Black Douglas (Coronet Books) Read online

  On the Countess’s left stood the splendid figure of her brother, the 3rd Earl of Orkney and Lord of Roslin, a man whom his nephews were inclined to look upon as the epitome of dignity, and little else. William St. Clair was a spare, dry, early-ageing man, only a year or two older than his sister but looking nearer a score, upright and stiff as a stick in carriage, unsmiling, unbending, apparently devoid of emotion. In the disrespectful opinion of the young Douglases, this Earl was even more meet for a funeral than their father, their attitude being that he had been more or less dead for years.

  There were numerous other illustrious, dry-eyed and magnificently garbed mourners. Amongst them all the new Earl of Douglas and his brothers and sisters stood out like daws amongst peacocks, so plain not to say shabby were their clothes, their best as these were. A great many of the burghers and tenants present were clad much better than they were. Nevertheless there was a quality, a dark, lean, almost arrogant style to them which spoke louder than any mere apparel.

  Bishop Cameron at last reached the end of his sonorous Latinities, and after a noticeable pause in which he stared round with every appearance of contempt upon the entire congregation, raised a beringed hand to point almost accusingly, first at Will Douglas and then at the huge leaden coffin. A flick of the hand sideways then set off the choristers in a slow chant.

  Will had been primed for his part, however unwillingly. He stepped forward, jerked a bow beside the coffin, and reached out to pick up the small silver casket which sat on the top of the plain leader lid. With this in his hand he stalked on, up towards the altar, with a stride more apt for the heather than the chancel. He halted before the gorgeously-robed prelate, and held out the casket to him. It was not very large. Compared with the rest of him, James the Gross’s heart was evidently of quite modest proportions.

  The Bishop took the thing in his own time, and with considerable ceremonial turned and paced slowly to the altar, and there, after raising it high for a few moments, placed it between two of the candlesticks. There were other similar caskets sitting there already, mostly much more elaborately fine, flanking that of the Good Sir James. It had been the Douglas custom, for many generations now, to extract the hearts from the corpses of their leading figures and to preserve them separately — presumably in token of the said Good Sir James’s fulfilment of his friend Robert the Bruce’s dying wish, when he had taken the hero-king’s heart to the Crusade which its owner had never got round to conducting in his busy lifetime.

  Will went back to his place, self-consciously set-faced. His mother had changed neither expression nor direction of glance. Margaret and Jamie gave him sympathetic looks, and Archie grimaced.

  The Bishop now made a new series of signs. From the side of the church, husky men-at-arms, with staves, came clanking out, to the number of about a dozen, not a few with somewhat sheepish grins. They pushed through the throng unceremoniously, to the coffin. There, after shuffling and jostling each other, and looking doubtful, at a further peremptory signal from the altar, they set to, with hands and staves, to push and lever the enormously heavy affair over the stone flags and down the chancel steps. Watching the straining and puffing, Will wondered how it could have been transported all the forty miles from Abercorn.

  The next stage of the interment was slow, awkward, but much more interesting than anything which had preceded it. In fact there was a general crowding forward of the packed congregation, with much thrusting and commotion, manoeuvring for position to see better; also excitement, exclamation, even argument. The choristers in consequence chanted the louder.

  As well as the sheer weight of the remains, body and lead, there was a further difficulty. The chiefs of Douglas were never buried; they were deposited in an underground crypt of St. Bride’s here, directly beneath the high altar, in leaden rows, while their magnificent carved stone effigies and monuments multiplied above, to decrease the size of the chancel. Which was all meet and fitting. Only, in redesigning and enlarging the church fifty years before, Archibald the Grim, or his masons, had rather underestimated the problem of getting heavy leaden coffins safely down below. The fairly narrow and steep stone stairway, which opened from the side aisle, was adequate for people proceeding on their feet, or even for coffins carried on men’s shoulders; but for thirty stone of corpse and more than that of lead, it was a different matter — especially as this particular container was almost as broad as it was long.

  By dint of much heaving and leverage — with no little advice from nearby mourners — the straining men-at-arms got the thing as far as the stairhead. But there it stuck. By no means could they lift James the Gross up on to their shoulders. Even with volunteers pushing it on all sides it was impossible to get enough shoulders actually under the thing to support it; anyway, even if that had been feasible, there was insufficient width to the stairway to accommodate the coffin and men at the sides as well.

  Considerable argument took place. Bishop Cameron, at the altar, raised his eyes heavenwards, managing to look patient, detached and deploring all at the same time. The Countess Beatrix altered neither her position nor her expression. Lord Orkney sniffed. Will Douglas went to see what should be done.

  Pate Pringle was already taking charge. “He’ll no’ carry,” he announced. “No’ doon thae steps. We’ll need to push him, just.”

  Will nodded. “Yes. But can they hold it on the way down? The weight? . . .”

  “Och, aye. Some at the head, some at the feet. Fine, that.” The steward sent three or four of the men round in front, a few steps down, to hold and steer from below; the others to push from above — but to be ready to pull back strongly also, if necessary.

  With no one at the sides, it proved difficult to overcome the massive inertia and friction. But after mighty efforts, the coffin inched forwards. When it reached the lip of the first step, it stuck once more, lead being only an indifferent sliding agent. Much restricted in their movements, those above, aided by all who could get a hand on the thing, pushed heroically, while those below tugged as best they could. Gradually the coffin tilted forwards, and began to slide.

  “Hold you! Hold — for guidsakes!” Pringle cried. “Hold — or he’ll be awa’!”

  But there was not really much on the leaden lid and sides for restraining hands to grip on. The coffin continued to move onwards and downwards. Indeed it began to gather speed.

  The men below were not slow to perceive their danger. Shouting, and with one accord, they exchanged pushing upwards in favour of headlong flight downwards. Leaping the steps three of four at a time, they went hurtling down into the crypt, none hindmost.

  No amount of clawing and clutching could halt or even slow the deceased now. Gaining momentum inevitably, impressively, the remains sped off, free of all restraint, downstairs, with a strange thudding rumble and high whimpering sound, mixed. There were perhaps six seconds of this, and then a crunching, very solid and final crash. James the Gross, for better or for worse, had finally joined his ancestors — and with an alacrity unequalled in a score of years.

  There was a stunned silence in the church — for even the singing boys had faltered in their chanting as the drama unfolded. John Cameron, ever an opportunist, coughed, raised two fingers and delivered a sketchy benediction. He turned, paced to the nearby vestry door, and passed through, out of sight, a man outraged.

  Pandemonium broke out in the prebendary church of St. Bride’s.

  “My God — did you ever see the like of that!” Archie Douglas shouted happily.

  The Countess Beatrix stirred at last. She rose from her chair calmly, laid a hand on her brother’s arm, and turned to her eldest son. “Come, Will,” she said quietly, and proceeded to walk, with queenly and unhurried tread, to the side door.

  Belatedly her two trumpeters, flanking the doorway, brought up their instruments and blew a slightly ragged fanfare.

  Douglas Castle was vast, massive, menacing in its lovely valley, an unpleasant place of dungeons and donjons, bartisans and machicola
tions, triple moats and multiple baileys; thirty-foot high curtain-walls, topped with timber hoardings and gallerys for defence, enclosed a huge and ugly square keep, ninety feet to its parapet, lit only by tiny cross-shaped arrow-slits. Compared with Newark, or indeed any of her other Douglas castles, it was a frowning prison. All the young Douglases hated it. In fact, none of its lords had ever found it to their taste, all preferring to live elsewhere. There was no other castle quite like it in all Scotland — which was not strange, for it was the English who had built it. During Bruce’s Wars of Independence the enemy had taken Douglas Castle while the Good Sir James was away supporting his king elsewhere. Hearing of the shameful happening, the Douglas had made a swift and temporary return, besieged and recaptured his own original fair castle, and put the English garrison to the sword, every man. Thereafter he gathered together all its furnishings, tapestries and woodwork piling them in its Great Hall; on top he heaped all the food in its larders, all the carcases of the cattle in its parks, all the barrels of wine and spirits from its cellars, and crowned all with the bodies of the slain English. Then he set all alight, and marched away to rejoin King Robert, assured that no invaders should again defile Douglas walls. In due course Edward of England gave orders that the present fortress be built up on the burned-out ruins of the old castle — but it still was known as the Douglas Larder nevertheless, and it found no favour in the eyes of its lords. One hundred and thirty years had not mellowed it.

  In the vast and gloomy stone Hall of this barracks — the Lesser or Private Hall, though it was — Will Douglas was caught by the Lord Bishop of Glasgow, as he went to answer the summons, by a servitor, to his mother’s private room above. John Cameron, divested of his magnificent canonicals, was now dressed in the height of secular fashion, with nothing to indicate his clerical calling save the mitred arms of the See of Glasgow, outlined in gold filigree and tinctured with jewels, which adorned the short velvet cloak above his crimson satin doublet.

  “My lord,” he called, with a nice blend of authority, condescension and even a hint of flattering respect, as he moved forward from the great table where the principal funeral guests were refreshing themselves. “A word in your ear, I pray.”

  Will hesitated. He did not like the prelate, had in fact been avoiding him. “My mother calls for me, my lord Bishop,” he said.

  “Your lady mother will spare me one minute of your precious time, my son, I am sure.” Cameron took his arm, and led him some way aside. Will could hardly break loose.

  “In God’s good providence, you have been raised to notable and high estate,” the Bishop said, lowering his voice. “I trust that you have given much thought to it, my son? And, h’mm, prayer.”

  “I have had little time to do so, sir. As yet.”

  “No? Then a word, perhaps, from an older well-wisher, with some little experience in matters of rule and state — and of course, your father-in-God — may not come amiss.”

  “M’mm.” Will did not commit himself.

  The other sank his mellifluous voice still further, confidentially. “As you are no doubt aware, my young lord, our realm of Scotland is in a sorry state. In the past, the house of great Douglas has moved mightily in the guidance of this realm. In his earlier days your excellent sire did great things likewise. Great things — but then he was not Douglas. But of later years he has been but a sick man, with God’s hand, er, heavy upon him. He has been unable to play the part to which he was called by name and nature. To Scotland’s loss, to be sure. Now — there is a new Earl of Douglas.”

  The young man waited, silent.

  “It is important, my son, that if you elect to play the part for which you, too, were born — and I pray God it may be so — it is important at this early stage that you choose the right and proper course, with great care. You have little experience, I think, of the ways of courts and governance, and of the scheming and grasping men who seek to wield the power. To my sorrow, I have — overmuch. Happily, such experience, dear-bought as it has been, is at your young lordship’s service and command.”

  “Er . . . thank you. I shall not forget.”

  “I counsel that you do not, my son. For you will be beset by rogues — nothing is more certain. There are over-many such in Scotland today — not a few of them in positions of power and consequence. It is ever the way when a child is king. And the worst of all, ‘fore God, is he who sits in the seat that once was mine — the Chancellor of this realm! That foul spawn of Satan, the upstart William Crichton!” The Bishop’s voice trembled. “Of all the festering sores on the body of this land! . . .”

  “I have reason to know something of the quality of Sir William Crichton, my lord Bishop,” Will interrupted.

  “Eh? . . . You? What can you know of the evil of the man, the depths of his infamy, boy?”

  “He, and Sir Alexander Livingstone, treacherously slew my cousins.”

  “M’mm. Yes. To be sure. But that is a mere drop in the ocean of his iniquity. He . . .”

  “He raised his hand against Douglas!” Will said, between his teeth. “A treacherous hand. That is enough for me!”

  “Ha! Yes, yes. That is so, of course. You are entirely right, my son.” The Bishop looked at his companion with a new and speculative eye. “Such sentiments do you much credit, my lord. Aye — Livingstone! Livingstone too is a dastard. Almost as great a rogue. That he, an unlettered and ruffianly mountebank, no more, should hold the young King and his mother in his hands, and so hold the kingdom also, is beyond all bearing. It must not be borne much longer, boy! Two up-jumped scullions ruling this roost! . . .”

  “And none to say them nay?”

  “Aye — there’s the rub. There are plenty who would say them nay — but lack the power to say it loud enough! A strong hand is needed in this realm again. A strong, sure and true hand . . .”

  “I fear that mine is scarce sure enough, my lord. As yet!” Will said, with a flicker of a smile.

  “H’rr’mm. No. Not so. That is not . . . what I intended. My meaning . . . otherwise.” For so assured a man, Cameron looked a little discountenanced. “I meant that I might supply that hand. In all humility, of course. But . . . it is an experienced hand. I have been Secretary of State, Privy Seal, Chancellor. I would have most of Holy Church behind me. With God’s help — and that of Douglas to be sure — I could teach these rogues a lesson, and do the King notable service.”

  Will did not answer.

  “Your opportunity is great my lord,” the Bishop added.

  “Is it? Or yours, sir?”

  The other coughed. “Would you question the need, my son? With Scotland in the hands of scoundrels and self-seekers? You would not withhold your hand, Douglas’s mighty hand, in the realm’s need?”

  “I think not. But you must give me longer to discover that my hand is indeed mighty. I will think on what you have said. I lack experience, you declared. You said that I must choose the right and proper course, with great care. I shall seek to do so . . . with your good advice in my mind, sir. But meantime, I must to my mother . . .”

  Breaking away, Will strode across the Hall to the private stair in the thickness of the walling. He had the door to it almost shut when it was pulled open behind him. Another richly dressed gentleman confronted him, much younger and more dandified than the Bishop, but with a hard thin-lipped face. It was Sir James Hamilton of Cadzow, head of that family.

  “Sakes, Will — you are in a great haste!” he declared, with a kind of joviality, panting a little because of his own hurrying from the table. “Not so fast, lad. What was that old fox Cameron at? Little good, I warrant!”

  “He was keeping me from my mother’s summons, sir. As are you now, I fear. You must excuse me . . .”

  “Tush, boy — not so fast. I want a word with you. See — in here.” He stepped within the stairway’s narrow space, and pulled the door to behind him. “There are weighty issues to consider, see you.”

  “I said my mother calls me, sir. Already I have been
held. Later, it may be. My mother is . . .”

  “But a woman, lad! What I have to say is man’s talk. And you are Douglas now, are you not? To be tied to no apron strings!”

  “Aye sir — not to be tied to any strings, I think! But my mother is still my mother, and a woman of some consequence, as you know . . .”

  “She will wait. Women are good at waiting. I’ faith, they were made for it! Even women of consequence. I should know, should I not, having one to wife? Hear me, before you run to her.”

  Will frowned, but hesitated, Hamilton was a man of some renown in the land, chief of a widespread family, lord of large lands, and moreover grandson of Livingstone who held the young King. He had married Euphemia, the widow of Archibald, 5th Earl of Douglas, mother of the murdered brothers — who still called herself Duchess of Touraine, her late husband’s French title. Hamilton was not a man to offend lightly.

  “What should I hear, sir?” Will asked.

  “Much. I was your father’s friend. That is why I am here — unlike some! I would be your friend also. So long as you follow as wise policies as he.”

  “Wise? . . . Did my father have any policies, sir? I never heard of them.”

  “Ha! There can be policy in not doing, as well as in doing, boy. James Douglas could have done great harm and scathe. And did not. Many urged him to. That Bishop, for one. He would have had him rebel against the King’s government. But he was wise, and did not.”

  “The King’s government, since the King is but a boy of thirteen years, is Sir Alexander Livingstone, the King’s keeper! Is it not? Your own mother’s father, sir. He and Sir William Crichton, the Chancellor.”