“When Douglas comes back to Douglas, we should be there to meet him,” Will cut through the old man’s quaverings. “It is seemly. And our mother has commanded it.”
“But you are Douglas now, Will! Are you not? It is you who commands, is it not? You are the Earl of Douglas. You are the Black Douglas, I say!”
The sudden stillness which the girl’s high-pitched words produced, in that lofty stone hall, was notable. It was as though all held their breaths for a moment or two, at the sound of that potent name. All eyes turned on Will, as though suddenly seeing him in a different light. For centuries, until these last years, those had been the most effective, dreaded, terrible three words in all Scotland – The Black Douglas. Undoubtedly the full implications of their father’s death had not really reached any of them until that moment; certainly the thing had not truly formed itself in Will’s own mind. He was the Earl of Douglas.
Table of Contents
Also by Nigel Tranter
About the Author
Title Page
Copyright
Principal Characters
Part One
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Part Two
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Part Three
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Historical Note
Also by Nigel Tranter
The Bruce Trilogy
Children of the Mist
Columba
Crusader
David the Prince
Druid Sacrifice
Flowers of Chivalry
The House of Stewart Trilogy:
Lords of Misrule
A Folly of Princes
The Captive Crown
Kenneth
Lion Let Loose
Lord of the Isles
MacBeth the King
The MacGregor Trilogy:
MacGregor’s Gathering
The Clansman
Gold for Prince Charlie
Mail Royal
Margaret the Queen
Montrose, The Captain General
The Patriot
Price of a Princess
Rough Wooing
Tapestry of the Boar
Unicorn Rampant
The Wallace
The Wisest Fool
The Young Montrose
About the Author
Nigel Tranter, who wrote over ninety novels on Scottish history, was one of Scotland’s best-loved writers. He died on 9th January 2000 at the age of ninety.
BLACK DOUGLAS
Nigel Tranter
www.hodder.co.uk
First published in Great Britain in 1968 by Hodder & Stoughton
An Hachette UK company
Copyright © 1968 by Nigel Tranter
The right of Nigel Tranter to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All rights reserved.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead is purely coincidental.
A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library
Ebook ISBN 978 1 444 74105 6
Paperback ISBN 978 0 340 16466 2
Hodder & Stoughton Ltd
338 Euston Road
London NW1 3BH
www.hodder.co.uk
Hush ye, hush ye, little pet ye,
Hush ye, hush ye, do not fret ye,
The Black Douglas shall not get ye.
(Traditional Lullaby)
PRINCIPAL CHARACTERS
In Order of Appearance: Fictional Characters in Italics
WILLIAM DOUGLAS, MASTER OF DOUGLAS: eldest son of James the Gross, 7th Earl.
JAMES DOUGLAS: twin second son of the 7th Earl.
ARCHIBALD DOUGLAS: twin third son. Later Earl of Moray.
HUGH DOUGLAS: fourth son. Later Earl of Ormond.
Pate Pringle: James the Gross’s steward at Abercorn.
LADY MARGARET DOUGLAS: eldest daughter. Later wife of the Chamberlain of Galloway.
LADY BEATRIX DOUGLAS: next daughter. Later wife of Hay, the High Constable of Scotland.
LADY JANET DOUGLAS: next daughter. Later wife of 1st Lord Fleming.
LADY ELIZABETH DOUGLAS: next daughter. Later wife of Sir John Wallace of Craigie.
JOHN DOUGLAS: fifth son. Later Lord Balveny.
JOHN CAMERON, BISHOP OF GLASGOW: Former Chancellor.
LADY BEATRIX, COUNTESS OF DOUGLAS: Wife of the 7th Earl.
WILLIAM ST. CLAIR, 3rd EARL OF ORKNEY: brother of the Countess.
SIR JAMES HAMILTON OF CADZOW: chief of the Hamiltons, and grandson of Livingstone, King’s Guardian.
SIR WILLIAM HAY OF ERROLL: Lord High Constable of Scotland.
KING JAMES THE SECOND: aged thirteen, son of assassinated James the First, and fourth Stewart monarch.
SIR JAMES LIVINGSTONE: eldest son of the King’s Guardian, Keeper of Stirling Castle. Later Chamberlain.
SIR ALEXANDER LIVINGSTONE: King’s Guardian. With Crichton, co-murderer of 6th Earl of Douglas.
DAVID LIVINGSTONE: another son of above.
ROBERT FLEMING OF CUMBERNAULD: later 1st Lord Fleming.
SIR WILLIAM CRICHTON: Chancellor (or Prime Minister) of Scotland.
SIR ANDREW CRICHTON OF BARNTON: son of above.
SIR JOHN FORRESTER OF CORSTORPHINE: a powerful knight.
LADY EUPHEMIA, DUCHESS OF TOURAINE: mother of the murdered brothers, and of the Fair Maid of Galloway.
Meg Douglas: tiring-woman to the Fair Maid; an illegitimate granddaughter of Earl Archibald the Grim.
LADY MARGARET DOUGLAS: The Fair Maid, Lady of Galloway in her own right, sister of the murdered brothers.
JAMES KENNEDY, BISHOP OF ST. ANDREWS: Primate of Scotland. Later Chancellor. Grandson of Robert the Third.
ALEXANDER LINDSAY, MASTER OF CRAWFORD: later 4th Earl of Crawford, known as Earl Beardie, or The Tiger.
DAVID, 3rd EARL OF CRAWFORD: father of above. Justiciar of the North, and Lord High Admiral.
Sir Patrick Hamilton of Dalserf: a veteran jouster.
GEORGE DOUGLAS, MASTER OF ANGUS: later 4th Earl thereof.
JAMES, 3rd EARL OF ANGUS: brother of above. Chief of Red House of Douglas.
PRINCESS JOAN: eleven-year-old sister of the King.
PRINCESS MARY OF GUELDRES: Queen of James the Second.
Wattie Scott: personal servant of Will Douglas.
HENRY DOUGLAS: youngest son of 7th Earl. Later a priest.
POPE NICHOLAS THE FIFTH: born Tomasso da Sarzano.
AENEAS SILVIUS PICCOLOMINI, BISHOP OF TRIESTE: papal aide, later Pope Pius the Second.
RICHARD PLANTAGENET, DUKE OF YORK: Lord Protector of England.
SIR HERBERT HERRIES: brother of Laird of Terregles, a sheriff-deputy of Galloway.
> SIR PATRICK MACLELLAN: uncle and Tutor to young Laird of Bombie; another sheriff-deputy of Galloway.
SIR PATRICK GRAY: brother to 1st Lord Gray. Captain of the King’s Guard.
WILLIAM TURNBULL, BISHOP OF GLASGOW: Founder of Glasgow University.
SIR WILLIAM LAUDER OF HATTON: a royal courier.
PART ONE
CHAPTER ONE
“JAMIE — you fool! Back! Back, I say! Here — to me! Quick!”
Above the high excited baying of the hounds, the deeper rumbling lowing of the cattle and the shouting of lesser men, that yell rang out, vehement, urgent. The youth on the shaggy short-legged garron turned in his saddle, to look back towards his brother, questioningly.
“Quick, man! He’ll charge. God, Jamie — he’ll have you trapped!” As still the other hesitated, uncertain, the shouter pointed downhill in a sweeping gesture, below his brother. “The edge, see you — the scarp! No space to jouk. He’ll see it. Charge you. Back here . . .”
James Douglas glanced downhill. Fifty yards below him the short heather mixed with deer-hair grass ended in an abrupt lip of bare basalt rock, where the hillside fell away. It was no cliff or precipice, but there was a steep drop of forty feet or so, with a bouldery base, before the slope eased off again — a long minor escarpment typical of the many which scored that sunny, tree-dotted south face of Fastheugh Hill. No garron, however surefooted, could negotiate that scarp.
The youth was already reining round his horse as he changed his glance to peer in the other direction, uphill — for his eyes were not the strongest of Jamie Douglas, and the slanting late-March sun of mid-afternoon that blazed over all the Forest of Ettrick from a cloudless sky, helped nothing. The stocky, wind-twisted Scots pines which grew out of the heather up there were closer together that most of the scattered trees of the long hillside, and the barred shadows they cast made it difficult to distinguish the bull amongst the other milling cattle which the hounds had chivvied into taking up panting stance there, white as was its hide. Jamie saw no urgent need for alarm, but he dug his heels into the barrel sides of his mount, just the same; of all the Douglas brothers he was the one least apt to argue with Will’s admittedly sometimes autocratic commands.
But he was too late. With a bellowing roar that shook the warm heather-scented air, as its pounding hooves seemed to shake the hillside itself, the great white bull charged, head down, tail up, sweeping aside the frightened cows, knocking over two stiff-legged calves, and scattering the yelping deer-hounds which encircled the herd — only one of which stood its ground and attempted a snarling leap at the bull’s heavily-maned neck, to be caught and skewered in a lightning jab of a long, wickedly-curving horn, and tossed high in the air, to crash in the heather yards away, a twitching mangled carcase.
James Douglas’s eyesight was not so poor as to offer any doubts but that the bull was making directly for himself. There were plenty of other targets — his three brothers and half a dozen foresters and herdsmen irregularly spaced around the clump of pines. An ordinary domestic bull might have been diverted; probably would not have had the wit to perceive the youth’s dangerous position, in the first place. This however was no ordinary bull but a wild-born killer, massive, great-shouldered but lean of rear, shaggy-coated red of eye, auroch-horned veteran of fights innumerable, as cunning as it was savage. There were many of these wild bulls in Ettrick Forest, relics of the great wild herds of ancient breed which once had roamed all these southern uplands. They were a menace to man and beast, attacking at sight, often stealing the cattle herds which grazed the lower slopes — as this had done — and spawning treacherous and unprofitable offspring on honest men’s cows; but, for all that, they provided the most exciting and man-sized sport to be had in all the Forest, far outshining the chase of even the greatest hart or the occasional boar which still survived.
Will Douglas saw that his brother would not, could not, get out of the brute’s way in time. There was not more than seventy yards between Jamie and the trees — and more than twice that distance of broken ground before the escarpment tailed away and gave room for manoeuvre. The bull could string the bow, swing over at a tangent. The garrons they all rode were broad-hooved and sturdy, for the hill, but not fast, and the uneven heather and outcropping stone made bad going. Jamie would have been better to turn and face the charge, jouk at the last moment, then spur off uphill before the bull could turn round again — but of all the brothers Jamie would not think of that, Now he would be caught sideways-on, and helpless. He was tugging out his sword — but what use was that, in Jamie’s hand . . .
Will shouted again — but not to his brother to hasten, or to turn and dodge, or to fight. The cry that burst from his lips now was a crazy one, in the circumstances, however potent it could be on other occasions. “A Douglas! A Douglas!” the terrible slogan that could strike fear in the stoutest Scottish heart — or Northern English, for that matter — rang out wildly, involuntarily, as he kicked furious heels into his own garron’s sides, and positively flung beast and self forwards, to cut that tangent between brother and charging bull.
It made a strange, mad race. Three headlong courses converging — or not quite converging, for while Jamie rode for him and the bull charged for Jamie, he, Will, headed half-right, to distract the bull if he might, to shorten its course if he could. With a shrill scream his short, broad-bladed stabbing-sword was whipped from its sheath, to belabour the horse’s rump with the flat — for the beast’s reluctance was manifest.
It was a close thing. Jamie, who almost inevitably had tended to slant away half-right in his dash for safety, closer to the escarpment’s edge, to gain every precious yard and moment, when he heard his brother’s cry and saw him ride forward, swung his mount’s head half-left again, towards him — whereat Will cursed explosively; for however natural a reaction, not only did it shorten the gap but it left less space in which Will himself could operate; and with a charging bull space was the prime requirement.
But there was no time to be wasted on direction to his fool brother. It was all a matter of seconds now, and split seconds. The pounding of six pairs of hooves merged into one drumming tattoo, accompanied by the unchancy snoring roar that the bull emitted as it thundered down. The brute did not change its direction, whether or not its red eye had perceived Will’s advance; it continued to drive directly at Jamie.
Will had to make a lightning decision. They were all desperately close now. If the bull did not swing on him at the last moment, it would be best that he drove in behind it, try to crash his garron into its rear quarters, to throw it over, or at least deflect its course. But was there time? In the instants longer that this would take, might not the bull reach Jamie, broad sides-on, and those wicked horns do their fell work? Will chose that he must insert himself between, if he could.
The decision was scarcely taken before it was implemented. Even so, the bull would probably just have won the race and struck the younger man, or his horse, before Will could drive in. But in the final few yards it seemed to recognise the menace of attack as more worthy of its fury than the fleeing original quarry, and with an extraordinary swift and nimble action for so massive a creature, threw up its hindquarters, pivoted round on its forelegs, and without loss of momentum, hurled itself instead at the advancing Will.
Knowing his bulls, that young man had been prepared for some such behaviour — but scarcely for the speed at which it was executed. He wrenched his garron’s head round to the right, reining in savagely at the same time. The horse reared high, pawing the air, but could not sufficiently check its impetus. It neighed with fright. Only by superb horsemanship did the rider not only keep his seat but ensure that the animal kept turning away, even as its weaving forefeet came down to the heather again. By merest inches the lowered gleaming left horntip of the bull missed Will’s thigh, and the garron’s haunch, as the animals hurtled past each other.
Without letting up on his fierce rightwards drag, Will wrenched his mount completely round. But t
he creature was terrified, no fighting charger this, trained for the tourney and the lists, but a humble hill-pony bred to round up herdsmen’s flocks. It did not respond as it might have done, it stumbled on an outcropping stone, it pecked and staggered and sidled. It did come round in the full half-circle required — but it took a few seconds longer about it than it should, a fatal second or two longer than did the white bull to complete the same reversal.
Will Douglas found himself in the most unenviable position of any contender in a mounted encounter, face to face with a head-on charge, with no immediate momentum on his own mount either to meet the onslaught or to avoid it in time. He knew, even before the garron reared up again in whinnying panic, that there was no hope, no possible escape. He might conceivably save himself; the horse he could not save. He kicked his feet free of the stirrups.
Rising on its hind legs, the garron was at its most vulnerable, its unprotected underparts completely exposed to those cruel horns. With a vicious tearing upthrust the bull bored in, ripping open the bulging belly like a punctured bladder, even as the force of its charge overbalanced the horse and sent it reeling over backwards.
The young man part jumped and part was flung from the saddle. It was an unstable, collapsing stance from which to launch himself, but he was trained to the lists and knew how to fall, how to roll out of the way of trampling hooves, how to keep sword and sword-arm in action. He landed more heavily than he might have done, because of the backwards roll of the horse, but not sufficiently to injure himself. He took the heather on a tucked-in left shoulder, rolled over and over to that side, away from the animals’ feet, holding his right arm and weapon out and free — and almost before he had stopped rolling had his knees drawn up under him to aid him to his feet again. Reeling dizzily, he stood up and staggered round, to face his fate.
Mercifully, the bull was temporarily preoccupied. Too clever to waste time on savaging the dying horse, it nevertheless could not avoid, in its rush, getting itself entangled with the garron’s fallen body and flailing legs. Bellowing, it was forced to check, heading aside its disembowelled victim to free itself.
Black Douglas (Coronet Books) Page 1