“Who told him? Since only you, Hay, the King and myself know it? . . .”
“I tell you, he has eyes and ears a’ place, that one. Yon’s the cleverest carle in this realm, boy! He kens — and wants a meeting. At Linlithgow, tomorrow. And he’ll no’ come alone.”
Will stared. ‘Wants a meeting? Crichton? To talk? Then — why does he not come here? To Stirling?”
“Cha! Here — that fox? Poke his head into my den! Guidsakes — he’s no’ an eighteen-year-old laddie! I told you — he’s clever. He doesna step foward where he maybe canna step back! Na, na — you’ll no’ see Crichton in Stirling Castle. Any more than you’ll see Livingstone in Edinburgh! But . . . Linlithgow’s half-way between, see you. The Court is there. He rides to Linlithgow tomorrow.”
Will had heard something of this strange arrangement, this fictional Court — an arrangement that, however ridiculous, was nevertheless necessary in unhappy Scotland. Linlithgow town and palace was in West Lothian, midway between Stirling and Edinburgh. It was not a fortress or stronghold, but a residential palace. Theoretically it was the King’s home, the royal domicile — even though the monarch was prisoner in Stirling and his mother in Dunbar. In name it was the seat of the Court. A Court of sorts did subsist in Linlithgow, where decisions of state were taken and ambassadors were accredited — since Crichton would not accept Stirling nor Livingstone Edinburgh. Most of the country’s great nobles had residences near by, or town-houses in the burgh. It was at Abercorn, not far off, that Earl James the Gross had lived, and died, and where Will’s mother and sister Beatrix now dwelt.
Will paced the floor. “Crichton may ride to Linlithgow. But need we? Need you play Crichton’s game?” he demanded.
“He asks a meeting. If we do not give it, we proclaim before all that we are for fighting him. Before we’re ready. Christ-God — before you have a single Douglas troop mustered! We give him warning. Time. And that one will ken how to use both! He’s the Chancellor, mind. He speaks for the Council. He holds the purse, the realm’s gold. He can buy men. No — we must meet him, play him. Till we are ready to strike. Or he strikes first. Is that in your head, boy?”
“Then let us talk. What need of armed men?”
“Saints save us — use your wits! To demand this meeting, Crichton has heard something. Is already on his guard. He’ll bring five hundred men with him, if he brings one. Think you we can thrust our heads into that, and get out again, lacking men?”
“Surely Livingstone, the King’s Guardian, has men and to spare?”
“Na, na. No’ me. I have a puckle men only — enough to guard this castle and other royal castles, for His Grace. That is all. I’m no great lord, mind. Just an honest bit laird, working for King Jamie! Hay can raise two hundred. I’ve sent for him, to have them here by tomorrow’s dawn. Erskine, too. And Ruthven. Aye, and Gray. But Gray’s no’ a man to trust . . .” Livingstone jabbed a sudden finger at his companion. “You have the castle o’ Abercorn. No’ far frae Linlithgow. Your father’s house. The Countess bides there yet, does she no’? How many can you raise there? For the morn?”
Will shook his head. “I do not know. I have never been to Abercorn. It is not my house. My mother’s . . .”
“Tush, boy — you are Earl o’ Douglas! All is yours. Your sire would keep a wheen men there, I’ll be bound. Send you a message, my lord. Forthwith. That every man the Countess Beatrix Douglas can raise rides for Linlithgow. To be there by midday. Bearing Douglas colours. Write you, I’ll see it is delivered.”
“But . . .”
“But nothing, man! You wanted an alliance against Crichton. Did you no’? You talked about acting! Act now, by the Mass! Or Crichton will ken what to do wi’ you! Go — write your mother. She’ll ken what to do, that one, I’ll wager — Orkney’s daughter. The pity there’s no other Douglas lands we can reach in time. And you had ten days! Wasted! . . .”
Will found that he was moving to the door, despite himself, at the other’s sheer authority. He was halted, nevertheless.
“And, laddie — tomorrow wear you some clothing more like a lord’s a God’s name! Here’s no way to dress . . .”
“Damn you!” Will cried, eyes blazing.
“Aye. Just that.” The other cackled his high laughter. “If you canna do better, here, likely my son Davie’ll find you some wear o’ his. You’re much o’ a size . . .”
Furiously Will strode to the door, and out, slamming it behind him. He could still hear the tee-heeing as he rushed down the winding stone turnpike stairway beyond.
It was twenty miles from Stirling to Linlithgow, and a fairly early start was necessary. When Will presented himself, in a thin drizzle of rain, at the wide forecourt of the outer bailey next morning — dressed, needless to say, in the same clothes as before — it was to find a large mounted company assembled, under Sir William Hay, and the same Master Adam, Steward of Cambuskenneth Abbey, whom he had been forced to travel behind on the day of his arrival here. Hay said that they totalled about three hundred and fifty, with his own people, the Abbot’s men, and small contingents from Erskine and Ruthven. It was intended that they should pick up some more at Callendar, the Livingstone lairdship near Falkirk, en route. Hay sounded depressed about the entire expedition.
Although Sir Alexander had been stern about the hour of assembly and move-off, he kept them all waiting in the rain for the best part of half an hour before he himself put in an appearance, wrapped in a huge cloak and coughing and complaining about sundry ills of the flesh. He had only his younger son David with him, leaving Sir James in charge of the castle and monarch. The King waved them farewell from the gate-house parapet, having been curtly refused permission to accompany them.
Once on the move, there was little or no conversation, this grey morning, between the three principal architects of Chancellor Crichton’s downfall. Livingstone treated them only to bouts of coughing and groaning. At Bannockburn, no further, he called a halt, declaring that he was a sick man and should be in his bed. He could go no further. They would have to proceed without him. They would be little better than babes in Crichton’s hands, but it couldn’t be helped.
Much concerned, Will and the Constable debated whether or not they should turn back also — but Livingstone would not hear of it. That would but play Crichton’s game. He would put it about that they dared not face him. It would gravely prejudice their chances with those who wavered in taking sides. Forbye his grandson, Sir James Hamilton, would be meeting them at Callendar.
This was the first they had heard of Sir James Hamilton being involved. But Livingstone coughed and spluttered aside all queries. Abruptly, with his son, he reined round and rode briskly back for Stirling.
It was a very doubtful pair who rode on southwards, at the head of the jingling cavalcade. Hay was still of the opinion that it probably would be wiser to turn back. He was sure that Livingstone’s sudden chest affliction was entirely fraudulent, and the old fox, having launched them on to this dangerous course, was prudently backing out until he saw how things would go. He could deny all connection with them, if advisable. He had sent no men. No other Livingstones accompanied them. Hamilton, if he did indeed make an appearance, was head of a large and independent family. He could be claimed, or disclaimed, as the situation warranted.
Will saw all this. But he thought that they must press on, nevertheless. To turn back would be to be beaten before they had begun. If a lead was to be given to the King’s leal supporters everywhere, they could not resile now. Livingstone’s physical presence would have strengthened their hands; but it could have been a handicap too, since he would have taken charge, and perhaps manoeuvred them into a false position. Undoubtedly he would have done most of the talking.
Hay wanted to know who was going to do the talking, now? And what they were going to say?
The younger man was not too happy about that, himself. But he pointed out that it was Crichton who had called for a meeting. It would be for him to make the running.
> Even so, Will Douglas rode onwards in a distinctly uneasy frame of mind. He seemed successfully to have raised the Devil — but laying him might prove less simple.
At Callendar, on the far side of the little burgh of Falkirk, they found Sir James Hamilton awaiting them with a further fifty or so men — and all Hamiltons so far as they could see. Any notion that he was involved in Livingstone’s probable deception was promptly dispelled by his obvious surprise and alarm at his grandsire’s absence, and clear if unvoiced disbelief in the ill health story. He gave the impression that there was skulduddery afoot somewhere, and that Will and the Constable were by no means innocent in the matter.
Three less enthusiastic and mutually trustful allies could have been hard to find, as they trotted the few more miles to Linlithgow.
That long narrow grey town amongst the green braes that enclosed its wide loch, was already a hive of activity as, just before noon, the newcomers clattered in over the West Port cobblestones. The rain had stopped falling, and men-at-arms in a great variety of colours thronged the streets. The place indeed was much more like an armed camp than was Stirling — to Will’s surprise. He had not foreseen this assembling of miscellaneous forces. When he asked Hay who all these men might represent, the other shrugged.
‘Many lords,” he said shortly. “Sexton. Maxwell. Lindsay. Lyon. Cunninghame. These colours I have seen. Waiting to discover which way the cat jumps.”
“But . . . how do they know that there is anything to wait for? All these? . . .”
“Scotland is like a powder-barrel — that is why. All men’s ears are stretched. To hear the faintest hint. When rogues rule, and there is no sure authority, this is the way of it. Every lord has his spies. Think you that half the land does not know by this that the new young Earl of Douglas came to Stirling to see Livingstone?”
“I came to see the King . . .”
“I give you credit, my lord, for listening to my advice at Douglas Castle, that day,” Hamilton said stiffly. “For taking my guidance. But you would have been better to come to me first, rather than my grandsire . . .”
“I did not follow your guidance, sir. Nor any man’s. Or woman’s!” Will interrupted. “I followed my own. Only that.” He knew that that sounded sour, boastful, immature. But it was true, and he had to say it.
As they rode on in silence, Will, though he looked, saw no Red Hearts of Douglas amongst the many emblems painted on breastplates and morions, and had to admit to a certain disappointment. Whatever their colours, however, the crowd fell back respectfully enough before the tightly-knit four hundred who trotted in close file behind the banners of the High Constable and Hamilton.
Where the long High Street swung away from the lochside, a smooth grassy mound rose between. On its summit were set both the palace and the fine church of St. Michael. A fairly steep but broad alley climbed thereto. As the newcomers turned into it, not only Will gave a gasp. The entire length of the alley was lined, on both sides, by motionless horsemen, their serried ranks turned in on each other. Any approach to the palace had to be made through this corridor of steel. And on every breast, the Red Heart of Douglas was vividly emblazoned.
His companions swung on Will.
“What is this?” Hay demanded. “How came these here? . . .”
“My lord, you are more cunning than you seem!” Hamilton exclaimed. “Is this a trick? . . .”
Will shook his head, and did not trust himself to speak.
They rode up between the ranks of silent inscrutable men, still even though their horses fidgeted. At a swift assessment, Will reckoned that there were no more than fifty on each side — but marshalled and spaced like that, they seemed far more. They had a quiet authority that was almost unnerving. Four times as many men rode behind, but they did not create the same impression as these.
As the newcomers neared the alley-head and the palace gates, a single horseman urged his mount forward to confront them. It was Pate Pringle, the Abercorn steward. He carried a tall pole, from which he was unfurling a great silk banner as he came. Its folds billowed out in the April breeze, to flaunt the Bloody Heart beneath three white mullets on an azure chief — the undifferenced arms of the Black Douglas himself. As he raised this on high, those silent ranks of men erupted into sound, harsh, strident, vibrant sound.
“A Douglas! A Douglas!” they shouted. It was ragged at first, but quickly settled into a rhythm, stirring, indeed menacing. “A Douglas! A Douglas!” they cried, and went on crying.
Pate Pringle spurred forward, dipped the banner briefly in front of the embarrassed Will, in a symbolic gesture of deference, and then reined round to take up a position just behind his lord, jostling Sir James Hamilton in the process. The Douglas banner now flew between the other two, higher than either and larger.
Will coughed, “Aye, Pate,” he said.
Half a dozen Douglas men-at-arms moved out from the ranks, to flank the steward and standard. The rest remained still, but vocal.
“A Douglas! A Douglas!”
So the visitors rode on into the forecourt of the Palace of Linlithgow. And none in palace or town could be left in any doubt as to who made entry.
Will frowned as he rode, saying nothing to those by his side, a prey to conflicting emotions. While a fierce and elemental tide of pride undeniably surged within him, he knew anger also. This was not his doing, not as he would have it. Presumably it was his mother’s work — although his message to her had merely said to have as many men as possible at Linlithgow by midday. Possibly, even, Livingstone’s hand was behind it all; he might well have sent a letter of his own, with his courier. Will had deliberately sought to manage things differently from this, not to become just an influential cat’s-paw in the dire and selfish power-struggle which was ruining Scotland, whatever his mother, Hamilton, Bishop Cameron, or other proposed. Now, here he was, manoeuvred into this false position, playing his mother’s game, possibly Livingstone’s game, with Hamilton by his side.
The outer court of the palace was full of men also, though these were not drawn up, but dismounted and at ease. There were the liveries of many different houses here also; how many of them were under Crichton’s authority was anybody’s guess.
The palace was a great quadrangular structure of warm brown stone work, and, though not a fortress, it had a low gatehouse tower over the arched main entrance, midway along its south front. On the flat platform roof of this, now, a colourfully-dressed group stood watching. There were not many women there, but easily to be discerned was the Countess Beatrix of Douglas, an almost regally beautiful figure. Will made no sign that he had noticed her as he and his companions came close, and passed under the archway into the inner courtyard. The mass of their supporters remained in the outer yard; only Hay and Hamilton, with their esquires, rode on and in — until Pate Pringle perceived that Will had no such aide, and thrusting the banner to one of his men, followed the other five.
Apart from servitors, only gentry were to be seen now, a superficially gay and chattering throng which, if it hushed itself for a little at the sight of the newcomers, quickly resumed its buzz of exclamation, speculation and comment. As Will dismounted, he could not but be aware that he was the target for all eyes, and for a flood of remarks and witticisms. If his humdrum costume had been kenspeckle at Stirling, it was notably more so here, amongst all the richness and colour.
Hamilton took charge now, as to the manner born, a resplendent figure himself in multi-hued broad cloth and gold-inlaid half-armour. He led the way inside the guarded main doorway demanding that they be taken to Sir William Crichton.
Amongst the dense and noisy high-born crowd inside, they were caught up at once, and could make but slow progress through. Will was comforted to see that Sir William Hay looked just about as out of place and uncomfortable as himself, a stiff soldier, suspicious and ill at ease. Soon Will felt his arm taken, and there was his mother at his side. She had with her a good-looking and well-built young man in his early twenties, who eyed
Will interestedly.
“My lord,” she said. “I rejoice to see you here. Come to Court. And in good company.”
He nodded, more curtly than was suitable. “I have not come to your Court. Only to speak with Crichton. He is here?”
“Yes. Has been this hour. He had to ride through your Douglas guard to win entry. I have no doubts he noted it well!”
“Not my Douglas guard — yours!” he grated. “I did not ask you to make such gesture. Shake the Douglas fist in the face of all.” His voice lowered, he spoke tensely. “I’ll thank you to leave the gestures to me!”
She looked at him thoughtfully, unruffled. “As you will, my lord. But, as you were not here, and the men you sought had to be disposed in some fashion, I deemed this best. Most telling. With the numbers I could gather. To best effect.” As always, she sounded entirely reasonable, correct. She turned.
“Robert aided me. Will — here is Robert Fleming of Cumbernauld and Biggar. He would . . . serve you.”
Will’s quick breath and quicker glance was more tell-tale than he knew. If Fleming was a stranger to him in person, he was far otherwise by name. To the chiefly house of Douglas, the name of Fleming held overtones of shame. Archibald the Grim had ruined this young man’s grandfather; his father had been slain by James the Gross in an ambush; his brother had been executed by Crichton and Livingstone along with the Douglas brothers.
“My lord,” he said, bowing. “I am yours to command.”
Will searched the other’s face, an open, strong and attractive face, fair without being actually handsome. He supposed the man was indeed his vassal — for the small remnants of the once great Fleming lands he held were held of Douglas now.
“I . . . I have no commands for you, sir,” Will said. “But I wish you well. Your name is known to me.”
The other nodded. “I am at your service nevertheless, my lord.”
Black Douglas (Coronet Books) Page 10