Jamie, at least, did not look as though he was concerned over the immaturity of his hearer. He was leaning forward and talking as Will had seldom seen him talk, never for a moment taking his eyes off the girl’s face. They made a pretty picture as the others came down to them by the waterside.
When she saw Will, the girl rose slowly to her feet. She gave an impression of height, standing, though in fact she was not tall. He saw that her eyes were large, serious and grey. It came to him that she was like a cornflower — which was strange thinking for Will Douglas.
There was no introduction, almost no greeting, in words at least. They stood and considered each other. Will moistened his lips. Undoubtedly she was the most beautiful creature that he had ever seen, or imagined — but he had no urge to tell her so.
“I met my lord of Douglas on the way,” Meg said, to break the silence.
“Aye,” Will nodded. “I come with my duty. Respects.”
“Yes. You come to wed me also, Cousin, I think. Do you not?” Her voice was low-pitched, almost husky, strangely deep for one so young.
Startled at this directness, he coughed. “No. Not that. Or . . . not just so. To see you. To see if you . . . to seek your views. To pay my court . . .” Unhappily he floundered.
Gravely she listened to him, as though to words of deep wisdom. “You are kind, my lord,” she said, when he had faltered to a stop. “But you came to wed me, even so, did you not? Since Douglas must have Galloway again. And Bothwell. And Wigtown. Nor dare let other have them.” That was stated as a matter of fact, not in any rhetorical fashion, or challenge.
He shook his head. “It need not be. I have much land without Galloway. It was not of my devising. It would be a notable match. But . . . not necessary. Not for Douglas.”
“But I am Douglas also, Cousin. And would not have it otherwise.”
“Oh.” Blinking, he looked away — and it was Meg Douglas’s eye which he caught again.
Jamie sighed heavily at Will’s other side.
“Sit, my lord?” Margaret said, indicating the bench. “Or are you hungry? Would you eat? . . .”
“No. This is very well.” Will now shared the bench with the girl, sitting on the edge of it, while Jamie stood near by looking melancholy. Meg Douglas moved a little way off. Will found himself turning his velvet cap round and round in his hands.
‘When will you have the marriage, Cousin?” Margaret asked calmly.
“Eh? When? I . . . I do not know. I have not thought so far. I was nowise assured that you would wish it.”
“Is not the matter decided? My mother believes it so. With your mother.”
“Mothers!” Will all but snorted. “They scheme and plot. Others’ lives. I am not my mother’s chattel — if you are! Her interest in me is over-sudden!”
Thoughtfully the girl eyed him. “Yet, you came.”
Aye. I came. I could do no less.”
“You mean that you came looking, my lord? Seeking the style of me? Before you declared yourself. You are careful, in this matter!”
Will wriggled on the edge of the bench. “No. That is not the way of it. You misjudge me. I came to see you, yes. To discover how it was with you. Your mind in this. Marriage is a serious matter. Not to be decided by the toss of a dice. Or the length of a rent-roll. Nor yet by two widow-women! . . .”
“And yet, my lord, your prayer to the Pope has gone in — or so says my mother. For dispensation to marry me. Since, it seems, we are within the prohibited degree of blood relationship.”
“What?” Will cried. “What do you say? The Pope? I have done no such thing. I know nothing of any prayer.”
“Yet my mother told me of it weeks past.” The Lady Margaret spoke simply, quietly, not in any way accusingly. “The Bishop of Glasgow sent the letter. Seeking the Holy Father’s permission for our marriage. With a large payment, she says . . .”
“’Fore God! Cameron! That fox! This is too much!” Will was on his feet now, pacing. “Devil take him — here’s an insolent priest! But . . . you say payment? A large payment. For the Pope? Cameron would not do that. Not of his own. It must be my mother’s doing.” He rounded on his brother. “Did you know aught of this?
“Nothing.” Jamie looked reproachful. “Or I would have told you, Will. Besides, I have not seen her since the funeral.”
“You are angry, my lord?”
He halted in his pacing, to look at her. This was the second time, in a short while, that he had been asked that question. Was he acting ill, being a fool? “I ask your pardon,” he got out. “Here is no fault of yours.”
She shook her head, eyeing him levelly, with a sort of quiet understanding. And looking at her, he knew what it was that had kept niggling at his mind about her. She was like his mother. Of the same mould. They were alike. They were related, of course, for his mother was half Douglas herself, great-granddaughter of the same Archibald the Grim.
She may have perceived the change of expression on his face, the sudden shadow of hostility. She turned to Jamie, a little wistfully, almost appealingly. “I am sorry,” she said, small-voiced.
The other did not fail to respond. “Will means you no unkindness, Cousin,” he said. “He has much to think of. He is not hard.”
“No.”
“I told you — you have nothing to fear from Will.” Jamie went to sit beside her on the bench, close.
His brother looked from one to the other, and rubbed his chin.
From further round the pool Meg Douglas hummed a snatch of song to herself, gently.
Will drew a long breath. “You must bear with me,’ he said. “I would seek my own road, for Douglas. Not my mother’s. Each way I turn, she is there. God save me from masterful women!”
“And you think that I am on your mother’s road, not yours?”
“She has prepared this road for me, has she not? Prepared well. All the way to Rome!”
“Her road could be your road also, could it not? It is the road also to Galloway, Wigtown, Bothwell and the rest. To greater power for Douglas.”
“Yes. But . . .”
Those grey eyes held his own steadily. “I think, my lord, that you are less than honest with me. I think what ails you in this matter, now that you are here, is me! Not your mother, and mine. Me. Seeing me, you want nothing of it. Is it not so?” There was nothing coquettish or arch about that, just a sort of fact-facing, tinged with regret.
“No. That is not true.” Almost he shouted at her. “You have it all awry. You are beautiful. The most beautiful I have seen. Too good for me. Too fair. And young . . .”
“You find me too young? It is my age? I am sorry for that. But I am fifteen. And growing older, Cousin! I believe that, that I would serve you . . . kindly!”
Jamie’s choking breathing did nothing to help his brother. Will flushed hotly. “Have done, a mercy’s sake!” he cried. “It is none of this. Not as you think. I swear it! I am a fool. None of this is as I would have had it. Believe me.”
“How would you have it, then, my lord?”
He shook his head. He could hardly spell out to her what was wrong with him. That he found her too like his mother. That something in him was affronted that all was done for him, that there was to be nothing of a man’s wooing of his bride, that all been settled without him. Least of all could he say that his masculinity had responded too fully to the other young woman, whom he had met first, to see the Lady Margaret as more than a child being forced on him, however wise and beautiful a child. In his frustration he turned on her, almost accusingly.
“And you? What of you? How would you have it? There is two to a marriage. You have feelings also, have you not? Desires. What of them?”
She nodded. “I told you, my lord. I am content.”
“Content! What means that word? From a girl of fifteen! For her marriage. Content!”
“Very well. Say that I am pleasured. Well pleasured. At this match.”
“With me? Why? You spoke of honesty. I cannot think th
at you are full honest, now!”
“It is the truth. I did not say that I was pleasured with you, my lord. But with this match. Because I am Margaret of Galloway, you are Earl of Douglas.”
“And that means much to you? A mere girl.”
“Yes. Is it so strange? Have you forgotten who was Earl of Douglas before you? Or before your father. My brother, Cousin. I have two brothers to avenge. Slain. And only Douglas, I think, Douglas in fullest power, is strong enough to do that. So . . . I am content.”
He stared at her, at all the frail and tender beauty of her, as though seeing her anew. Indeed, in that moment, Will Douglas grew in years. He had learned something about essential womanhood which it was as well that he should know.
“I see,” he said. There seemed nothing more to be said.
Jamie broke the silence that ensued. “We all would avenge your brothers. Will has commenced to do so. I told you — he has pulled down Crichton’s castle of Barnton. He has driven him from the chancellorship. He has drawn Livingstone’s teeth . . .”
“Peace, Jamie!” Will ordered. “You know what you are saying. These are nothing. Gestures only. First moves in the game. The real war is yet to be fought. And it will be long and sore. Do not mislead the Lady Margaret . . .”
“I am not misled, sir,” that girl assured. “But, if the war is to be long and sore, then you have the greater need of Galloway’s aid. Douglas of Borgue, who acts my chamberlain, says that we can muster four thousand men. Many more, given time. And this is a rich province. As is Bothwell. Our coffers are well-filled.”
“Aye,” Will nodded. “So be it.” But he sighed a little, nevertheless.
If Will lacked enthusiasm his brother did not. Jamie, always inclined to hero-worship, now saw Will’s exploits as epic achievements, the stuff of sagas. Nothing would do but that the girl should be cognisant of the fact, despite the other’s disclaimers and corrections. Margaret Douglas listened with interest — and more than that. Her grey eyes were intent on the younger man’s eager face, and though she glanced over at Will’s many interpellations and protests, he could not but gain the feeling that it was not the panegyric or its subject that enthralled her so much as the teller himself.
From the first, Will had been uncomfortable about the other young woman’s withdrawal. She had not gone far, only sufficient to indicate that she knew her place; almost certainly she had heard all that was said. He called to her now.
“Mistress Meg — my brother would make of me a very paladin in the ears of your lady. Here is treachery, I say — for she will find me out all too soon! How say you that I deal with him?”
“Why, my lord,” she called back, nothing loth. “Act the part he makes for you. I wager it should not come so hard!” Laughing, she came sauntering back.
“You would mock me, the Black Douglas!”
“Why no, my lord Earl. But we have long looked to see a paladin come to Threave! You would not disappoint us now?”
“I warn you, Cousin, if you cross swords with Meg, you will require all your paladin’s skill,” the younger girl declared, with one of her rare smiles.
After that, all was easier. The intensity went out of their talk and they were able to be more natural. Meg Douglas was excellent company, and Margaret obviously looked on her as more friend than servant.
That is, until the Duchess Euphemia came in person seeking them, urging them indoors with the word that food and drink was prepared, and here was no place to entertain such distinguished and handsome visitors. Immediately all was changed, a brittle, artificial atmosphere descended, Will became abrupt and awkward, Jamie gabbled and Meg turned tiring-woman again. The Duchess had her way, and they trailed back to the castle, however reluctantly.
It became no easier thereafter. Despite Margaret’s manifest disinclination now, her mother would talk of nothing but the proposed marriage, and the satisfactions of having so puissant a lord, and so goodly a young man, as her son-in-law. She also dwelt upon the excellent qualities of her present husband, Sir James Hamilton, and how notable a chancellor he would make. Her brother, Malise, too, were he ransomed from being hostage in England and restored to his rightful earldom of Strathearn, would do great things for the cause. She herself, being of the royal house, was in a position to influence much. And so on. The young people listened, and sought to forbear comment.
The Duchess kept them company for the rest of the day and evening — as may have been proper, but for Will at least was excessively trying. Jamie was not so concerned, for so long as he was in the Lady Margaret’s company he was obviously in some sort of bliss, content to worship. Will, made of different stuff, was apt to look towards Meg Douglas’s more substantial charms for relief — but that young woman, in the Duchess’s presence, kept herself very much in the background or found reason to be elsewhere.
The day seemed interminable, even though Will found excuse to retire to bed markedly early for an August evening. Thereafter the elder brother listened to the younger’s encomiums on the virtues, perfections and beauty of the Fair Maid of Galloway, and the quite fantastic good fortune of her husband-to-be, until, feigning sleep, he gained silence if not peace.
The Duchess was no early riser, and with something like a conspiracy the four young people hastened to betake themselves, with hawks and hounds, on a mounted expedition up the Dee valley, before ever the great lady showed herself. They made a happy and carefree day of great riding, good companionship and few problems, though only indifferent sport, a day in which statecraft, policies, ambitions and marriage were not once mentioned, and in which Margaret Douglas proved herself to be less fragile than she looked.
When, tired but in good spirit, however, they returned to Threave, it was to find that the Duchess had another and distinctly agitated visitor. It was Robert Fleming. He bad ridden long and hard, day and night, all the way from Stirling, sparing neither himself nor a succession of horses. After lying low for so long, Crichton had now struck out from Edinburgh Castle. First attacking and destroying Forrester’s castle of Corstorphine, he had proceeded to assail and harry the Douglas lands in the west part of Lothian, Almondale, Strabrock and Avondale. Half a dozen rich manors had fallen to him, and been left smoking deserts. Even now he was besieging Abercorn Castle itself — if it had not already fallen to him. Hay had hurriedly collected a force and gone to its relief — but whether he was in time, or sufficiently strong, was not known. On the word of it, old Sir Alexander Livingstone had left Stirling and gone to his own house of Callendar, leaving the King and the fortress in the care of his son Sir James. Callendar House was near the edge of Lothian, close to the area where Crichton was operating, and clearly Livingstone was preparing to throw in his lot with his former confederate, and deny the Douglas connection, if Abercorn fell and the tide seemed to be flowing that way. He had sent an urgent courier to his grandson, Hamilton, and it was asserted that he was demanding that Hamilton halt any negotiations for the marriage of his stepdaughter and ward with Douglas. He, Fleming, had hastened to be first with the tidings.
Will was shouting for fresh horses before ever the recital was finished. They would ride at once. “Where did Crichton get the men for this?” he demanded of Fleming. “To do all this, he must have gathered many.”
The other coughed, and looked away. “It is ill telling, my lord. But they are largely Douglas, they say. Red Douglas. The Earl of Angus is with him!”
“Dear God! Angus! Of our own blood!”
There was a shocked hush, with this last revelation still more grievous than the grim news which had preceded it. Will swung on the young woman, who had listened to all.
“You see your paladin now!” he exclaimed hoarsely. “Jamie spoke too soon!”
“No less the paladin, my lord, for other men’s misdeeds,” Meg Douglas answered quickly. “So be it you make them pay dear!”
The Lady Margaret looked at the other girl thoughtfully.
“You will deal with these jackals in time, Will,” his br
other declared stoutly.
“If time I am given.”
“I wish that I was a man!” Meg cried.
Will found a smile for that, however faint. “You are very well as you are, woman!” he said.
Again the younger girl’s heedful glance Then she spoke quietly. “Time you may take, in one matter at least. Before you ride from Threave. A marriage contract. It could be signed. Now.”
He passed a hand over his lips.
“It need not be a great, a large writing. Such as a clerk would make,” she went on. “Just a few words, declaring the matter. Signed and sealed.”
“It would not be signed by Hamilton. And once he had his grandsire’s message, he probably will refuse to sign.”
“Sir James Hamilton of Cadzow means nothing to me. Or to Galloway. He is my mother’s second husband, that is all. Is Douglas to be governed by such?” Although she did not raise it, that was the authentic voice of a long line of warrior earls, of kings indeed — for while her mother was a great-granddaughter of Robert the Second, her father was a grandson of Robert the Third.
“You are his ward, are you not?”
“Only through his marriage with my mother. He is but a knight. A Lanark laird. She is the Countess-Duchess. Of the royal house. Let her sign, and he will not dare to deny it!”
That Will could not controvert.
“My mother will sign it, and gladly. And with such paper we could raise Galloway,” she added. “Swiftly. From this day. And the word of it, I think, would reach to Edinburgh. And Stirling.”
“Very well,” he said, levelly. “Before I ride.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
AS token of things to come, the three young men left Threave with an escort of thirty local men-at-arms, hastily gathered. They pounded northwards across the low green hills to upper Nithsdale, in the failing light, and then on in the August night through the Dalveen Pass amongst the high Lowther mountains to the upper reaches of Clyde and so down, with the dawn, into Douglasdale. At Douglas Castle, changing horses and snatching refreshment, they collected another sixty men, all that could be raised at short notice, and leaving orders for others to follow, pressed on. North by east across the upper ward of Lanarkshire the enlarged party hurried, to Fleming’s lairdship of Biggar, where another small troop of men was enlisted. Then, over one hundred strong, they beat west by north now, over the high bleak moorlands flanking the Pentland Hills and so down into Lothian. Weary, travel-stained, saddle-stiff, they came to the high ground above Abercorn and the silver Forth, in the evening light, after over one hundred miles of great and difficult riding — to be confronted by anti-climax. Before them stretched a scene of quiet peace. Some blackened cornfields there were, and on closer inspection burned cot-houses and farmsteads amongst the scattered woodlands, but there was no sign of armies or battle, and Abercorn Castle and monastery lay apparently unthreatened and undamaged in the sunset, only the blue slender columns of evening fires ascending gently from the many chimneys.
Black Douglas (Coronet Books) Page 15