Black Douglas (Coronet Books)

by Nigel Tranter

  She did not move within his grasp. Almost she stopped breathing.

  Her silence infuriated him. He shook her. And the shaking undid him entirely, the feeling of her rounded bare forearms in his hands, and the swinging of that proud and thrusting bosom against his wrists. Groaning, he pulled her fiercely to him, and clamped his hot lips on hers.

  Still she did not stir or respond. But neither did she struggle or seek to turn away from him.

  Hungrily he kissed her, on lips, eyes, throat and shoulders, straining her to him, intensely aware of all the warm, curved shape of her against him, his hands urgent, groping. Her lips freed, she made a moaning sound.

  “Woman,” he ground out, against her soft flesh, “I want you. Have wanted you . . . from the moment first . . . I saw you. Only you.”

  “No!” she panted. “No.”

  “Yes, I say! We are a pair, Meg. You know it. Made for each other. Can you deny it?”

  She shook her head. “No,” she sobbed. But there were no tears to her sobbing.

  Violently he thrust her from him — but only so far, his hands still grasping her shoulders. “You are mine — as I am yours. For always. I want you. I am burning for you. But . . . tell me that you do not want me! Love me! In honesty. Tell me — and I will go. Leave you. Now. God helping me!” That came forth with strangled vehemence.

  She stared into his eyes in the gloom. “I cannot. In honesty. Cannot say it. But — oh, Will . . . it is not right . . .”

  She was wrenched back against him. And this time, when his mouth demandingly sought hers, her lips parted to his, even though still she shook her head slowly, feebly.

  Now there was no restraining his masterful hands. The light linen bodice, loose and low-necked as it was, yielded readily, and he had those magnificent breasts, full, firm and hardtipped, to caress and kiss. But these only arrested him for moments — indeed they urged him on. On and downwards he pushed and tore — and if the girl did not aid him, she did not seek to halt him. Quickly enough her clothing all fell away from her to the floor. Partly on it and partly on the bare stone flags, he pressed down her splendid, yielding loveliness.

  Now she made no pretence at reluctance. Reaching up, she took him to her. In a storm, a tempest of desire and fulfilment, he sank himself and his clamant need into her warm enclosing embrace.

  Long pent up, like many a similar cataclysm, its brevity was on a par with its violence.

  Later, passion for the moment spent, the man restrained her when Meg would have risen. “Wait you,” he said, and with a new authority, however relaxed. “We are not done yet. You asked if I was a man! You must let me prove it! There is no haste. Not now. None will seek us here.”

  “I shall not ask again if you are a man!” she told him, a little unsteadily, her breath still coming fast, to the delightful disorder of her person. “Only, I ask myself what sort of a woman l am!”

  “I can tell you that. You are my woman. The fairest, most kind and wholest woman it has been my joy to know. A man’s woman, and true . . .”

  “True! Me? When I have betrayed my mistress and my friend! Taken what should be hers.”

  “No. Only accepted what is not for her. Do not blame yourself, my dear. The blame in this must be mine, and I accept it. But there are forces stronger than priests’ words and signed parchments!”

  “Aye. But how to tell her that? How to face her now?”

  He kissed her damp hair. “I’ faith — you are of tougher stuff than this, Meg Douglas! Do not tell me that you have not strength enough in you for what must be? I esteemed you otherwise.”

  “All the strength is run out of me, I think. That is your doing . . .”

  “And you misliked the doing of it?”

  “No. I will not be dishonest with you, at least.”

  “Aye! Every sweet inch of you would foreswear you if you declared otherwise, Meg!” He ran his hand lightly over her voluptuous body, which at once began to make its own response. Smiling a little ruefully, he chided her. “Bide you, bide you, just a little, woman! Would you shame me, after all? . . .”

  “I am . . . I am shameful. Or shameless — I know not which. A wicked woman . . .”

  “You are you. Just yourself. Not wicked. Outgoing. Kind. Bountiful. Made so. For me! A full woman.”

  It was not long before her kindness and fullness were sufficient to unite them again. And this time in no fierce storm but in prolonged and joyous fervour, gratification, harmony and mutual completion. Time and all else stood still for them. Physically they were as one.

  “Black . . . Douglas!” she murmured at last, exhausted, and slept in his strong arms.

  It was late indeed, and very dark of a wet night, when at length they emerged from that watch-chamber and tip-toed hand in hand along the parapet-walk in the rain. There was a guard on the castle by night, of course, but this was centred on the gatehouse and outer curtain-walls. They encountered no one on the way down to the women’s quarters — and if any of his brothers perceived Will’s belated entry to their garret-chamber, they knew better than to question. Anyway, he was a married man, and could have been with his wife.

  Thereafter, for the remainder of the stay at Newark, a pattern in these personal matters developed between the Douglas trio. Will sought to see more of Margaret, by day, and mutual respect and even liking did grow in them, an acceptance of a limited but not unrewarding or sterile relationship; but of a night, Meg and he came together in the little watch-chamber up on the keep-top, for an hour or so of stolen bliss — and all the day was but the waiting for it. All the day, too, Meg had her burden of guilt to bear, with her mistress — and served her the better, more warmly, for it. If Margaret knew, or suspected, she did not say so.

  So passed almost two weeks of a notable hot and airless summer. Then, one sultry evening, messengers arrived for the King and Douglas, from Chancellor Kennedy, who had returned directly to Stirling from New Abbey. They brought bad news from an angry man of God. A confederation of his enemies, with a large armed force, had descended upon the church lands in Fife and Angus belonging to the Bishop’s see of St. Andrews, and the University there, and with savage and indiscriminate fury had laid them waste, burning and destroying villages, granges and hay crops, plundering whole tracts, wounding and taking captive his vassals and servants, and ruining the richest and best-managed farm lands in the kingdom. The evil men behind this outrage were well known to them all, united in common spleen and hatred against the Chancellor — and most had been his fellow wedding-guests at Sweet Heart just days before; indeed they must have plotted the campaign at the wedding itself, and gone directly north to perpetrate it. Kennedy was informed that the miscreants were under the commands of the new Lord Hamilton, the Tiger Master of Crawford, two sons of Livingstone, and a Highland chieftain named Rob Ruadh of Struan. He demanded immediate action, Douglas’s fullest assistance, and, in view of the lofty status of the culprits, an urgent meeting of the Privy Council, at which they be commanded to appear.

  That spelt the end of hunting and love-making alike. The sooner authority, in the persons of the King and his Lieutenant and sundry other officers of state, was back at Stirling, the better. But before they left, next morning, Will gave orders to his brothers, and others whom he could trust. The Douglas might, that famed if somewhat vague and sleeping giant, was to be thoroughly awakened at last. Not for this present crisis — although a large supply of armed men would be highly useful for that also; but to tackle the major project of bearding Sir William Crichton in his den at Edinburgh Castle, once and for all, by royal command. All the Douglas man-power was to be raised. North, south, east and west his summons was to go — and all Galloway was now included in the call. The Black Douglas wanted, demanded, every man who could bear arms to be mobilised, equipped and assembled at Stirling, at all speed, those more readily available first, the greater numbers to come on later. No excuses would be accepted, no waverers overlooked. Scores of barons owed Douglas fealty; five hundred lairds we
re his vassals; many thousands of ordinary men were in man-rent to him, under obligation to answer his call. Let them come now, then — or Douglas would know the reason why, as would the Lieutenant-General of the Realm.

  It had had to come, sooner or later.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  IT was Will’s first real Privy Council. He had attended, of course, many brief assemblings of small groups of councillors, called together at short notice to give formal acknowledgment of authority to sundry edicts, charters and the like; but this was the first true conclave of the full Council, called in response to the Chancellor’s demand. It was indeed something of a special occasion, on more than one account. There was a much larger attendance than usual, as this was obviously going to be a trial of strength, whatever else it was; and it was the first time in living memory that a Council had been held at St. Andrews — this on Bishop Kennedy’s request, so that members, and especially the King’s party, might see with their own eyes, en route, the devastation and ruin suffered by the Church lands in Fife, to aid them in their deliberations.

  The meeting was taking place in the Guest Hall of the Priory, in case certain of the accused members should refuse to enter the Bishop’s own castle here on grounds of possible intimidation or coercion. For, although it was not so described, or conducted in form other than a typical Council meeting, it was in fact a trial in more than strength. Few might have perceived it in any brief and casual inspection of the scene — but here was a trial on which much of the King’s and the kingdom’s fate might hinge.

  The long table in the high timber-roofed, arras-hung hall was littered with flagons, drinking-cups and dishes of meats and cakes, as well as papers and parchments, and men lounged, ate, drank or even dozed thereat — although today there was much less sleeping than usual. In fact, the only man who actually slept, indeed snored slightly, at the moment, was one who had as much at stake in the proceedings as anyone — Alexander, 3rd Earl of Crawford. Crawford was a great sleeper. Possibly he found it as good an escape from the problems of life as any — and to be chief of the lightsome Lindsays, especially with a son and heir like Beardie Alex the Tiger, was to be a magnet for problems.

  King James, restless and alternating between tenseness and sprawling boredom, occupied the head of the long table; and Chancellor Kennedy, the effective chairman, sat upright at the foot. Will was beside the King, with his brothers near by, even Archie summoned, still with his arm in a sling. At the monarch’s other side sat his guardian, Sir James Livingstone, the Chamberlain. Halfway down, around the somnolent figure of Crawford, were those councillors whose activities had brought about this meeting — the Lord Hamilton, looking scornful, the Master of Crawford glowering menace, the new Lord Gray of Foulis, black-bearded and grimly amused, and Sir John Lindsay of the Byres, Sheriff of Fife. They made an impressive and confident-seeming phalanx. There were over thirty members present altogether, one of the largest attendances on record. No fewer than ten were bishops or mitred abbots.

  Kennedy finished his long list of damages and complaints, and pushed back the sheaf of papers. “There, Your Grace and my lords, is the hurt and evil done,” he said. “Done deliberately and in spleen and spite against Your Grace’s lieges, against open and defenceless property and lands of Holy Church in this county of Fife. I accuse and indict before this Council the following, as wholly, entirely and flagrantly responsible. First, and most shameful, because he is Your Grace’s Sheriff of the county and therefore officer charged with the duty of maintaining the realm’s law and peace in Fife — Sir John Lindsay of the Byres. Then, Andrew, Lord Gray, Sheriff of Angus. James, Lord Hamilton. Alexander Lindsay, Master of Crawford. And others, not of this Council. And further I charge as being party and privy to the whole ill proceedings although not in person present — my lord, Earl of Crawford, Justice-General of the North and Admiral of this kingdom.” The Bishop suddenly raised a pointing hand. “And Sir James Livingstone, who sits there at His Grace’s side, Keeper of the royal castle of Stirling! His father, Sir Alexander Livingstone, Guardian of the King. And Master John Cameron, Bishop of Glasgow, to my sorrow and shame! As Chancellor of this realm and Primate of Holy Church in this land, I demand that His Grace’s Privy Council considers, condemns and exacts punishment upon each and every of these disturbers of the King’s peace, and commands fullest reparation to be made to God’s Church.”

  There were few, save perhaps amongst the named men themselves, who did not gasp in some measure at the unabashed and bold catalogue of that resounding list, but more especially at the identities of the final four. Even Will, who knew something of Kennedy’s intentions, as well as his determination and forthright character, was shaken. Not so much in the revelation as in the deliberate enlargement of the challenge. This was folly — a lack of vision, of statecraft, surely. To provoke all one’s enemies at once. The involvement of Bishop Cameron came as a surprise, and, apart from its implication of the Church divided against itself, raised the whole issue of a piece of high-level brigandage to something in the nature of a political conspiracy. And even that was not the worst of it. By publicly naming the Livingstones, father and eldest son, even though they had in fact been concerned, Kennedy was in danger of turning all these separate and almost certainly mutually suspicious elements into a faction, and a powerful faction. Scotland had already two factions — Crichton’s and Douglas’s. Today’s proceedings, Will perceived, could conceivably throw these people, at present all approximately on his side, into the arms of Crichton.

  King James cleared his throat. “Here is a bad business. Aye, a bad business,” he said, looking around him uncertainly. “We’ll have to get to the rights of it. But . . . but . . .” His young voice tailed away.

  “The rights are not all on my lord Bishop’s side, Sire,” Sir James Livingstone declared thinly. Although junior to many present, he was the Chamberlain, and at a Council this gave him added status. “I deny all accusations that I, or my father, have in any way broken the King’s peace. As Your Grace knows, I have scarce left your side these months past. And my father is a sick man, and has stirred no more than a mile or two from his house of Callendar. I demand that my lord of St. Andrews withdraws his charges . . .”

  “Before Sir James finishes his demands, will he deny further?” Kennedy returned strongly. “Deny that his brothers David, Alexander and Robert took active part in these raids? That they were all at Callendar House the night previous to the first raid? That the same night, the Lord Hamilton and Sir John Lindsay of the Byres also arrived at Callendar, direct from New Abbey in Galloway? And that, during the wedding celebrations, Sir James himself shared a bedchamber in the Abbey of Sweet Heart with Sir John Lindsay and the Master of Crawford?”

  “The first I know nothing of. I was with His Grace at Ettrick at the time. The rest I have no reason to deny, since they are nothing to the point. Is it strange that the Lord Hamilton should lodge a night in my father’s house on his journey north, since he is his grandson? And all had to share rooms at Sweet Heart — save perhaps my lord Bishop! And, of course, His Grace. If the Abbot chose to put me with the Master of Crawford and Sir John Lindsay, it is his affair . . .”

  “And good company too, by Christ’s Blood!” Beardie roared abruptly to the alarm of those unready.

  Hamilton spoke up smoothly. “Your Grace my lord of St. Andrews is free with his charges. But what crime had been committed? What was done within the jurisdiction of the Sheriff of Fife. In his presence. There has been much unlawful oppression and extortion in that county. Poor folk have been ill-used, driven from their holdings. Honest men made homeless. Taxes, tithes and teinds extorted beyond all right, all bearing. The Sheriff was concerned to put down these evils, and sought our aid. Is it our blame if the worst offenders were monkish clerks and the stewards of Church lands?”

  Even James Kennedy was left momentarily speechless by the sheer brazen effrontery of that. His lips moved, but no words came.

  “Is it not so, Sir John?” Hamilton
pursued his advantage.

  “Aye,” Lindsay of the Byres was a bull-like man, and sheriff because his father had been so before him. This was the first exercise of his law-enforcement powers to come to Will’s notice.

  “And my lord of Gray has had similar experience in Angus.”

  “That is so,” Gray, Sheriff of Angus agreed, grinning.

  “This is . . . this is beyond all enduring!” the Bishop cried. “To seek to cozen us like bairns! Think you we have neither wits nor any knowledge?” He slammed the sheaf of papers. “Here are burnings and plunderings by the score, ravishings and rapings unnumbered, cattle stolen by the thousand, whole villages destroyed. And you talk of aiding the poor, saving the oppressed, enforcing the laws! My lords — he mocks this Council and His Grace, insults us all! Over and beyond the crimes committed!”

  “Not so,” Hamilton contended. “Does not my lord Chancellor deny us our wits? Is there a noble lord here — a lord temporal, that is — who does not well know how the Church grasps at the fruit of honest men’s toil? Even the youngest lords know it.” And he glanced over at the Douglas brothers. “Do we not know who wrings the last penny out of the land? Who are the hardest taskmasters and hardest bargainers? Aye, and where lie the greatest riches in this kingdom! It is the Church. And the Church owns more land in Fife than in any other county. The bishopric of St. Andrews, swollen with wealth! Is it to be wondered at if the land groans under the oppression?”

  “Your Grace — I can only believe that the Lord Hamilton has taken leave of his senses!” Kennedy declared. “He wanders in his mind. And wastes the time of this high Council. These are the maunderings of a man crazed against Holy Church. I will not sit here and listen to them further!”

  The other churchmen made noises of agreement.