A Folly of Princes

by Nigel Tranter

Genres: Cultural Heritage; Historical Fiction

Synopsis

Scotland at the dawn of the 15th century was a wretched spectacle. While the feeble Robert III still clung to his throne, his kingdom rang with the sound of conflict as his son and brother grappled for power. Sir James Douglas of Aberdour, married as he was to the King's illegitimate sister, had to tread a hazardous path through the warring factions. But having a conscience made life harder still. For in those days - and in that company - a conscience could cost a man dear... The second volume of Nigel Tranter's epic House of Stewart trilogy tells of the last days of King Robert III of Scotland and the struggle for his throne.

Release date: November 22, 2012

Publisher: Hodder & Stoughton

Print pages: 384

Sample

SAINT JOHNSTOUN OF Perth seethed. Being the nearest town to the Abbey of Scone, where the coronations of the Kings of Scots took place, it was quite accustomed to being overcrowded on occasion. But today’s thronging went beyond all experience and report. Not only the walled city itself, on the bank of Tay, but all its environs and surroundings, was so crowded with folk that it seemed that scarcely another could be crammed in; yet still more arrived by every road — and Perth was a great hub of roads and routes from all directions, the first point at which the long estuary of Tay grew sufficiently narrow to be bridged, the gateway to Scotland’s North and East. It was claimed that 20,000 people converged on the town that October day of 1396. It was as likely an under- as an over-estimate. No King’s coronation had ever drawn such a concourse.

Poor old King Robert was there, to be sure, third of his name — although his true name was John and he had only been crowned as Robert to capitalise on the fame of his mighty great-grandfather, Robert the Bruce, John being considered an unlucky name for kings; which fame and capital he direly needed. He was installed in the Dominican or Blackfriars monastery, on the northern edge of the walled city, overlooking the wide, green levels of the North Inch, a favourite haunt of the gentle monarch, who himself was something of a monk by inclination. His Court filled the other religious establishments and best houses of the town — these too in much larger numbers than normally troubled to grace the presence of the self-effacing and studious monarch. His brother’s, the Governor’s Court, of course, was larger, but he had taken over Scone Abbey, three miles to the north, for the occasion, preferring always to keep his stiff distance from the King.

Sir James Douglas of Aberdour pushed and struggled his way through the crush of people in the narrow streets, seeking to preserve his patience and a modicum of good humour. Good humour was indeed all around him, the folk in holiday mood — galling for a young man on urgent business. He had left his horses and small escort behind at the Red Bridge Port, being there assured by the porters that he would by no means get them all through the press short of using the flats of their swords to beat a path — which would be likely to provoke a riot in present circumstances. He was not of an overbearing character but he was in a hurry.

Once out of Shoegate and High Street, into Meal Vennel, the going was easier, the crowds less dense; and by the time he was into Blackfriars Wynd there were few people to hamper him. At the north end of the wynd royal guards stood watch at the monastery gates; but Sir James was well known to all such and he was let through without question.

The Blackfriars monastery was a haven of peace compared with the packed city so close by. It was indeed an unlikely place to find within the perimeter of a walled town, open, spacious, with large gardens and orchards all around the conventual buildings, very rural-seeming for its situation, with pleasant paths and arbours, cow-sheds and dairies, stables, beehives let into the walling to supply wax for the chandlery, doocots with their strutting cooing pigeons everywhere. There were people here too, of course, strolling amongst the fruit-trees and rosebushes, but these were courtiers and their ladies, in couples and small groups, not packed together in noisy, smelly propinquity like the commonality without. Not a few of the ladies especially smiled or raised eyebrows towards the hurrying young man, for he was attractive to the other sex, good-looking in a dark almost sombre way, tall and well-built, with an air of preoccupation that was alleged to intrigue womenfolk. He acknowledged their salutations civilly, with nod or brief word, without pausing in his stride. Only once did he smile, and that to his young sister-in-law, the Lady Elizabeth Stewart, second daughter of the King and wife to his own namesake and half-brother, Sir James Douglas, Younger of Dalkeith — and when twenty-six-year-old Jamie Douglas smiled, his sober, almost stern features were transformed and lightened remarkably. Getting a smile out of this young man was something of a ploy, indeed, at the Scots Court.

Making for the monastery guest-house, which the King had taken over for his own use meantime, the newcomer asked where was the Earl David, and was informed that the prince had gone over to the Gilten Arbour, to ensure that all was in readiness for the comfort of his father. This did not sound like the nineteen-year-old David Stewart, for whom comfort, the King’s or any other’s, did not normally mean much; but he hurried in the indicated direction nevertheless.

The Gilten Arbour was a summer-house, at the extreme northern edge of the monastery gardens, a rather special summer-house, more of a pavilion perhaps in that it was two storeys high, circular and with a wide balcony above a pillared portico all round, the whole decorated with gold paint, classical figures and signs of the zodiac, the fancy of some former Prior — a sports-lover presumably, for the upper storey was so contrived that it looked over the high town-wall here into the North Inch directly beyond, the hundred-acre riverside parkland which constituted the best disporting-ground and tourney-court in Scotland.

At the arbour door a single large and tough individual stood. He raised a cynical eyebrow at the visitor.

“He is . . . occupied!” he said. “Wearied of waiting. Do not go up, Sir James.”

“I must see him. And at once.”

“I tell you, he is not to be disturbed. Bide you for a whilie . . .”

“No. Stand aside, Pate. You have done your duty. Let me do mine. This is urgent. I come from the Clan Chattan camp. I am going up. Or would you, or he, prefer that I went to the Governor instead?”

“I warn you, he is drink-taken . . .”

“I never yet knew drink to blunt his wits. And I will risk his temper.” The Douglas brushed past the other, and ran up the wooden stairs.

On the balcony, a woman’s shoe and a silken bodice, none too clean, was preparation for what was to come. Feminine skirling choked off to breathless laughter, from near at hand, offered further guidance. There were two apartments on this upper floor. At the second, James Douglas rapped sharply on the door, took a deep breath, and stepped inside.

“Fiends of hell! How dare you! How dare you, I say — curse and burn you! God’s eyes — get out!” Very strangely, despite the abrupt ferocity of that, the voice that spoke managed to sound almost musical, mellifluous, without thereby lessening the anger.

“I dare for good reason,” the other asserted, his own voice more raspingly gravelly than he knew. “And would dare still more, my Lord David, in your service and your royal father’s, if need be!”

“Damn you, Jamie . . .!”

The room, simply furnished with a rustic table and benches, row upon row of stored apples on shelving around the walls, was a shambles. Clothing lay scattered, male and female; an upset wine-flagon spilled its contents, like blood, over the wooden floor; a bench was upturned, with a gleaming golden earl’s belt flung across it; apples had rolled everywhere. In one far corner, on a spread cloak, a young man was half-rising, bare from the middle downwards, and under him sprawled a wholly naked young woman; notably well-endowed, all pink-and-white lush invitation and challenge, seeking to hold him down.

The two men stared at each other, the younger glaring hotly, the other frowning with a sort of determined concern.

“If the Lady Congalton will excuse me for a few moments,” Douglas said stiffly, “I have matters for your privy ear, my lord, which will not wait.”

David, Earl of Carrick, High Steward of Scotland and heir to the throne, rose to his feet, took a pace forward and then halted, his face flushed with wrath, wine and his immediate exertions. It was a remarkable face, beautiful rather than handsome, winsome with a delicacy and regularity of feature that any woman might envy, yet somehow redeemed from any suggestion of weakness by the firm mouth and chin, the keen sparkling eyes and the autocratic carriage of the head. There was nothing of femininity there — nor indeed was the lower part of him, so very patently on display at the moment, lacking in any degree in masculinity; much the reverse, in fact, being at least complementary to the lady’s plenitude. At nineteen years, David Stewart’s manhood was not in doubt.

“Jamie Douglas!” The apparition raised a hand to point an accusing finger at the intruder — and suddenly, surprisingly, burst into a cascade of melodious laughter. “Jamie Douglas — only you, in all this realm, I swear, would so behave! Aye, and from only you, by God, would I bear with it! Well — what is it, man? Out with it?”

“My lord . . .” Jamie glanced from the other’s nether parts to the still recumbent woman — who had now elected to place one small hand over the joining of her legs and the other amidst the opulence of her swelling breasts — neither of which achieved more than an emphasis on what was there.

“Never heed Kirsty,” the Earl advised, apparently untroubled by his own state of undress. “She’ll bide. Speak up — and stop nodding your head at yonder door. I am not going outside. I am not finished here, as even you can see!”

The intruder shrugged. “As you will. I come from Luncarty, six miles north. The Clan Chattan company is halted there. About thirty-five strong. They will come no further. They have been shadowed for some time, they say, by the Governor’s men. They captured one and put him to the question. He revealed that the Governor was waiting, at Scone, requiring word of their progress. At Scone, between them and Perth, here. Sir Alexander Stewart is with them, and fears a trap. He has reason, after all! I tried to persuade him to come on, but he would not . . .”

“A plague on it! He has the King’s safe-conduct.”

“He requires more than that, my lord. He asks that you yourself come. With the royal guard for escort. Only so will he trust the Governor not to attack them.”

“But . . . saints above! My wretched uncle will not assail them. He is a devil, yes, and hates us all. But he would not dare to interfere in this. It is my affair, mine and Moray’s. With my father’s agreement and blessing.”

“This I told Sir Alexander. But he is not convinced. The Earl Robert imprisoned him once before, contrary to your word, and mine. He asks why the Governor should lie at Scone when all others are at Perth. If he smells knavery, can you blame him?”

“Curse them all . . .?”

“To be sure. But curses will not bring Clan Chattan to the North Inch this day! It lacks but a bare two hours until the contest is due to start — so it will be late anyway. Sir Alexander says that he will wait at Luncarty until the hour set for the affrayment. If you, and the escort have not come by then, they turn back for their own Highland fastnesses.”

“But, save us — what is Alexander Stewart that Clan Chattan comes and goes at his word? My bastard cousin — what has he to do with it?”

“They appear to trust him. Look on him as guide and protector. Against Southron treachery. In place of his dead father. The Wolf was long their overlord, however savage his rule. These Mackintoshes, Shaws, Macphersons, MacGillivrays and the rest of the Clan Chattan federation, they have taken his eldest son in his place.”

“Are other of his oaflike brothers with them?”

“No. Only Sir Alexander. With one Shaw Beg MacFarquhar, who seems to be their champion, and he they call Mhic Gillebrath Mor. Not the Mackintosh himself, Captain of Clan Chattan.”

“Well, Jamie — we must pleasure them, I suppose. Since my own credit depends on it. If this contest does not take place, now, my name and repute suffers. And my intolerable uncle smiles — if smile he can! Which is no doubt his object in this business — to frighten off these Highlanders and so bring the entire project to naught. To my hurt.”

“That same thought came to me, my lord. So — you will come?”

“I will not! I have more to do meantime — as you can see! — than to run to and fro at the beck of the unlamented Wolf of Badenoch’s bastard! But I shall send him the royal bodyguard, to comfort his faint heart! You will take it, Jamie — and bring those clansmen to the North Inch, within the hour.”

Douglas shook his head. “It will not serve, my lord. I myself suggested as much — but Alexander said no, that the Governor could countermand such escort, dismiss it. You, the heir to the throne, he could not countermand — you in person. So it has to be yourself . . .”

“I tell you it has not, man! Are you deaf? See you — take Moray. He is my cousin, the King’s nephew. He will serve. Cousin to your Alexander too. If he will not have you.”

Again the stern shake of the dark head. “The Earl of Moray has always been against Clan Chattan, in this feuding. He champions the Comyns, who are his own vassals. They would never accept their enemies’ protector as escort.”

“Damnation — who are they, this Hielant rabble, to refuse this earl and accept that? I’m minded to let my Uncle Robert at them! Teach them a lesson . . .”

“And lose your great contest? And bring your Lieutenancy of the North to an ill start indeed.”

“God’s sake, Jamie Douglas — you must ever have the rights of it! Ever the last word. Does that bonny aunt of mine, tied to you in wedlock, not find you beyond all bearing?”

A brief glimmer of his famous smile flickered across the other’s sombre features. “She says so, yes — frequently.”

“Aye — and much good it will do her!” The Earl David chuckled, himself again. “See, then — take Lindsay. My Uncle David, of Glenesk. He is here, at this Blackfriars — I saw him but an hour back. My father’s good-brother. He will do as well as Moray. Better, for he is older, a seasoned warrior. And he does not love the Governor. Aye, Lindsay will do. Now, of a mercy, man — be off! This lady has been patient — you will agree? If she catches her death of chill, your blood her husband will be after! Myself, I was contriving to keep her warm! Eh, Kirsty?”

Douglas bowed stiffly. “I will do what I can, my Lord . . .”

“Do that, Jamie. And haste you. Hasten, both of us. You a-horse and me astride, eh?” As the other left the room to that silvery laughter, he heard the High Steward of Scotland add, “Now, lassie — let us see if we can raise this issue to its former heights, blackest Douglas or none . . .!”

The hard-riding company pounded northwards, parallel with Tay again, five-score strong, under no less than three proud banners, the royal Lion Rampant of Scotland, the red chevron on white of the earldom of Carrick, and the blue-and-white fess chequey on red of Lindsay — signs and symbols enough, surely to prevent anyone seeking to interfere with their passage, even in this ungoverned and ill-used kingdom. Jamie Douglas, leading the way, was now flanked by two somewhat older men, both dressed a deal more splendidly than he — Sir David Lindsay, Lord of Glenesk and Sheriff of Angus on his right, and John Stewart of Dundonald, Captain of the King’s Bodyguard, on his left. Both, oddly enough, were brothers-in-law, of a sort, of himself and of each other, for Lindsay was married to the King’s lawful sister Katherine, John the Red was that sister’s illegitimate brother by the former monarch, and Jamie’s wife was the King’s illegitimate sister Mary. King Robert the Second, the Bruce’s grandson, had made up for his lack of prowess on the field or in the council-chamber by his prowess in the bed-chamber or anywhere else convenient, with fourteen legitimate children and innumerable otherwise. His grandson David but followed in the family tradition — although he had wits far in advance of his grandsire’s.

Sir David Lindsay was none too pleased at being dragged away on this unsuitable and unnecessary errand at his nephew’s second-hand command. He was a vigorous, stocky and powerful man in his early forties, the most renowned tourneyer in two kingdoms, lord of two-thirds of the county of Angus, as well as Strathnairn in the North, a proud man in his own right and considering himself of better blood than any Stewart, cousin and heir to the chief of his name, Sir James Lindsay of Crawford and Luffness, Lord High Justiciar. Adding injury to insult, he had been grievously wounded six years before, at the deplorable Battle of Glasclune, by one of the disreputable brothers of the man he was being sent to escort, all bastards of his late brother-in-law the Earl of Buchan and Wolf of Badenoch, to the praise of God now safely deceased. He rode tight-lipped.

John the Red of Dundonald was a very different and less reputable character, huge, with a fiery head and beard, loud, boisterous, cheerful, an unlikely Stewart and taking after his Kennedy mother. He made a curious captain for the guard of his mild and inoffensive half-brother. He laughed and shouted now, at Jamie’s other side — who preferred the Lindsay silence.

They had less than six miles to go, fortunately. Half-way there, they came in sight of Scone Abbey across the Tay. They all eyed it, but only John Stewart commented.

“Robert will see us fine, from yonder,” he cried. “And I’ll wager he mislikes what he sees!”

Three times thereafter, Jamie’s keen eyes picked out silent groups of motionless horsemen, sitting their mounts beneath the cover of trees back from the roadside, wearing the Stewart colours and the Governor’s badge of the earldom of Fife. None moved or made any sign as the company cantered by.

At a bend of the great river, presently, was Boat of Luncarty, a ferry and milling hamlet, with a little parish church crowning a mound on the higher ground behind. Here, on the level haughland where the progenitor of the Hays had helped Kenneth the Third to defeat the Danes four centuries before, with the outliers of the blue Highland hills not so far distant, the Highland party they sought had halted, where they could still retire into the security of their mountains if need be.

As the newcomers clattered up, bulls’ horns were blown in warning and many fierce hands dropped to sword-hilts, dirks and the shafts of Lochaber axes, amongst the colourful tartanclad warriors. These numbered about thirty, plus sentries placed on points of vantage, and all in their best array, armed to the teeth. They stared at the royal guard, tense, suspicious, ready.

It was a peculiar situation, from any standpoint — for these were amongst the best fighting-men in Christendom, and courageous to the point of folly, the pick of a mighty clan. Moreover they were here on an entirely lawful occasion, on the heir to the throne’s personal invitation and under royal safe-conduct. It was unlike such to display fright, trepidation, in any circumstances; yet their alarm and tight wariness was very apparent here. It was all eloquent testimony to the state of chaos and insecurity in Scotland in the last decade of the fourteenth century, and to the reputation of the Earl Robert of Fife and Menteith, Governor of the realm for his elder brother the King.

From amongst the crowd a young man stepped forward, the only man there not wearing tartans, but dressed in approximately Lowland fashion, without armour. He was fine-featured, slenderly built, handsome in a fair way, and with a marked resemblance to the Earl David of Carrick although older by about five years, Sir Alexander Stewart, eldest of the late Wolf of Badenoch’s bastard brood and, since that prince left no legitimate offspring, Lord of Badenoch in fact if not in name and character. He looked from one to the other of the leaders of the newcomers.

“No Earl of Carrick, Sir James?” he said formally — but his voice had a pleasing Highland lilt and softness. “What of our compact?”

“My lord was engaged, Sir Alexander,” Jamie told him carefully. “He could by no means leave Perth. But he sent his fair salutations and asked my lord of Glenesk, here, to act his deputy. With John Stewart of Dundonald, His Grace’s captain of guard. Both kin of your own, and his.”

“I see. It is my pleasure to meet Sir David. I am aware of his fame and prowess, to be sure. John Stewart I know, of course — and greet kindly. But my requirement was the High Steward himself, the only man under the King who ranks higher than the Governor. And on whose invitation, I, and these, are here.”

“Boy!” Glenesk barked, “who think you that you are? That you can summon the heir to the throne! And turn up your nose at Lindsay! You, Buchan’s bastard!”

“Who I am, my lord, matters nothing in this issue. What matters is that the Clan Chattan accept me as my father’s heir. And that we have come South to Perth on the King’s safe-conduct. Although such should scarcely be necessary for the King’s lawful subjects in his own realm! Yet we are threatened by the Governor . . .”

“He has not assailed you? Nor even sought to halt you?”

“His men have dogged us since Dunkeld. Now they line the road ahead, our scouts say. The Earl Robert does not wish us to come to Perth . . .”

“But the Earl David does, by God — and we will see that you get there!” John the Red cried. “He, Robert, but thinks to scare you off, man.”

“I have tasted of his scaring off methods, sir! And wish to taste no more. Why should he seek to do so?”

Lindsay shrugged. “He disapproves of the Earl David his nephew’s appointment to be Lieutenant of the North, and Justiciar. He appointed his own son, the Lord Murdoch Stewart, to that position six years back. Murdoch durst never take it up, whilst your father lived. So the Governor has never been able to extend his rule to the northern half of the kingdom. He still would have his son Lieutenant and Justiciar. He says that the Earl David is too young, lacks experience. He would discredit his appointment. This contest David has conceived as a means of settling the feud which has been tearing apart much of the North. If it is successful, then David’s reputation is much enhanced — a good start to taking up office. If it fails, or never takes place, after half Scotland has come to watch, then . . .!” He left the rest unsaid.

Jamie intervened urgently. “That is all true. But there is need for haste. Already there must be delay. The King waits. The folk will grow impatient. Let us be on our way.”

Sir Alexander turned to consult with the leaders of the watching, listening Highlanders, fierce-looking men with the softest voices in the land.

“Tell them who and what I am, young man,” Lindsay said loudly, as though to penetrate their Gaelic-speaking ignorance by sheer volume of sound. “Tell them that they need have no fear — the Governor will not seek to interfere with me.”

“I have done so, my lord. And they agree. We will come . . .”

So, mounted on their stocky, sturdy Highland garrons, the Badenoch party took the road again, flanked by the superbly horsed royal guard, heading southwards at a brisk trot under the streaming banners.

Not a single man-at-arms wearing the Governor’s colours did they observe en route. Evidently there was nothing wrong with the Earl Robert’s eyesight, nor with his recognition of realities, when it came to the bit.

When they reached the North Inch of Perth it was to find that great park already crowded with people. A central area of about six acres had been fenced off, and at the south end of this the Clan Comyn, or Cumming, contingent was already in place, waiting, a piper strutting up and down before them. Elsewhere the spectators thronged the approximately one hundred acres of common land, riverside meadows from which the cattle had been driven for the occasion — save for the clear space left immediately in front of the Blackfriars monastery wall. The folk were entertaining themselves meantime, in good spirits, with games, dancing, fiddling and horseplay — although one or two minor fights had inevitably broken out amongst rival lords’ retinues. Pedlars, hucksters, tumblers, gypsies, fortune-tellers and the like were doing a roaring trade. It all resembled a gigantic fair, in the crisp October noontide.

Leaving the Clan Chattan party, with John Stewart and part of the guard, at the north end of the railed-off enclosure, the object of much interest, staring and pointing on the part of the crowd thereabouts, Jamie Douglas, with Sir Alexander and Glenesk, rode on into the town. The streets were much less thronged now, with most of the people already assembled in the Inch. At the monastery, Jamie was in doubt as to whether to seek the High Steward in the Gilten Arbour again or in the more conventional royal quarters in the guest-house; but the sight of his henchman, Pate Boyd, talking with a group of others at the guest-house door, and a jerk of that man’s head upwards, seemed to indicate that the prince’s recreational activities were for the moment over. The Douglas, dismounting, led Sir Alexander upstairs two steps at a time, the Lindsay following the young men more sedately.

In a large upper room, from which emanated much chatter and laughter, they found the Earl David in the midst of a gay and richly-dressed company of both sexes, beakers and flagons of wine being much in evidence. He had his arm around the shoulders of a handsome and statuesque woman almost old enough to be his mother, his hand inside the low-necked bodice of her gown, whilst he talked animatedly with sundry others. He seemed to be in excellent spirits, certainly without any aspect of anxious waiting. The Lady Congalton was reunited with her husband, over near one of the windows.

“Come, Alex,” Jamie said, as the young man from the North held back a little in the doorway. “That is he, in the scarlet-and-gold. With the Countess of Mar.”

“I see him, recognise him. As he has seen and recognised me — although he gives no sign. He seems . . . fully occupied!”

“Tush — never heed that, man. It is his way with women. Even his real aunts must needs put up with it — although some appear to like it. Come!”

“I am not clad for this peacock throng . . .”

“Sakes, Alex — do not be a fool! You are worth any score of these put together — and he knows it! What do clothes matter? See, we shall . . .”

“Ha, Jamie my dear — I have been looking for you.” A good-looking woman in her late thirties came up to them, fair, almost beautiful, though with her fine-chiselled features just slightly lined with care. “Where have you been? And who is this? Kin of my own, in some sort, I swear! But then, we Stewarts have almost a surfeit of kin, have we not?”

“Ah, to be sure — you have not met. This is Sir Alexander Stewart of Badenoch, whom I aspire to call my friend, my lady. And this is the Lady Isabel, His Grace’s sister, former Countess of Douglas and now wed to Sir John Edmonstone of that Ilk.”

“I might have known it. Another of my multitude of nephews — Alec’s son. And the best of that brood, from all accounts. Certainly the best-looking, I’d vow! Welcome to Court, Sir Alexander — if this Court is any place to welcome one to!”

The young man bowed courteously. “My father spoke much of you, Princess. As has Sir James, here. And always much in your favour. I perceive why, to be sure.”

“Gallant, Nephew! Who would have looked for the like from your wild mountains?”

“There are worse places to be reared than our Highland mountains, Lady Isabel — some nearer here, I think!”

“So-o-o! We have claws as well as smiles, Sir Alexander!”

“My lady — your pardon,” Jamie intervened, with a trace of impatience. “We must speak with the Earl David. Forthwith. We have been hastening, to come to him . . .”

“Yes. It is ever the Earl David nowadays, Jamie. David this, David that! I must not delay you, and him, no!”

The Douglas bit his lip. His position at Court had grown difficult of late. He was, in fact, the Lady Isabel’s man, her knight and man-of-affairs, her late husband the Earl of Douglas’s former chief esquire who had remained loyal servant and friend to his widow although she had in time been forced to remarry. But ever more noticeably, in the last year or so he had tended to gravitate into the orbit of the young and masterful heir to the throne — who indeed most evidently liked and trusted him as he did few others. Whomsoever the Prince David wanted to serve him, served him — it was as simple as that. Just as he would have none near him who did not please him. Wilful in all things, spoiled in one way from earliest years, he had nevertheless come to approve of Jamie — admire would be too strong a word — ever since they had first clashed and then worked together in some measure at Turnberry seven years before, at the task of circumventing his Uncle Robert of Fife and Menteith. They were still at it, united in this at least, that the Governor had to be countered. David had plenty of aides and servants more in keeping with his own style and temperament; but he had recognised something in Jamie Douglas lacking elsewhere, and more or less purloined him from his aunt’s service when he had come to set up his own establishment at Court. The Douglas was not altogether happy with this position — although serving the Lady Isabel had its own difficulties and embarrassments, especially for a happily-married man. The Stewarts were an autocratic lot; and since aunt and n