Will, helmet on but visor open, raised his voice. “Douglas speaks. Appointed Lieutenant-General of this kingdom, by the King’s Grace. Who holds this house shut against the Royal Standard of King James?”
There was no reply.
“I speak in His Grace’s name,” he called again. “Who holds Sir William Crichton’s house of Barnton shut against the King?”
From the parapet walk a voice replied. “I see not the King’s Grace there. I know naught of any Lieutenant. This is the house of the Chancellor of Scotland. I, his son, Sir Andrew Crichton, hold it, in his name. If you would see my father, go you to Edinburgh.” Sir Andrew did not see any necessity to mention that he was only an illegitimate son.
“I have come to Barnton,” Will returned shortly. “I demand that you open to me, in the King’s name.”
“I know you not. And will open nothing. Go to my father.”
“Hear this, and think again, Sir Andrew.” Will nodded to Hay, who once more read out the royal decree and command that all obedience and aid be accorded the Lieutenant-General by every one of the King’s lieges.
There was some delay before an answer was shouted to that. “I know not whether your paper be true or false,” Crichton’s son asserted. “I know none of you.”
“You refuse to yield this house to the King’s command?”
“I do. I refuse to yield anything but to the King himself. Or on my father’s order.”
“Then we must take it. And the worse for you!”
“Take it. If you can!”
Will looked at the Constable, and shrugged. There was no more to be said. It was only what they had expected, indeed planned for.
They turned their horses and rode back to the waiting ranks.
Prepared as they were for this development, there was an inevitable sense of anti-climax. Despite threats, there was remarkably little that they could do that would be effective, meantime. They had no artillery or siege-engines, and without such there could be no breaching of the walls. Any attempt to rush the curtain-wall with scaling-ladders, by day, must be immensely costly in men; and even if successful, could leave the attackers exposed in the courtyard to decimating fire from the tower itself. It would have no ground-floor entrance, save to vaulted cellarage, the doorway being at first-floor level, reachable only by a removable timber stair. It would be scaling-ladders again, hammering at an iron-barred outer yett, and under murderous fire from above. These towers of fence were not called that for nothing. There might be slightly better chances after dark.
Hay now took charge. A spate of orders sent the host to various tasks and stations. The castle was encircled, camp was pitched, horse-lines staked out, forage gathered, all still-available cattle rounded up. But this activity was not for all, or indeed for the majority. Will and Fleming took the main body and rode up the gentle slopes to the south-east. There, on the long, low grassy ridge, they could see all the lie of the land round about, and all the way to Edinburgh. Will, from much hunting in Ettrick Forest, had an experienced eye added to a natural flair for country, and he quickly perceived the possibilities and hazards of the site, tactically. Without any training in soldiering, it was nevertheless quite evident to him where men could be disposed to best effect, where numbers could be hidden in reserve, where ambushes could be laid and flanking moves made. Pate Pringle and Robert Fleming translated these notions and dispositions into commands and instructions. Troops and parties of men moved off to their appointed places.
When Will returned to the red and white campaigning pavilion Hay had had erected, out of the fourteen hundred men only perhaps one-third were concerning themselves with besieging Barton Castle. The rest were facing Edinburgh.
There was nothing for it, now, but to wait. It seemed dull and spiritless employment for so puissant a company. But all day they did just that, while the larks shouted, the cuckoos called and the gulls wheeled around Barnton braes.
As darkness fell, braziers were lit all round the curtain-walls of the castle. There were to be no undetected night attacks, it seemed. Not that anything of the sort was planned.
Will slept but little that night. There are few hours of deep darkness of a May night in Scotland, and he spent them moving round the perimeter positions of his little army — although Hay declared this quite unnecessary, and himself retired to bed. Will was much concerned lest a swift and unheralded attack from Edinburgh should take them by surprise. He was only too conscious of the fact that William Crichton sat only four miles away, with the resources of the great fortress and city at his command.
But no attack transpired. Men who had stood to arms all night slept late into the forenoon, and still there was no sign of a move from Edinburgh. The besieging force settled down to a routine — which included great eating, for quite a herd of Barnton cattle were discovered in a hollow to the north, and it would have been a poor armed force which failed to spoil the enemy and nourish itself at the same time. Will Douglas, however, of an energetic and impatient temperament, disliked the idleness and waiting intensely. Unsuitably for the lieutenant-general of a kingdom, he made himself quite the most active man in his host. Hay, who had a great capacity for patient inaction, lectured him briefly on the essential military virtue of delegation of authority.
At least, Will’s restless perambulations produced one possibly useful result. Prowling around, he discovered, to the west of the castle, a little grassy dell where a small but brisk stream-let disappeared underground. Probing established that the line of flow went on in the direction of the castle; and further exploration revealed the burn emerging again on lower ground some distance to the north-east, approximately on the same line. He guessed that this might well represent the castle’s water-supply, since the line seemed to pass beneath the establishment, yet without flooding the dry surrounding ditch. Presumably the water was reached by a well-shaft sunk in either the courtyard or the basement chamber of the tower. Will, therefore, set men to work damming and diverting the stream. If they could not produce artillery to batter the defenders into submission, at least they might be reduced by lack of water.
The second day passed as uneventfully as the first, with not so much as a messenger approaching from Edinburgh, or any move made by the castle inmates. The second night passed as had done the first.
On the third day, however, there was a diversion. About midday, scouts reported that an armed force was approaching from the south. But it was not a great array, only about four score men, and under a single banner of three black hunting-horns on white.
“Three hunting-horns? That is the device of Forrester of Corstorphine,” the Constable said. “A notable baron.”
“That is all?” Will demanded. “No other follows? None ride elsewhere, in support?”
In due course the newcomer arrived, warlike in aspect but proclaiming adherence to the King’s Lieutenant-General. He was indeed Sir John Forrester, a powerful knight, of middle years and substantial reputation, whose lands lay just to the west of Edinburgh only three miles away. He came offering his sword and strength.
Will made much of him, mightily pleased. This was his first unsummoned recruit, and one of worth. He had not come in any hasty enthusiasm, but on the third day. He had waited, most evidently, to see how matters would go, and only now had decided to throw in his weight against Crichton. It was a hopeful sign. Forrester brought interesting tidings, as well as support. He informed that people of his, in Edinburgh the night before, reported no large assembling of men in the city — which nevertheless was agog with rumours of a great army’s approach, led by the dreaded Douglas. The only unusual activity was a further strengthening of the castle’s defences, and a great intaking of provisions. It looked as though the Chancellor anticipated being besieged, like his son, rather than himself making more aggressive moves. Although Sir John did not say so, this was obviously what had made up his mind for him.
With sentries well posted, Will felt it safe to sleep most of that third night.
&nbs
p; By noon the following day, Will’s scant store of patience was exhausted, however long the Constable was prepared to wait. He approached the drawbridge-end, with Hay and Forrester, under the Lion Rampant, and had the trumpeter blow loud and long.
“Sir Andrew Crichton,” he called. “Do you hear me? Douglas. Aye. Then, see you. No help comes to you from your father. He has shut himself up in Edinburgh Castle. Here is Sir John Forrester of Corstorphine. You know him.”
Forrester raised his voice. “It is true. The Chancellor makes no move. He shows not his face in the streets of Edinburgh. He deserts you here. I counsel you to yield. With honour.”
“Surrender this house now,” Will went on. “And you may go free. Take what you will from it. Keep your sword. All within will be spared. Resist further and you will receive no mercy. As a rebel against the King, you and all your house will suffer the penalty of treason. Think well on that. In the King’s name, I order that you yield. Forthwith.”
There was a pause. Then Crichton’s voice sounded thinly from a tower window. “Forrester. This of Douglas? Is it true? That he is made the King’s Lieutenant?”
“True, yes. I have seen the decree.”
“And Livingstone?”
“Livingstone is still with the King. At Stirling.”
Another pause. “If I yield, you swear that I go free?”
“I swear,” Will shouted. “You and yours.”
“Aye. It is the water. We have no water. The well is dry. I . . . I yield, then. And hold you to your oath, my lord. Before all.”
So Barnton Castle fell, a bloodless victory. Sir Andrew Crichton rode out, with his people, about thirty of them, men, women and three children, well laden with goods and belongings. A sandy-haired foxy-faced youngish man, he made sour token surrender of his sword to Will, and then led the way off towards Edinburgh with scarce a word spoken and never a backwards glance at his deserted fine house.
Will now came into major disagreement with his colleagues. The general attitude was that this goodly house was the legitimate spoils of war, and should be sacked and then held against Crichton, its owner. Will was not against a certain amount of sacking, but declared that he had neither the men nor the inclination to garrison and hold castles. Taken once, it could be taken again. Crichton might win it back, and wipe out the blow to his prestige. It should be destroyed entirely. That way, the Chancellor would suffer the greater harm to his name, and authority. Pull down his house, so close to his citadel of Edinburgh, and he was not able to lift a hand to save it.
Will had his way, and presently, after some ransacking, large numbers of men were set to the task of demolition. It was no light undertaking, with all that massive stonework and iron-hard mortar. But at least there was no lack of labour, and the men discovered a fiendish pleasure in the destruction, after long idleness. They went at it with a will.
At length, aided by some gunpowder discovered in a cellar, the once-proud fortalice amongst the green knowes was reduced to a vast heap of rubble. On top of this they piled all the woodwork and most of the plenishings, unused hay and the like, and set all alight. Under the great column of black smoke the array eventually formed up in its troops and companies, to ride away from Barnton braes, in the early evening.
They proceeded in the same direction as before, eastwards.
Despite Sir John Forrester’s assurances about the reactions in Edinburgh, it was with considerable trepidation that Will approached that ancient proud city between the hills and the sea. Their host, at Barnton, or even on the Burghmuir of Stirling, might seem large and powerful; but against the capital city it was a mere handful. Yet, if their attempt was to achieve anything of lasting value, be more than a mere flash-in-the-pan, something like what they now proposed was necessary. They could by no means turn back yet.
They met no opposition, at any rate, on their four-mile approach. As they neared the city, villages, demesnes, mills and the like clustered ever more thickly. But no crowds congregated to greet them either, although it was evident that their presence and identity was well known — indeed their outriders reported that everywhere the dread name of Douglas was on every lip. People peered, as they passed, from windows and behind walls.
Forrester was concerned about timing. They had taken too long in demolishing Barnton, he said. The gates of the walled city closed at sunset. It was no part of their policy to raise the citizenry against them by assaulting gates and walls; on the other hand, if they had to camp outside until morning, it would give the enemy time to make dispositions, and also to ascertain just how small, in fact, was their strength. In the narrow streets and wynds, this would not be so apparent.
They sent forward an advance party to try to ensure that the gates were kept open for them.
When they reached Edinburgh, with the sinking sun behind them, it was to find the West Port still open. The advance party, waiting there, declared that there had been no attempt to close the gates. The townsfolk knew well that they were coming, and were apparently not in a mood to offend Douglas.
Will had mixed feelings about this evident dread, by the common people, for his name. In theory, he knew that it had existed; to experience it, however convenient in these circumstances, was another matter.
Unlike the villages, the city streets were crowded as they rode in. Everyone seemed to have come out to watch, or were thronging the windows of the tall thrusting tenements and lands so lofty and close-huddled that they almost blocked out the sky. The streets were so narrow that the upper storeys of the houses, projecting in top-heavy fashion one above the other, all but met at seventh and eighth floor level — indeed neighbours could converse comfortably up there, window to window, across the street, and washed clothes hung on lines between. Will felt suffocated, the more so as the cobblestones of the streets themselves were the receptacles for all filth and garbage, with pigs rooting amongst the crowds and poultry pecking. If this was city life, heaven preserve him from it.
However interested, inquisitive, the Edinburgh crowds were not welcoming, open gates or none. In silence they watched the long columns of armed men ride through their deep ravines of wynds and alleys. There were no cheers, no smiles, no wavings. Crichton might be unpopular, but Douglas was certainly no less so.
Will was in a fever of uneasiness. The latent hostility of such numbers of people was daunting. Moreover, the narrowness of the already crowded streets ensured that no more than three horsemen could ride abreast — and though this had the effect of attenuating the column to the impressive length of well over half a mile, it meant that any attack from a side lane could cut the force up with the greatest of ease.
The Grassmarket was wider, and here they rode directly under the towering cliffs of the castle. It was a strange sensation to parade along so close below and in fullest view of so much hatred and entrenched strength up there, and yet to be, for the moment, comparatively safe from any harmful expression of it — for the fortress’s cannon could by no means be depressed sufficiently to shoot down at so steep an angle.
Winding up the narrow hill of the West Bow was different, again — and Forrester, who of course knew the city well, was anxious now. At its head they would come out on to the high Lawnmarket, on the very spine of the ridge on which Edinburgh was built. This was just below the castle’s forecourt approach, and in fullest view of its gatehouse and battlements. If so decided, cannon could open fire there and clear the streets. Worse a swift and sudden sally from the fortress could attack and overwhelm the head of the invading column while its long tail was still far off, and so deal with the rest piecemeal. He, Forrester, would have preferred to do what they had to do down in the Grassmarket.
But Will was adamant, however alarmed. This thing must be done properly, and with no appearance of fear or haste. The Market Cross, beside the High Kirk of St. Giles, was the place for official pronouncements. There it must be, if humanly possible. In this Hay agreed with him.
The emerging on to the open Lawnmarket was one of the mo
st unpleasant experiences of Will’s life, to be so exposed to danger and yet to be so incapable of protecting oneself or striking back. On the left they were now looking straight at the frowning ramparts and yawning gun-ports of the citadel. To turn their backs on that, and ride right-handed down the High Street, was an exercise demanding strong nerves. The street was wide and devoid of cover.
Only a couple of hundred yards down the High Street was the great cathedral-church of St. Giles, with its mighty ribbed lantern-tower, the biggest church Will had ever seen. In its shadow was Edinburgh’s Market Cross, its tall ornate unicorn-crowned shaft rising from a platform-turret. They reached this, at least, without any cannon-fire or indeed any sign of activity from the castle behind them.
There followed the trying business of waiting for the rest of the company to arrive, under the distant scrutiny of the populace, which here held well back in the mouths of pends and entries and under the arcading of the merchants’ booths, only too well aware of the menace from the citadel. Hay sent for the city’s Provost.
At length all were assembled around the cross, in their steel-clad ranks, completely filling the High Street right up to its junction with the Lawnmarket. Will was certainly not going to wait longer, for any provost or civic dignitary. He mounted the steps of the cross, with his party, under the Royal Standard.
This time he did his own announcing — since it seemed that the Douglas name was so potent here. When the trumpeter had finished, he spoke into the hush.
“I am William Douglas, the Earl.” He paused, looking round him. “I greet all leal citizens of Edinburgh, in the King’s name.” Another pause. “His Grace, for the good of this his realm has appointed me his Lieutenant-General. Here is his royal warrant.”
Will read out the decree. Almost he could recite it, by heart, now.
When he had finished, Hay plucked at his armoured arm. “Here is the Provost, my lord.”
A little plump man, in a furred robe, all eager smiles, bobbed and scraped before him, rather like a pigeon.
Black Douglas (Coronet Books) Page 13