At Will’s elbow, Johnnie pointed. “Pate Pringle, still there. It is six weeks and more! . . .”
Narrow-eyed, his brother stared. “For that, if for naught else, Maclellan dies!” he said, from between clenched teeth. He nodded to his trumpeter. “You speak, Johnnie,” he added thickly.
When the trumpet’s ringing summons had died away, Johnnie raised his voice. “Here speaks John Douglas of Balveny. Sir Patrick Maclellan, Tutor of Bombie, your lord and mine, the right puissant and noble Earl of Douglas and Lord of Galloway, here present, commands that you open this your house, held in feudal duty. Forthwith and without delay. See you to it.”
Raeberry, although strong, was small and did not boast a gatehouse and flanking towers. From one of its upper windows, iron-grated, a man shouted reply. “I open this house only to the King’s Grace. Or his Lieutenant. The Earl of Douglas is no longer that. I pay my feudal dues. I owe nothing more to Douglas.”
Johnnie almost choked. “You are his vassal, man! You will not deny that you are his vassal?”
“I have never refused vassalage duty and fee. When called on, I have supplied a knight’s fee, in men, horse and armour, for Douglas. But this house is my own. I yield it to none.”
Will leaned over to touch his red-faced brother’s arm. “Maclellan — here me, Douglas,” he called. “Why does my friend and servant Pate Pringle hang there?”
There was a pause before there was an answer. “Because he was a servant. A low-born knave, he came speaking me ill. Me. Maclellan! He offered me insult. In my own house. None does that, and lives!”
“He came here because my brother sent him. In my name. Wearing my colours. And you slew him.”
“Your brother, my lord, should choose better who he sends to speak with Maclellan!”
“It is Douglas who speaks to you now. As Justiciar and Lord of Galloway I require you to yield yourself to me, for trial for the murder of this man Pringle. And for other ill deeds. Yield, I say.”
“I yield nothing! You cannot require me to do so. I have appealed to the King’s Grace. As is my right.”
“You have no such right. You are under my jurisdiction.”
“Maclellan has always had that right. Before there were ever Douglases in Galloway! And the King knows it. Accepts it.”
“I say you lie. You have no such right. I shall try you, as is my plain duty.”
“You are too late. My messengers are even now on their way to Edinburgh. To the King. The issue is in his royal hands. Till he sends me summons, I yield nothing.”
“Then I will claw you out of your hold like a fox from a cairn!”
“You may try, my lord!”
“You are a fool, Maclellan. Think you, in your eyrie, to withstand the might of Douglas?”
“There is a greater might than Douglas in this realm!”
“We shall see.” Hoarse from shouting, Will turned to Johnnie. “This man must be taught his lesson. And others with him. You will see to it. I have much to do. Too much to sit down outside this Raeberry. Lochmaben and Craig Douglas to visit, and all the lands that for a year have not seen their lord. Pleas to hear, causes to judge. But . . . I want this man, Johnnie. At Threave. And I want him alive. You understand?”
“I will need cannon. Will. For this place . . .”
“I will send you cannon. From Caerlaverock. From Hermitage, if need be.” These were the West March fortresses of which, as Warden, Douglas had control. “In two days you shall have your cannon. And as many men as you require. Gunpowder and gear for mining and sapping. But get me Maclellan.”
“I will get him, never fear. You are going now, then?”
“Aye. To Lochmaben first. I shall go by Caerlaverock and Dumfries. Then Ettrick. Then Douglasdale. But, first, I have something to do.” He looked round him. “I want one man,” he called out. “One man. Who does not fear for his skin.”
There was a chorus of volunteers, all pushing forward, his brothers foremost.
“No, no. One only. You Wattie.” He selected his own body-servant, Wat Scott. “Pate was your friend, also.”
“Stand you back, Wattie,” Jamie intervened. “I will do it.”
“That you will not,” Will declared. “You are heir to Douglas. If there is risk in this, he shall not have both of us.”
“What do you intend?”
“I go for Pate. At least he shall have Christian burial.”
“’Fore God — let some other do that, Will!” Johnnie protested. “Not you.”
“Pate taught me much that I know. And he came here in my name.”
“They could slay you. Arrows. You will be close under their walls.”
“I doubt if even this Maclellan would choose to shoot the Black Douglas! Before all. But have our own archers command each window. And the parapet. We shall need something. For the body. Give me a saddle-cloth . . .”
Dismounting, for horses could not negotiate the first ditch, dry as it was, Will and Wattie Scott moved forward, to lower themselves down the steep twenty-foot sides of the wide trench, cross its base, and clamber up beyond. There was perhaps thirty yards between the two ditches, and midway rose the gibbet.
Stolidly the two men paced towards the thing, itself no more than another forty yards from the castle walls, a mark that no archer could miss. From in front, as from behind, came no bound, no sign of movement — save only the creaking of the gallows as its burden swayed in the wind.
They reached the gibbet-foot. It was a simple, upright post, twelve feet or so in height, supported at the base by four slantwise struts. Its top was crossed by a double arm — but only the one side at present bore its grisly fruit.
Will drew his dirk. “Hold him, Wattie,” he directed, choking a little, for the stench was horrible. “Wrap the saddle-cloth round him. The legs.” Then putting the dirk between his teeth, he grasped the post, set a foot on one of the diagonal struts, and hoisted himself up.
There was no sign, no reaction, from the castle.
When he was high enough, Will gripped the upright pole as tightly as he could, in long riding boots, between thighs, calves and ankles, and steadying himself with one hand, took the knife in the other. Fortunately the hanging had been done with a rope, not a chain. He sawed at the hemp with the sharp blade.
It did not take long. The corpse, hideous now at close quarters, fell, and even the laconic Wattie could not contain his gasp of revulsion as his old friend dropped into his arms. He was not long in lowering the rotting body to the ground and covering it up in the horse-blanket.
Will jumped down, and when the other would have picked up the bundle, thrust him aside and stooped himself to raise his former steward. Across his broad shoulder he hoisted the corpse, and without a glance at the castle, turned and strode back towards his own people. The smell was all but overpowering.
Negotiating the dry ditch was difficult, thus burdened, but now there were other hands to aid them.
“Tie him on a horse, and send him back for burial,” Will told Johnnie. “To Douglas. To the Kirk of St. Bride. He was our father’s faithful servant. He helped to put him in yon crypt. He shall lie beside him.”
Somewhat askance men eyed Will Douglas. He had never looked more grim.
Jamie said, “Thank God they did not shoot!”
“That was folly,” Hugh declared. “A live man does not offer his life for the dead. In especial Douglas, whom thousands living need.”
Will ignored him. “You know your duty, Johnnie?” he said briefly. “I will take only one troop. The rest see that you use to good purpose! Harry will aid you.” To his other brothers he jerked his head. “Come.”
Will was holding justice-aires at his castle of Tibbers, in upper Nithsdale, when the Lord Fleming reached him, weary almost to the point of exhaustion. With scant respect for the proceedings, he sank down on the bench at the head of the Hall, beside the Earl.
“God’s mercy, Will,” he exclaimed, “this is not where you should be, this day! I have rid
den from Edinburgh, hot-foot. To Threave. And had to come back here for you. Wasting time. If I had but known . . .” He drew a hand over his sweat-damp hair. “You know that Johnnie has the man Maclellan? Held at Threave?”
“I know it, Rob. Yesterday the word came. I return there tomorrow. What of it?”
“Tomorrow may be too late. That is, if you are set on this matter. As Johnnie and the Lady Margaret say. Indeed, in any case . . .”
“Talk plain, man!”
“Yes. I have come from the Court. Your unfriends have won the day, Will. You have fallen into a trap. A skilful trap. Of Crichton’s devising. You know that the Grays are kin to Patrick Maclellan? He is nephew to Gray and his brother. They are kin to me also — little as I rejoice in it. My sister was wed to Sir Patrick Gray when I was a bairn. Patrick Gray is Captain of the King’s Guard. Close to the King. And of Crichton’s party.”
“I know it, man. What of it?”
“They have prevailed on the King to supersede your authority. As Lord of Galloway. And Justiciar. In this matter. To save Maclellan and strike at you. They know that you have sworn that he should die. They willed it thus, indeed. It was all deep planned. You were too quick for them with Herries. But they will have you, with Maclellan. Patrick Gray is even now on his way to Threave. To command that you hand over Maclellan to the King’s justice. A royal command. Which you cannot refuse, short of treason. And forfeiture. So you must yield him. Douglas mocked. Made impotent. Before all. Your word, your sworn word set at naught. So you’re trapped. Crichton planned it all . . .”
“Not yet, I am not!” Will’s table all but overturned with the violence of his uprising. “This court stands adjourned!” he cried, to the surprised assembly. Then he was striding for the door, shouting for horses as he went.
That forty mile dash from Tibbers to Threave was possibly the most furious of all Will Douglas’s urgent ridings. Night caught them in the hills east of St. John’s Town of Dairy, but there was no slackening of speed, even though hooves slithered and tripped, horses fell and bones were broken. Any of his companions who could not stand the pace were abandoned without comment or apology. Will, in fact, scarcely spoke a word throughout, usually spurring far ahead of all.
They came to Threave just after sunrise, so that its lord had to clamour at his own gatehouse for entry, before sleepy porters lowered the drawbridge for him.
“Is Gray come?” he yelled at them, even as the chains were still clanking down. “Sir Patrick Gray? From Edinburgh.”
“No, lord. None such has come . . .”
“The saints be praised!”
A tousle-headed Lord Balveny, drawing on top clothes, met them in the courtyard. Without pausing in his dismounting, Will cut through his greetings and questions. “Johnnie — you have Maclellan safe held? Aye, then. Get me twelve men. Yes, twelve.” He grasped his brother’s arm, and hurried him along with him. “You hear. Twelve. From the Castleton. Or the Milton. Not any of our men-at-arms — honest, decent men, to make a jury. And quickly. Have them here, decently clad, in the Common Hall, as soon as may be. When you have them assembled, bring me word. Go now. There is no time to lose . . .”
“My lord, my lord!” Margaret cried, from the keep doorway. “Thank God you are come! At last. I feared . . .” She shook her head. “Oh, Will — why, why did you not slay Crichton when you could? When you had opportunity! . . .”
“Because I lacked your strength, woman — that is why! I have told you — I have not your strength. But today — today we shall yet counter Crichton! In this, at least. None mocks Douglas! Get me food. And clothes. For a court . . .”
All Threave was in a stir within minutes, its lord’s commands being put into effect. But, though all played their parts, what Will had planned, on that headlong ride through the night, was not to be. They were given insufficient time. Bewildered men, elders of the local community, millers, smiths, masons, foresters and the like, were still being hurried into the Common Hall on the first floor of Threave’s great keep, when a shrill high trumpet summons at the gatehouse galvanised all in the castle. The Captain of the King’s Guard, and two attendants, was demanding admission thereat in the name of James, King of Scots.
Will’s cursing was violent, intense but brief. “He must have ridden with the dawn! Had he but given me another hour, damn him!” Then he drew himself up. “Rob — my greetings to your kinsman, Sir Patrick Gray. All respect and honour to be paid to him. Bid him to my table, after his long riding. You, Jamie — find and fetch me Johnnie. Quickly.”
So the tired and travel-stained but palely handsome Sir Patrick Gray was escorted to the castle’s Private Hall, one floor above that being prepared for the trial of the other Sir Patrick, with all the ceremony and salutation due to the monarch’s personal envoy. Hastily viands, cold meats, ale and wine had been placed upon the dais table, where the Earl and Countess welcomed him, not effusively but at least courteously.
“Here is a notable surprise, Sir Patrick,” Will greeted him. “Thus early in the morning. Do you honour us? Or do you ride further, and but visit Douglas in passing?”
Gray was all courtier, bowing with flourish and aplomb, however weary of carriage and strained of feature. “The honour is all mine, my lord,” he declared. “His Grace has sent me to Threave to convey to you the assurance of his entire favour, compliments and esteem. That, and to deliver into your hand this letter for your lordship.” He produced from within his doublet a paper, folded and heavily sealed with the royal arms.
“Ah, yes.” Will took the missive easily. “His Grace is always kind, generous. And to send his greetings by so distinguished a messenger! Coming at this hour, Sir Patrick, I hope that you have not ridden all through the night, while we lay snug in our beds?”
“I stopped for an hour or two at Crossmichael, my lord. The matter is . . . urgent.
“To be sure. It must be, indeed.” But Will made no move to open the sealed letter. “You cannot have eaten. broken your fast, I swear. You must be tired. Hungry. Happily, we ourselves are about to eat. You will join us.” That was a command and no question.
“Sit in, Sir Patrick,” Margaret said. “Your wife? She bears my own name, I think? She is well?”
“Well, my lady. I thank you. But . . . the King’s business, my lord.” Gray gestured towards the letter. “It concerns my nephew, Sir Patrick Maclellan . . .”
“Then it can wait, sir. Until we have eaten. Hungry men do little honour to anything — in especial a king’s letter. It is my experience, Sir Patrick, that all things are the better considered on a full stomach than on an empty. So sit you.” Will tossed the unopened letter on the table. “Ah — here is my brother, Balveny. He, now, has broken fast already. But then, he has no wife to keep him late abed! Sit, I say, man!”
Perforce Gray sat, while Margaret offered him food. Taking Johnnie’s arm. Will walked him away towards the door again.
‘You must do what is to be done, Johnnie,” he said, his voice low, flat, level. “My vow falls to be kept! Douglas’s vow. There is now no time for trial. But then, Pate was given no trial also! You have it?”
“Aye.” Johnnie nodded grimly. “And not before time! I would have done this long since. What is it to be, then? The axe? Or the rope?”
“The axe is quickest, is it not? And time, this morning, is a short commodity, it seems.”
“Good. I will blow a horn when the thing is done.”
“Do that, Johnnie. I shall be listening . . .”
Back at the table, Will sat with his guest, and Margaret, to this second meal of the young day. If his heart was not in his eating, at least he was all attentive host, plying the visitor with meats and drink and questioning him about affairs at Court, Margaret aiding, when he flagged of invention, with queries as to the Queen and the royal baby. If Gray himself was not notably interested in his food, he was kept talking. More than once he attempted to bring the conversation round to the subject of Maclellan, but always he was headed off.
“Now that we have eaten and are in our right minds, we can better attend the King’s business,” he declared.
Gray opened his lips to speak, but thought better of it.
Will broke the heavy seals and spread out the paper. Expressionless, he perused the neat penmanship therein, down to James Stewart’s untidy signature at the bottom. He looked up, and sighed.
“A pity,” he said. “A pity. I fear that it will be difficult. To pay full regard to His Grace’s requirements in this matter.”
The other leaned forward. “You mean, my lord?”
“Were you advised as to the contents of this letter, sir?”
“I was.”
“Then you will understand my regret at being unable . . .” He paused and repeated the word. “. . . unable to fall in fully with my royal cousin’s wishes, his loyalist subject as I am.”
Gray stood up. “Are you saying, my lord, that you will not deliver up to me, on the King’s commands, Sir Patrick Maclellan, Tutor of Bombie?”
“No. Not will not, sir. Cannot.”
“My lord of Douglas, I urge you to think. Think well. This is your plain duty. This knight, my nephew, however you may conceive him to have offended, is no longer in your jurisdiction. The King is supreme in jurisdiction, as in all else. Sir Patrick Maclellan is his prisoner now, since he has taken this matter into his own royal hands. You cannot withhold my nephew’s person. Short of outright rebellion against your liege lord.”
‘M’mm. I see it as less simple than that, sir. Much as I would wish to pleasure His Grace.”
“Then I must command you, my lord, in the King’s name, Command that you hand over to me the person of Sir Patrick, now the King’s prisoner. Refusal to do so can only be treated as highest treason. The penalties for which, you my lord, are well aware!”
Black Douglas (Coronet Books) Page 38
