”

  “He shouted Douglas! . . .”

  “Aye. But there are many of that name. Over many!”