Black Douglas (Coronet Books)

by Nigel Tranter

  Hotly King James glared at the surging Douglases, his red birth-mark flaming. He had grown and thickened into a well-built, compact young man, not handsome but strong-featured, vehement, hot-tempered. His upbringing had been such as to make him wary and suspicious, either cowed or self-assertive. He was not cowed.

  “Back! Back, I say!” he cried, pointing imperiously at the Douglases. “This is outrage!” He swung on Will. “Call them off, my lord. Call off your rabble!”

  Will was little less angry than the others, although his emotion was complicated by relief that his brother had survived the business alive. He believed that the King had suggested the contest, egged on the Burgundians to demand Douglas opponents, urged the selection by lot, and thus practically ensured the Douglas defeat. Moreover, there was no doubt but that he had called a closure before the accepted end of a joust à I’outrance, and while Jamie might have had a belated but slight advantage — however thankful was one part of Will’s mind that it had all been called off when it had.

  “Rabble, Sire!” he jerked back. “I’d remind Your Grace that these are those who fought at Sark and Colbrandspath, and drove the English from your land!” But he waved his people back, just the same.

  James flushed, blinking. “I’d remind you, Earl of Douglas, that this is not a battlefield! I will have no brawling here, before my bride, my guests. Have them away.” He took a deep breath, and changed his time a little. Perhaps he recollected that he was speaking to the most powerful man in his realm, and also that these same Douglases were themselves the only policing authority available. “If you please, my lord. That all may proceed without delay.”

  Will, noting that the royal hand was shaking with barely suppressed passion, nodded coolly. “As Your Grace wills.” He signed to the Lord Fleming to go down to the Douglases below — who were, in fact, already lessening their clamour as they realised that this was not the way to make their objections known.

  Behind the King, Bishop Kennedy spoke. “His Grace intervened, of his clemency, in time to save your brother, my lord. Would you have had him slain, for the sake of your pride?”

  “Aye, you should thank me,” the King took him up, quickly. “The Master fought bravely. But he was no match for the Burgundians. None were. I desired no more bloodshed, from brave knights. Go find me how all fare, my lord. Both yours and theirs. I would know.”

  Thus dismissed, Will strode from the royal gallery. It was his first open clash with James Stewart.

  Although there were two days of games and pageantry at Stirling, and two nights of music, feasting, dancing and revelry in the castle thereafter, as part of the marriage celebrations, the wedding itself was not to take place there but in the Abbey of Holyrood at Edinburgh. St. Michael’s Chapel in the castle was too small, and Cambuskenneth Abbey deemed insufficiently important; besides, Edinburgh was the capital city, even though Stirling was the royal seat. So, on the third day, all the wedding guests, accompanied by vast number of the holiday-making populace, set out on the thirty-five mile road to Edinburgh, in a sort of prolonged and perambulatory progress and carnival, in which the King halted at every town, village, abbey and castle, showing himself and his bride to the people and receiving hospitality as he went. Three days were devoted to this strange journey, that was normally covered in one; and fortunately the early July weather was kind. Never had such a thing been seen in Scotland. Will Douglas left behind all but a very small proportion of his host at Stirling.

  Thereafter, in the grey abbey beneath green Arthur’s Seat, amidst great splendour, the hearty, frank and uncomplicated Mary of Gueldres was made wife and queen for the King of Scots, Bishop Kennedy officiating. In close attendance was Sir William Crichton, clearly much in favour. Will at least made no secret of his disapproval and treated the man as he would a leper. Sir Alexander Livingstone, the Justiciar, at least had the grace, or the discretion, to absent himself, pleading age and infirmity. Indeed, of all that faction, only his eldest son, Sir James, and his grandson the Lord Hamilton, were present. Will made a point of watching these two with the utmost care. All was not what it seemed at these royal nuptials, however few were aware of it.

  After the ceremony, in the great refectory of the abbey, all the chiefest guests were marshalled to pay their duty and fealty to the new Queen. After the princesses and foreign relatives, the Earl of Douglas, with his Countess, accepted as next in line to the throne, was first of all the Scots to come up, to bend on one knee and kiss Queen Mary’s plump hand.

  “Your Highness’s true and leal servant,” Will assured her. “This is a great day for Scotland. His Grace is fortunate, indeed.”

  ‘You think so, my lord?” The brown-eyed bride glanced over at Margaret, smiling, “Less fortunate than you, by the Mass! The King should have wed your Countess Margaret, I tell him. Not poor fat Mary of Gueldres. Then he would have the fairest woman in his Scotland to wife, and besides, half of the Douglas strength! Not so?”

  It was uncertain who was most disconcerted by this Dutch frankness, the two husbands or Margaret.

  Will cleared his throat. “His Grace has no need to marry the Douglas strength. Highness. He has it already. All is his to command.”

  James looked doubtful, but said nothing.

  Margaret spoke quietly. “Your Highness much miscalls yourself. And, who knows — perhaps you will be more successful in giving your lord a son than I have been!”

  There were moments of silence. Will’s dark features went quite blank, expressionless. The Queen looked from one to the other, opened her widely generous mouth to speak, and then thought better of it. The King frowned and flushed. He flushed easily.

  “Perhaps,” he said. “And in that day, Cousin, you will bid farewell to any hopes for my throne! For you or yours!” That came out in a rush. “If . . . if such you have.”

  “By the Rude — such I have not! Nor ever have had.” Will’s voice grated. “Douglas is well content to remain . . . Douglas!”

  The two young men looked at each other, eye to eye, with little of the normal or suitable aspect of monarch and subject. Then Will bowed, almost curtly, and led his countess away with rather longer and swifter pace than was courtly. The Lord Lyon called forward the Earl and Countess of Orkney to greet the Queen’s Highness.

  Later that evening, after the banquet, Will paced the little chamber in the Abbey Strand where Meg Douglas was installed — for the abbey itself was filled to overflowing, as was all Edinburgh. He threw the words at the young woman who sat on the bed watching him, lovely face troubled.

  “Today, she said it! There, before all. Or, to James and his queen. As good as accused me. Of not giving her a son, a child. Proclaimed it! . . .”

  “Surely not, Will? Surely not that. She would not do it. She is not of that sort. She is too proud, if nothing else.”

  “Not in those words, no. She seemed to take it to herself. She said that she had not been successful in giving me a son. Hoped that the Queen would serve her lord better! But . . . the thing was there. For James to see. To hear. And therefore all. She has never done the like. Never spoken of it. Never, even to me . . .”

  “She must still feel it. And sorely. I had thought that she had ceased to care. That you would not bed with her. But it must be so. She must care, yet . . .”

  “She does not care. Not for me. Does not love me. I know that well. She has never loved me. We are friends, of a sort. Good friends. That is all. Married only for the sake of Douglas. She loves Jamie. You know it. As he loves her.”

  “But she does not bed with him. And there it is!”

  “You are so sure of that? . . .”

  “Will — that is unworthy! She is true, honest. You know it.”

  “Aye. I daresay. But . . . she does not love me. Desire me.”

  “I think . . . I have said it before . . . you should go to her. To her bed. Now. Do it, Will. Take her.”

  “Why, a God’s name? When neither of us desires the other?”

  “Because i
t is her right. She is your wife. She is a woman. Beautiful. Proud. And living a lie. She may want your child, even though she does not want you!”

  “Dear God — you say this! You, Meg, who are part of me?”

  “Aye, I say it. Not wanting to, I say it, my heart! But since she has spoken so, she must wish it so. And it is her right . . .”

  He strode over to her, and pushed her back on the bed, his hands urgent on her warm voluptuous body, wrenching down her bodice to free her splendid breasts, then groping lower, his lips eager. But firmly though gently she restrained him, and herself, kept herself from responding, even pushed him from her.

  “No, Will. Not me, tonight. Her! Go to her. Go now. This night, when she has spoken as she did. Tonight you should go. Tonight you have reason to go . . .”

  “No! Why should I? It is you I want. How can I go to her, lie with her, wanting you?”

  “You can, I say. Others have done the like, ere this!”

  “After these years? What can I say to her?”

  “What matters it what you say? Go to her and she will not need your words. I ask you to do it, Will. For now . . . now I feel that I am robbing her.”

  “That is folly. You give, do not take. I get from you what she cannot give me. And in all else she has her way, Countess of Douglas . . .”

  “You beat the air, Will. It is not so. You have wronged her, in this. From the start. As have I. We cannot shut our eyes to it, longer. Go now, my dear — of a mercy! I am not for you, this night.”

  Heavily, almost sullenly, he stood up, back from her, staring flushed at all her desirable disorder — made none the less enticing for her efforts to cover herself, with every line and curve of her wanting him also. Without another word, he turned on his heel and strode from that little room.

  Back to the abbey itself the man made his way through the thronged night, set-faced, and never had he looked more the Black Douglas. Ignoring the salutations of guards and monks and guests alike, he stalked to the sub-Abbot’s quarters where he was lodged, and up the winding stairs. At the Countess’s chamber door he paused, but only for a moment, and then threw it open and entered.

  Margaret was lying, her back to him, on the bed which faced the window that still admitted the wan gloaming light of a July night. Alarmed, she raised herself on an elbow, to gaze over a white shoulder. She remained thus, gazing, wordless.

  He closed the door behind him, less than gently. “I have come,” he jerked.

  “Will . . .! What . . . what is this? Is aught . . . is aught wrong? Amiss?” It was not often that Margaret of Galloway sounded at a loss, unsure.

  “That is for you to say.” His voice was harsh, sterner than he knew. “Today you told James Stewart and his queen that I had failed you. Not given you a son. That, I would not have you say.”

  “I did not say that,” she protested. “I said that I had failed. To give you a son.”

  “It is the same. So I have come.”

  “But . . . but . . .”

  “You do not want me? Now I am here?”

  “No, no. Or, yes. I . . . I do not know. You gave me no warning.”

  “As much warning as you gave me! That you held this against me. Today. But I will go again. If you wish it. Shall I go?”

  For long moments she stared, hesitant. Then she moistened her lips. “No,” she said, strangle-voiced.

  “Aye, then.” Nodding, almost grimly, he began to take off his clothes.

  She turned back to face the window, silent.

  Presently, naked, he stood looking down at her — and at himself. She had drawn the bed-covers up, over her shoulders, not cast them from her or pushed them down. She did not stir, did not raise her eyes to him. He sensed no hint of any desire in her, for him. And, Heaven knew, his own desire was wholly absent, dead.

  But he was committed. Stooping abruptly, he threw back the covers and lay down beside her.

  She did not turn to him, did not move, almost she did not breathe.

  He lay there on his back, looking up at the ceiling. Their bodies touched in places, inevitably, for this bed, though scarcely monastic in character, had not been made for conjugal abandon; presumably it was the sub-Abbot’s couch. There was nothing of need or fire or passion in him.

  After a little he put out a tentative hand to touch her — and she jumped as though an adder had stung her. Hastily he withdrew. He lay, waiting. He waited for her, and he waited for himself.

  Some time later she stirred, and with tightest, controlled movement, turned on to her back. “I am sorry, Will,” she whispered, brokenly. “You must forgive me. Bear with me.”

  “Yes,” he nodded. “Wait you. It is . . . difficult.”

  “Thank you. You are kind . . .”

  He could have snorted a mirthless laugh at that, for the waiting was for himself as much as for her. Crazy as it seemed — indeed he had not thought that it was possible for him — he lay useless to her. He, Will Douglas, whose problem with other women, hitherto, had been quite otherwise. Here he lay, naked, in bed with reputedly the most beautiful woman in the land, and not only did he not want her but could not take her. Admittedly she did not help him — but should Will Douglas require such aid? Humiliated beyond all words, he lay there cursing himself. And her. And Meg Douglas, who had urged him to his folly.

  Will-power, it seemed, was of no use to him here. Strangely, this was something that determination could not achieve. But presently anger, sheer ire and resentment boiled up in him, and stirred him physically, curious substitute for the desire and passion that he lacked. In mounting and now cherished wrath, suddenly he began to be all man again.

  There could be no more waiting now. Almost feverishly he turned and threw himself upon her. She moaned, and jerked her head from side to side. But she did not actually resist him, however little she did to aid him.

  So, after three years, without tenderness or compassion or any joy, Will Douglas took his wife, in haste and violence, hating himself, not allowing himself to pity her, a man at war with himself and his fate.

  At least it was over quickly, a travesty of the act of love. He flung himself off her, twisting away — not that he could remove himself far on this narrow couch. He lay thereafter in a turmoil of emotion, none of it pleasant.

  Presently he heard her sobbing, at his back.

  “I am sorry, lass,” he declared harshly. “Sorry.”

  She did not answer, but turned over on her side, her sobs the deeper.

  Though close, and touching, they had never been so far apart. He was waiting again — now only for time to pass.

  It was with major relief that, some indefinite time afterwards, Will heard swift footsteps on the stone stairway outside, and a knocking at the door.

  “Is my lord there, lady?” an urgent voice demanded. “My lord of Douglas? Is he with you?”

  Will sat up. “Aye. What is it, man?”

  “It’s Wattie. I’ve sought you a’ place, my lord. Livingstone is gone. Sir James. He has ridden off, cloaked and armoured. To the west. Wi’ three others. I couldna find you . . .”

  “Damnation! Wait, then.” Will was off that unhappy bed and dragging on clothing, even as he spoke, his own man again. So it was in his wife’s bedchamber that Wattie Scott would look for him last! He strode to the door.

  “When was this?” he demanded of the man. A relay of his servants had been watching Sir James Livingstone, the Chamberlain, and the Lord Hamilton, ever since Stirling. “He was at the banquet.”

  “Aye, lord, I followed him frae there. He went frae the Abbey to my Lord Hamilton’s lodging. He bided there a while. Then a messenger came. Ridden hard and long, by the looks o’ him. Livingstone came out wi’ him soon after. In a right hurry. Near running, he was. Back to his own lodging. Calling for horses . . .”

  “He rode west, you say? Three with him? Hamilton? . . .”

  “No. Three men-at-arms, just. My Lord Hamilton bided at his house.”

  “Aye. Well, go get the M
aster, Wattie. Get all my brothers. And the Lord Fleming.” Fleming, though now a lord in his own right, was still master-of-the-horse to Douglas. “To come to my room. My own room. Quickly. Fleming to order horses ready. You have it? Then see to it . . .”

  Will turned back to his wife, sitting up great-eyed now in the gloom. “The message has come for James Livingstone. As we guessed it would. He has ridden for the West. It looks to be the attempt we were warned of. I am for Stirling. Forthwith.”

  “And . . . and Jamie? . . .” she asked.

  “Aye. And Jamie with me. All of us. This is a family matter, is it not?”

  She nodded her lovely head. “Yes. It is. But . . . you will be careful, Will?”

  He grinned suddenly. “I will be careful, never fear. And for your Jamie!” He stepped over the bed, and put out an impulsive hand to touch her long flaxen hair. “Forgive this night’s folly, lass. Forget it, if you can. Stay my friend, if you will?”

  Wordless she nodded, and gulped, as he left her there.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  THE Douglas brothers rode hot-spurred through the night, westwards, by Corstorphine and Abercorn and Linlithgow. For once they were all together, even young Henry, the priest-to-be, at sixteen the youngest archdeacon in the land; and Archie, Earl of Moray, had come down for the royal wedding from his northern fastness, though he had missed the games at Stirling. They rode alone, save for a few servants. Rob Fleming had remained behind at Edinburgh to whip up the remaining Douglas lords and lairds and to bring them on with all expedition.