Black Douglas (Coronet Books)

by Nigel Tranter

  “If all men did as much, might not the world be the better? And the happier?”

  “All men do not have kings and grandsires and the power of the Church at their elbows!”

  “True. But I fear that I was born to speak my mind. And Holy Church mislikes me for it as much as you do!” He smiled.

  “Although, in fact, I would have thought that you also were a speaker of your mind?”

  “Perhaps.” Will shrugged. “So you will not work with Douglas?”

  “I have not said so. Yet. All I have said is that if Douglas has changed I rejoice.”

  The younger man sought to keep rein on his temper. “I am not my father. Nor my grandsire,” he said shortly. “Any more than you are your nephew, Angus!”

  “Ha!” the Bishop said.

  “I think that perhaps you confuse the Black Douglas with the Red!”

  “Are they so different?”

  “Ask Angus that. Who sides with Crichton and defies the King.”

  “And costs you dear in harried lands?”

  “Aye, that also. But that matters less than that the King’s cause should suffer, and Douglas be divided in it.”

  “So you think to use me to bring my nephew Angus to heel?”

  “No, sir. This is a Douglas matter. I am Douglas, and will deal with Angus in my own way. You I turn to because you are well-esteemed, an honest man, and of the stature to be Chancellor. I know none other.”

  “I see. Here is plain speaking also. Almost you disarm me, my lord.”

  “Then you will do it? Act Chancellor?” Will demanded eagerly.

  “Save us, man — not so fast! Say that I will think of it.”

  “My lord, this realm needs more than thinking. Everywhere men wait to take sides. To discern, if they can, how the balance swings. Your choice, your decision, now, could swing many. Wait, and it may be too late.”

  Kennedy wagged a rueful head. “You press hard, my friend. See, I will make a compact with you. Give me a day or two. I have to think of much. The Church most of all. Promise me the support of a Council, and I will consider well. A Council of substantial men. Do you that?”

  Will tried to make his swallowing inaudible. “Yes,” he said flatly.

  “Very well, my lord. Give me two or three days, and you shall have an answer.”

  “Aye — but what sort of an answer?”

  “An honest one. A fair decision. I can give you no better than that.”

  “His Grace the King said to tell his father’s sister’s son that he relied on him. He . . . he sent you this token.” Will, reaching into his doublet pocket, brought out a small folded glove, and handed it to the other.

  Kennedy took it, a fragile thing, woven of finest silk, but worn and not over-clean. Two of the fingers had holes in them. On the back, the initials J and J, lovingly intertwined, were embroidered, and surmounted by a crown.

  “This is? . . .”

  “His Grace has little that is royal to show. Or offer. He has little of anything. This is his mother’s glove. The Queen Joanna’s. Joanna Beaufort, from England. Given her by the late King when they were wed. The initials are theirs, James and Joanna. The young King has these two gloves. That is all his royal treasure. He sends one to you, in token.”

  The older man smoothed out the relic gently. “Thank His Grace,” he said slowly. “This also I shall remember when I come to my decision.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  UNDOUBTEDLY it was one of the poorest, briefest and least representative parliaments that even Scotland, a land not notable for its parliamentary tradition, had ever held. Forty-six men in all attended, almost half of them churchmen, and of these only three were bishops, Cameron’s Glasgow faction abstaining. Of the earls, apart from Will himself, there were only Orkney, Crawford and Moray — and Moray was none other than Archie Douglas, hastily married to the heiress Elizabeth Dunbar only two weeks before, and assuming the earldom in her right. Lennox and Ross had promised to come, but did not appear. Of lesser lords, there were but five, and one was only a substitute, Henry Douglas of Borgue, the Galloway chamberlain, who was there as delegate for his idiot brother, the Lord Dalkeith. The baronage and knights of the shires only sketchily represented the west, south-west and parts of the north of the country. The east, the Highlands and much else, sent no spokesmen. As for the royal burghs, only Stirling and Linlithgow had sent representatives.

  Nevertheless, it was a true parliament and no sham, lawfully called, the King present, most of the high officers of state in attendance, and all proper formalities duly observed. Moreover, presiding as Chancellor was the leading churchman and one of the most respected and influential figures of the land. James Kennedy’s adherence was Will Douglas’s greatest triumph.

  Kennedy had conducted the business with dignity, simplicity and expedition. There had been no difficulties, no surprises — indeed, no real opposition. Crichton, of course, had ignored his summons, as had Angus and his other adherents, and old Livingstone had claimed sickness. The latter’s son, Sir James, with the parliament being held in the Great Hall of Stirling Castle, could hardly absent himself; moreover, counting him weak if obnoxious, a faulty link in the Livingstone chain, Will had prevailed on the King to make much of the man. Today, parliament had confirmed his appointment as Great Chamberlain, an office of no actual power however resounding. In consequence, he was being pompously helpful.

  Most of the business had been of that sort, formal, requiring of little or no debate. First of all the new Chancellor had been accepted and sworn in. Crichton’s forfeiture was confirmed and he was convicted of treason, and outlawed for failure to compear and deliver up the seals of office, his family likewise being indicted. Will’s own appointment of Lieutenant-General was approved, and Robert Fleming was made royal Cup-bearer, in absentia — this because he was unfortunately at present languishing in one of the dungeons of Tantallon Castle, Angus having managed to capture him in the midst of an otherwise successful punitive sweep of East Lothian; this royal appointment was a device to gain his freedom, since if Angus refused to release one of the King’s household he could be arraigned for treason.

  Some other and more constructive legislation was passed. Strong measures were proclaimed against the spoilers of Church lands — of which there had been a plague, with central authority almost non-existent. Such offenders, however high-placed, were now to be denied any office or employment of government, and even representation at law. The revenues of taxation, customs, Crown lands and the like, were to be much more strictly accounted for by those who had the privilege of collecting them, with the object of cutting down abuse and trying to fill the empty royal treasury. The burghs were to arm, train and maintain not only town guards but train-bands, for their own defence and that of the realm in general.

  Three hours after the swearing-in ceremony, Bishop Kennedy closed the session. It had been satisfactory, as far as it went — save in the appointment of a new Privy Council. This was a thorny problem. All the earls for instance, were entitled to be members, even though most seldom attended. Also certain of the senior bishops, Cameron of Glasgow included. Other heads of great families were, by custom, so honoured — and would much resent being excluded. Yet the sympathies of a great many of these were suspect, to say the least of it; and since between parliaments, the Council’s power was very great, unwise appointments could form rods to scourge the King’s cause. Will’s promise to Kennedy to support him with a substantial Council had not been kept, hard as he had tried. He did not doubt that the new Chancellor was very much aware of it.

  A banquet was held, after the session, for delegates and their ladies, and most of the Court had come from Linlithgow to attend this. Almost all of Will’s own family were present. Archie had his new wife, a pale and unformed child, now thirteen — for whom her husband more than made up, strutting colourfully in his finery as earl, Privy Councillor and spouse. Will had seldom felt less affectionate towards him. Beatrix was there as the Lady Hay of Erroll, al
ready teasing her sober lord and flirting with all and sundry. Their mother had brought Margaret, Hugh and Janet with her from Abercorn, and was now well advanced in negotiating Margaret’s marriage to Harry Douglas of Borgue — and however poor a match this might sound for the eldest daughter, the Lordship of Dalkeith was one of the richest in the land, and undoubtedly Harry could be appointed complete controller of it. Jamie, of course, was there in his capacity of henchman and lieutenant to his brother, in which for the time being he had succeeded the incarcerated Rob Fleming. Only John, Elizabeth, and Henry, were absent.

  This banquet was the first such at which the King had been since the grim occasion in Edinburgh Castle almost four years before, when the black bull’s head had been served up to the other William Earl of Douglas, and his brother, as earnest of their fate. Will was very concerned that this should be a significant event, demonstrating that a new order prevailed in Scotland, that the King was no longer a mere child, a puppet, in the hands of tyrants. He had had no experience in arranging such affairs, but found a useful assistant in the person of Galbraith of Culcreuch — who had, in fact, succeeded in his attempt on Dumbarton Castle, and now held it for the King. Galbraith had been chamberlain to the Earls of Lennox, who kept up semi-royal state in the west, and he was accustomed to staging entertainments on a major scale. Between them they had organised quite an ambitious evening. Will was a little surprised to discover in himself a taste for spectacle and pageantry.

  The proceedings took the form of night-long feasting, interspersed with displays, music, tableaux, contests and dancing. To accommodate all this, the same Great Hall was used, with the King’s top table occupying the raised dais area at the head, and other lengthy tabling ranged down the sides, leaving the centre open for spectacles and dancing. The question of precedence, and who should sit at the King’s table, was a problem, with no small proportion of the guest believing themselves entitled to the privilege. Will sought to arrange it that a succession of people should be invited up to share this position of honour throughout the evening, with none permanent, save himself and the Chancellor. In theory it was an excellent device, but it worked out less well than might have been expected, and in fact few guests were satisfied.

  As course succeeded course — shellfish, salmon, wildfowl, swans, sucking-pig, whole oxen, tongues, soups, cakes and sweetmeats, washed down with ales, wines and the Highlanders’ water-of-life — so ever more appreciative, if noisy, grew the reception of the other fare provided, the minstrel’s offerings, the cock-fights, the gladiatorial contest with nets and blunted pitchfork, the clowning of jesters, the sham baiting between men wearing the skins of a bull and a bear, and the like. Not only on the part of the guests. Young James Stewart, starved of this sort of thing, grew notably excited, the great birthmark on his cheek becoming crimson as an over-ripe strawberry, and drank, moreover, more than had ever come his way before. As a result, Will and Bishop Kennedy were at pains to soothe him down, distract him from the goblets, and generally steer him on a course of some dignity — no easy task, with an obstreperous and hot-headed monarch of fourteen tasting comparative freedom for almost the first time. James became ever more interested in the women — whose company and charms he had hitherto been almost completely denied — and during the dancing intervals in especial his behaviour became progressively less seemly. Will had not bargained for this. Something of a climax came when, the Constable and his new wife temporarily up at the dais table, James found the Lady Beatrix very much to his taste, and was by no means repulsed by that somewhat forward young woman. Although only a year older than the King, she was becoming very well developed, and wore a gown which did not hide the fact. It was not long before young majesty had his hand down the front of that gown, to the giggling if hardly the protests of the wearer, and the shocked bewilderment of the good Sir William.

  It was while Will and the Bishop were seeking to cope with this problem that they were suddenly confronted with another. The company had been waiting for a new spectacle, while they ate, but instead of this, there came in through the great doorway at the foot of the Hall a group of armour-clad men. They were not armed, for nobody would be permitted to come into the presence of the monarch; but they wore breastplates, gorgets and gauntlets of steel however, richly engraved, long riding-boots and carried plumed helmets in their hands — scarcely garb for a royal banquet. The central figure was Sir James Hamilton of Cadzow.

  Despite the noisy state of the gathering, by this time, there was something of a hush as the newcomers appeared. Will had not seen Hamilton for seven months, since before that day he was supposed to ride with them to Barnton and Edinburgh. He had kept away from Stirling and the Court both, ever since, taking no part in the struggle for power, waiting to see, presumably, which was likely to be the winning side. He had not attended the parliament. That he had come now, after it, and so soon, must have its significance.

  The four men came marching right up the Hall to the dais. Ignoring Will, Hay, and Bishop Kennedy, Sir James addressed himself almost haughtily to the monarch, who had drawn a little away from the Lady Beatrix and was looking somewhat alarmed.

  “My lord King,” he said, bowing briefly. “I come to greet you. To offer you my sword. And to assure you of the full support of my house.” He glanced right and left. “These are — Hamilton of Dechmont. Hamilton of Earnock. And Hamilton of Darngaber. All substantial barons of my kin.”

  As these three bowed in turn, James coughed. “Aye. Well. Hamilton, aye.” He spoke a little thickly, as well as uncertainly.

  “The support of my house,” the other repeated, as though he was entitled to expect a better reaction than this.

  “As is your simple duty, sir,” James Kennedy mentioned shortly.

  Hamilton turned to look at the Bishop, eyeing him up and down, and curled a distasteful lip, but did not speak.

  The King fortified himself with a gulp or two more of ale. “How many men have you? To fight for me?” he demanded.

  “I could field seven hundred, Sire.”

  “S’seven hundred!” James looked at Will. “That is good. Eh, Cousin?”

  “Good. Although something late in the day, Your Grace.” He turned to Hamilton. “There has been need of Hamilton swords these last months, Sir James. We looked for you, one time, on the road to Edinburgh!”

  The other eyed only the King. “I have had much to consider. Sire. My lands are surrounded by those less loyal that I am to Your Grace. I could not leave them defenceless.”

  Hay spoke. “There was a parliament this day, sir. I did not see you there?”

  Still it was the monarch Hamilton addressed. “Alas, I was held back. Hard as we have ridden, we could not be here ere this.”

  Will eyed the newcomers’ attire. There was no sign of hard riding there, no mud of spume stains on those tall riding-boots, no traces of long winter miles. These had ridden only a short distance to come here, he could swear. Which meant that they had been waiting somewhere near by. Why? Presumably for the results of the parliament. Hamilton had not attended, though summoned. And yet he had come, now. It must mean that he did not wish his name to be listed amongst those present. Probably old Livingstone was behind that. They were still thinking that Crichton might win. He might have been afraid that measures would be passed which might injure his interests and which he yet dared not speak openly against. And this was the man who desired the office of Chancellor for himself. It might be that he would by no means sit under Kennedy.

  The Bishop may have had the same notion, for he said, “We much missed Sir James’s counsel, Sire. He might have ornamented some notable office of the realm. Your Grace might even have had a different Chancellor. To my comfort — if not your realm’s!”

  “I may yet find the opportunity to serve Your Grace in some useful capacity,” the other snapped. “In a fashion, perhaps, that churchmen and clerks cannot!”

  “Ah, yes. True. Sir James had undoubted capacities, As ambassador, perhaps? Envoy. Balancin
g two sides. The ability to weigh advantage, and wait. To bestride two camps . . .”

  “What mean you by that?” Hamilton demanded.

  “Only that if you have such qualities, sir, His Grace might use them in embassages.”

  “I think you meant otherwise, Sir Bishop! I . . .”

  Will coughed loudly. “Sire — if Sir James and his friends have ridden far, they will be hungry. Weary. They should have meat and drink. May I bid them sit?” Kennedy and Hamilton clearly would continue to hate each other — but the cause was not to be served by such open enmity. He himself had no love for Hamilton, but the man was a powerful baron and better on their side, however reluctantly and belatedly, than on Crichton’s. The fact that he had come at all was important, showing surely that his assessment of the parliament was respectful, and that he now felt it wise to be associated. If this careful trimmer so thought, others would not fail to do likewise.

  “My lord of Douglas reproves us,” the Bishop declared sardonically. “He will, of course, soon be calling Sir James goodsire!”

  Will opened his mouth to answer that, and thought better of it. He busied himself seating Hamilton near the King, and finding space for the three lairds at a lower table. The Constable took the opportunity to remove himself and his bride from the danger-zone.

  The entertainment was proceeding and fresh platters of smoking meats being brought in, when there was a further unplanned disturbance. Shouting and clash at the bottom of the Hall drew all eyes. There a group of guards were fighting a losing battle with a huge, red-bearded individual whom they appeared to wish to keep out and yet were reluctant to assault. Others seemed to be disputing this, and egging on the giant. Then evidently tiring of this by-play, the big man suddenly bellowed like a bull, and tossing the guards aside as though so many puppies, came stalking in, reeling slightly, shouting incoherently.

  Nobody required to be told the identity of that eye-catching figure. There was no one else quite like Beardie Alex, the Tiger, Master of Crawford, heir to the old Earl, and probably the most unruly and wayward character in Scotland. He had attended the parliament, in what capacity was not clear, since his father was present, but nobody had considered themselves called upon to put him out. He had been at the banquet earlier, and then left without leave or explanation, in his typical unpredictable way. Now he was back, and obviously very drunk. Seven feet tall, broad in proportion, and bristling with red hair like any Highland stirk, he made an awesome sight.