Black Douglas (Coronet Books)

by Nigel Tranter

  It was midday following, down where Liddesdale met Esk, that they saw the first of the fleeing men. Up the valley these came, lashing foam-flecked mounts, frightened men in pairs and groups, who scattered widely on to the hillsides at sight of Will’s array. As more appeared, and more, some clearly wounded, Will sent some of his own tired followers to chase and capture one.

  This unfortunate proved to be an Englishman, and an Alnwick man at that. He was wounded, exhausted and a little light-headed. All that they could get out of him was that there had been a great battle. They had been surprised. There had been much slaughter. Most of his own troop were dead. Slain by the Scots.

  At first, his hearers could hardly credit it. But as ever more fleeing riders appeared, all making for the east — which meant England — it was obvious that there had indeed been a debacle of some sort. They learned the truth of the matter from a party of Armstrongs, in hot pursuit of booty. There had been a great victory. The English hosts, under the Earls of Salisbury and Northumberland, had joined forces at the passage of Sark, near where that river entered the Solway Moss. There the young Earl of Ormond, who had been dogging Salisbury’s force from Dumfries circled through the hills and fell upon the combined English soon after they had joined up and were still in disarray. It had been a savage fight, but the Scots held the higher, firmer ground and the English were driven more and more into the floundering Moss. It was uncertain who was in command, Percy or Salisbury. But they could squabble about it now at their leisure, for both were now prisoners, along with Pennington and Harrington — though old Northumberland himself had escaped, they said, saved by his son. Sir Magnus Redmayne was dead, along with thousands of others, many drowned in Solway. The entire enemy army was broken and dispersed, all within two or three hours . . .

  Will Douglas, listening, began to laugh, and went on laughing.

  The Douglases came to Threave two evenings later, tired but well content. Save only in one respect; one of their number was missing. Not actually a Douglas either — Sir John Wallace of Craigie, Sheriff of Ayr, young Elizabeth’s husband. Hugh’s most able lieutenant at the Battle of Sark, he had saved the day by a magnificent charge on the English right, against enemy mounted bowmen who were bidding fair to change the whole course of the battle. But he had died at the end of it. Their country had always cost the Wallaces dear.

  Margaret had all the womenfolk gathered at Threave, and though all were kind to the fifteen-year-old widow, her loss could not wholly spoil the relief and satisfaction of the others. They greeted their husbands and brothers like heroes, and great was the celebration.

  Margaret, never effusive, greeted Will with quiet pride, before them all. “My lord,” she said, “you have made men proud again to bear the name of Douglas. Women likewise. You come to Threave, this time, a paladin indeed! Lord of a galaxy of such. All paladins! It is my joy to be wife to the Black Douglas.”

  Embarrassed, he shook his head, but took her in his steel-clad arms and kissed her. Even as he did so, however, his eyes were searching swiftly amongst all the eager women. He saw Meg there, at the back, behind all the high-born ones, biting her lip and smiling, though with a diffidence unusual in that young woman. For a moment their glances locked, and then she turned away. But it was enough.

  When he released Margaret, it was to perceive that he was not the only one whose eyes could stray at such a time. She had been looking at Jamie, behind him. Now she went to him, almost at a run.

  Jamie was a casualty, in a minor way. At Alnwick a blazing beam had fallen on him, burning his forearm. Receiving no careful treatment thereafter, the burn had suppurated and become very painful and inflamed, and the arm was now bound up in not over-clean linen. The sufferer could have wished that it was an honourable wound sustained in battle; but it was heroic enough for Margaret Douglas. Her non-effusiveness was severely strained as she took Jamie in charge, making only perfunctory acknowledgement when her husband, grinning, pointed out that Hugh was the real hero of the day, the conqueror of Percy and Salisbury both. And what about Sir Harry, properly wounded? And Rob Fleming, stiff from being thrown from a foundered horse? And Johnnie, who had ridden twice as far and as hard as anyone else, as leader of scouts?

  There were plenty of other ladies to console these warriors satisfactorily, however, and Margaret was able to devote herself to Jamie.

  Later in Margaret’s own private bower, which had been her childhood’s room, she was alone with her husband. When she had heard all that she desired of the details of the campaign, she changed to a very different aspect of the subject.

  “The Douglas name will ring loud from one end of the land to the other, Will,” she said thoughtfully. “But there are some, I think, who will sing no praise. You will be wise to remember it. Since these will be powerful voices.”

  “You mean the Livingstones? And Hamilton?”

  “I mean loftier than these. I mean those who should indeed most thank you — but will not, I fear. I mean the Chancellor. And the King.”

  “James? Why he? His realm is saved, for this present, purged of the English. Indeed, it may be that they will now renew the truce, lesson learned for a little longer. James has reason to rejoice. Kennedy also — even though he does not love me. He is a sound man, with a good head on him. Not, like some, eaten up with hatred.”

  “Perhaps. But have you thought why he has come to mislike you? When you it was who made him Chancellor? He may not hate, but he can fear. It is fear, I swear, that moves James Kennedy against Douglas. Fear that Douglas grows too strong. Too strong for the Stewarts. He is of that kin, mark you, his mother a Stewart princess. My own mother, who moves much in the Court, says that all there know that the Chancellor believes Douglas grown too strong. And tells the King so. This victory must make you stronger, you and your brothers — more highly esteemed. He will not rejoice.”

  “Is that of any matter? To Douglas.”

  “I think it could be. It is for this that he has raised up Crichton again. There is danger in that . . .”

  ‘At least he will not turn to the Livingstones again — that I wager! Not after yon cursing!”

  “Perhaps not. But his influence with the King grows ever greater. And James is no longer a boy. He is nearly a man now — and a hot-tempered, suspicious man. You are his Lieutenant-General — but I think he would not have the people love you too well.”

  “But why? He has naught to fear from me.”

  “No. But does he know it? For certain? Until he is wed, and has a son and heir, who would be king if he died? There is no clear heir-male. No brothers or uncles or cousins of the male line. The closest kin are Douglases and Kennedy himself, sons of princesses. You yourself are of the blood royal, both from your father and your mother. And I, I am closer still. Robert Bruce was less close to the throne he gained than is Will Douglas!”

  “Dear God — but this is folly, girl! I would never think of the throne. For me . . .”

  “Others might think for you. Your lady-mother, perhaps? And mine! I have heard whispers. And if I, then the Chancellor, who will be well served with spies. Churchmen ever are. Therefore, James himself.”

  “Damnation! This is too much! Prattling, interfering old women! I’ll have none of it. D’you hear? I shall tell James so. And Kennedy.”

  “They may not believe you. Will. So remember — when all are hailing Douglas as saviour of the realm, the realm’s masters may see you something otherwise!”

  “You mistake, Margaret — I swear it!”

  “I hope that I do. But, see you — there is a matter in which there is no mistake. The name of Douglas may resound on every lip — or most. But the murderers of my Douglas brothers still go free, their blood unavenged. I charge you not to forget it!”

  He looked at her steadily. “I have not forgot.”

  “I hoped not. It is time, I think. Before Crichton rises too high again.”

  He nodded.

  “Yes.” She smiled, then, and spoke in a different voice
. “You have been very good. Will. Very patient with me. You may go now.”

  “Go? Go where?”

  “Go where you long to go. Where your heart is. To Meg. She waits for you. I am sure.”

  He drew a deep breath, staring at her, shaken. It was the first time that she had ever admitted that she knew. At a loss, he shook his head.

  “Go, I say. Meg has been patient also. And discreet.” She spoke calmly, with no hysteria, no hint of reproach even. “She is entirely faithful to you, you understand. She should have her reward. Go, Will.”

  Biting his lip, but without a word, he did as she bade him.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  ALL Scotland flocked to Stirling for the King’s nuptials, lords and lairds and ladies and landless men, prelates and priests and wandering friars, burgesses, merchants, apprentices and townsfolk, minstrels, tumblers, packmen, pedlars, gipsies and pickpockets. There had not been a reigning king’s wedding in the land for centuries. This Mary of Gueldres whom the former Chancellor Crichton had brought back from the Low Countries as bride for James Fiery-face, was good-looking and moreover a strong and hearty young woman who should bear the King fine lusty sons — which was even more important than beauty. Gueldres did not sound any very lofty dukedom to provide a queen for Scotland, but it seemed that there happened to be a shortage of marriageable young women amongst the ruling houses of Europe just then — and at least she was niece to Burgundy, reputed the richest prince in Christendom.

  Of all the companies and trains which wound their way to Stirling that July day of 1449, brilliant, splendid, extravagant as they were, it is safe to say that none nearly rivalled that of Douglas. Not even the bridal train itself, led by her uncle Philip of Burgundy, with seventy counts, barons and knights and their ladies — including his own wife, King James’s sister, the Princess Isabella — and three hundred men-at-arms; or that of the King’s other brother-in-law, Princess Elizabeth’s husband, the Archduke of Austria, in a blaze of Teutonic chivalry; or that of the third princess, Annabella’s father-in-law the Duke of Savoy, with a constellation of swarthy, laughing Italian elegants. Douglas outshone all, with three earls, seven Lords of Parliament, four bishops and nearly two hundred barons, knights and lairds, at his back, with no less than six thousand men — not to mention the gorgeous host of ladies who supported Margaret, or indeed the unfortunate captured Percy, heir of Northumberland.

  Strangely enough, although this vast, glittering and unwieldy entourage was there by no accident, Will brought it with a very real reluctance. That it would not fail further to alarm those who deemed Douglas as already too powerful, went without saying; but he wanted overwhelming force assembled and at hand for immediate action, for a specific purpose, and this wedding display was the excuse, combining with it something in the nature of a triumphal victory parade for the Border campaign. That all might see it as just Douglas ostentation indeed, and not a tactical mobilisation, was his hope.

  There were uses for at least some proportion of the Douglas thousands, for the highlight of the wedding preliminaries was to be an enormous tourney held in the royal park of Stirling Castle, the largest of its kind ever to take place in Scotland. This had been King James’s own wish, for he was as enthusiastic over feats of arms as ever, and moreover concerned greatly to outdo the Earl of Douglas’s own wedding tournament. For activities such as these, with an influx of folks from far and near to the tune of scores of thousands, major policing was entirely necessary; and by transforming himself into his guise of Lieutenant-General of the Realm and Chief Marshal of the tournament, Will was able to supply and officer this from his host.

  Mary of Gueldres was, of course, queen of this tourney, with four Stewart princesses to support her — for even shrinking deaf-and-dumb Joan was brought out of hiding for the occasion. The new Earl of Angus escorted her, but did not want her, having a wife of his own already — and indeed was in process of bartering her with the imbecile Lord of Dalkeith, Sir Harry’s brother.

  After the usual preliminaries and appetisers, parades, competitions and passages of arms — including a joust wherein King James himself defeated, although only just, another brother-in-law, the Lord of Campvere, from the Low Countries — the highlight of the day was a great challenge, à l’outrance that is, to the death, by three Burgundian knights, famous champions and the cream of Continental chivalry, against any three Scots soever — but preferably Douglases. Will was fairly sure that it was King James who had put the Burgundians up to this last, in the hope that a sound beating would be administered to Douglas pride. Be that as it might, there was no lack of Douglases to take up the challenge; indeed the demands to be one of the trio were so numerous, as well as so vociferous, from Will himself down to some of the youngest lairdlings, that it was decided that lots should be drawn for the honour, again the King making the suggestion. The first fell, to fairly universal chagrin, to a man who was only a Douglas through his mother, Sir John Ross of Hawkhead; the second, to James, brother of the powerful Douglas of Lochleven; and the third to another James and another second son — Jamie, Master of Douglas.

  Will was as impotent to do anything about this as he was furiously angry. No amount of argument or pleading, or even Margaret’s tears, would make Jamie stand down — for despite all his gentleness, he could be notably stubborn. Ross was a veteran, and could be expected to give a good account of himself; Young Lochleven was a totally unknown quantity; but Jamie was not only the least effective fighter of the chiefly Douglas brothers, but one of the least hopeful choices on which the lot could have fallen.

  But the die was cast. The champions were armoured and horsed. The trumpets sounded for the lance fight.

  Jamie was unhorsed in the first clash. But fortunately, so was his opponent, the Sieur de Longueville, whose horse, shaken after the impact, was cannoned into by Ross’s mount, by mischance, and rolled over. Ross himself suffered a broken lance at the hands of one of the Chevalier de Lalain brothers, but the other had his high-decorative shield knocked away by Young Lochleven. Which left honours fairly even, for the first round.

  They remounted for the battle-axe encounter. This could be a killer, and Margaret was so overcome that she had to be conducted from the royal box.

  Although no one expected it, Jamie did rather better at this, little trained to it as he was, plunging in with a vigorous windmill-like swiping which was very effective at keeping his opponent at a distance, however unorthodox. But it was also very exhausting, and obviously could not be kept up for long. The Burgundian had only to bide his time. But, strangely, de Longueville did not do that; possibly because one of the de Lalain brothers had already toppled Young Lochleven out of his saddle and the other pair were smashing away at each other in titanic fashion, he felt that a waiting game was insufficiently dramatic for one of his fame. At any rate, with a complicated piece of horsemanship he thrust in low, lying almost flat along his beast’s neck, to drive upwards with a vicious hooking slash of his axe, that caught Jamie under the left oxter and lifted him right off his horse’s back, despite the weight of his armour. He crashed to the ground, and lay still.

  De Longueville circled round him. Will groaned. That upwards jerking blow could have broken Jamie’s neck. Then the gleaming armoured figure on the grass stirred and slowly, painfully, rose upright. Heavily he moved over to where his fallen battle-axe lay, and stiffly stooped to pick it up.

  A great cheer and sigh combined arose from the thousands of spectators. De Longueville reined up his charger and signed his esquire over to aid him to dismount. At the same moment, Sir John Ross fell headlong in clanking ruin, sought to rise on the ground, but sank back again, still.

  The Scots were less than expert with the battle-axe, a weapon little used in their tourneys or warfare.

  De Longueville advanced upon his reeling opponent. Jamie actually went to meet him, lashing out with a sudden wild blow which almost overbalanced him, and struck the other on the sword-arm, causing the Burgundian’s own blow to waver
and miss.

  As well for Jamie that the other’s arm was affected, even if only numbed, and that he had to transfer his axe to the other hand, for the force of Jamie’s swipe swung him round and over, and he went down on one knee. A well-aimed chop to the neck then could have killed him; but in the left hand, de Longueville’s return stroke was inaccurate, though heavy enough, smashing down on Jamie’s shoulder and chest. He pitched forward on his face, and so lay.

  The other paced round him twice, and then turning towards the royal gallery, raised his axe on high. The other two Scots lay where they had dropped.

  King James stood up.

  But not only King James. The battered, sprawling Master of Douglas drew knees up, sideways, and then with grievous deliberation, rose on them. Somehow he got to his feet, using his axe to aid him, and so stood swaying. Then he raised the weapon again, and advanced ploddingly on his foe.

  The King jerked out an oath. “No!” he cried. He snatched off the steel gauntlet he still wore from his own joust, and flung it clattering down. “No, I say!” He swung on the Lyon King of Arms near by. “Lyon — an end! Sound an end. I declare Burgundy to win. Quickly, man!”

  The trumpeter beside Lyon did not wait for the latter’s confirmatory order. He blew his instrument loud and long. The joust was finished.

  Jamie dropped the axe promptly enough, as though thankful to be quit of its weight, and stood leaning on it, but still upright. The three Burgundians, two still mounted, one on foot, moved together and bowed. Their esquires ran forward to remove their helms.

  Amidst the cheers and jeers and yelling, there was more running than this. A mass of angry and frustrated Douglases burst from the side of the lists and rushed towards the royal enclosure, shouting and gesticulating — not men-at-arms these, but knights and lairds most of whom had put their names in for the lot-drawing. Their anger was natural, their protest legitimate — even if their way of showing it was unsuitable. The King had stopped the contest while their representative was still on his feet — and moreover with two sound arms to wield his axe against his opponent’s one. And the contest had been wrong, unfair, from the start. Against the cream of Christendom’s fighters the Douglases should have been able to pick their three best, not have to rely on drawn lots. It was all wrong.