Only then did Will and Margaret move, on their long pacing to the great open doors, with pages strewing rose petals before them and the bridal retinue behind, while the colourful and high-born throng commented, nudged and exclaimed.
The tremendous roar of acclaim from the assembled multitude which greeted them as they emerged from the church took Will sufficiently by surprise as to crack his set expression and bring him almost to a halt. The girl, however, pressed his arm a little, and drew him on, smiling slightly.
“My people,” she said. “Greeting their new lord. They hail you.”
He raised his hand, in answer to the continuing laudation. “You it is they hail,” he jerked.
“They hail Douglas. Douglas taking again its power. Girding itself,” she amended. “I think perhaps that even Sir William Crichton, in Edinburgh, will hear that shout. Before long!”
He looked at her sidelong, wondering. What had he married?
In the Abbot’s library the principals then assembled for what undoubtedly many considered to be the most important feature of the day — the subscribing and witnessing of marriage contracts, charters and portions, whereby literally thousands of square miles of prime land, enormous wealth and the destinies of scores of thousands of people, were transferred and dedicated. By these pen-strokes Will became lawful Lord of Galloway and Bothwell and Earl of Wigtown, master of more territory than any other man in Scotland, including its king.
Refreshment and drinking of healths preceded the adjournment to the huge pavilioned encampment in the meadows, where Douglas was host to all, and whither the great majority of the wedding guests had already repaired. Fortunately the weather was kind, and although thunder-heads mounted and marshalled their cloud phalanxes to the west, the sun shone here.
It made a heartening and astonishing scene, such as had not been seen in Scotland for many a long year, if ever before. Two great squares had been reserved and cordoned off amongst the streets of tentage. One, a tourney-ground, with lists, platforms, raised galleries and boxes, flag-hung and draped with colours and festooned with greenery. Here massed musicians played, meantime, tumblers, acrobats, jesters, dwarfs and other entertainers performed. The other enclosure was set with groaning tables by the score, the hundred, surrounded by tented kitchens, where all might eat and drink their fill, even choosing from sweating cooks and smoking carcases their desired portions of beef and mutton, pork and fowl — for four hundred bullocks alone had been slaughtered for this hospitality and there were as many again waiting the butchers’ knives if required. No one knew the actual numbers of the assembled company, but Pate Pringle estimated it as between three and four thousand. The eating enclosure was suitably subdivided, of course, so the nobility, gentry and commonality did not offend each other — but elsewhere there was a great commingling, strolling and good-fellowship.
Only in the smallest and most select enclosure of all, around the royal and bridal tables indeed, were there cold stares, haughty looks and suspicions, this notable day. Here unfortunately there was little love and gaiety evident, with Bishop Cameron refusing to acknowledge the presence of Bishop Kennedy and Sir James Hamilton perceiving neither of them. Others took their cue from these, and the factions were fairly clearly defined. Will, in his capacity of Lieutenant-General rather than bridegroom, sought to associate with all and keep the peace between them. Sir James Livingstone guarded the young monarch from all, like a tigress with one whelp.
The present aspect of the marriage celebrations had engaged Will Douglas’s attentions almost to the exclusion of all else — and that was not accidental. Disagreement and suspicion was inevitable, but at least all these had come to his wedding — a matter of which Crichton and others would not be long left in ignorance. But in one respect he was disappointed. Angus had not accepted the olive branch held out to him, so that the Red Douglas was still at open rift with the Black. He had released a thinner and wanner Rob Fleming — but that would be accounted for by the latter’s royal appointment as Cup-bearer and the charge of treason which could have followed his continued detention. Fleming was at Sweet Heart with the rest, but not a single Red Douglas notable had accepted invitation. Men spoke significantly of it.
It had been Will’s intention to circulate with his new Countess, as far as was possible, amongst all their guests. But problems of mediation, soothing and adjustment tended to distract him; moreover King James was very demanding, only toying with his food and eager for the next stage in the proceedings to commence — and even a bridegroom cannot brush off his monarch. In consequence, Margaret found herself frequently left standing neglected — until Jamie, in attendance, took her off on his own. Will made no protest. Thereafter they circulated apart.
It was when, later, having at last conducted the impatient King to his royal box at the tourney-ground, and then gone in search of his bride, to bring her on as queen of the games, that Will, in the pavilion set aside for them, came face to face with Meg Douglas. She was looking superb, in a shepherdess costume which allowed her to deck herself out to best effect without seeming to presume above her station, all vital, voluptuous, essential womanhood.
“I have looked for you,” he said.
“I saw you,” she acknowledged.
He stared at her. “It is done, then,” he said, at length.
“Yes. It is done, my lord.”
“Aye. Would that it . . . could have been . . . otherwise.”
She made no response to that.
“You know?” he asked, almost accused.
“I know,” she admitted. “Your eyes talk very plain, Black Douglas!”
“Do they?”
“Aye. You should school them. Lest others see.”
“Let them see!”
“No! You have great power, my lord. None may say you nay.” She paused. “Save only me, perhaps! But . . . power should be kind, not cruel.”
“Meg! . . .” He took a couple of steps towards her.
The young woman shook her head firmly, and held up her hand. “I say no! Not now. Not on this your wedding day. And hers.”
He half-turned away, with a sigh. “You are right. Where is she? I came seeking her. For the games, the jousting. All awaits her.”
“Your brother, the Lord James, took her. I saw them last amongst the common folk. By the fish-pond. Shall I go fetch her?”
“Aye, Meg. Bring her to the main gateway to the lists. Where we marshal. Or . . . beg my lady’s attendance there. With my duty.” He grimaced. “And Meg — think on me! Kindly.”
“Enough that I think on myself!” she gave back, and fled.
And so, presently, the Earl and Countess of Douglas led the great procession round the circuit of the tourney-ground, under their banners, followed by her ladies, the Douglas brothers, the knight and champions, the swordsmen, equestrians, wrestlers, javelin-throwers, runners, jumpers and the rest, while trumpets blew stirring music. Will conducted Margaret up to the special gallery that jutted out just below the royal box. Here the banners of Douglas and Galloway were set up, the young Countess was seated on a throne-like chair, and a fanfare was sounded. She bowed to left and right, a slight, slender figure but somehow regal, and raised her hand. The stage was set.
First a pursuivant, gallantly attired, rode out into the centre of the tilt-yard, hailed the King, and then at the pitch of his lungs recited the pedigree of the new Countess of Douglas, from the semi-legendary Celtic times down a score of generations to William Long-leg, William le Hardi, James the Good, Hugh the Dull and so to Archibald the Grim. Then, as the cheers for this died away, the Lord Lyon King of Arms appeared in the royal box, to tuck of drum, to announce that the high and mighty prince James, by the grace of God, King of Scots, had of his beneficence and royal favour decided to celebrate this auspicious occasion by bestowing certain honours and appointments. First he nominated his right trusty and well-beloved cousin, William Earl of Douglas, Lieutenant-General of the Kingdom, as Warden of the Border Marches, Keeper of the Great
Seal, and Governor of Edinburgh Castle. Such appointments to be confirmed by Privy Council.
An audible gasp rose from the great company at the pronouncement of this last office. Seldom could a clearer and more definite royal challenge have been made under guise of an appointment. Will was, in fact, thereby not only authorised but required to go to Edinburgh and oust William Crichton from that royal fortress. The other offices were key ones and a lot more important; but this represented war to the knife.
Will, standing at his wife’s chair-back, turned and bowed to the monarch.
Lyon went on. “His Grace, moveover, hereby appoints his well-beloved Archibald Douglas to be belted Earl of Moray. And his well-beloved Hugh Douglas to be belted Earl of Ormond. And his well-beloved John Douglas to be Lord of Balveny. The said Archibald, Hugh and John Douglas each now to stand before His Grace.”
As the hum of exclamation rose, and the three Douglas brothers climbed up to the royal box, Margaret turned her grey eyes on Will.
“What of Jamie?” she asked quietly. “Older. Truer. More kindly your brother than any of these.”
“Wait you. Jamie could have been Earl of Ormond if be would. But he would remain rather my assister, my right hand — and no earl could be that. Wait you.”
There was much talk as King James fumblingly belted the two new young earls, and gave his hand to be kissed by the new and younger lord. Archie had already been Earl of Moray, but only in right of his wife; now he was truly earl. Most undoubtedly saw all this as merely aggrandisement of the Douglas name and pride — for Ormond was an ancient earldom in the family, long defunct, and Balveny had been James the Gross’s lordship before being created Earl of Avondale. But those who understood how the realm was ruled, knew that here were three more assured votes in parliament and two more seats on the Privy Council, to back Will’s own.
As the brothers stood down, Lyon raised his voice again. “Further, His Grace raises to the style and dignity of Lords of Parliament his right trusty knights, Sir Laurence Abernethy of Saltoun; Sir Andrew Gray of Foulis; and Sir James Hamilton of Cadzow. Let the Lords Saltoun, Gray and Hamilton approach and kiss His Grace’s hand, on appointment.”
Again Margaret wondered. “Why these?” she said. “Hamilton? What has he done to merit this? You . . . you do not this for my sake?”
“I know the measure of your regard for your stepsire!” he told her grimly. “It is much as my own. But he is powerful, and I must bind him to my side. He is still sore over the chancellorship. And it will please your lady-mother! Laurence Abernethy is a sure man, and strong in the north. And Gray is close kin to Rob Fleming, a trimmer that we can thus buy!”
Levelly she eyed him, unspeaking. He looked away.
Once more Lyon cried out. “Lastly, the King’s Grace requires his well-beloved James, Master of Douglas, and his trusty Cup-bearer Robert Fleming of Cumbernauld and Biggar, to present themselves.”
Will’s two lieutenants climbed the steps side by side, and were commanded by Lyon to kneel before the King. James thereupon drew out his sword with a flourish, and performed his first knightings.
“Arise, Sir James!” he said, grinning. “Arise, Sir Robert!”
“Of this I am glad,” the girl declared.
“Aye — I thought you would be!”
As the new knights came down, Margaret left her throne to greet and congratulate them prettily. “Sir Jamie!” she exclaimed. “Here is joy!” She took his hands. “A true knight, indeed.”
He went down on one knee to her. “Your true and most humble knight,” he said, his voice catching. “Now, and for all my days.”
“Ah, Jamie! . . .” she murmured, raising him up. Still holding one hand, she turned. ‘Sir Robert — you better deserve this honour than most who receive it.”
“You are too kind, my lady. I value it only that I may the better serve your lord, and mine.”
Will cleared his throat. “Aye,” he said. “My thanks. And my salutations to you both. But, of a mercy — let us take heed that we grow not too noble, too gallant, altogether! Since our warfare is . . . otherwise!” Abruptly he turned away, and raised an arm, as signal to Pate Pringle at the lists gate.
A long fanfare neighed, and the programme opened to a dramatic start. From either end of the enclosure ten knights in full jousting armour, plumed, helmeted, surcoated in their heraldic colours, shields blazoned, their steel-clad mounts gorgeous in skirted trappings, came thundering in, to the prolonged cheers of the crowd. Spreading out into line abreast, turf flying from their beasts’ hooves, the two groups bore down on each other, heavy tilting lances lowered. The entire vicinity shook to the weights of their charge. As the space between narrowed and dwindled there was no slackening of the pace, no pulling aside. As everywhere men shouted and women screeched, the score of contestants and horses crashed into each other at headlong gallop, in mid-ground, with a clatter and clanging of steel, a splintering of lances, and a high whinnying and screaming of horses. In a moment all the colourful gallantry was just a chaos of falling bodies, tossing plumes, flashing armour, flailing limbs and lashing hooves. Out of the resultant shambles that strewed the grass, only eight of the score of knights remained in the saddle, from that initial concussion, five on one side, three on another — and of these some were reeling, and one sagged forward over his horse’s neck.
But the survivors all pulled up, and wheeled round as best they could, to drive back at each other, the five against the three, swords being drawn in the process — for only two retained their lances unbroken, and these both on the same side, the three, which helped to balance the fight somewhat. Although some of the jousters were obviously neither ready nor in any state to continue, there was no pause, as the eight hurled themselves at each other again. The two lance-owners now toppled their opponents without difficulty — but the horse of one cannoned into that of his opposite number, and its rider was thrown off beside his victim, lance still in hand. Elsewhere dazed men fell more from the impact than the swording, though the ringing clash of blades on armour did resound. Only two knights remained mounted after this encounter, and this pair proceeded to fight it out. But on foot others were hacking and swiping at each other with their long and heavy two-handed swords, amongst the litter and the cavortings of riderless horses, and now being joined by two or three who had managed to pick themselves up out of the jumbled wreckage of the first mass havoc.
Within three minutes of the trumpets’ sounding, only three men still were able to stand upright and wield their massive blades, slow-motion now, shields gone, plumes shorn, surcoats torn. It was difficult to ascertain who attacked whom, or whether all were flailing indifferently; then one man fell, and lay still — for falling in full armour was more apt than not to stun the wearer, irrespective of previous damage. The two were left, windmilling, battering — for there could be no obvious finesse or fencing, weighed down as the battlers were in half a hundredweight of steel.
It was a back-handed swipe which settled the contest, and toppled the smaller of the pair on one knee, sword-point dug into the turf. More or less at his ease, the other raised his brand and brought it down crashing on the unfortunate’s helmet. He collapsed in an awkward metallic heap. The victor, swaying, turned and leaning on his sword for support, described a stiff bow towards the queen of the games.
Margaret inclined her head, smiling, and raised her hand with a colourful kerchief. But Will, at her side, was swearing.
“Who that is I do not know. But he is wearing the Hamilton colours, Devil take him!” he fumed though low-voiced. “There were six Douglases in that rout — and see who wins the day! An accursed Hamilton!”
A herald was announcing Sir Patrick Hamilton of Dalserf as the winner, amidst much cheering. He was helped off with his helmet, to reveal an iron-grey veteran with a lined and scarred face, indeed lacking one eye. While an esquire aided him up to the Douglas gallery, men-at-arms swarmed on to the ground to help the fallen, carry off the still unconscious, catch the rider
less horses, despatch one beast with a broken leg, and clear up the mess. Only the Douglases failed to assert that it had been an inspiring occasion. King James was almost beside himself with excitement, and bewailing the fact that, since the winner was already a knight, he could not bestow the accolade on him in admiration.
Margaret congratulated Sir Patrick, and presented him with a rose, as favour — and Will perforce had to express similar sentiments. The new Lord Hamilton came to demonstrate his satisfaction with the day, and to make it clear that he was the power behind the Earl of Douglas and, as stepfather of the bride, real architect of all the day’s excellence. Will made but a doubtful success of remaining equable.
Meanwhile eight wrestling matches were in progress in the area, the winners of each bout being thereafter set against each other until again there was one final champion. This proved to be a brawny Carlingwark blacksmith, by name McMin, who, although no Douglas, was at least a Galloway man. Other contests followed, in racing, jumping, quarter-staff, archery, javelin-throwing, heaving weights and tossing tree-trunks. These Will watched with not a little frustration, for he was something of a performer himself in most of them; but today it would be considered unsuitable for him, as host and master, to take part — moreover, as bridegroom, he undoubtedly would be expected to be conserving his strength for other activities.
A bareback horse-race had just finished, with a young Maxwell laird coming first and Douglas lying second and third, when an especially prolonged fanfare sounded, and a herald made the stirring announcement.
Black Douglas (Coronet Books) Page 19