Black Douglas (Coronet Books)

by Nigel Tranter

  The shout of warning that arose from sympathisers all around may have reached him. But nothing could now turn him quickly enough to meet the attack even halfway round. And his lance was useless to him.

  Will, intent on his purpose, drove on. He knew just what he was aiming for — under the other’s right arm. Try to jerk his mount aside as he would, nothing the Hamilton could do could save him from some blow of Will’s lance-point. He braced himself in saddle and stirrups to withstand the impact, half-turning himself, if not his horse, to face the assault, wrenching round his lance with him.

  Which was what Will desired. the other could probably withstand any unseating stroke thus — but his right side was wide open. Before the man’s lance could be brought to bear, Will’s point drove in just to the left of the shield, under the arm, smashing along breastplate and gauntlet. He gave a vicious sideways wrench.

  Hamilton somehow retained his seat. But his lance was flung clean out of his grasp, and fell to the turf.

  Now there was shouting everywhere, not all of it complimentary to Will. Pulling round, he reined up, unhurriedly now, and brought his sweating, blowing horse to a standstill. He looked across at his disarmed antagonist — and then, after a long moment, tossed his own lance from him.

  Pandemonium broke loose amongst the spectators.

  Hamilton drew his sword and held it high. Nodding grimly, Will did likewise. He rose in his stirrups, and stiffly lifted his greaved left part-way across his saddle, as though to dismount, and so waited.

  But the other was having none of it. Jabbing his sword directly forward, at Will, he kicked his horse into motion again.

  Inside his helm Will cursed. Two-handed swording on horseback was a fool’s game, unless one was especially expert.

  There was nothing expert or edifying in what followed. The pair, after a little preliminary skirmishing, came close — as they must, to achieve anything. They had tossed away their shields, which were now only encumbrances to their left arms. They commenced what was little more than a clumsy, crude display of swiping and slamming and battering. Little else was possible. The swords were five feet long, broad-bladed and heavy, demanding both hands to wield. Guiding their horses with their knees, they were reduced to mere banging, hackings and pokings. Refinements were impossible.

  How long they kept this up Will could not have told — for the heat inside the armour, and his copious sweating, made him dizzy, and the clanging blows of steel on steel, though they scarcely hurt the recipients, affected his head, his eyesight. Even his own hits on the other jarred him. It was his hope that Hamilton, being older, would be still worse affected. He was playing for time, therefore, seeking to tire the man.

  But presently it was borne in on Will that weariness was not the only deciding factor in this grievous slogging match — possibly not the most vital. Strength of wrists might well decide the matter. So heavy were these swords. Already his own were aching and weakening. Hamilton was a stocky, thickset man, and it might well be that he had the tougher, thicker wrists. Time might not be on Will’s side, after all.

  He tried a few tricks, back-handed swipes, rearing his horse high, seeking to knock the other out of the saddle rather than just to smite him. But all were invalidated by the fact that though the swords were long, as such, they demanded such close in-fighting that there was little room for manoeuvre. Panting, he perceived that his wrists were going numb. He could not go on with this for much longer. He decided to take a major risk, to stake all on a chance.

  Noting where his discarded lance lay on the grass, he edged his beast thitherwards. He waited for a suitable blow to strike him, to give him excuse. When one clanged, no stronger than many another, he nevertheless reeled backwards. Retaining his sword with only one hand, he waved the other arm in the air, as though to try retain his balance, swaying drunkenly in the saddle, kicking his feet free of the stirrups. Striving not to make it seem contrived, he rolled over, and fell to the ground, on the right side of his horse, away from the other — one of the most difficult contortions he had ever attempted.

  He landed on all fours, jarring himself within the armour, but not seriously. Would Hamilton accept it as a genuine fall? If not, all was probably lost.

  With difficulty he got to his feet, and staggered a little nearer to his lance, now only a few feet off. He stood.

  The other was clearly at a loss. He circled doubtfully.

  Will well knew his problem, since he had deliberately engineered it. To ride down his dismounted opponent obviously would be a temptation, to finish off the fight there and then — although that lance, if snatched up, could still complicate matters. But such a move would be ungallant, unpopular with the onlookers, especially after Will had made the gesture of casting away his lance earlier, when he need not have done.

  The gamble came off. Sir Patrick, most evidently reluctant, dismounted. The crowd cheered

  And now, Will had the conditions he sought — if only his wrists held out. The champion was dismounted and lanceless. And must be very weary also.

  They circled like wary dogs. Quickly Will saw that the other was indeed much less agile on his feet than in the saddle. With a new lease of energy and hope he began to dart and thrust and feint.

  Even so he was heavy, of course, weighed down, slow. No man in full armour, however spry, can dance about. But he was a lot swifter, more active, than Hamilton. Soon he was placing his blows almost where he would.

  The end came with extraordinary suddenness. In trying to counter,back-handed, a stroke from behind, the older man overbalanced, and went down on one knee, a hand out to save himself. He could still rise fairly quickly, but inevitably his head was bent, his heavy helm aiding. Will had time to aim carefully. One hand gripping his sword half-way down the blade, for greater precision, he thrust the point in between gorget and helm, at the back of the other’s neck. With major restraint he held the weapon from deep penetration — for such a thrust could have killed the man beneath him. So he stood.

  Hamilton well knew his danger, and the impossibility of doing anything about it. For long moments he crouched there, motionless. Then, slowly, carefully, lest the sword-point be jerked, he lowered himself to the ground and lay still.

  With a long sigh, Will raised his steel encased foot and placed it on the other’s back. He raised a gauntleted hand also, in the direction of the queen of the games.

  Trumpets blared, men shouted, and attendants came running on to the field.

  Will withdrew his sword without delay, sheathed it, and with no further glance at his prostrate foe, paced heavily towards his horse. He would have liked to aid Hamilton to rise — but anything such would have meant words, opening visors, recognition. He also should have shouted further challenge to anyone who would still counter Douglas — but did not. An esquire caught his mount for him, and aided him into the saddle, He should have ridden in towards Margaret and the royal box, even made a circuit of the area. Instead, without so much as a hand raised to the storm of applause, exclamation and vilification, he cantered straight across to the lists gate, and out.

  Rob Fleming and the Douglas lairds awaited him, looking at him a little strangely. Undoubtedly their respect was increased, but there was something else about them, as well, that tempered their triumph. Will did not have to have it interpreted for him, since he felt the same way himself. In the tent, being aided out of his armour, he cut short congratulations.

  “It was bad fighting, but necessary,” he jerked. “That was no tilting. It was war. Part of my war. Remember that. Now — haste you off with this, of a mercy!”

  Jamie came limping into the tent, smiling distinctly shame-facedly. He had a great bruise on his brow and was holding his left arm carefully. Will cut short his mixed praise and apologies ruthlessly.

  “You are a fool Jamie!” he declared. “Worse. I sent you to stop folly, not increase it. I require better of you than this!”

  “It was . . . it was for . . .”

  “I know wel
l what it was for! D’you take me for a bairn? And what of Hugh? What of Archie?”

  “Hugh is much shaken, but not hurt. Archie has a bone broke — his shoulder. And cut about the head.”

  “Aye. And he deserved worse!” Free of the armour, Will glared round at them all. “No word of this, I tell you. It was some unknown wandering knight, giving only the name of Douglas.” He dabbed the sweat from his brow, and smoothed down his somewhat limp and crumpled finery. Without a further word to any, he hurried from the tent.

  Back through the crowds he pushed his way while a herald was repeating and repeating that the nameless Douglas knight should come forward to receive the Countess Margaret’s favour. Everywhere men were discussing, arguing, guessing. Some glanced at him oddly, but none dared question the Earl of Douglas, especially with a scowl on his face.

  As he slipped into Margaret’s gallery, King James did not fail to see him. “Cousin,” he called down. “Who was he? That knight. He has not come. Did you see him? Speak with him?”

  “No, Sire,” Will returned shortly. “I was asking after my foolish brothers.”

  “But where is he? He must be presented to me. And to your lady. It was notable fighting. I have never seen jousting like it. Have you?” The boy was almost stammering with excitement.

  “I did not see all, Your Grace. My concern was . . . for my brothers. But, if you would have him here, Sire, he shall be summoned. Johnnie — go look for Sir Robert Fleming. He was at the lists. Tell him to find this stranger Douglas and bring him to the King’s Grace.”

  “Sir James . . . I mean, my lord of Hamilton, says that he thinks him no true Douglas, Cousin. But some hired bravo, bought to save your name! Sir James Livingstone thinks likewise.”

  “Then Sire, I cannot congratulate either of them on their wits! Douglas needs not to hire swords. There were a dozen Douglas lairds at itch to get at Hamilton, but held back because of my brothers. This stranger did not.”

  Hamilton and Livingstone, on either side of the King, exchanged glances. “How know you then, my lord, that the stranger was a Douglas?” the former demanded.

  “He said that his name was Douglas. And none take that name lightly, in this realm, my lord, I assure you. If you contest that, prove it! Bring the impostor to me.”

  “He might be under a vow. To keep silence,” the romantic monarch suggested. The other two did not speak.

  “Aye, Sire,” Will conceded. He turned to Margaret. “Jamie is well,” he told her, lower-voiced. “A bruise or two, that is all. Hugh is sore. Archie sorer. But no grievous hurt.”

  She swallowed. “That is good. He — Jamie — fought well.” She looked up at him directly. “And you?”

  “I?” He shrugged. “What mean you? I am hot. At the folly of my brothers. Their new honours had addled their heads. But they may have learned their lesson.”

  She turned away, without answer.

  The games went on, trials of strength, fleetness, skill. But there was no more jousting. And since the mysterious Douglas champion did not present himself, despite all summons, there was no supreme recipient of the Countess’s silken glove — although Sir Patrick Hamilton was brought up to receive a further congratulation on his fighting. Will, watching him closely, added his own compliments, briefly, and perceived nothing to indicate that the other had any suspicions as to the identity of his vanquisher. Will went so far as to declare, then, that the King’s cause would well use so doughty a fighter — and meant it.

  At last the programme drew to a close. The sky had grown dull and overcast. All were hot and tired. Even King James’s enthusiasm wilted. Meg Douglas came to take away her mistress, whom she declared would be too weary for what was to follow if she did not rest. The glance she shot at Will was somehow inimical.

  There was more feasting, here in the open, for all and sundry. But for the principal wedding guests there was a great banquet in the Abbey refectory, with music and entertainment. None should claim that Douglas was lacking in hospitality.

  Long before that evening was over, Will himself was more than weary of it all, and his bride white-faced and strained. Nevertheless, although most would have forgiven their hosts’ defection, in the circumstances, and many all but urged it, they made no move. Will had let it be known, however, that he would frown strongly on any attempt to carry out the traditional bedding of the bride and groom, by whomsoever. Undoubtedly Archie would have been the ringleader in anything such, but he was not present, being a bandaged inmate of the Abbey hospital; and none of his brothers were feeling inclined further to cross swords with Will that day.

  At length, with King James asleep in his chair — like many another — and Margaret looking ready to drop, Will could no longer indulge his reluctance. Twice Meg Douglas had come from her lowly place at the foot of the refectory, to behind the dais table, to speak to the younger girl, and to glare at Will, most evidently urging him to take her mistress away and end this ordeal. He rose, and Rob Fleming called for silence.

  “Your Grace, my lord Abbot, lords and ladies and gentles all. The night is young, and there are meats, drink and entertainment to sustain you yet for long. But the Lady Margaret is aweary. You would not begrudge her her rest? Nor myself my, my bliss!” Somehow he got it out, the least that he could say. “We bid you all a good night.”

  There were cheers, laughter and some witticisms. But these were muted, for, whatever the bridegroom’s words, his stare was haughty, uninviting, almost challenging. The Black Douglas in that mood, was not a man to cross.

  He raised Margaret, bowed to the King, and hand under her arm, paced to door. His countess almost had to run.

  “My lord,” she murmured. “Less haste . . . would be seemly!”

  He bit his lip.

  CHAPTER TEN

  SINCE the Abbey was grossly overcrowded, only two small rooms had been set aside as the bridal chambers. In one of them, Will paced the floor, a man at odds with his fate. Never had he felt less sure of himself.

  As he paced, naked but for his furred bed-robe, he eyed the inner door almost askance. He would have had a bed made up in this ante-room, but for the talk that would have followed. All Sweet Heart would know of it before morning, nothing more certain. In any other place than this crowded abbey! . . .

  Presently that door opened, and Meg Douglas came out. She had her mistress’s bridal-gown over her arm. She looked at Will seeming even more toughly muscular and compact than usual in his bed robe, and dipped the sketchy mockery of a curtsy. “All awaits your lordship’s pleasure,” she said.

  He frowned at her. “I’ faith, Meg — you at least can spare me this!”

  “Spare you, my lord? Who am I to spare the Black Douglas on his wedding-night?”

  “Have done!” he said. “You know very well that this is not the wedding-night I would have.”

  “Did any force you to it?”

  Sombrely he looked at her. “I think they did, yes. All of the name of Douglas did!” He inclined his head towards the door. “How . . . how does she?”

  “She does very well. Better than you. I think! She is tired, but herself. And very fair. She will not fail you!”

  He shook his head. “A child,” he said.

  “Gentle her, then.” Heavily Meg said that, her voice breaking. She hurried to the turnpike stair-head, and away.

  The man still avoided that inner door. She was tired, he told himself. She might sleep. He waited, pacing. He wondered where Meg was bedding.

  At length, snuffing candles, he tip-toed to the door, and quietly opened it.

  A lamp still burned in the inner room, beside the great bed. Margaret was not asleep. She sat upright on the bed, looking very small and slight and great-eyed. The bed-clothes were drawn up to her chin.

  “You have been long,” she said.

  He cleared his throat. “I thought . . . perhaps you slept. You are weary.”

  “I would not do that, my lord.”

  “I am not your lord!” He almost shouted i
t.

  “Husband, then. And I am none so weary.”

  “You must be. It had been a long day. Heavy. Trying. I would not have come troubling you. To this room. I would have left you, this night, in peace. But the turnpike opens on to that other. There is no other door. Others, servants, would see. And talk.”

  “Talk, yes. They would. At such thing. I would not wish such talk.”

  “No. But I can sleep here, on the floor, very well. Give me but one cover. It will be better than many a night in the field. Or on the hill.”

  Her eyes widened, if that was possible. “What do you mean?”

  “Only that you need fear nothing, Margaret. This night.”

  “Fear? I . . . I do not fear you.” She swallowed, for she was of an honest mind. “Or not, not in this.”

  “Nevertheless, tonight you may rest. Undisturbed. The bed is yours. All yours.”

  “What . . . what are you saying?” she whispered. “That you will not bed with me?”

  He nodded. “Aye, lass. I will not bed with you.”

  “But why? Why? What have I done? Do I so displease you, my lord?”

  “No, no. Not that. Never think it . . .”

  “What, then? I am young, ignorant in this matter. But . . .”

  “Aye, you are young,” he agreed heavily.

  “So that is it! I am too young for you? You think of me as a child? But I am no child. In a few months I shall be sixteen. Many younger than I wed, have children. I am a woman. See — am I a woman, or no?” She flung back the bed-covers, and sat there, completely naked, before him. “I have a woman’s body, have I not? These are women’s breasts, are they not? I have hair where a woman has hair. Am I a child, Will Douglas? Look at me!”

  She was heart-breakingly lovely as she sat there, white, fair, slender, long-limbed. Her breasts were high and round, wide-spaced and sweet, her nipples pink rosebuds, her stomach flat, her hips firmly sculptured, with no hint of fat anywhere — and hair there was, though hardly darker than flaxen. Nevertheless, however exquisite, enticing, fragile, however wistfully eager her display of it — in which her inner shrinking showed in every line of her — it was not a woman’s body. Whatever the girl’s maturity of mind and spirit, her body was as yet otherwise.