Black Douglas (Coronet Books)

by Nigel Tranter

  Will waved his not normally so eloquent young brother to approximate silence. “Aye, Johnnie, aye. Peace lad, peace. Do not fret yourself. The bones of it I know. The rest I shall hear in due course. None blames you — save only those who would hurt us. I blame myself — for ever having gone away. Knowing James Stewart and his realm! I am to blame, not you, Johnnie. You have had an ill road to ride. But peace, now — enough of this meantime. It is good to see Threave again . . .”

  Margaret and Meg were awaiting them at the inner Bailey, both looking at their loveliest, the one serenely beautiful joy other radiantly fair. But despite that, and Will’s undoubted joy at coming home, there was a constraint, a reserve, at first. Husband and wife were glad to see each other — but each was still more glad to see another, and must try not to show it. So the greetings and welcome, though sincere and underlined with joy, were more formal than might have been. Quick side glances, hand-pressings and the like, had to say what words might not.

  But later, well dined, in the cool of the dusk, they all six wandered out by the riverside pleasance to the little water-garden which was the girls’ favourite haunt, and there amongst the kindly shadows they could be themselves, at ease, amongst the murmur of flowing water, the sigh of the night wind through the reeds, and the sleepy quacking of mallard from the lochans. Meg, from where she sat behind Will, could slowly stroke the back of his neck with soft fingers, and Jamie could sit close to Margaret and glow quietly in her proximity.

  Although they talked mostly of foreign lands and strange sights, of kings and queens and princes, of the wonders of Rome and its follies and sins likewise, inevitably they kept coming back to the situation here at home, where so much was changed from heretofore. None could fail to recognise that the present state of affairs was not only unsatisfactory but dangerous, and must not be allowed to drift.

  “The King should fear Douglas less, now that he is of age and has a son — not more,” Meg said. ‘Why does he?”

  “The man Crichton poisons his mind,” Margaret declared. “But there must be more than that. And James himself has no cause to love Crichton.”

  “That is what I cannot understand,” Jamie agreed. “Crichton has played the King’s enemy for years. Why, then, should he now have raised him up?”

  “Bishop Kennedy conceives him, I believe, the only man clever enough, strong enough, and willing, to set against Douglas,” Margaret told him. “So says my mother. Who else, indeed, would have served?”

  “Does he think that such a jackal could bring Douglas down?” Hugh scoffed.

  “Jackals do not hunt alone,” Johnnie said. “They find other jackals. And there are plenty in this kingdom, by the Rude! Nearer at hand than Crichton. There are vassals of your own, Will.”

  “Douglases? Siding with Crichton? Against me?”

  “Not Douglases, no. But vassals of Douglas. Men who hold their lands of you. Herries, Maclellan . . .”

  “Ah, yes. You said something of this when you met us. What is this? Herries is a witless fool. And Bombie but a boy.”

  “Not Bombie himself. His uncle, Sir Patrick Maclellan, Tutor of Bombie. And not old crazy Herries of Terregles. His brother Herbert, who acts governor to the young laird David. These two are traitors and knaves. They are kin, of course. These it was who provided the excuse for the King to ride against your castles, Will. They are both your sheriffs-deputy, mind, by inheritance. Or Margaret’s, it may be. Herries, of Nithsdale and Annandale; Maclellan, of Kirkcudbright.”

  “What of it? What did they do?”

  “They turned jackal, I tell you. Declaring that folk were refusing to pay their rents and dues, and so were rebelling against you in your absence, with one accord they went with fire and sword up and down parts of their sheriffdoms. Maclellan, in the Vale of Urr; Herries in Annandale, slaying and burning and harrying. And under Douglas banners! Claiming that they acted in your name. How many they slew, God knows — but Herries hanged a full score at Lockerbie alone!”

  “Save us — but why, man? What had they to gain by this folly?”

  “The King’s goodwill. He had excuse to ride in wrath against Douglas. But not to Bombie or Terregles, mark you! They went free. He rode against Lochmaben and Craig Douglas . . .”

  “But why these? Why Herries and Maclellan? I have never done them hurt, either of them. Why should these turn and betray me?”

  It was Margaret who answered him. “Perhaps you do not know, Will. But David Herries, the young laird, is married now to Margaret Crichton of Sanquhar. And the Tutor of Bombie is sister’s son to the Lord Gray and Sir Patrick Gray Captain of the King’s Guard!”

  “So-o-o!”

  “I cannot believe this of the King!” Jamie exclaimed. “He is hot of temper. But not this! . . .”

  “It may be that he himself did not know the truth of it,” Margaret agreed. “It could have been all Crichton’s doing, misleading the King. The Grays were ever of his party.”

  “Aye, Crichton! This sounds like his work. James Stewart is not of this sort. James wishes to pull down Douglas, yes. But not thus, I swear! This takes wits like Crichton’s. A snake’s cunning — and James is no snake.” Will turned on Johnnie. “And you — what did you do? You said that you did what you could? . . .”

  “Aye. I went, at once, to Annandale. With five hundred men. I caught Herries at it, red-handed. Up the Dryfe Water. He claimed that he acted as your sheriff-deputy. That I had no authority over him. So I put him in the pit of Lockerbie Tower. To await your return. He is there yet. Despite his folk’s clamour.”

  “Good. I shall deal with Herbert Herries. And Maclellan?”

  Johnnie cleared his throat. “Maclellan was . . . more difficult. When I went for Herries, I sent another to Maclellan. To his castle of Raeberry. Pate Pringle. And Pate . . . Pate Maclellan hanged!”

  “Lord God!” Will was on his feet in a bound, fists clenched. “Pate Pringle? Dead? Hanged?” That was a whisper. “Hanged by Maclellan! God’s curse on him — he slew Pate?”

  “I rode to his castle. He shut his gates against me, Raeberry is a strong place. From its gatehouse he told me that I had no authority over him. He said that he had appealed directly to the King. That he demanded trial, for what he had done, before King James himself. He said that he had this right. That the Maclellans had been hereditary sheriffs of Wigtownshire before the Douglases or the Flemings, and though they had lost that office, they had not surrendered the right of trial before the King himself . . .”

  “That I deny,” Will declared. “I am Sheriff of Wigtown. Justiciar. Earl of Wigtown and Lord of Galloway. This man is a vassal under my jurisdiction. And, by the Mass, he shall learn it!”

  “What could I do?” John demanded. “I was left your procurator, yes — but in this matter of jurisdiction I knew not where I stood. Moreover, already the King was thundering against Douglas. If Maclellan had put the matter to the King, I dared not make matters worse . . .”

  “So Maclellan goes free?”

  “Aye. To my shame! What could I do, Will? . . .”

  The other was striding up and down the short stretch of path beside the water. “Pate Pringle!” he muttered. “Sir Patrick Maclellan has signed his own death warrant, by the Mass! Quiet, Johnnie! You could do nothing — I know it. But I can! And shall. My house needs setting in order, it seems. Tomorrow I shall start to redd it up.”

  There was silence in that garden for a while, not even of these his nearest kin caring to come between the Black Douglas and his wrath.

  It was his Countess who spoke at length. “Here is great evil and sorrow,” she said. “Much must be done, much thought of. But . . . it is an ill welcome home. A poor way to spend our first hours together after long parting. Let us talk of happier things, Will?”

  “Yes,” Meg supported her. “We have waited too long for this night to spoil it so, my lord. This would but please Crichton, I think!”

  “You are right.” Will took a grip of himself. He halted his pacing, st
ood for a moment kicking at the turf, and then went to sit down again. But not, as before, beside Meg. He sat a little apart from them all, now.

  Although they talked a while yet, determinedly, of other things, the ease and satisfaction had gone out of the night, and all were aware of it. Fairly soon Margaret rose.

  “It grows chill,” she said. “And you must be tired. From your long riding. Bed will serve us best now, I think. How say you, my lords?”

  None voiced objection, whatever uneasy glances were cast here and there. Margaret, on Will’s arm, led the way back to the castle.

  In the doorway of the Lesser Hall of Threave, beside the main turnpike stair, the chatelaine supervised the ceremony of handing each guest his candle, and bidding them goodnight, her lord at her side. He saw his wife’s hand tremble and the flame flicker as she gave Jamie his candle. Meg stood in the shadows, and when the three younger brothers had gone up, dipped a quick curtsey, murmured something, and taking up her own light hurried away. Husband and wife were left alone.

  “Poor Meg,” Margaret said quietly.

  He looked at her. “And poor Margaret!” he echoed, shaking his head.

  “Perhaps. But what of Will Douglas? Poor Will?”

  “Aye. Poor Will. And poor Jamie, likewise! We are all agley, lass. God knows why it should be so. Is there a curse on us, think you? Many have cursed Douglas, down the years. Perhaps with cause. Could it be that they have come home to roost? On us?”

  She raised her proud fair head. “No,” she said firmly. “Not that. Here is no way to talk, Will. You should know better. Leave curses to James Kennedy and his like. What we are and what we do, we cannot blame on curses. We choose our own paths.”

  “Save those that are chosen for us! Did I choose to be Douglas? Or you to be Galloway? And so . . this?”

  “You chose to come to Threave, one day. Asking that I be your wife. I chose to have it so. Aye, had already willed it. We both could have chosen otherwise. You chose to raise the power of Douglas on high again. And I aided you in it. If there is blame in it, who shall we blame but ourselves?”

  “I did not choose to lose my heart to Meg Douglas! Nor you, I think, to my brother Jamie!”

  There was a long silence. He had never actually put that in words before.

  Margaret lowered her head. But after a moment she looked up steadfastly. “No. That is true. But I have chosen to be an honest and good wife to you, nevertheless. In all that I may.”

  “Aye. And I . . . I have chosen otherwise!”

  “You are a man, and see things differently. Feel them differently.”

  “Jamie is a man too, is he not?”

  “Jamie is a very different man from you. But . . . that is little to the point. I made my choice.”

  “Then, I wish . . .” he began.

  Her hand gripped his arm. “Do not say it, Will,” she urged. “Do not say it.”

  He inclined his head. “Very well. I am made of lesser stuff than you, I think.”

  “No. You are man, and I am woman. That is all. Different. Now — take your candle. Go to her.”

  “But . . .”

  “Goodnight, Will.”

  “You would have it so?”

  “That you must not ask me to say. But it is best so.”

  Slowly he reached out to pick up the candlestick. “Meg — she is also a woman,” he pointed out. “Different?”

  “Only in degree. And so she suffers her own pain. Go, now. Words will not better this matter.”

  Sighing, he took her hand and kissed it, before turning away along the vaulted passage that led to the lesser, back stairway.

  The village of Lockerbie in Annandale sat on its ridge between its two lochs and under its green hill, a sunny open place of scattered red stone thatched-roof houses, turf cabins and timber hovels that had grown up round a square, squat red stone tower of the Johnstones. Many of those houses were roofless, charred and blackened, as Will Douglas, frowning, surveyed the place that August noonday. He sent Jamie to fetch the parish priest, Hugh to round up twelve honest men of the village, and Johnnie to bring out Sir Herbert Herries from the vaults of the tower, over which a Douglas company had kept armed guard for two weeks.

  In the open space before the church, Will took up his stance beside the village well, without dismounting. At his back some hundreds of his men-at-arms formed themselves into grimly silent, close-packed ranks. The village people peered round doors and corners, moved nearer diffidently at first, unsure, and then thronging. Loud-voiced women, learning it was the Black Douglas himself, came to clamour at his stirrups, bewailing their dead, recounting their losses, demanding redress and justice and vengeance from their lord. Will nodded briefly, wordless, expressionless.

  The old priest was brought, chittering with fright, wringing his hands. Him Will ignored.

  Johnnie led Herries out from his cell, a good-looking man though dishevelled, of middle years, heavily built. His fine clothing was stained and torn and he was dirty of person, but he held his head high and his haggard features that had been florid once, were proud still, not to say arrogant, as he was marched between rows of shouting, cursing, spitting, fist-shaking villagers.

  Will waited until the knight was brought near. Then he raised his hand for silence. “Herbert Herries,” he said, from the saddle, “men say that you have harried and slain and ravished in this Annandale. And in my name, as my sheriff-deputy — an office held by your brother. Many men say it. We lack not for witnesses. What say you?”

  “I say, my lord, that what I did was within my right to do. Within this jurisdiction of Annandale and Nithsdale. I protest strongly that the Lord Balveny, your brother, has held me here, against all right and decent usage between men of knightly rank. And I demand trial, if trial there is to be, before the King’s Grace himself, in accordance with my rank and estate.”

  “That is all you have to say?”

  “Yes.”

  “Very well. I say that you have no right to trial before the King. Even were you indeed my sheriff-deputy, instead of your brother, you would be deputy to me, for I am Sheriff, Justiciar and Lord of Galloway. My jurisdiction here is complete, and you are under it. I elect to try you here and now. I say that in this you acted of your own will. Or another’s. But not mine. You acted, indeed, wholly against my known will and interests. You declare that you have no more to say. I will hear any man here who will speak in your favour.”

  A heavy silence fell on the entire assembly. Even the muttering and murmuring of the angry women died away.

  “No man speaks?” Will asked. “I charge you all. If there is aught to be said in this man’s cause, any excuse, any plea for mercy, speak now and I shall consider it.”

  Only the distant barking of a dog broke the hush.

  Herries hawked, and spat. “These cattle!” he said contemptuously. “Think you they would speak for any true man? Or that I would have them speak for me?”

  “Priest — what have you to say? In this your parish?” Will jerked, not even turning his head.

  Out of the mumbling and mowing, the old man found broken words. “God have mercy . . . on his soul! I saw . . . two score men. Hanging. On those trees. Two score. All . . . all of my flock. Two score men! . . .”

  “They were rogues, thieves, somers,” Herries declared coldly.

  There was a great outcry of protest and fury from the villagers. Everywhere people surged forward, fists raised, brandishing sticks. Men-at-arms pushed them back.

  “Silence!” Will roared. “There will be no riot in my presence. There are twelve men here to speak. They and they only. This man, Herries, brother to Terregles — is he guilty of the murder of these two score men? And others? Or is he not? I ask you. Think well. Think well, I say. And what you say.”

  “Aye! Aye!” As from one man came the cry.

  “Does none say other? As one day you, with myself, will stand before a higher judgement seat than this! Speak now.”

  “No! No! Guilty!
Away with him!”

  “So be it. You hear, Herries? You are judged. By those who best know your crime. By those you have injured. Found guilty. You slew wantonly. Without mercy. In an evil cause. Now you pay the price. As you hanged others on yonder trees, so shall you hang. Now. The priest is here. Make your peace with God. If you can!”

  “Hang! . . .” The man was shaken, at last. “You . . . you cannot hang me! Like any scullion! Me — a knight!”

  “You have forfeit your knightly standing. By what you have done. By yourself acting the common hangman. You are no longer Sir Herbert Herries. Only a murderer, caught and tried. It is enough. I say no more. Here is the priest . . .”

  “I need no snivelling kitchen-bred clerk!”

  “Very well.” Will reined round his horse, and nodded to one of his captains. “Take him. Hang him. And quickly.”

  “Aye, lord.”

  Without another word or glance at the prisoner, at any of them, he rode away.

  As men gazed after him, in silence, he turned in the saddle. “Harry,” he called, to the Chamberlain of Galloway, his brother-in-law, “have your clerks to write down these people’s hurts. Write down the claims of all who have suffered loss by this man. They must be recompensed. Large and small. Then to Nithsdale, to do likewise.”

  “It will take time, my lord. Days. When do you ride for Raeberry?”

  “Tomorrow. Set your clerks to work. Then join me . . .” He rode on.

  Bombie was the chief seat of the ancient Galloway family of Maclellan, but Raeberry Castle was the stronger. It lay some five miles to the south of Kirkcudbright, on the crest of a fearsome cliff above the Solway, defended from the landward by wide double ditches, a smaller version of Tantallon. The Douglas host of a thousand men came to it next day, under louring clouds and a smirr of rain. All was shut against them, cattle driven from sight, cot-houses evacuated, drawbridge up. Between the ditches a gibbet stood, and from it a corpse swayed and birled in the breeze. Regularly, as it swung, a splash of scarlet showed on its sagging, rain-sodden ruin — the Red Heart of Douglas painted on a black breastplate.