In more ways than one Will Douglas belied his looks. He certainly did not look a man of peace. Peace and he indeed were but little acquainted. Yet he sought peace, more deliberately and actively than most of his kind, sought it with a sort of wistful urgency, even though often with a sword in hand. But this pleasant sun-filled breezy day of May 1448, by the Nith, peace indeed prevailed — and a peace largely of his own making. In the green triangle of meadowland where the Cluden Water joined Nith, a mile or two north of Dumfries, a great and peaceable assembly was in progress. Nothing quite like it had been seen before, in Scotland. It was as much Margaret’s idea as his own, but its organisation was all his — and only the Black Douglas could have achieved it. Hundreds of men and women, ordinary folk though mainly elderly, sat on the grass of the bowling-green and pleasance of the College of Lincluden, and some way up the sides of the great tumulus there, with its spiral track to the top — relic of other assemblies long past. Here was really a sort of parliament, a parliament of Borderers. But not of lords and lairds and bishops, although some of these there were also. In the main it was a gathering of the elders of a people, of all types and classes, brought here by Douglas, to collect, discuss and record the ancient laws, customs and traditional usages of the Borderland. There was a distinct culture and way of life belonging to these southern Scottish counties, with their special situation and history, and many immemorial rights, privileges, crimes and punishments — which were not always in accord with the general laws of the realm. As Borderer himself, as Sheriff of Selkirk, and as Warden of the Middle and West Marches, as well as the greatest landowner in the area, Will was interested and concerned.
He sat on the flat top of the tumulus, with Margaret by his side. She had changed less than he had, although she was now a tall and serene young woman of eighteen. Still slender, willowy, delicately-made and fair, of a frail almost breathtaking loveliness, she sometimes frightened her husband by this very fragile beauty.
On the warm grass around them there sat a great concourse of the Douglas kin — for Will was still a notable family man, even though he had no offspring of his own. Jamie was there, faithful as ever, inclining just a little to stoutness, and the only member of the family still unmarried, save for young Henry, who had entered the Church; Hugh, Earl of Ormond and John, Lord Balveny, with their new wives. Archie, Earl of Moray alone of the brothers was absent; he was building an extraordinary new castle up at Darnaway in Moray, in the broad lands he had married, which was to be the finest, most handsome, in the land. All the sisters were present, however, with their husbands; Margaret with Sir Harry Douglas of Borgue, Chamberlain of Galloway and acting Lord of Dalkeith; Beatrix and Sir William Hay, the Constable; Janet, recently married to Rob Fleming, who was now indeed created Lord Fleming; and young Elizabeth, whose wedding to Sir John Wallace of Craigie, chief of that ancient and honourable name, had just been celebrated. With other chiefs and lords of the name of Douglas, they made quite a court around Will.
The discussion was orderly but easy and uninhibited. They were dealing with the subject of the hot trod, whereby a man might pursue a raider of his cattle across the Borderline without having to obtain a formal safe-conduct, and regain his stolen property if he could, if necessary to the effusion of blood — this while the trail was still fresh, or hot, local law acceding. But there were differing interpretations of hotness or freshness, the custom seeming to vary between areas. Two old mosstroopers, one from Eskdale and the other from Jedwater, in especial argued vigorously.
Will raised his hand. “At the Wardens’ yearly meeting at the Redswire, we accept that the trod is hot for twelve hours,” he said. “No longer.”
“That’s no’ right, my lord,” the Eskdalesman objected strongly. “Yon’s the Englishry’s notion. We’ve aye held by a day and a night. Aye, and taken it, forby!”
“That is the way I have ever heard it, in Nithsdale and Annandale,” Margaret told them.
There were cries of agreement from some, dissent from others.
“Then it seems that there is a difference between the West March and the others,” Will declared. “We must discover how and when this change came about. This is a matter . . .”
He stopped, as a disturbance developed from the direction of the redstone College buildings. A small party, in riding-gear of half-armour and thigh-boots, came striding, pushing their way unceremoniously through the sitting crowd, and it did not require the Lindsay colours to identify him.
“Earl Beardie, by the Rude!” Will murmured to Margaret. “Bringing trouble, you may be sure! And bad trouble, to fetch that one so far south as this.”
Alex the Tiger was indeed Earl Beardie now, had been for two years. His father, the old Earl of Crawford, was dead. And his dying, a year to the day after Bishop Kennedy’s first spectacular cursing of him and his associates at St. Andrews, had resounded loud and long throughout Scotland, not only in the consequent elevation of the wildest character in the land to one of the most powerful positions therein, but as the most dramatically successful piece of cursing and excommunication known for centuries — to the enhancement of Kennedy’s reputation, and indeed the advancement of Holy Church. The old earl had died by an arrow, struck down while he was seeking to play peacemaker, at the Battle of Arbroath, when Beardie came to eventual grips with Ogilvy of Inverquharity who had supplanted him as protector of Arbroath Abbey, amidst mighty slaughter. All the land rang with admiration for the Primate’s fulminatory and denunciatory powers — although certain members of the Council noted that it was the man who had slept throughout the cursing who had died, and the Hamiltons and the rest were still in excellent health.
Will rose to greet the giant as he came climbing up the tumulus. “Welcome, my lord, to our assembly. It is a far cry from your territories?”
“Aye. Ower far. For hard riding.” Though he scowled habitually, he nodded and grinned at Margaret. Strangely enough, she was a favourite of this uncouth character, her exquisiteness seeming to appeal to him. “Aye, lassie.”
“You have ridden hard and far, my lord?” she answered. “Then we are the more grateful.”
“You’ll no’ be, by God, when you hear! The English are in! They’ve struck. Ower into the Merse. Burning and slaying. A great force. It’s war!”
“Dear God! The English!”
“But . . . the truce?” Margaret cried. “There is a truce with England.”
“There was! A ten-year truce expired last year. A new one is being bargained on now.”
“They havena waited for that, i’ faith!” Crawford growled. “The word is that it’s no bit raid. They’re in force. Under Northumberland, their Warden. And Sir John Harrington. Crossed Tweed at Berwick, and are burning their way north through the Merse. And Angus, the rat, has let them in. Done nothing.”
“He holds to his brother’s policy, then.” The Angus referred to was George Douglas, the former Master. Margaret had been right, that day at Tantallon. The Earl had lived a bare eighteen months thereafter, and the Princess Joan was still a virgin. The new Earl, in an effort to keep him friendly, had been given his brother’s Wardenship of the East March.
“Aye. The word in Edinburgh is there’s none doing battle. The English are running loose. When I heard, I came to tell you mysel’. Rather than send couriers. God — my couriers I sent north! To muster Lindsay!”
“My thanks.” As Lieutenant of the Realm this was very much Will’s responsibility. And however much of a liability Beardie Alex was normally, where fighting was involved there was none more effective. He turned to those who thronged around him, with his swift decision. “Jamie — all knights, lairds and landed men to attend me in the Provost’s room of the College, forthwith. Rob — all horseflesh for five miles around to be brought in. Arms likewise. Hugh — to my lord Maxwell at Caerlaverock, with this word. All his strength . . .”
“Wait a bit, Douglas,” Beardie interrupted. “You’ve no’ heard all the tidings from Edinburgh yet. Crichton’s up again. Yon
ranting priest Kennedy’s been raising him. He’s been seeing the King. And now he’s off to France. Special envoy, no less! To find the laddie a wife.”
“Save us — no! Not William Crichton!”
“Aye. The same black devil. And they’re saying that if he makes a good match for Jamie, when he comes back Kennedy will resign and give him the chancellorship again.”
Will looked at his wife and bit his lip. Her fair features were for the moment strangely hard and set.
After a little Will said, “He is gone, you say?”
“Sailed from Leith three days back. With an embassage of priests and clerks. For France and the Low Countries.”
“This is Bishop Kennedy’s doing?” Margaret demanded, thin-voiced.
“Aye. He conceives Douglas ower powerful, they say. And with ill friends!” And he grinned. “So he rears up Crichton again.”
Will shook his head. “I have long known that Kennedy mistrusts me. Yet — I esteem him an honest man.”
‘I have never known an honest priest! And an honest bishop would be a miracle, by the Mass!”
“Perhaps. But . . . this can wait. The English will not. You, Johnnie — make ready to lead a scouting party. To find the enemy and keep me informed. Aye, and to rouse some of our people, on the way. Take five score young men, well-horsed. Now — I must send these good folk home . . .”
The news of the invasion of the East March reached Lincluden shortly after noon, and Will rode out eastwards over the Nith ford less than three hours later. He had fewer than two hundred fighting men with him — indeed, his following was largely composed of nobles, knights and lairds, possibly the most top-heavy Scots punitive force ever to ride against the English. The assembly at Lincluden had been a wholly peaceful one, with few men-at-arms present — and in these days Douglases did not have to be protected by armed bands when they rode about South Scotland. It would take time to muster a sizeable force. Jamie would remain at Lincluden, to forward bodies of men as they became available. Hugh would bring on the Dumfries men, the Maxwells, and the main body of local Douglases, just as quickly as possible. Harry the Chamberlain would rouse Galloway. Young Henry, forgetting his priestliness, was already spurring north to muster Douglasdale and Ettrick; while Hay the Constable rode still further north, for Stirling, to mobilise on a national scale — and to keep an eye on fishers in troubled waters. Will was almost thankful that Crichton had sailed for France, for this would have been the sort of situation which he might well have exploited for his own ends. And there were still the Livingstones to consider.
With Earl Beardie on one side of him and the Master of Somerville on the other, Will spurred urgently east by north making for Eskdale and the Mosspaul pass over into Teviot. It would have been more direct to head on a more northerly line, up Annandale, by Moffat and the Ettrick passes and so into Tweeddale — but Will had sent John this way, by Teviot, in order to rouse in passing the Douglases of Drumlanrig and Cavers, who dwelt thereabouts. These were detached branches of the Red house, but, since the compact with Angus, had been co-operating with Will; this invasion must affect them gravely, whatever Angus’s own reaction. Will hoped to pick up a substantial contingent of them, en route.
The Morton lands, part of the Dalkeith heritage in Eskdale, yielded useful reinforcements, and then they were into the hills — Armstrong country, whose allegiance was to say the least, doubtful. As Warden of this Middle March, Will called on their aid — but these wild marchmen were a law unto themselves and though Gilnockie, their chief, promised to send a party after them, few expected ever to see it.
In the grey dusk of a May night they clattered down Teviot into Hawick town, where Drumlanrig had his seat, fifty difficult mosspocked miles behind them. John had done his work well, and one hundred and fifty Hawick callants, under Drumlanrig’s son, were awaiting them, standing to their shaggy sure-footed horses. Tired as all were, there was no resting. They pressed on down the dale to Cavers, where Douglas thereof, Sheriff of Teviotdale, had another hundred assembled, and after providing food and fodder, accompanied them himself on their shadowy way. Borderers were used to night-time activities.
They headed north now, crossing Teviot by the Denholm ford, and climbing up out of the mists of the valley, over the quiet rounded Minto Hills, to slant down towards Tweed, where, at Leaderfoot ford they were to await the first reports of John’s scouts.
It is never really dark of a May night in these latitudes, but the glow which they had been aware of for some time, to the east, was not the sunrise that they looked for. There was no definition to the vista, in that half-light, and no landmarks were to be distinguished, even the great southern barrier of the Cheviot Hills. But for all that, presently, a great spread of lower land became evident below and before them, not so much seen as perceived. And all of it, in a vast arc half-right and front, flickered blood-red as far as eye could see. There were brighter conflagrations amongst the general glow, orange against the dull crimson, representing greater or nearer fires; but what they were seeing was in fact a whole province aflame. All drew up to stare, shocked. Scenes of violence were commonplace to these men; but few there were old enough to have seen before how thoroughly the English behaved when they crossed the Border in strength. Ten years of truce, with the good Regent Gloucester ruling England — and now dead of poison — had spoiled the Scots for this sort of thing.
Anger seething and clouding their minds, with a burst of new energy they hurried down to Tweed. At Leaderfoot, some of the fires appeared to be no great distance off, downriver — although Will realised that the nearest could not in fact be the splendid abbey of Dryburgh, as he had feared. It was further away than that. And Melrose, on the other side, where Bruce’s heart was interred amid Douglas tombs, was safe apparently; at least no flames showed in that direction.
Will’s first impulse, like that of most of his companions, was to dash off into the stricken Merse, to the aid of the victims. But that was not what they were here for. Others could attend to that; their task was sterner.
Although many slept, by the broad Tweed at Leaderfoot, Will could not. He paced the river-bank restlessly, a man blaming himself bitterly. He was not Warden of this March — that was Angus’s responsibility — but he was of the Middle and West Marches, and he should have been better prepared than this. He had been too concerned with peace and its beguilements. He had done the unforgivable thing; he had continued to trust the English after Gloucester’s restraining hand was removed.
Shortly after dawn two couriers arrived from John. They brought challenging news. The main English force had pushed north as far as Dunbar on the edge of Lothian — where, significantly, Angus’s territory began — and gone no further. They had burned the town, not attempted its strong castle, and then turned south again. They were even now at Colbrandspath, nine miles on their way back, halted for the night, the Lord Balveny keeping an eye on them. He reckoned the total English numbers as between four and five thousand. There had already been some exchanges with their skirmishers.
Will with not much more than one-tenth of the enemy strength, as yet, was in no position for any head-on clash. But if he could delay them until his summoned reinforcements arrived, he might yet teach the invaders a lesson.
Coldbrandspath lay at a point where the Lammermuir Hills came down to the sea. From there, heading south, the English must either wind their way through the hills, by the Eye Water passes, or climb over the high ground of Coldinghame Moor. Both would take them through difficult country for some ten miles. That country, properly used, might be worth many men.
Will wasted no time. He had his company on the move again within minutes, heading up Lauderdale, the back-door into the Lammermuirs.
Three hours later, but still with the shepherds’ cottages only beginning to send up the blue peat-smoke of breakfast fires into the morning air, weary men and beasts climbed the last of the green smooth hills, to pull up just below the gentle ridge of Eweside Hill, with the land dropping
steeply before them to the wrinkled sea. Away to the north, a great pall of dirty brown smoke hung over the coastal plain; that would be Dunbar, still burning. Nearer at hand were sundry lesser smokes, to stain a fine morning. Nearest of all, new black smoke was beginning to billow up out of the cleft of one of the many deans which carried rushing streams down off the hills to the sea. That was from no cooking-fires, even for a host. It could only be the village of Colbrandspath itself being set ablaze. Which meant that the enemy, their night’s rest over, were leaving their usual token behind them. They had not gone yet, then.
A band of horsemen were spied approaching the ridge from the north-west, out of sight of the low ground — John’s advance-party. They came to announce that the English, glutted with the spoils of war, captured cattle, drink and women, had slept long at Colbrandspath. They were only now stirring, preparatory to resuming the march south.
“How do they go, Johnnie? By Eye Water? Or over the moors?” Will demanded, without preamble.
“Who knows? But they came up through the hills. By Eye Water. And the high road is difficult. Steep to climb. Laden as they are with much booty, I would think they would go back as they came, through the valleys.”
“Booty, heh? Women?” Beardie snarled. “We’ll lighten them o’ that! They’ll be slow. Who commands? Northumberland himsel’? Or Harrington?’
Black Douglas (Coronet Books) Page 27
