In doubt and a sense of unreality, they proceeded down to the coast.
Nearer, there were traces of ravage and rapine, but nothing of actual battle. In the sea-park below the castle, there was an encampment of armed men, about their cooking-fires, but in no great numbers and mainly wearing the Hay colours. In the castle itself, they found the Constable, with the Countess and the Lady Beatrix, at supper, with the Prior from the monastery — an absurdly domestic scene. Feeling rather foolish, however relieved, the spume-flecked, mud-spattered and bone-weary newcomers, stood about at something of a loss.
They learned that there had been in fact no real fighting. At the approach of Hay and Forrester, Crichton had discreetly retired back to Edinburgh. Possibly he was misinformed as to their strength; possibly he had already over-extended himself; possibly his Red Douglas supporters had come for easy pickings rather than true warfare, and having made their gesture and won much booty were inclined to slip back to East Lothian. Whatever the cause, Hay had met with no opposition, and had been able to act the rescuer to a grateful Countess and daughter at minimum of cost. That morning, Forrester had taken the major part of the force and pressed on eastwards, to see what could be salvaged of his harried domain of Corstorphine. Messages sent back by him reported Crichton to be holed up again in Edinburgh Castle.
All this was less well received by Will Douglas than might have been expected. He saw it not so much as any deliverance, any essential easing of the situation, as a very public demonstration of the flimsiness of the edifice which he was trying to erect, the foundations of sand on which he was building. Whatever else it resulted in, all this could not fail to do his own prestige and position much harm, and therefore gravely hold up, through lack of confidence and support, the further stages of his purpose.
It is to be feared, therefore, that he betrayed only moderate enthusiasm over the further news, which seemed to be exercising his mother and sister much more deeply than these war-like posturings — whatever the reaction from the sober-visaged Sir William — that he and the Lady Beatrix were now happily betrothed, the marriage contract drawn up and only awaiting Will’s signature, as head of the house. This information, of course, set off Jamie with the similar glad tidings from Galloway, and great was the acclaim — save from this other designated bridegroom, who seemed to be preoccupied. The Dowager-Countess was gently radiant. She mentioned that she would have Archie married to Elizabeth Dunbar, the Moray heiress, before the year’s end. Without of course admitting it, Will was faced with the contemplation that his mother’s methods might succeed where his own did not. He was tired, of course.
Next day he rode for Stirling. He made a circuit to survey his ravished and harried lands of Strabrock and Avondale, as he went — and saw plenty to reinforce his perception of Crichton’s essential savagery, in the process, if that was necessary. He could not linger, leaving what solace and promise of both compensation and retribution he could offer.
At Stirling, as the gates opened to receive him, he was well aware that his reception might have been very much otherwise had Crichton not decided to retire to Edinburgh when he did. He had, in fact, been prepared to find the castle barred against him. As it was, Sir James Livingstone greeted his arrival only sourly, and though the young King was welcoming enough, and excited, he was considerably downcast, conceiving his cause to have suffered a severe set-back. That indeed was obviously the general opinion.
Will recognised that he had no one to blame but himself, Through optimism and wishful thinking, allied to inexperience, he had underestimated his enemies, accepted surface appearances for realities, and allowed himself to be partially distracted from the task to which he had set his hand. He had been knocked back sharply, and deserved to be — but he was by no means defeated.
Cudgelling his brains over the situation, and debating it with Rob Fleming — whom he was coming to rely upon and more heavily than on either his brother or brother-in-law-to-be — he decided that certain swift moves were essential if any confidence in his position and efforts was to be re-established — as it must be if the forthcoming parliament called for November, on which so much depended, was to be anything other than an abject failure. Armed sallies must be made, since these were accepted, indeed demanded, by both nobles and people as signs of the right and ability to rule. But they must be successful, and they must be located in strategic areas where they would produce the fullest effects. As well as these, some resounding figure must be found and brought forward, to be Chancellor, some substantial and statesmanlike character who would command respect, especially amongst the more sober folk of the kingdom, and in the Church. Without such, the King’s cause must be like a plant without roots.
As to the sallies, there was no point in going to hammer fruitlessly at the impregnable walls of Edinburgh Castle, in present circumstances — so Crichton himself was safe from them. For the rest of the country, the north could be left alone, for Hay, and his traditional collaborators the Gordons, were sound for the King; moreover, the Earl of Crawford, one of the most powerful nobles of the north-east, was father to the Countess Janet, young widow of the murdered Douglas, and so assured in his hatred of Crichton and all his works. The south-west was dominated by the Black Douglases and Galloway. The Highlands, preoccupied with their own affairs, could be ignored, in this. But the west was important and dangerous; and of course the east was in the shadow of Edinburgh, and tended at times to watch the Earl of Angus and the Red Douglases, at Tantallon, one of the mightiest and most secure strongholds in Scotland. West and east then.
One of the lairds in the west who had rallied, earlier, to the Douglas call, was Galbraith of Culcreuch, in Fintry. He had urged, at that time, an attack on Dumbarton Castle, the main royal fortress in the west, but held by Sir Robert Erkine, claimant to the earldom of Mar, a man of doubtful allegiance but thought to favour Crichton, who had appointed him to this lucrative post — which carried with it the custom dues of all Clyde shipping. Galbraith, who had once been deputy-governor of Dumbarton, knew the citadel well, and claimed that given a couple of hundred men and a free hand to methods, he could take it. Will was inclined to let him try, now, for the occupation of this great fortress would resound all over the rich and important Clyde basin.
The east was a different matter, and a major problem. But Rob Fleming was urgent that some move must be made to counter the bad influence of Angus. The sight of the house of Douglas divided against itself was grievously dangerous for the whole cause, and Angus’s aid to Crichton in harrying Will’s lands had to be answered. The effect on his own people demanded it also. Angus must be taught a lesson. Fleming advised a sweep of the Angus lands in the east of Lothian, though with no attempt on the Tantallon. Edinburgh must be taught which Douglas to fear.
Will saw the point very well, but recoiled from Douglas attacking Douglas.
The other accepted this, but pleaded that he be allowed to lead such a foray, as one of the Lieutenant-General’s captains. The Douglas name and colours need not be involved. Let him take as large a force as they could muster, none wearing the Red Heart emblem, and show the east the King’s banner.
Will was in two minds. It was dangerous, and meant allowing matters to get out of his hands. But then, were his hands so able and experienced, so capable? Robert Fleming had a level head and a good spirit. And was it not one of the oldest precepts that a good general knew how to delegate authority? Moreover, the east had to be given a demonstration of force somehow — and he himself had other business demanding his attention.
It was agreed, then. Galbraith should have his small force to assail Dumbarton. Fleming should lead as many as could be mustered against East Lothian. Hay should remain, with a reserve, at Stirling, making sure of the King and ready to go to the aid of who might need it. As for Will himself, he would go to St. Andrew’s, in Fife, on a very different sort of mission — and alone.
With more trepidation than he had experienced when he had first presented himself before Livings
tone’s fortress of Stirling, Will Douglas approached the metropolitan see and ecclesiastical capital of Scotland, set right at the tip of the East Neuk of Fife, on a green peninsula thrusting into the North Sea. He had never been to St. Andrews, site of the realm’s single and fairly new university, and he was much impressed, almost overawed, by the splendour and magnificence of ecclesiastical wealth displayed on every hand, in Cathedral, palace, churches, priory, monastic buildings, colleges, spires, monuments and shrines. Here was a city ancient and very fair, not so large as Edinburgh, but infinitely more rich, assured, serene. Never before had Will been so much aware of the power and majesty of Holy Church. It was a daunting place, however, for a young man not yet in his twenties, to assail on a mission such as his.
Will had some difficulty in gaining the Bishop’s presence, the name of Douglas seeming to mean rather less here than elsewhere — or perhaps it was rather that the episcopal guards could not credit that he was Douglas. The palace, which was also the castle, was large, and there were more arrogant flunkeys and underlings to get past than in any lord’s fortalice. But when at last he did run his quarry to earth in a bare cell of a room, save for the multitude of books and parchments, in a small flanking tower of the courtyard, it was to find no proud and pompous prelate, richly robed, but a tall, muscular, handsome man in only his mid-thirties, dressed in plain non-clerical clothing. Nor was there anything clerical about his expression, which was strong, stern and direct. He greeted Will courteously but far from effusively, not even laying down the manuscript he had been studying.
“I know not what unlikely chance brings my lord of Douglas to this place,” he said, “But whatever it be, you are welcome.”
He spoke crisply, much more like a man of the field and the saddle than of the cloister.
Will nodded. James Kennedy, Bishop of St. Andrews and Primate of all Scotland, was a major surprise to him, not only much younger than he had realised but different in almost every way. Highly born and a bishop since his twenties, he was nevertheless utterly unlike the image that such a description is apt to conjure up; indeed his reputation was wholly otherwise, that of a sincere, able and honest cleric, a notable administrator and a man of great learning — however little renowned for suffering fools gladly. He was the grandson of Robert the Third, the son of the Princess Mary who had married first the 1st Earl of Angus, and secondly Sir James Kennedy of Dunure, head of that turbulent clan. So that he was cousin of the King, uncle of the present Earl of Angus, and brother of the new Kennedy chief, Sir Gilbert. A protégé of old Bishop Wardlaw, the previous Primate and friend of James the First, he had been raised to the primacy over the heads of numerous senior bishops, in particular over John Cameron, of Glasgow.
“My lord Bishop,” Will said, diffidently. “I come on an important errand. An errand that is . . . that means much to Scot-land. It is difficult.” He swallowed. “It is to ask you to be Chancellor of this realm,” he blurted out.
The other raised strong eyebrows. “Indeed?” he said.
“Yes. It is a most serious matter. The chancellorship is vacant. As you will know. With Crichton forfeit. Will you be Chancellor in his room, my lord?”
The Bishop laid down his parchment. “Young man,” he said, “Am I hearing aright? Do you, of lesser years than many who study here in my college, come to St. Andrews offering to make me the King’s chief minister in this land? Do you?”
Will flushed. “I do,” he jerked. “In the King’s name, of course. I come from His Grace, at Stirling. And I am his Lieutenant-General of the realm.”
“Ah, yes. To be sure.”
“Does my lack of years count so loud with you, my lord?” That was almost an accusation. “Were you not made bishop younger than most men are made priests?”
Kennedy acknowledged that with just the hint of a smile. “True, sir. Perhaps I am in danger of the tyranny of years, myself. From overmuch hectoring of students, no doubt! Your pardon. But . . . still I am at a loss to understand your mission, my lord.”
“It it so strange? You are a man much esteemed. The head of Holy Church in this land. And His Grace’s kin. A new Chancellor there must be, to put before the parliament called for November. One whom men will respect. Honour. Learned, and of experience in affairs. Who more likely than you, my lord?”
“Who less likely, rather! I have the Church to govern. And this university. Must I govern the realm as well?”
“What matters how well governed your Church and university if the realm, in which they are, is misgoverned?”
“H’mm.” Kennedy looked at Will with a new interest. “That may be so. But there are many able men who could fill this office, other than myself. And some who indeed seek to do so, I understand! Sir James Hamilton, I am told, esteems himself well fitted to hold the seals of office!”
“He may, sir. I do not.”
“And you, my lord of Douglas, are to be the judge in this matter?”
“No. Not so. Or . . .” Will hesitated, and shrugged, “Perhaps, yes.”
“Ha! You are honest, I see, at least!”
“And why not me?” the young man demanded, suddenly angry. ‘Why not? Tell me that. Who else in all this land cares? Who has lifted a hand against the rogues who devour the realm? The ruffians who pull the young king this way and that between them, like jackals with a bone! Who else is prepared to challenge these evil men? You, sir? You are the King’s kin, and head of Holy Church. What have you done? Show me the man who has raised one finger for young James Stewart’s realm — and I say let him be best judge who should be James Stewart’s chief minister!” Will stopped abruptly, on a gasp of breath, appalled at what he had said.
The other inclined his head, but did not speak.
“I am sorry, my lord Bishop. I should not have spoken so. I was carried away. I crave your pardon.”
“You need crave no such thing, my friend. What you have said is simplest truth. I have done nothing save tend my own vineyard. As have others. You have the rights of it. But, this matter of the chancellorship is not simple. You and His young Grace may declare Sir William Crichton forfeit and no longer Chancellor. But does he accept that? He has governed this land for long. He still holds the seals. More important, he holds the majority of the Council in his hands. The King is only a minor. Crichton, I think, will claim that he is still Chancellor, in fact.”
“Not if a parliament, presided over by the King, appoints another.”
“You believe so? Will he not rather declare your parliament void, a fraud? And refuse to give up the seals.”
“He may. But the parliament will surely appoint a new Council, as well as a new Chancellor. Shut up in Edinburgh Castle, he can do little. Crichton draws his strength from others. And it is to the others that parliament will speak, not to him. You, sir, would speak loudly in that, if you would. With your own voice, and the voice of Holy Church.”
“The Church has other voices than mine. Notably one that speaks from Glasgow! And passing loudly. Loud enough to reach to Rome itself! Calling for a dispensation for one, William Douglas, to wed within the prohibited degree of consanguinity!”
Will blinked. “You are well informed, my lord.”
“Little that happens in the Church is not heard of in St. Andrews. My lord of Glasgow, I think, would serve Chancellor, and gladly. He is experienced in the business. He has held the seals before.”
“Aye. But would you have John Cameron to govern this realm? Before, he had a strong king to counter him. Would you have him even to govern your Church?”
“The choice is not mine. I would remind you, my lord — for the realm, at least. You it is who choose!”
“I think you mock me, my lord. Myself, I certainly would have other than he. I see him as a self-seeker, not to be trusted. He petitioned the Pope, yes, but not of my asking. I knew nothing of it. Learned only by chance. Bishop Cameron but seeks to use me to gain his own ends. Moreover, he has many enemies. You, I believe, have not.”
“I think th
at I would have, if I became Chancellor!”
“Perhaps, but you could do great service for this realm.”
The Bishop stared out of the window, over the blue sea. “You ask, perhaps, more than you know,” he said. “This is the life I chose. It was not chosen for me. I sought it. I desire no other. You sought otherwise. To fight. To fight for the King, yes. But to fight for Douglas also. You seek vengeance, do you not? Am I to aid you gain it? You would have me fight with you. Take sides. Take sides with Douglas!”
“Is that so ill a fate, sir?”
“Until of late, I would have said so, yes. I fear, my lord, that most of my life I have thought of your house as a pest and a plague on the body of this Scotland. You will forgive my plain speaking? Douglas I have seen as like an overgrown and bloated cloud louring over the land, too powerful by far, seeking only its own, largely by the power of the sword, a threat against the Throne and a menace to all peaceful lieges. If Douglas has changed, I rejoice.”
Will drew a long breath. “You speak your mind, my lord, by the Rude!”
Black Douglas (Coronet Books) Page 16