Black Douglas (Coronet Books)

by Nigel Tranter

  “I mean that, before, there was not a Douglas who was ready to act. Now, there is.”

  “God’s death! You say that! You sit here, in my castle, and threaten me! Livingstone!”

  “I sit at the King’s table. Having eaten his salt. And threaten none. I but tell you that it is time that Douglas acted . . .”

  “Acted! See you, boy — there are deep vaults below you! Pits! Where bonnier men than you have rotted! Aye — and women too! . . .”

  “If you speak of His Grace’s mother, the Queen Joanna — I know of that shame. And of her husband, Sir James Stewart of Lorn. But . . . you will not put me in your dungeons, sir!”

  “No? Why?”

  “Because, unlike my cousin, Earl William, I did not bring my brothers with me! He had only one brother — and you took and slew them both. I have five, sir!” Will was on his feet now, and the effort to keep his voice steady, level, was enormous. “Five! All of hot blood. All straining to try their strength. Another reason why I came alone!”

  “Christ God! I told you. You’ll no threaten me in Stirling Castle! . . .”

  “And I told you, I do not threaten. I but remind you. In case you have forgot. Besides, if I had thought to threaten you, sir, would I not have gone to Edinburgh Castle? And Crichton? Not Stirling, and you?”

  That seemed to give the little man pause. He turned, and slammed the door shut behind him, then came forward and leaned over the table towards Will. There might have been none other in the room. “What are you here for, then?”

  “To offer His Grace my homage. And my sword.”

  “Aye. But on what terms?”

  “I do not bargain with my liege lord!”

  “Do not fence wi’ me, man! I am the King’s guardian. I speak wi’ the King’s voice. Until he be of age. Speak you plain. Do you sell your sword?”

  “Douglas does not sell his sword. He has no need, but many have come to me, seeking to borrow it! Other than your daughter’s son, Sir James Hamilton of Cadzow!”

  Livingstone muttered something thinly savage. Then he pointed again. “Others? Crichton?”

  Will sought to meet the other’s glare. “I came to Stirling,” he said, “Not Edinburgh.”

  Seconds passed in a tense silence.

  Young Livingstone broke it. “He but cozens you . . .”

  “Quiet!” his father snapped. “Think you I need your guidance?” The little man hirpled stiffly round the table, behind the King, to Will’s side. “My lord o’ Douglas,” he said softly. “You would lend your sword to me?”

  “Not so. Only to His Grace. But . . . Your sword is lent there also, is it not?”

  “A-a-aye! But . . . who wields this two-handed sword, my lord? Who wields?”

  “This man.” Will pointed at Hay, who still stood at the other end of the table. “He is the Constable. It is his place to wield the sword of state, is it not? For the King’s and the realm’s weal. With Douglas power. And your statecraft.”

  “Ha! So that’s it? An alliance! An alliance — against Crichton?”

  “That was in my mind, sir.”

  Hay still did not speak.

  The old man brought down his crooked fist on the table, to make the viands jump. “Here’s a bone to chew on! I’ faith — I think I like the taste o’ it! Young man — I’ll think on it. Aye, I will. As do you, Hay. We will speak o’ this, again.” He looked at Will, grinning now. “You will not be leaving this castle, my lord?” That was only ostensibly a question.

  “I will go when I choose, sir. With His Grace’s permission. But . . . I had not thought to go until this thing was decided.”

  “Aye — do not, my lord. And you wise!” The old man’s high cackle resounded as, slapping Will on the shoulder, he made for the door — which his son hastened to open for him. Passing out, the Livingstones left it wide behind them.

  James Stewart himself hurried to close it.

  “My lord, you were brave. Very brave. To front him so,” he declared, admiringly. “Was he not, Sir William? I have seen none do that. So starkly. I was . . . afraid for you. He is a hard man. You had best have a care, my lord.”

  “Too many have been having a care in Scotland, I think, Sire. For too long.”

  “Yes. How did you learn it? How to deal so? With Sir Alexander?”

  “My father did not breed us for Courts, Sire. But there are other kinds of learning. In Ettrick Forest we learn much about how to deal with hard strength. I find Livingstone none so different from an Ettrick bull. Of the wilder sort!”

  “Bull? Wild bull! . . .”

  “Aye, Your Grace. We gain some sport from these. There are many in the forest.”

  “You hunt bulls? Wild bulls? In your forest? I would wish to see this. Will you show me? Take me, my lord? To hunt wild bulls . . .”

  “If Your Grace wishes. Ettrick is your own. A royal forest. Douglas but keeps it for you.”

  “Yes. You hear, Sir William? We will go hunting wild bulls, in Ettrick. You hear?” Suddenly the boy’s eager face fell. “If . . . if Sir Alexander will permit it.”

  The silent Constable did not look optimistic, or even very interested in bull-hunting. He nodded briefly. “I hear, Sire. My lord of Douglas — you spoke of Sir James Hamilton. Did he put you up to this?”

  “Not so. He sought my sword — that is all.”

  “Against Crichton?”

  “Yes. But I would better think, for Hamilton!”

  “Aye. And others have done the same? Against Crichton?”

  Will nodded.

  “Who are these others?”

  “That is my affair, sir.”

  The other shook his head, but not in anger. “I think not. If we are to be allies, my lord, it is mine also.”

  “Then . . . then you agree? You will fight Crichton, sir?” Will could not keep his voice level.

  “It seems that I have no choice. And if others are ready to rise against the man, then I shall not, cannot, hold back. You William Crichton is, I think, the Devil himself!” There was a quivering intensity in those last words which were all the more startling in coming from so sober and quiet a man.

  They caused Will Douglas to catch his breath, at any rate, and the youthful elation to fade from his dark eyes.

  “Now, my lord — who do we know is prepared to rise against the Chancellor? Besides Douglas and Hay? And Hamilton?”

  “And Livingstone! . . .”

  “Livingstone! Put not too much faith in Livingstone. Others have done, to their cost. And Scotland’s. Watch him — watch all the breed — as you would a snake. His every move. He who walks with Livingstone treads slippery ground! . . .”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  “HOLD! Hold, Cousin!” King James cried, panting. “You go too hard. You beat me down by main force. Because you are bigger, older. It is not fair. Besides, it is not the way. Swording is a finer business than this! I am not one of your bulls! Hold, I say.”

  Will put his sword-tip down into the turf of the little garden perched high on the ledge of Stirling rock below the Ballengeich Tower, and laughed. “So ever you say — when I have you beat!” he claimed. “I fear we see this differently. I see swording as fighting to win. No dancing-master’s ploy . . .”

  “You would name me dancing-master, my lord! Me — your King!”

  “No, no, Sire,” Will schooled his features to gravity. “I’ faith — not that! You are a very lion for the assault, for fighting. It is but that you are too fine for me. That I look only to the end, while you pay more heed to the road thither.”

  Mollified, James nodded. “It is the knightly way,” he declared, somewhat smugly.

  The fact was that young King James was no very notable swordsman, however lofty his teaching, being much too concerned with flourish and posture. From the first, Will had had the greatest difficulty in not defeating him, despite the fact that he it was who was supposed to be receiving the lesson. His own methods were swift, vigorous and unorthodox, but effective, based on vehe
ment attack from start to finish, not tournament duelling but sheer combat. And in the enthusiasm of the moment he sometimes was apt to forget his role.

  In the ten days that Will had stayed at Stirling, however, despite this, his relationship with James had developed apace. They were constant companions — almost too constant for Will, who would have relished greater freedom and privacy both. But the young monarch, starved of youthful company and with an enormous admiration for physical prowess, attached himself to the newcomer with alacrity and determination — and since the part Will had come here to play implied that the King’s wish was his law, any holding-off process was difficult. He lodged in James’s broken-down tower, ate with him, would have had to sleep in the same room had the small vaulted chambers available been large enough. The boy now called him Cousin, save when he was hipped, when he reverted to my lord. These occasions were fairly frequent, though of short duration — for James Stewart, though cowed in the presence of those who controlled him, was of a spirited nature, and indeed had a notably hot temper.

  Will found the constant proximity cloying, the confinement trying, and the time slow of passing. With the King, he was a virtual prisoner in the castle. To one who had been used to the free life of Ettrick, the leadership of his brothers, and the constant stir and turmoil of a large household of young people, this period of constraint and comparative inaction was galling. They could not be practising wrestling, fisticuffs, quarter-staff and swordsmanship all the time — and other diversions were scanty. Baiting, cock-fights and similar contests were not for everyday occurrence — and were by no means put on for the royal amusement. Indeed, the Livingstones and their hangers-on largely ignored their youthful sovereign, save when he was required to sign some edict, charter or pronouncement. He had a tutor-cum-priest, a man-servant, and constant guards. And when Sir William Hay was in the castle, he waited on the King assiduously.

  Will’s relationship with Livingstone had, on the face of it, made little further headway. He had seen the old man only two or three times, and then not alone or in circumstances where either policy or strategy could be discussed suitably. Unfortunately he saw rather more of the son, Sir James — but between them only a mutual arm’s-length antagonism persisted. Will had sought to use Hay as go-between with Sir Alexander, but so far without much success. With the Constable himself he was on satisfactory terms, although it was hard to get close to that silent, soldierly man; but Hay lived half a day’s journey to the north-east, at Erroll in the Carse of Gowrie, and spent only part of his time attending on the Monarch.

  The Douglas was learning patience, however unwillingly.

  James was explaining to his pupil the nicer points of what he had been doing when the other had crudely battered down his blade, when they were interrupted. A hail from the tower above caused them to glance up.

  “Lord of Douglas,” a young man cried down to them, standing beside one of the ever-watchful guards. “My father desires your presence.” It was David Livingstone, this time, a younger son, one of the many indeed, though only three were in residence meantime at Stirling, the others being strategically placed as captains of various royal castles.

  Will opened his mouth to speak, then thought better of it. He turned back to James. “Your Grace was saying? . . .” he asked loudly enough to be heard from above.

  The King glanced away, alarmed. “Nothing. Nothing,” he said. “I . . . I . . . Sir Alexander! . . .”

  “Did you hear me, my lord? My father desires your presence.”

  “Then let him seek it, sir,” Will declared shortly. “As you see, I am engaged with His Grace.”

  “I was told to bring you, Forthwith.”

  “Your father may tell you what he will. Douglas he does not tell. You tell him so. If he would see me, of a sudden, let him come.”

  David Livingstone stared down at him, nonplussed. Then red-faced, muttering something, he turned away.

  “You should not have done that, Cousin,” James said, his voice a little tremulous. “He will be angry. Very angry, Sir Alexander.”

  “I care not that for Livingstone’s anger!” Will said, and snapped his fingers. If it was not quite literally true, at least it was an affirmation of principle.

  “He will make you pay for it. He is an ill man to cross. He can do what he will, in this castle.”

  “Not with me, Sire. Nor with you, from now on. We must let him see it. Now — you were showing me the way of this feint to the shoulder? . . .”

  But James had lost his interest in sword-play meantime. If, for a high-spirited boy of thirteen, his fear might seem irrational, his background and experience were calculated to account for it. His father, James the First, had been stabbed to death seven years before, in his own bedchamber, before his wife’s eyes, by knightly assassins. He himself had been seized at Edinburgh and confined in the castle there by Crichton, a year or so later. His mother, the lovely, widowed Queen Joanna Beaufort, being denied access to his person, had enlisted the aid of Sir Alexander Livingstone, who was then captain of her dowry castle of Stirling. By a stratagem Livingstone had got the child-king smuggled out of Edinburgh Castle in a wardrobe and carried by boat to Stirling. There Livingstone had showed his true mettle. Holding the King himself, he had entered into a pact with Chancellor Crichton, to share the rule of Scotland between them. The Queen Mother had been cast into Stirling’s dungeons, where he had already immured the Stewart of Lorn husband she had hurriedly married in an effort to rally that great clan to her side. Then, at a hunt in Stirling’s neighbourhood, while Livingstone was absent at Perth, Crichton had gone back on his crooked partnership to the extent of kidnapping the boy once more and taking him back to captivity at Edinburgh. Guile had eventually got him to Stirling once more, and a renewal of the compact — but now James was kept close indeed. He had been forced to attend the fatal Black Dinner to the Douglas brothers, and to watch their execution. And others similar. His mother now languished in Dunbar Castle, as prisoner, ill-used by a brutal Hepburn minion of Crichton’s. She was said to be dying, although still a beautiful woman in her late thirties. His stepfather was banished overseas. Young James Stewart had reason to be apprehensive.

  Presently David Livingstone returned. This time he came down to the little garden itself. “My Lord of Douglas,” he declared flatly, after coughing. “Sir Alexander Livingstone, my father, guardian of His Grace and governor of this castle, seeks your lordship’s advice on certain urgent matters. He says that he is troubled today by old bones, and would esteem it an honour if you would wait on him, rather than he on you.”

  “Aye.” Will nodded. “Just so. I think, in that case, if His Grace permits, I might pleasure Sir Alexander.”

  “Yes. Oh, yes,” the King agreed hurriedly.

  In silence the two young men proceeded through the fortress precincts to the notably finer state apartments occupied by the governor and his retainers. Will was well aware that this conceivably might be a walk that would end in a dungeon.

  He was shown into a small over-heated chamber off the Lesser Hall, where Sir Alexander sat, in a furred robe, over a well-doing fire of logs. The old man was alone. Looking round, he greeted Will with wheezing amiability, and with a lightning-swift change of expression, flicked away his son.

  “Come away in to the fire, my lord,” he urged, indicating a bench opposite. “It’s cauld, cauld. Or maybe it’s just my auld bones. Aye. It’s good o’ you to spare me o’ your precious time!” He tee-heed high laughter.

  Will did not take the proffered seat, and kept his distance from both fire and man.

  “The years dinna come alone, lad,” Livingstone went on. “You’ll find out, one day. If you live long enough! Hey? Sit man.”

  “I prefer to stand, sir.”

  “You do? Hech, hech — uncomfortable. Like the loon who built yon wee pit under the East Tower. You ken it? Uncomfortable, aye. Fell deep it is — fourteen feet, they say. In the living rock. But only eighteen inches wide, mind. So a hannie he
ld in there has to stand, lad — since he canna sit! Hee-hee! I’d no’ like it, mysel’.” Without pause or change of intonation, he went on. “How many men have you assembled? And where?”

  Taken by surprise, Will blinked. “What? What do you mean?”

  “No’ a hard question, my lord! How many men has Douglas mustered to arms? Now. And where? How near to Stirling?”

  “Why, none, sir.”

  “Fool! Do not lie to me!” the old man shrilled. “You came, threatening Douglas power. You’ll no’ tell me you’ve no men?”

  “I came alone. Of my own decision. Threatening none. To discover the realm’s state before I . . . acted. Douglas can field thousands — that you know. But I have not assembled. Why do you ask?”

  “I do not believe that,” Livingstone snapped. “You’d no’ come here naked. Think you I’m witless, boy, because I’m auld? Forbye, even if you did, you’ll have been sending to gather men, these past days. For our project. Aye, our mutual project. Have you no’?”

  “I have not. These days I have waited, to discuss with you further. You have not spoken of it. How could I gather men? Here? I have been with the King, waiting.”

  “Have you no’ heard o’ paper and pen? Messengers, man? Hay, coming and going, seeing to it. You’ve had word wi’ Hay.”

  “I have ordered no assembly, sir — and there’s an end to it.”

  “God’s curse — so you have wasted near on two weeks! Wasted! Playing fool games wi’ yon laddie! By the Mass — is this the quality o’ Douglas! Is it?”

  “I’ll thank you not to rail and rant at me, sir!” Will gave back, hotly. “Or you will learn the quality of Douglas soon enough!”

  “That I’ll be glad to know! Lest it is all words, all belly-wind!” The old man leaned forward. “So you have no men? No power mustered, to make a showing? And William Crichton challenging us, demanding that we meet at Linlithgow. He’ll no come tailless, I’ll wager you that!”

  “Crichton? Linlithgow? . . .”

  “Crichton, yes. He’s got word o’ this some way. Of what is proposed. Och, he has his spies everywhere. He kens you’re at Stirling. Wi’ me. He kens what’s to do . . .”