A Rage of Regents

by Nigel Tranter

Genres: Cultural Heritage; Historical Fiction

Synopsis

In 1568, the defeat of Mary, Queen of Scots at the Battle of Langside and her subsequent flight to England left Scotland a troubled nation.

Mary's infant son was crowned James VI, with her illegitimate half-brother, the earl of Moray, as Regent. The population remained bitterly divided as Moray and the Protestant Lords began to wreak their terrible vengeance on supporters of the losing side.

Having fought for the Queen at the battle, the Carmichaels of Lanarkshire were in a precarious position to say the least. Poor nineteen-year-old John Carmichael, Younger of that Ilk, whose sole ambitions were land-improvement, organising fishing and raising a family, was to become deeply entangled in the murky world of Scots regency government, eventually finding himself in great danger.

'Through his imaginative dialogue, he provides a voice for Scotland's heroes' Scotland on Sunday

Release date: September 1, 1996

Publisher: Hodder & Stoughton

Print pages: 352

Sample

John Carmichael was shaken, as never before in his twenty years, shaken, bewildered, downcast – and blood-spattered. The blood was not his own, at least; partly his uncle’s and partly, probably, that of one of Moray’s men who, attacking him, he had managed to best, cutting him down with the sword which he had somehow lost thereafter, as he sought to raise and support his wounded uncle, the Lord Somerville, who had fallen off his horse. So John had had to dismount also, and both horses had bolted. Now he stood, on a low spur of Cathcart Hill above Langside and the Clyde, the older man slumped on the ground and alean against him, moaning and muttering incoherently, clearly seriously injured, and he stared around him, at a loss. What, in the good Lord’s name, was he to do?

John’s staring alternated between the scene of carnage and chaos of the battlefield which he had just left, to the north, past all the fleeing soldiery around him, some mounted but most on foot; but mainly southwards where at least the flight was more orderly, if scarcely organised, a compact and quite large body of men, all mounted, and well mounted, and one woman in their midst, the queen, fleeing the disastrous field. There went, in fact, the surviving leadership, such as were not slain or captured, of the loyalist army. Ought he, Carmichael Younger of that Ilk, to be fleeing with them? After all, he had come to fight for Mary against her wretched half-brother, the Regent Moray. They had most clearly lost the battle; but that was not to say that the queen’s cause was lost. Should he have fled with them, with her, found another horse amongst the many riderless, and ridden off? But that would have meant leaving his wounded uncle, his mother’s brother. He could not do that. Admittedly there were Somerville men-at-arms in flight amongst the others, whose duty undoubtedly was to help look after their lord. But all who had survived seemed to be intent on saving their own skins. Many had fallen in the fighting; there had been three hundred of them, mainly horsed. Where were they now?

He just could not leave his Uncle James lying there. This was John Carmichael’s first taste of real war, and for all the flourish at the start, he was not relishing it, any more than really comprehending it and what had happened. Confusion was his main state of mind.

With the queen’s party disappearing over a ridge to the south, John recognised that standing there staring was going to achieve nothing for either of them, end in their capture or cutting down almost certainly, payment of the price of being on the losing side, imprisoned at the best, possibly his uncle’s death from wounds. No enemy appeared to be coming up this hillock meantime from the battle area; but it was only a question of time, and probably short time. The sooner he was off the better.

Horses, therefore. Where their own were now he had no notion, probably grabbed by other decampers. He could see riderless beasts here and there, none so far off. He must try to win two of these. That meant leaving Lord Somerville there meantime, but there was no help for it.

“Uncle,” he said urgently, stooping. “Wait you here.” Not that the poor man could do anything else. “I must get horses. To escape. See, there are some over there. Wait. I will be back with mounts.” He hoped that was true.

Only moans greeted that. The other was grievously stricken, barely conscious.

John laid him flat on the grass, and hurried off. There were three animals standing, reins hanging loose, about two hundred yards away, evidently as bewildered by the situation as he had been, although one bent head to crop grass now and again. He saw one man running up to them, whereupon the beasts trotted away. The man evidently thought better of it and hurried off afoot.

John, brought up with horses since childhood at Carmichael in the Lanarkshire hills and moors, could surely improve on that. The creatures could get as frightened and upset by battle and bloodshed as could men, and these, having lost their masters, would be in a highly nervous state. A soothing approach was called for. The animals had halted again, not far off, and he walked slowly towards them. When they began to move away again, he called out, but calmly, reassuringly. He kept this up as he went, pacing over the rough ground unhurriedly; and although the horses moved also, they went not as a group but one and then another, and not far, only a few uncertain yards.

John continued to talk and walk, forcing himself to seem calm, confident, all but authoritative – despite the fact that he was anything but, very aware of fleeing men and the cries of the wounded, and fear that at any moment the regent’s victorious troops might come up here pursuing stragglers.

His quiet, assured approach worked, at least for one of the beasts, a sorrel mare, which turned head to look back at him, and then edged away only slightly, where the other two went further. John actually hummed a gentle melody now, hoping that this would help to allay fears in the mare; he had done this often when grooming horses, and found that they tended to like it.

Whether it was that or not, the creature did allow him to come up with it. And once he had grasped the travling reins, all was well. The mare did not sidle nor shy, and patting its flank, John was able to hoist himself up into the saddle without difficulty.

And, once mounted, the effect on the other two horses was evident. They accepted that here was normalcy again, after the fright and clash of battle and loss of their owners; and as John reined his mare over towards them, they awaited him unmoving, although one tossed its head and actually whinnied, whether in welcome, relief or complaint. Used to acting as cavalry mounts and in company, they accepted this new master’s authority, and he was able to reach over and take their reins without them shying away. He had intended to find two mounts but it seemed that he had gained three.

He trotted them over to where his uncle lay, and dismounted.

Now the next and major problem. How to get the inert man up into the saddle? Somerville, a middle-aged man, was no lightweight, and wearing half armour. He made no response to John’s urgings to try to rise. No way could the young man lift the other high enough to get him on to the mare’s back. Moreover clearly, once there, he would not be able to stay upright in the saddle. He would have to be held in front of John himself, sharing one beast. Here was a coil indeed.

He must have help. At least there was no lack of men to call on, other fugitives passing nearby all the time. A pair hurrying past he called to, but they ignored him. Then a single man, who also looked the other way, trying to run. Four came by. John decided that something of a bribe was necessary.

“You – see you!” he called. “Horses! Come, two of you. Aid me. Aid this wounded lord up. And you can ride. A beast each.”

That had its effect, an improved means of escape. But not two, all four came over to him.

John did not argue. If he was sharing a mount with his uncle, these four could ride in pairs also.

“See, the Lord Somerville is sore hurt. I will mount, then you lift him up to me. You can take the other horses. Ride pillion.”

Nothing loth, the four picked up the wounded man, less than gently, as John mounted the mare again. Somehow they got his uncle up and settled slumped before him, where he would have to be held securely. Then, arguing over who should sit where, the others climbed on to the remaining horses. John gathered that they were Hamilton men-at-arms. The Lord Claud Hamilton and his elderly father, the Duke of Chatelherault, had been prominent amongst the leaders of the queen’s army.

They set off without delay. At least all knew approximately where to ride, for the White Cart was there below to guide them, and then the great River Clyde. Following this up, south-eastwards, they would come to Hamilton town in some ten miles. Cowthally Castle, Somerville’s main seat, was much further, twenty miles at least, but in the same general direction, a long way to ride double-mounted with a wounded man – but that was for the future. Meantime, down Cart to Cathcart, then over to the Clyde in the Carmyle area.

John led the way, for these Hamilton men were obviously foot, not cavalry, no expert riders, especially when two to a beast. Burdened thus, the horses could not go fast, but with no pursuit as yet evident, speed was not of the essence. Covering the miles was what mattered.

John found holding his uncle approximately upright and secure at the front of his saddle, on a trotting mare, less than easy, and tiring on the arms. But it was possible, and every mile saw them further from that grim battlefield and all that it meant.

They duly went by the Cart to the Clyde, passing fleeing men all the way. John wondered where the queen was now, where she was being taken. Beautiful, unfortunate Mary Stewart; how grievous had been her short reign in Scotland, so far. She had only come back from France in 1561, seven years before, a young widow of his own age, eighteen years, had remarried here twice, unhappily both times, produced a child, James, but had fallen foul of her so-called Lords of the Congregation, the extreme Protestant leadership, which condemned her as an arrant Catholic, imprisoned her in the Douglas castle of Lochleven, forced her to sign a form of abdication, and crowned her infant son king as James the Sixth, with her illegitimate half-brother James Stewart, Earl of Moray, as regent for the child. She had escaped from her captors, renounced the alleged abdication, and returned to her throne, challenging the Protestant Lords. And now this disaster. But she still would have much support in her divided realm, irrespective of the religious question. Loyal men would rally to Mary, their rightful monarch. All was not lost, in one lost battle. Where would those escaping lords be taking her? Where would she raise her standard anew?

At Carmyle, they turned up Clyde, their road avoiding the river’s coils and twists, by Cambuslang and Blantyre to Hamilton, that journey taking them just two hours. Entering the town, without remark or farewell, John’s four companions left him, to turn up a winding side-street and disappear. So much for gratitude. He rode on alone, stiff, saddle-sore and weary, arms aching with holding his uncle in place, the older man seeming to drift in and out of consciousness.

They were almost halfway to Carnwath here, he recognised. Could he keep going all that way, another dozen miles? But what option had he? An inn? A tavern? His uncle required the services of a physician, he judged, care and nursing, and as quickly as possible. He would not get that at any roadside inn. He must get him home to Cowthally even if they must ride until the mare dropped – or his own arms lost their power to hold up his burden.

Presently the mare was ceasing to trot, scarcely to be wondered at.

He followed the Clyde right to Lanark. It would have made a shorter journey to have borne off to the left, north-eastwards by Carluke; but that would have meant crossing higher broken ground of low hills, in the circumstances inadvisable. Four miles on, with the dusk settling on the land, he did leave the great river, near Carstairs, to head due north now, and up on to the moorland by a drove-road. Fortunately May nights are never very dark in Scotland, and he was able to avoid bogs and difficult patches. Passing the little White Loch, thankfully he reckoned that he had only another mile to go. Cowthally Castle was a strange choice to be the Lord Somerville’s chief messuage, when they owned large lands and houses elsewhere; but it was its comparative impregnability which accounted for this, a highly defensive site, even if not obviously so at any distance – and the Somervilles in the past, and possibly still, had been apt to require safe and secure establishments.

The castle was set in the middle of a marsh, undrained deliberately, thus permitting no fewer than four wide moats of water which had to be crossed before access could be gained. There were drawbridges, which could be raised and lowered, over narrowed parts of these; also underwater flagged causeways zigzagged for those in the know. Otherwise the place was unapproachable, and even cannon kept beyond effective range; not the most comfortable of residences perhaps, but comforting in unruly days, and of a winter’s night.

Fortunately John knew the whereabouts and chosen contortions of the causeways, for he had been here frequently; at night the drawbridges were all raised; and he splashed across on the weary mare. Even so, he had to ring a great hanging, clanging bell when he reached the high and parapet-crowned outer walling, with its gatehouse, and clang it again, before he gained attention from the presumably dozing guards.

“The Lord Somerville and Young Carmichael!” he shouted, when a voice demanded who came to Cowthally at this hour; and added, “And open swiftly, see you! My lord is wounded.”

That did produce results. With a great clanking the iron portcullis was raised, and the creaking, massive door swung open. John rode in through the gatehouse arch, where two men, armed with sword and spear, scrutinised him in the half-dark. Recognising him, and exclaiming over the collapsed and unconscious figure he held between his arms, they preceded him into the cobbled courtyard. He ordered them to come and support their lord while he dismounted.

That getting down of his uncle from the saddle was almost as difficult as had been the lifting of him thereto, the three of them fearful indeed that he might fall, his sprawling weight leaden. Then between them they had to part carry, part drag the body over the cobbles to the doorway of the main keep of the castle, and up the wooden steps to the entry platform, for the doorway was on the first, not the ground floor, reached across a gangway which could be withdrawn for further security. It was in place, fortunately, that night. Surely never had a Lord Somerville returned to his fastness in this fashion.

It might seem strange that they had to beat on the door timbers to gain attention and entry, the fortalice’s occupants not aroused by the noises of bell-ringing, portcullis clanking and shouting; but the walls of that hold were ten feet in thickness, and the windows small and shuttered of a night. Sounds, as well as visitors, did not penetrate easily.

But the rasping of the door’s steel tirling-pin did result in a servant opening to them, with consequent exclamations and cries. A maid, hand to mouth behind him and holding a lamp, was sent hurrying upstairs to inform the family.

They laid the unconscious man on a bench, shaking heads over him.

Lady Somerville came down in haste, stared, and then went to kneel beside her husband, silent.

She was much younger than her lord, who had married comparatively late. Behind her came a girl in her early teens, Margaret, the older of two daughters. The other, with her two brothers, were seemingly abed.

John began to give some account to the Lady Agnes’s back, trying to explain the situation, she demanding help to remove the armoured heraldically painted breastplate her spouse wore, the servants stooping to aid her, the daughter beginning to weep.

The woman presently rose, and turned on John almost. fiercely. “James should have been taken to a physician,” she declared, all but accused. “He is grievously hurt. You have brought him far? From near Cathcait, you say? All that way, requiring succour.”

“I thought it best, Aunt. To get him home to your care.”

“Hours on a horse in that condition. Many hours. Folly!”

“We could have been pursued by Moray, the victor of the battle. The queen fled. The regent’s men cutting down escapers . . .”

“I must send to Lanark for our physician. None nearer. You would pass Lanark?” That was more indictment than question.

He shook his head, unhappily. “I had not thought on that. Only to get him here . . .”

She ignored him now, telling the manservant to get Dod Hutcheon and have him ride at once for Lanark. Get him out of his bed, if need be. And the same with the physician, Crawford. Have him back here. No delay. She swung on the maid, and her tearful daughter. “Fetch hot water. Clean cloths. My box of salves. Do not stand there staring. Quickly.” To the guards, “See you, carry him upstairs. Heedfully. John, help them. In God’s name, take care! Come!”

Agnes Hamilton, Lady Somerville, was a masterful woman, as became the daughter of the late and famous Sir James Hamilton of Finnart, who had been one of the foremost men in the land, Privy Councillor, Steward and Master of Works to King James the Fifth, builder of castles, and rich, although an illegitimate son of the Earl of Arran, one of the many such. But he had been especial. And he had been executed at the late king’s command, allegedly because of concocting a plot against the royal life, but actually because the monarch, chronically impoverished, coveted the fortune he had amassed. His daughter had been much affected and distressed by this, needless to say, as well as impoverished; and her already strong character hardened into imperiousness. John Carmichael was not alone in being wary of her, although she could be kind enough and good company also.

He did as he was told, and with great care and no little manoeuvring, they got his uncle up the narrow and twisting defensive turnpike stair, not only to the first floor where was the great hall and the living quarters, but on up to the next landing and the principal bedchambers. There the injured man was laid on a bed, and the men dismissed.

John, downstairs, realised how weary he was, and sore, his arms and back aching with the awkward position he had had to hold for so many difficult hours, sitting on the back of his saddle not its dipped centre, and holding up that heavy, armour-plated body for perhaps twenty-five miles, and that after the stress and trauma of the battle and flight. And he was hungry – he had not eaten since breakfast. He said so, and was brought cold meat and wine, at the great table in the hall.

Left alone, he presently fell asleep in front of the smouldering hall fire.

Some indeterminate time later he was roused by the maid, to be informed that his aunt had not wholly forgotten her hostess’s duties, that the bed for him was ready up in an attic-floor room, and hot water to bathe in. The physician had not yet arrived from Lanark.

John’s bathing that night was superficial, to say the least; and bedded, he fell asleep again all but immediately, his first day of warfare thankfully behind him.

He slept late next morning; indeed it was early forenoon before he was roused, with more hot water and a tankard of honey wine to aid the waking process. He washed rather more comprehensively this time, and went down to eat a solitary breakfast in the withdrawing-room off the hall. There presently he was joined by his young Somerville cousins, two girls and two boys, the latter agog to hear about the battle and the queen, and whether their father was going to die, Margaret still somewhat weepy. He sought to reassure them.

It was some time before Lady Somerville appeared, looking a little drawn, for she had been up all night, but none the less in command of the situation. She promptly dismissed the children, informed that the physician, Crawford, was still with her husband, who had been bled, and was conscious intermittently but talking no sense. She wanted full details of the battle and its consequences.

John did his best to enlighten her.

“That Moray is the devil!” she declared. The earl was an illegitimate son of the monarch who had executed her father. She was not entirely consistent in this for, to be sure, Queen Mary was also James the Fifth’s offspring, although legitimate, the only such. “Our good queen? Where is she now? And what of my Hamilton kin? Have they escaped?”

“That I do not know, Aunt. Chatelherault, the duke, yes. For he was never down in the battle, watching, with the queen, from the higher ground. Argyll, the chancellor, was in command, but he fainted before the onset. He was –”

“The Campbell fainted! MacCailean Mor! Save us, is that the best Her Grace could do for commander!”

“The duke was old, and less than well. His sons, the Lords John and Claud, did well, winning on the flanks. The Lord Herries commanded the cavalry, being largely Border mosstroopers. The Earl of Eglinton the foot. But Kirkcaldy of Grange was with Moray, and he is the finest soldier in the land. He made a feint, and drew away much of the Highlandmen. Then his cavalry rode down our foot. We were outwitted, I fear . . .” His voice tailed away.

“Moray and his damnable Reformers will be crowing. Aye, and pecking like the carrion crows they are!” the Lady Agnes commented. “Grabbing decent folk’s lands and moneys. And Holy Church’s. I know them!” She was a good Catholic. “But the queen? She is foolish but honest. Most of the land will support her still. Why did she have to wed those two scoundrels, the weak Darnley and that ruffian Bothwell? If she had wed a Hamilton now . . .” She shook her dark head. “But there is time for that, yet. If she will be well guided, for once. Now, I must return to my husband. I am against more blood-letting, as the physicians ever advise. He had, I think, lost enough blood already! You, John Carmichael, what do you intend? Will you bide here meantime? Or . . .?”

“No, Aunt. I will be off for home. My mother and father will be anxious. If they have heard of the defeat.”

“Very well. My thanks for bringing my lord back – even though you did not bring the physician from Lanark! You will learn, perhaps!” She left him.

John was not long in making his departure, and on the mare he seemed to have won, not a bad beast if less well bred than his own lost mount.

He had no great distance to go, a dozen miles or so, south by west, through low hills, by the Medwyn Water to the Clyde again, with ever the majestic mass of the great Tinto Hills rising before him, going between Carnwath and Carstairs and Ravenstruther, to cross Clyde at Hyndford, and so into Carmichael parish. All these Car-names, like Carluke and Carmyle passed the day before, indicated how important this area of the upper Clyde had been to their Celtic predecessors, for the car was caer, meaning a fort in that language. John could not actually trace his ancestry back as far as that, but he could, directly, to a Robert de Carmichael in 1226, and he was not the first of the line allegedly. His father often chaffed his mother on that fact, that the Carmichaels were much the more ancient line than were the Somervilles, even though they had not buttered up King James the First to make them lords of parliament.

Rounding the isolated Carmichael Hill, quite lofty, however overshadowed by mighty Tinto, on a projecting spur of its southern shoulder he came to his home. Carmichael Tower was a much more typical fortalice than Cowthally, although smaller, tall, square in the Borderland fashion, set on a green shelf of the hill, rising to four storeys and an attic, this within a wallhead parapet and walk, no moat possible on this site, but a deep dry ditch guarding the only approach. No real courtyard was feasible either, but an irregular enclosure to the rear contained stabling, storehouses and brewhouse. Its castleton, if so it could be called, consisted of a few cottages and barns on lower ground before the twisting track up. The Carmichaels, although ancient and with a stirring background, were not a rich and powerful house; and the Lord Somerville had rather thought that his sister was marrying beneath her when she wed Sir John Carmichael of that Ilk – hence the chaffing over comparatively ancient blood.

John’s welcome home was warm with relief, word of the defeat and the slaughter at Langside having reached here by some of their own returning men at the castleton, but who had no information as to the fate of the young laird. Also, they knew of Queen Mary’s escape and riding south, for she and her party had crossed the Douglas Water on their way, which river passed only four miles west of Carmichael, Douglas town itself ten miles. Lady Elizabeth threw her arms round her son, choking back tears over his deliverance; and Sir John gripped his shoulder convulsively, wordless. Young Archibald, his brother, and Mary still younger, were less moved, but very vocal. They said that they thought that he might have fled with the queen.

Questioning followed, needless to say. What had happened to Uncle James? Where was Queen Mary now? Who was responsible for this grievous débâcle? What of the other loyalist great ones, especially the Hamiltons? And Maxwell, Lord Herries, with his Border mosstroopers, to which grouping the Carmichael and Somerville contingents had been attached? John answered as best he could, while being plied with food and drink, acknowledging that he was very ignorant as to details, having found real warfare a confusing business indeed, and nothing like what the ballads and story-tellers made of it. Looking to one’s own little part in it all, one’s own confrontations and assaults, aye and welfare amidst dangers, was apt to preoccupy the mind. But he had managed to cut down one enemy rider, whether slain or not he did not know.

That last pleased his small brother, at least, who too demanded details, who was he, where and how had he struck him, and with sword or lance? John was afraid that in his answers he sorely disappointed Archie.

His mother insisted that Sir John at once took her over to visit her brother at Cowthally. Thankfully, she did not urge her son to go back with them.

It was good to be home again, although repercussions from that sorry defeat would not be long in affecting their lives, even here at Carmichael, that was all but certain; the Regent Moray and the Lords of the Congregation would see to that against all who had supported the queen.

It took five days for the extraordinary and dire news to reach Carmichael Tower. Mary the queen had gone, had left Scotland, fled into England, to throw herself on the mercy of Elizabeth Tudor, her sister-monarch. She had ridden with her faithful supporters down to the Lord Herries’s castle of Terregles, near Dumfries, and there, despite the advice and pleadings of all, she had made up her mind. Her seven tragic and desperate years of reigning had become too much for her. She would go and seek the refuge, care and aid of Elizabeth, whose heir actually she was. One day, God willing, she would come back, and with English help, resume her throne.

Unhappily her company had escorted her to Dundrennan on the Solway shore, where, after emotional farewells, she had embarked on a small boat and had been rowed across the firth for the Cumbrian coast and Carlisle, leaving her dismayed adherents to face a future grim and frightening indeed.

All but stunned by these tidings, the Carmichaels, like so many others in Scotland, faced a completely new situation, in the nation and in their personal reactions and positions. Young James Stewart was now undisputed monarch, which meant that his uncle, the Regent Moray, was as undoubtedly ruler of the land, a hard and able man who, had he been legitimately born, might well have made a strong and effective king. But in the circumstances he would be ruthless, backed by the militant Protestant lords; and all supporters of his half-sister would be endangered and assailed, nothing more sure. And without the queen as figurehead to rally to there was no least hope of keeping her royal banner flying, of maintaining her rightful claim to the crown in any practical way, especially as she was putting herself in the care of the hated English. Mary Queen of Scots, beautiful, attractive and usually courageous, was maintaining her lack of good judgment to the end.

What, then, was to be the course for her more prominent and known upholders to follow? Lying low would avail them little against the new regime. Any attempt to maintain a pro-Mary party would be treated as high treason against King James. Realities had to be faced. Co-operation with the regent, then? Many, undoubtedly, would so choose, however unpalatable. But would such co-operation be accepted? Much more was to be gained by the Lords of the Congregation in damning them, as Catholics and traitors, having parliament condemn them and forfeit their lands and wealth – which in effect would mean to the lords and chiefs, although ostensibly to the crown. Only the very powerful in manpower of the Marian supporters, such as the Hamiltons, the Campbells, the Maxwells and the Setons, would be apt to retain their properties and position, although not their influence. For the others . . .!

Sir John Carmichael was an eminently practical man, and saw that decisions must be made if he was going to save himself, his family and people from ruin and trouble. He sat down at table with his wife, elder son and Carmichael of Nemphlay, a nearby lairdly kinsman. Something must be done, and quickly, before they found themselves arraigned before either the Privy Council or parliament, and charged with rising in arms against King James, something short of going cap in hand to Moray. What?

His three hearers eyed each other, silent.

“Douglas!” Sir John said, then. “There lies possible hope for us. Always we Carmichaels have had links with the Douglases, perhaps the most powerful family in the land. Placed where we are, almost on the Douglas Water