“You are a bold man, Patrick Gray, to name that word to Douglas. In Douglas’s house! But I commend your zeal in the King’s service. See you, I do not reject the royal command. I do not refuse to hand over the person of Maclellan to you. I but inform you that there are difficulties.”
“Then these difficulties must be overcome. Since it is a royal command. Bring me to Sir Patrick, my lord.”
“Very well.” Will rose. “Since you insist. Come.”
Downstairs Will led his guest, Margaret waiting behind.
In the courtyard, Johnnie was standing in talk with a group of Douglas notables. “My Lord Balveny,” Will called, formally. “Sir Patrick Gray, from the King, requests the person of the prisoner Maclellan to be delivered to him. I have explained that this is . . . difficult. But we must do what we can. Since it is the King’s command.”
“Difficult,” Johnnie nodded. “But if it is important. Let Sir Patrick follow me.”
They moved out, and into the inner bailey to turn right. Along it they walked until, turning a flanking tower, there before them grew the hanging-tree. And below it, beside a heavy block of wood, a body lay — or the headless trunk of a body. Blood was splashed round about, blood red and not yet black, and there was a buzz of flies.
Johnnie turned, and Will pointed. “You see the difficulty, Sir Patrick? There lies the prisoner. But unfortunately, he lacks a head. It will be somewhere about, I have no doubt. If it is important? . . .”
Gray stared, his pale face quite ashen now. He did not speak.
“A pity that you did not come sooner,” his host went on conversationally. “Then His Grace’s wishes in this matter might have been met. But justice fell to be done. Else I had failed in my office of Justiciar for this Galloway. This man was a self-confessed murderer. He slew many, without cause.
Defenceless folk. But in especial, one Pate Pringle. You know all this however, I am sure?”
Still the other did not answer, or risk any words. He was biting his lip, his eyes wary, darting now. Never did a man more clearly display fear, personal fear for his own safety now, as he glanced round at all the grim-faced watching Douglases.
“Do you require the prisoner’s person, then, sir?” Johnnie demanded. “I am sure that we could find you the head.” Even as he spoke, the truncated body twitched oddly at the legs, a macabre sight.
Gray shook his head, and turned abruptly away. “No. Not so” he muttered. “I . . . will go. Now. Since . . . since you have taken the head, my lord, the body is . . . of little avail! I will tell His Grace. My horses, if you please.”
“Here is unseemly haste, surely?” Will protested. “You must be weary. Wait awhile, Sir Patrick . . .”
“No. I must be gone.” The other’s anxious glances were eloquent of urgent desire to be away from that place. “I must not delay. I am on the King’s business. You must let me go . . .”
“To be sure, if that is your will.”
Gray was obviously having to restrain himself almost from running, as Will walked back with him to the courtyard. Grooms brought the three horses, and he and his attendants mounted there and then.
“You will not even take leave of my wife?” Will asked gravely.
“No. My duty to her. My regrets. It is a long road to Edinburgh, my lord.”
“As you will. I charge you to convey my fealty and leal devotion to His Grace. Tell him that, at least, your late-coming has saved him the unpleasing business of a hanging. Go then, if you must.”
Sir Patrick wasted no time on further civilities. He clattered out through the inner and outer baileys, and then thudded over the timbers of the drawbridge. But once beyond it, he pulled up and drawing off his gauntlet, hurled it back towards the gatehouse. Then he shook his bare fist.
“You shall pay for this, Douglas!” he shouted. “Do not think that you will not. He was scarce dead! I saw. You had him slain out of hand. He, a knight. And a defenceless man. Coward! You have disgraced the knightly order! You shall suffer for it, ’fore God!” He turned and spurred off furiously.
“Damn him!” Johnnie cried. “That knave needs his own lesson. We can ride him down, with fresher horses . . .”
“No. Let him be,” Will said. “Let him ride back to Edinburgh to tell his tale. That is what all was for, is it not? He is not the enemy! Let him go back to Crichton, who sent him.”
“What think you he will do now?” Jamie wondered. “Crichton. Something he will do, that is certain . . .”
CHAPTER TWENTY
DESPITE all the diversions and distractions of the life they now lived, the Douglas brothers — all save Jamie perhaps, that is — still found their truest satisfaction and delight, not in tournaments and knightly pastimes, not in the revels and junketings of the Court, nor even in lordly progresses around their vast domains and the almost princely splendour that was now part and parcel of their circumstances; their prime pleasure was to return to their boyhood haunts in the far-flung and lonely fastnesses of the Ettrick Forest, there to forget the burdens which had been so suddenly thrust upon them, in the chase, hunting happily, as of old, the boars, stags and above all, the wild bulls which roamed that hilly wilderness. After all, they were still young, only eight years having passed since the day when their father’s death had pitched them unceremoniously into a new life; and though they all now bore high office and resounding titles, these were superficialities, accretions to be sloughed off when opportunity occurred.
A few weeks after the Maclellan affair, on a crisp golden afternoon of October, the brothers were at Newark hunting northwards amongst the wild hills around Whitehope Rig. Will and Hugh had each slain a bull, and they were now stalking a handsome stag, which Johnnie had declared must be his, in a high corrie where the Gruntly Burn was born, when Jamie, who was less intent on the business than the others, drew Will’s attention to movement far down in the valley below.
“A single rider,” he whispered. “And a woman, if my eyes do not deceive me. Margaret, perhaps. Come to join us. I shall go to meet her . . .”
“That you will not!” the other declared, keener of eye. “I know how Margaret sits a horse. That is . . . other. I will go. Bide you here.”
Jamie, who had had enough of the chase, was about to protest, but something about Will’s expression made him swallow his words. His brother backed away, belly down through the heather to keep out of sight of the deer.
When the curve of the hill hid him from both hunters and hunted. Will rose and strode back to where foresters kept the horses in a hollow of the braeside. Mounting his own shaggy garron, he waved back Wat Scott who would have accompanied him, and rode off downhill.
Meg Douglas waited by the burnside, a hearteningly vital and comely sight, sitting her pony, her red-gold hair blowing in the breeze that moulded her magnificent figure. “Visitors, Will,” she called to him. “Important visitors. From the King. The Lady Margaret entertains them. So I came to warn you.”
“And a bonny warning you make, my dear! I am glad you came.”
“You prefer me to your bulls?”
“Give me but a little opportunity and I will show you how I prefer you, woman! But, this of the King’s messengers? It is not Gray again?”
“That mannie will never come seeking Douglas again, I think! No, this time His Grace has sent couriers of a different metal. Your own good-brother, the Lord Hay, the Constable And Bishop Turnbull, of Glasgow. With great sealed letters.”
“So! Will Hay and the good Bishop? Here is a changed tune. His Grace has been taking thought. Or, my Lord Crichton, perhaps. To send these. But — I vow it does not mean that they have discovered a new love for me!”
“So deemed your lady! So she would have you warned.”
“Aye. Well, we shall see.”
They rode together back down the waterside, to the Gruntly Bum’s junction with Yarrow. A little above this, at Yarrow Ford, they crossed the river and then turned eastwards again, downstream. Will did not hurry.
Indeed, at a place where the valley narrowed in almost to a gorge, he reined up, and pointed, to a gap at the cliff’s base. “You remember that cave, Meg? And what was said, and done, that day?”
“Think you that I could forget it?”
“You ran away from me, once, at that cave. And later that night, you asked me if I was indeed a man! And I proved it to you.”
She nodded, unspeaking.
“That day, you might say, we pledged our troth, you and I. Set our course.”
“And where is that course leading us, my lord Earl?”
He reached out and took her arm. “Meantime, to yonder cave!” he said, smiling. “Come, lass.”
She looked at him, eyebrows raised. “There? Now? Sakes — not now, Will! Not . . . like this. Besides, they await you . . .”
“Let them wait! I’ faith, it is seldom enough that I have you alone, to myself, these days. And even then, hurriedly, in a corner, up back stairs!” He was urging his beast on, pulling her with him, as he spoke.
She did not resist, though she shook her head at him.
Within the fern-decked entrance to the cave where they had sheltered from the thunder-storm those seven years before, he jumped from his garron and reached to lift her down from her saddle. In his arms, he could feel already her anticipatory trembling.
“My dear, my heart’s darling,” he said. “You are lovely. All delight. All joy. My beloved Meg. What would I do lacking you?”
“Be a better husband, may be,” she answered, a little breathlessly.
He frowned momentarily, but did not relax his grip. “In this, you are my wife!” he said. Though she was no light weight, he picked her up bodily, and carried her towards the dark back of the cave.
“Foolish,” she murmured throatily, in his ear. “Save your strength!”
“My strength . . . will serve . . . never fear!”
There was dead bracken on the rock floor, back there, where wayfarers and wanderers had slept ere this. All but falling thereon, he took her with a fierce and explosive passion, cursing cloying clothing. Meg far from passive or quiescent. Indeed it was possibly the most urgent and overwhelming of all their love-makings, a cataclysmic and utterly basic union which left them both exhausted, drained, but joyously satisfied, content.
When, presently, they rode away from that cave, after a few minutes of ruminative silence, Meg spoke.
“Will — have you ever wished for a child? A son? You, the Black Douglas.”
He took his time to answer that. “If matters had been other than they are — yes. Every man would have a son to follow him. But, as it is, I care little. I have brothers a-many.”
“Brothers are not sons,” she said. “Would a son born out of wedlock displease you? Who could not be Earl of Douglas after you?”
“No-o-o. No, I think not. A son is . . . a son!”
“Then, I think perhaps, you have planted a son in me this day, Will Douglas!”
He pulled up. “Dear God — you say so! You mean it? By the powers — can it be so? How can you know? Be sure?”
“I cannot be sure. But I feel that it is so. Feel it in my bones. Back there, I think you made a mother of me!”
“Then I am glad.”
“And my lady? And yours? What of her?”
“I do not know. But I believe that she will not be . . . unkind.”
They rode on thoughtfully towards Newark.
At the castle, Will found Margaret playing hostess to Hay and the Bishop of Glasgow, in the Upper Hall. Turnbull was a big burly man from the East March of the Borders, more like a farmer than a cleric — but a man of great learning, vigour and character nevertheless, and a notable change from his predecessor, James Cameron. He was reputed to be honest, and gave that impression. He was ambitious however, especially in his plans for his new university at Glasgow, and therewith to assail something of the hegemony of Kennedy, Bishop of St. Andrews. Will had learned to beware of ambitious men, however honest they seemed.
No one would call William Hay ambitious, at least — even though he was now Lord Hay, and soon to be Earl of Erroll. Born to the High Constableship, he fulfilled his function dutifully, and that was all. Will, though long they had been colleagues, brothers-in-arms, and now were brothers by marriage, had never been able to get close to the man. But at least he trusted him. King James had sent two messengers whom Douglas could hardly treat as he had treated Sir Patrick Gray. And Bishop Turnbull owed him much for obtaining the charter for his university from the Pope. But it behoved him, now, to be wary, nevertheless.
They had brought two letters from the King. Unlike Gray’s missive, these were both sealed with James’s Privy Seal, not with the Great Seal of Scotland, which was in the Chancellor’s keeping, and the use of which implied that Crichton was at least involved in some measure in what was written therein.
After a decent interval for civilities, asking after his sister Beatrix, and the progress of the Bishop’s college, Will broke the first seal.
This letter surprised him. It was actually a charter, signed by the King, and duly witnessed, regranting to his beloved and traist cousin, William, Earl of Douglas and Avondale, Lord of Galloway and Warden of the Marches, and to his four brothers and their heirs male, all their lands, castles, titles and offices. It was customary, when a young monarch came of age and took over the reins of government into his own hands, for him to renew, confirm — or perhaps reject — charters granted during his minority. This was apt to be something of a formality, although it gave the holders of the lands, all in theory in the King’s overlordship, security of tenure. But when a man was out of favour, it presented a notable opportunity for the monarch to express his displeasure and refuse to confirm any or all of the charters, more especially of the offices of responsibility and profit. But here, unsolicited, was a regrant of not only all the vast Douglas territories and superiorities, but of the many positions and offices Will had held — saving only that of Lieutenant-General of the Realm. At a quick glance, Will could see no properties and estates omitted, in ten counties, and no justiciarship, sheriffdom or customship withheld. There was, however, a curious and final phrase, which declared that all this was granted out of the King’s true love of the said Earl William, and in despite and notwithstanding all crimes committed by him or by his cousin the deceased Earl Archibald.
Will looked up, brows knitted. There was no need to ask the two visitors whether they knew of the contents of this letter, for both their names appeared amongst the witnesses to the King’s signature. “His Grace appears to be very . . . loving!” he commented slowly. “I had scarce expected this.”
“His Grace esteems you very well, my lord. As well he might,” the Bishop said.
“Despite my crimes! And those of my cousin Archie. Why his, I wonder? Save in that he was Lieutenant-General before me. Why name him? And not my father? Or even my murdered cousins?” He glanced over at Margaret, the said Earl Archibald’s daughter. “There is something strange here.”
Neither of his guests had any comment to make.
“His Grace has not always shown his appreciation of my services so warmly,” Will went on. “Leaving the crimes, for the moment! This confirms even the Justiciarship of Galloway — about which there was some disagreement! But recently.”
“King James regrets that, I think,” Turnbull said. “He would let bygones be bygones, my lord.”
“Truly noble! Royal! I wonder why? What says Will Hay?”
The Constable shrugged. “You are still His Grace’s most powerful subject. Whatever differences you may have had. He needs your support.”
“Aye. He assuredly has needed it in the past. And likely will again. Though of late, it seems, he has been thinking otherwise.”
“His Grace is inclined to be hot of head,” the Bishop mentioned. “But he is of a sound heart. And he will heed good advice, on occasion!”
“And the other sort, also! I know James Stewart as well as you do, I think, my lord Bishop.”
Will opened the second seal. This proved to be a document declaring that in the cause of peace and the welfare of their two realms, the King of England and the King of Scots had ordained that it was right and suitable that the former truce from war-like acts should be renewed and revived between the two said realms, for a period of years. And to this end terms should be discussed and considered at a meeting of commissioners to be held at Durham before the onset of winter this year of grace To which meeting and conference the King’s Grace hereby appointed his noble and right well-beloved cousin, William Earl of Douglas and Avondale, in view of his known amity and close association with the Duke of York, Governor to His Grace of England, to be principal representer and negotiator for the realm of Scotland. And to be supported, as colleagues and co-adjutants, by the most noble Lord Alexander, Earl of Crawford. And the most noble Lord George, Earl of Angus. And the leal and excellent Lord Fleming of Cumbernauld. And the pious and learned Lords Bishop of Dunkeld and Brechin. By the King’s command.
Will stared at this imposing document, and then from his wife to the two men who watched him. He sighed. “His Grace has forgotten one!” he said. “Or should it be my Lord Crichton who forgot? Forgot John, Lord of the Isles and Earl of Ross!”
Hay shuffled his feet, and the Bishop coughed.
“What . . . what mean you, my lord?” the latter got out.
“I swear that you know very well what I mean. The Constable does, if you do not. Here are notable names. Carefully chosen. But John of the Isles should be amongst them! He took to arms in the North, claiming his rights to the Earldom of Ross. Beardie Alex Crawford supported him in the East. I was falsely accused of supporting both, because of my bond with Crawford. Rob Fleming is my right hand. This mission would get rid of us, out of Scotland. With Angus who would raise Red Douglas on the ruin of Black, to spy on us! This treaty-making would take months, while we haggled with the English at Durham. Think you I have not discovered, and sorely, what happens when I go furth of Scotland? Does James Stewart conceive me a purblind fool?”
Black Douglas (Coronet Books) Page 39
