Black Douglas (Coronet Books)

by Nigel Tranter

  The assembly proceeded to the discussion of various problems of reform and good governance — but these, although vital enough, were largely a show, the real importance of the parliament being as a demonstration against Crichton. Angus and Lennox and some of the lesser men were forfeited for rebellion, as a matter of form — but this meant little against powerful nobles who had the means to repel any attempts at dispossession. The most significant decision was the vote on the resolution requiring the former Chancellor and already-forfeited outlaw, Sir William Crichton, to deliver up forthwith into the King’s hands the royal castle of Edinburgh, and also the Great Seal of his former office, the retaining of which was highest treason and punishable by death. The vote was 138 to nil — although a dozen or so careful individuals managed to slip out of the abbey refectory before the vote was taken.

  The decision was broadcast throughout the city, and proclaimed by heralds under the Royal Standard before the castle itself, with a peremptory summons to surrender. Crichton did not oblige, of course but he could not fail to get the message. However, the entire exercise was not so much for its effect on Crichton as on public opinion. In that it was successful, to a large degree. One aspect rather spoiled it all. James Kennedy, at the chairman’s table, insisted on breaking off the proceedings at an early hour each day, in order to repair to the abbey chapel, and there, at sundown, before the altar, to go through his daily procedure of ritual cursing, assisted by junior clergy, acolytes and choristers — which, considering that most of the objects of this fulmination were taking part in the parliament, had its effect on the atmosphere. Indeed, the Primate would have had them all banished from attendance, and brought to trial there and then before a properly constituted court of law; but Will Douglas set his face against this. With the Lindsay-Gray-Hamilton contingents a large proportion of the non-Douglas assembled manpower, such a course was just not to be considered. As a consequence, Kennedy’s attitude towards Douglas hardened perceptibly.

  Will, despite all his organising activities, was preoccupied in more than this. He was basically a single-minded young man, and all the varied and intricate strands of this tapestry-of-state tended to confuse and infuriate him. He increasingly found, strangely enough, that he was considerably helped, guided and comforted in talking matters over, of an evening, with his girl-wife. Margaret Douglas, calm, cool and factual, had in fact a better head on her than almost anyone he knew, certainly better than any of his brothers and close associates. More and more he sought her advice.

  The evening after the parliament, they sat together before a flickering log fire in their quarters of the abbey — for it was a wet night of late autumn, and chilly. An outdoor programme of events had had to be cancelled, because of the weather — and they had had their fill of dancings and feastings meantime. It made a cosy, almost a domestic scene, with Will and Margaret on either side of the fireplace, Meg sitting a little back, stitching a seam, and Jamie, who never liked to be far from this company, crouching on a stool and watching the play of the firelight on Margaret’s delicate features.

  “You are not satisfied with your parliament, then?” she said. “You do not think that Crichton will see it as sufficient? To prove that he now has very little support in the land.”

  “No. He knows better than that,” Will said heavily. “So long as four great earls, and the Border lords, hold aloof from us, he knows our weakness. Five earls, if we count Ross, Lord of the Isles. Crichton knows that many who voted for us in this parliament would turn against us tomorrow, if they saw profit in it.”

  “Perhaps. Lesser men will always follow greater. But they will not move of themselves. And most of these earls are far away, Ross in especial. He is not interested, I think. Concerned only to be king in his own Hebrides. Only one is near. Angus. Of our own kin. And he it is to whom the Border lords all look.’

  “Aye. Think you I do not know it!” That came out almost on a groan. “So long as Douglas remains divided, so long as Red hates Black, so long will William Crichton hope. And have reason to hope! But what can I do? I have tried everything. Angus’s face is set against me. Offers, pleas, threats. Fair words and foul. He sits secure at Tantallon, and knows that the East March of the Border is his, and therefore the borderline with England. He and his can keep out the English — or let them in! It is a sword he holds over the head of Scotland — and well he knows it.”

  “There is a truce with England,” Jamie pointed out.

  “A scrap of parchment! Think you that is enough to keep them on their own soil, if Angus so much as crooked a finger? They still hold our fortresses of Berwick and Roxburgh. They still would have all Scotland in thrall. Angus and his friends could let them in. By sea as well as land — for Tantallon controls the mouth of the Forth.”

  “But would he? That would be black treachery. You do not know him traitor,” Jamie would always give the benefit of the doubt.

  “He has returned my threats with scarce-veiled threats of his own. He is a sour and bitter man. His father treated with the English, against the King’s father — even though he was a son of the same King’s sister. I do not trust the man.”

  “How can you say that, Will? You have not so much as spoken with him,” Margaret said.

  “I have heard sufficient of him. From many. Rob Fleming, in especial!”

  “He had no cause to love Sir Robert. Nor you. He is proud. It may be he thinks you prouder.”

  “What mean you by that?”

  “I mean that pride is an ill envoy. Go yourself.”

  “Go? Go where?”

  “Go to Tantallon. Will Douglas to see James Douglas.”

  “Bravo!” Meg declared, from the shadows.

  “You would have me thrust my head into that den?”

  “You thrust your head into Livingstone’s den, once. Bearded that lion. Is James Douglas more terrible?”

  “He would not see me. Let me within his gates.”

  “Not if you went at the head of a host, no. But if you went alone? . . .”

  “And be clapped into his deepest pit! As was Rob.”

  “Sir Robert was released. When he became the King’s Cup-bearer. You are the King’s Lieutenant-General. Greater than many cup-bearers. And you are the Black Douglas.”

  “The richer prize, then.”

  “At least, he would not imprison the Countess of Douglas, I think.”

  “Eh? . . .”

  “Bravo!” Meg said again, laughing.

  “My lord of Angus is my kinsman, as much as yours,” Margaret pointed out. “I will come with you.”

  “That would be foolishness.”

  “I think not. You will be the less suspect if you come with your wife.”

  “It would be worse than foolishness — it would be wicked! To run yourself into danger,” Jamie cried. “Do not do it, Will.”

  “I thought that you deemed Angus less ill than I do?”

  “Margaret must not endanger herself, nevertheless. I will go with you, Will.”

  “Na, na. That might be altogether too much for our kinsman! To take Douglas, and Douglas’s heir, both! No, if I go, I go alone.”

  Margaret opened her lips to speak, and then thought better of it. Meg smiled, and went on with her stitching, as the birch-logs spluttered and hissed in the fire.

  In the end, and two days later, three persons rode across the green rabbit-cropped links towards Tantallon — for Margaret had had her quiet way, and Meg had refused to allow her mistress to venture into a possibly difficult situation unattended by another woman. They had ridden the twenty miles eastwards from Edinburgh, with a small convoy of men under Rob Fleming, who knew the territory, but had left these at Sir Walter Haliburton’s castle of Dirleton, and proceeded quite unescorted through the rich East Lothian countryside; but they were not unescorted now. At some stage after leaving the little burgh of North Berwick, they had become aware that they were being followed, discreetly at first but gradually more openly and by ever-growing numbers, until at l
ength there were fully a score of horsemen jingling along behind them but keeping their distance. Not a few of these wore red hearts painted on their breastplates, similar to those picked out in rubies on Will’s and Margaret’s travelling cloaks, and embroidered on Meg’s — but they were no people of his.

  Tantallon made a sight to hold the eye, more like a vast feature of nature than any work of man. A couple of miles to one side, the great grassy cone of North Berwick Law rose high out of the rolling pastureland, and a mile or so on the other side the mighty mass of the Bass Rock soared out of the blue sea almost as high, gleaming white with the bird-droppings that painted its frowning cliffs. Between the two, this extraordinary castle,unlike any other in the land, reared itself on the cliff edge, a daunting barrier of red stone, high and massive enough to seem on a par with these others. The stronghold was, in fact, a gigantic towering wall cutting off from the land an entire narrow peninsula of cliff. Higher than even the keeps of any normal castle, these walls rose, but at each end of them, and in the centre, three tremendous towers thrust up more than half as high again. From all of these Douglas banners flew proudly, but from the greatest, the central gatehouse tower, flapped a Red Heart standard larger than any flag Will had ever seen. No windows or apertures pierced those curtain-walls, which were crowned by parapets and walks, along which paced many men, seeming puny and skied up there, and from embrasures of which the black mouths of cannon gaped. Landwards of this imperious bastion were two great systems of outer walls, with towers and palisades and gun-ports, fronted by deep and wide ditches, one water-filled. There was no need for defensive works on the other three sides, where two-hundred feet high precipices dropped sheer to the waves.

  “Save us — I thought I was lord of Douglas!” Will muttered, staring.

  However expensively clad, although totally unarmoured, Will at least felt very naked as they trotted forward towards the first of those ditches, drawbridges and gatehouses — especially with that silent cavalcade behind. The women could say what they would about being a source of safety and security, but to him at this moment they represented only additional helplessness — and Will Douglas did not like to feel helpless. But it was too late for second thoughts; they could only go on.

  Word of their approach must somehow have preceded them to Tantallon, for the first bridge was down, the gates open, and men-at-arms clustered round, very much on the alert.

  “Who comes?” a voice shouted.

  “Douglas and his lady. To see the lord of Angus,” Will returned, without reining in his horse’s trot.

  There was no reply, but neither was there any attempt to bar their progress. Thudding hollowly over the bridge-timbers, the trio rode through the arched pend beneath the first gatehouse, wary-eyed men flanking them on either side. There was no further word spoken.

  At the second gate they were again challenged, this time with the bridge held against them. When Will replied, they were told curtly to wait.

  Wait they did, and for long, calling upon their patience under the blank scrutiny of many. The girls chatted quietly together, but the man fumed inwardly, wordless.

  At length they were admitted, without any reason proffered for the delay, to the inner bailey. This was quite unlike any other of their experience, no narrow courtyard or no-man’s-land, but a wide open spread of grass, acres in extent, whereon many horses and cattle grazed, a strange sight to see within a fortress. Two large stone dovecots to house fowl-flesh and messenger-birds rose therein. This Tantallon was intended to be self-supporting, if need be. Two men holding each of the horses’ heads now, they were led across this by a cobbled causeway to the vast tower in the centre of that daunting curtain-wall.

  Here a group awaited them, on the third drawbridge, under the great portcullis arch. A young man, fair-haired, ruddy-complexioned, good-looking in a heavy way, stepped forward. He was carelessly dressed, but had an air of authority.

  “You wear an honest emblem, and we have been told that you name yourself Douglas,” he said. “But there are Douglases and Douglases! Who do I greet, thus unannounced?” He barely glanced at Will, so interested was he in the young women, Meg in particular.

  “Douglas,” Will told him briefly.

  “Eh? . . .” The sharp succinctness of that brought his regard back to the man. “You mean? . . .”

  “Douglas himself, sir. And his lady. Come to call on James Douglas of Angus. Are you he?”

  “Douglas? The . . . the earl? Himself? You are Earl William? Here — at Tantallon?”

  “Aye. And the Countess Margaret of Galloway. Kept waiting at your gate, my lord, an unconscionable time!”

  “God’s Name — you say that! I am sorry. But . . . how could we know? And I am not Angus. I am his brother. George Douglas. The Master . . .”

  “Aye. Then, if your brother is within, sir, take us to him.”

  “We are glad to meet the Master of Angus,” Margaret intervened gently. To add, smiling. “Cousin.”

  The other blinked, cleared his throat, and managed a bow. “My lady,” he mumbled. “You . . . you are more beautiful even than your fame.” He glanced at Meg also, seemed about to say more, and then thought better of it. He turned instead to one of his companions there. “Sanders — conduct my lord and the ladies to the Guest Hall. I go for my brother.”

  As George Douglas hurried off through the long echoing tunnel beneath the mighty tower, the newcomers dismounted, assisted now by eager hands. Despite the sudden change in the climate of their reception, however, Will felt as though every step into that stone-vaulted entrance passage, flanked by the black gaping mouths of dungeons, was like a succession of doors slamming on his freedom. He was the more grimly unforthcoming in consequence.

  But when they emerged from beneath the tower, even he was surprised into exclamation. For suddenly all was changed. The eastwards, seawards side of that tremendous wall could not have been more different from its approach. Abruptly all was light and air and quiet, this sunny autumn afternoon, all signs of castellation and military strength behind them. A spacious open precinct, grass-grown and more pleasance than courtyard, occupied the remainder of the cliff-top, and beyond was only the dizzy immensity of sea and sky. Secondary buildings did flank each side of this, but they were low, quite dwarfed by the bastion behind, and wholly domestic, unfortified, in character, since none might reach their sanctuary save through the serried defences, the cliffs in front being unscaleable. Apart from a well-shaft, protected by a low wall, in the centre, only walks and shrubs and an arbour or two occupied this wide airy quadrangle — admittedly somewhat neglected-seeming and weed-grown. A child, a young girl, played alone in it with a cat.

  “Who would have thought it?” Margaret cried. “Such a fair, sweet place to be hidden in this dire stronghold.”

  “A woman’s hands made this,” Meg declared. “Here is no man’s work. The Princess Mary perhaps? Was she not mother of this earl?”

  “Grandmother,” Margaret said. “Her son was the last lord, father of this. I like it here. It speaks of peace, not war.”

  “Yet here were brought the heads of Duke Murdoch of Albany and his sons, to hand to their wife and mother. By the late King James,” Will pointed out. “As warning to other traitors. Much evil has been done here.”

  They were led across the pleasance by their escort, and ushered into a fine apartment with a hammer-beam roof, tapestry hung and with large windows seawards framing a noble prospect of the Bass, the Isle of May and the distant shores of Fife. Here, watching the seas breaking on the reefs and skerries far below, they were presently joined by the Master of Angus. He brought with him a very different young man.

  The Earl of Douglas and the Earl of Angus were of similar ages, but there the resemblance ended. James Douglas was very tall, very thin, gaunt-featured, great-eyed, and pale. Dressed with much richness, his clothes hung on him as on a clothes-horse. Yet he had a strange dignity for so young a man, a deal more than had Will, his every movement seeming slow and c
alculated. He bowed stiffly, formally, to each of his visitors in turn, and said absolutely nothing.

  Will stared at the apparition askance, totally unprepared for this. He had heard that Angus was a peculiar man, enjoying only indifferent health, but he had never visualised this long, stalking heron of a creature. If this was the Red Douglas, there looked precious little even of red blood to him.

  “Greetings, Cousin,” he managed to get out. “I am William Douglas. This is Margaret, of Galloway. And . . . and a friend.”

  “I am no cousin of yours,” the other returned, and his speech was slow and grated harshly as a corncrake’s. “Nor would wish to be. What brings you to Tantallon, my lord?”

  Will bit back the temper which rose within him like a hot tide. “I thought it time that we met,” he jerked.

  “I met your father once. And misliked what I saw.”

  His visitor swallowed, and glanced at Margaret. He could not take much of this.

  She came to his rescue. “Will is a different man from his sire, my lord,” she said quietly. “All the kingdom has had reason to discover that. Have not you? Or do you hide away in this Tantallon, and know naught of what is done in Scotland?”

  “Hide, madam? Angus does not hide.”

  “I would not have thought it, being Douglas. Yet we see naught of you or yours in all the realm. When you could do so much.”

  “Do much for whom, madam?”

  “For the King, sir. Your cousin. And ours.”

  Her guess, or intuition, proved valid. This strange young man had a name for pride. If he was not prepared to reckon Will as cousin, he was unlikely to deny kinship with the King. His father’s mother was a sister of James the First. Strangely enough, these three branches of the house of Douglas here represented were more closely linked by their royal Stewart blood than by that of their own name. Margaret herself was closest to the Throne, with both her mother’s mother and her father’s mother princesses; Will’s link being rather more remote. Whereas the Red Douglases had separated from the Black generations earlier, when on the death of the great 2nd Earl, at Otterburn, for want of legitimate heir, the earldom passed by arrangement to his companion-in-arms and kinsman, Archibald the Grim, son of the Good Sir James by an unknown mother. The fact that there was a closer heir, illegitimate also but a generation nearer, in the Earl’s own natural brother, Red George — who had married the Countess of Angus in her own right and so won that earldom — had never failed to rankle, ever since, with his descendants.