Black Douglas

by Nigel Tranter

Genres: Historical Fiction

Synopsis

It was almost inevitable that in the 15th century the new Scots royal house of Stewart would have to come to a reckoning with the great house of Douglas. Young Will Douglas, the eight earl, was born to vast power, influence - and trouble. And with the boy-king James II on an uneasy throne, and scoundrels ruling Scotland, the death of Will's father plunged him suddenly into a world where might prevailed and the end justified the means. 'Through his imaginative dialogue, he provides a voice for Scotland's heroes' Scotland on Sunday 'He has an amazingly broad grip of Scottish history' Daily Telegraph

Release date: August 30, 2012

Publisher: Hodder & Stoughton

Print pages: 364

Sample

In Order of Appearance: Fictional Characters in Italics

WILLIAM DOUGLAS, MASTER OF DOUGLAS: eldest son of James the Gross, 7th Earl.

JAMES DOUGLAS: twin second son of the 7th Earl.

ARCHIBALD DOUGLAS: twin third son. Later Earl of Moray.

HUGH DOUGLAS: fourth son. Later Earl of Ormond.

Pate Pringle: James the Gross’s steward at Abercorn.

LADY MARGARET DOUGLAS: eldest daughter. Later wife of the Chamberlain of Galloway.

LADY BEATRIX DOUGLAS: next daughter. Later wife of Hay, the High Constable of Scotland.

LADY JANET DOUGLAS: next daughter. Later wife of 1st Lord Fleming.

LADY ELIZABETH DOUGLAS: next daughter. Later wife of Sir John Wallace of Craigie.

JOHN DOUGLAS: fifth son. Later Lord Balveny.

JOHN CAMERON, BISHOP OF GLASGOW: Former Chancellor.

LADY BEATRIX, COUNTESS OF DOUGLAS: Wife of the 7th Earl.

WILLIAM ST. CLAIR, 3rd EARL OF ORKNEY: brother of the Countess.

SIR JAMES HAMILTON OF CADZOW: chief of the Hamiltons, and grandson of Livingstone, King’s Guardian.

SIR WILLIAM HAY OF ERROLL: Lord High Constable of Scotland.

KING JAMES THE SECOND: aged thirteen, son of assassinated James the First, and fourth Stewart monarch.

SIR JAMES LIVINGSTONE: eldest son of the King’s Guardian, Keeper of Stirling Castle. Later Chamberlain.

SIR ALEXANDER LIVINGSTONE: King’s Guardian. With Crichton, co-murderer of 6th Earl of Douglas.

DAVID LIVINGSTONE: another son of above.

ROBERT FLEMING OF CUMBERNAULD: later 1st Lord Fleming.

SIR WILLIAM CRICHTON: Chancellor (or Prime Minister) of Scotland.

SIR ANDREW CRICHTON OF BARNTON: son of above.

SIR JOHN FORRESTER OF CORSTORPHINE: a powerful knight.

LADY EUPHEMIA, DUCHESS OF TOURAINE: mother of the murdered brothers, and of the Fair Maid of Galloway.

Meg Douglas: tiring-woman to the Fair Maid; an illegitimate granddaughter of Earl Archibald the Grim.

LADY MARGARET DOUGLAS: The Fair Maid, Lady of Galloway in her own right, sister of the murdered brothers.

JAMES KENNEDY, BISHOP OF ST. ANDREWS: Primate of Scotland. Later Chancellor. Grandson of Robert the Third.

ALEXANDER LINDSAY, MASTER OF CRAWFORD: later 4th Earl of Crawford, known as Earl Beardie, or The Tiger.

DAVID, 3rd EARL OF CRAWFORD: father of above. Justiciar of the North, and Lord High Admiral.

Sir Patrick Hamilton of Dalserf: a veteran jouster.

GEORGE DOUGLAS, MASTER OF ANGUS: later 4th Earl thereof.

JAMES, 3rd EARL OF ANGUS: brother of above. Chief of Red House of Douglas.

PRINCESS JOAN: eleven-year-old sister of the King.

PRINCESS MARY OF GUELDRES: Queen of James the Second.

Wattie Scott: personal servant of Will Douglas.

HENRY DOUGLAS: youngest son of 7th Earl. Later a priest.

POPE NICHOLAS THE FIFTH: born Tomasso da Sarzano.

AENEAS SILVIUS PICCOLOMINI, BISHOP OF TRIESTE: papal aide, later Pope Pius the Second.

RICHARD PLANTAGENET, DUKE OF YORK: Lord Protector of England.

SIR HERBERT HERRIES: brother of Laird of Terregles, a sheriff-deputy of Galloway.

SIR PATRICK MACLELLAN: uncle and Tutor to young Laird of Bombie; another sheriff-deputy of Galloway.

SIR PATRICK GRAY: brother to 1st Lord Gray. Captain of the King’s Guard.

WILLIAM TURNBULL, BISHOP OF GLASGOW: Founder of Glasgow University.

SIR WILLIAM LAUDER OF HATTON: a royal courier.

“JAMIE — you fool! Back! Back, I say! Here — to me! Quick!”

Above the high excited baying of the hounds, the deeper rumbling lowing of the cattle and the shouting of lesser men, that yell rang out, vehement, urgent. The youth on the shaggy short-legged garron turned in his saddle, to look back towards his brother, questioningly.

“Quick, man! He’ll charge. God, Jamie — he’ll have you trapped!” As still the other hesitated, uncertain, the shouter pointed downhill in a sweeping gesture, below his brother. “The edge, see you — the scarp! No space to jouk. He’ll see it. Charge you. Back here . . .”

James Douglas glanced downhill. Fifty yards below him the short heather mixed with deer-hair grass ended in an abrupt lip of bare basalt rock, where the hillside fell away. It was no cliff or precipice, but there was a steep drop of forty feet or so, with a bouldery base, before the slope eased off again — a long minor escarpment typical of the many which scored that sunny, tree-dotted south face of Fastheugh Hill. No garron, however surefooted, could negotiate that scarp.

The youth was already reining round his horse as he changed his glance to peer in the other direction, uphill — for his eyes were not the strongest of Jamie Douglas, and the slanting late-March sun of mid-afternoon that blazed over all the Forest of Ettrick from a cloudless sky, helped nothing. The stocky, wind-twisted Scots pines which grew out of the heather up there were closer together that most of the scattered trees of the long hillside, and the barred shadows they cast made it difficult to distinguish the bull amongst the other milling cattle which the hounds had chivvied into taking up panting stance there, white as was its hide. Jamie saw no urgent need for alarm, but he dug his heels into the barrel sides of his mount, just the same; of all the Douglas brothers he was the one least apt to argue with Will’s admittedly sometimes autocratic commands.

But he was too late. With a bellowing roar that shook the warm heather-scented air, as its pounding hooves seemed to shake the hillside itself, the great white bull charged, head down, tail up, sweeping aside the frightened cows, knocking over two stiff-legged calves, and scattering the yelping deer-hounds which encircled the herd — only one of which stood its ground and attempted a snarling leap at the bull’s heavily-maned neck, to be caught and skewered in a lightning jab of a long, wickedly-curving horn, and tossed high in the air, to crash in the heather yards away, a twitching mangled carcase.

James Douglas’s eyesight was not so poor as to offer any doubts but that the bull was making directly for himself. There were plenty of other targets — his three brothers and half a dozen foresters and herdsmen irregularly spaced around the clump of pines. An ordinary domestic bull might have been diverted; probably would not have had the wit to perceive the youth’s dangerous position, in the first place. This however was no ordinary bull but a wild-born killer, massive, great-shouldered but lean of rear, shaggy-coated red of eye, auroch-horned veteran of fights innumerable, as cunning as it was savage. There were many of these wild bulls in Ettrick Forest, relics of the great wild herds of ancient breed which once had roamed all these southern uplands. They were a menace to man and beast, attacking at sight, often stealing the cattle herds which grazed the lower slopes — as this had done — and spawning treacherous and unprofitable offspring on honest men’s cows; but, for all that, they provided the most exciting and man-sized sport to be had in all the Forest, far outshining the chase of even the greatest hart or the occasional boar which still survived.

Will Douglas saw that his brother would not, could not, get out of the brute’s way in time. There was not more than seventy yards between Jamie and the trees — and more than twice that distance of broken ground before the escarpment tailed away and gave room for manoeuvre. The bull could string the bow, swing over at a tangent. The garrons they all rode were broad-hooved and sturdy, for the hill, but not fast, and the uneven heather and outcropping stone made bad going. Jamie would have been better to turn and face the charge, jouk at the last moment, then spur off uphill before the bull could turn round again — but of all the brothers Jamie would not think of that, Now he would be caught sideways-on, and helpless. He was tugging out his sword — but what use was that, in Jamie’s hand . . .

Will shouted again — but not to his brother to hasten, or to turn and dodge, or to fight. The cry that burst from his lips now was a crazy one, in the circumstances, however potent it could be on other occasions. “A Douglas! A Douglas!” the terrible slogan that could strike fear in the stoutest Scottish heart — or Northern English, for that matter — rang out wildly, involuntarily, as he kicked furious heels into his own garron’s sides, and positively flung beast and self forwards, to cut that tangent between brother and charging bull.

It made a strange, mad race. Three headlong courses converging — or not quite converging, for while Jamie rode for him and the bull charged for Jamie, he, Will, headed half-right, to distract the bull if he might, to shorten its course if he could. With a shrill scream his short, broad-bladed stabbing-sword was whipped from its sheath, to belabour the horse’s rump with the flat — for the beast’s reluctance was manifest.

It was a close thing. Jamie, who almost inevitably had tended to slant away half-right in his dash for safety, closer to the escarpment’s edge, to gain every precious yard and moment, when he heard his brother’s cry and saw him ride forward, swung his mount’s head half-left again, towards him — whereat Will cursed explosively; for however natural a reaction, not only did it shorten the gap but it left less space in which Will himself could operate; and with a charging bull space was the prime requirement.

But there was no time to be wasted on direction to his fool brother. It was all a matter of seconds now, and split seconds. The pounding of six pairs of hooves merged into one drumming tattoo, accompanied by the unchancy snoring roar that the bull emitted as it thundered down. The brute did not change its direction, whether or not its red eye had perceived Will’s advance; it continued to drive directly at Jamie.

Will had to make a lightning decision. They were all desperately close now. If the bull did not swing on him at the last moment, it would be best that he drove in behind it, try to crash his garron into its rear quarters, to throw it over, or at least deflect its course. But was there time? In the instants longer that this would take, might not the bull reach Jamie, broad sides-on, and those wicked horns do their fell work? Will chose that he must insert himself between, if he could.

The decision was scarcely taken before it was implemented. Even so, the bull would probably just have won the race and struck the younger man, or his horse, before Will could drive in. But in the final few yards it seemed to recognise the menace of attack as more worthy of its fury than the fleeing original quarry, and with an extraordinary swift and nimble action for so massive a creature, threw up its hindquarters, pivoted round on its forelegs, and without loss of momentum, hurled itself instead at the advancing Will.

Knowing his bulls, that young man had been prepared for some such behaviour — but scarcely for the speed at which it was executed. He wrenched his garron’s head round to the right, reining in savagely at the same time. The horse reared high, pawing the air, but could not sufficiently check its impetus. It neighed with fright. Only by superb horsemanship did the rider not only keep his seat but ensure that the animal kept turning away, even as its weaving forefeet came down to the heather again. By merest inches the lowered gleaming left horntip of the bull missed Will’s thigh, and the garron’s haunch, as the animals hurtled past each other.

Without letting up on his fierce rightwards drag, Will wrenched his mount completely round. But the creature was terrified, no fighting charger this, trained for the tourney and the lists, but a humble hill-pony bred to round up herdsmen’s flocks. It did not respond as it might have done, it stumbled on an outcropping stone, it pecked and staggered and sidled. It did come round in the full half-circle required — but it took a few seconds longer about it than it should, a fatal second or two longer than did the white bull to complete the same reversal.

Will Douglas found himself in the most unenviable position of any contender in a mounted encounter, face to face with a head-on charge, with no immediate momentum on his own mount either to meet the onslaught or to avoid it in time. He knew, even before the garron reared up again in whinnying panic, that there was no hope, no possible escape. He might conceivably save himself; the horse he could not save. He kicked his feet free of the stirrups.

Rising on its hind legs, the garron was at its most vulnerable, its unprotected underparts completely exposed to those cruel horns. With a vicious tearing upthrust the bull bored in, ripping open the bulging belly like a punctured bladder, even as the force of its charge overbalanced the horse and sent it reeling over backwards.

The young man part jumped and part was flung from the saddle. It was an unstable, collapsing stance from which to launch himself, but he was trained to the lists and knew how to fall, how to roll out of the way of trampling hooves, how to keep sword and sword-arm in action. He landed more heavily than he might have done, because of the backwards roll of the horse, but not sufficiently to injure himself. He took the heather on a tucked-in left shoulder, rolled over and over to that side, away from the animals’ feet, holding his right arm and weapon out and free — and almost before he had stopped rolling had his knees drawn up under him to aid him to his feet again. Reeling dizzily, he stood up and staggered round, to face his fate.

Mercifully, the bull was temporarily preoccupied. Too clever to waste time on savaging the dying horse, it nevertheless could not avoid, in its rush, getting itself entangled with the garron’s fallen body and flailing legs. Bellowing, it was forced to check, heading aside its disembowelled victim to free itself.

Will did not hesitate, however dizzy. He had an unexpected second or two, and had no doubts about how he should attempt to use them. The bull’s tail-lashing rear was towards him. Running the two or three steps towards it, not away from it, he hurled himself in a great vaulting spring up on the brute’s heaving back.

He knew that there would be swift reaction, but he was scarcely ready for the immediate and violent convulsion, as the animal arched its back steeply, thrust down its head and threw up its hindquarters. Only the shaggy mane saved him from being tossed forward right over those weaving horns, providing something for him to grasp with deep-clutching fingers, while he dug in thighs, knees and ankles with all the tenacity that was in him. Even so, he sprawled forward over the brute’s neck, slewing sideways as it bucked and shook itself. He all but lost his grip on his sword, as he clutched at the mane, only just saving it. Face buried in the creature’s coarse, strong-smelling hair, he clung.

As well, in being thrown forward, his legs had been forced higher, however unhelpful this was towards his ability to cling — for the bull was lashing its head sideways, now left, now right, in an attempt to hook him off with its great horns, and would almost certainly have been able to reach his legs otherwise. As he sought to straighten up, Will saw that he dare not lower his legs to a more secure and natural position.

He saw more than that. He saw that anything he might do he must do quickly, for the chances of maintaining this position on the see-sawing, heaving back, for more than a few moments, were negligible. Sprawling there, he took a grievous chance. Releasing the grip of his right-hand fingers, which clutched mane as well as sword-hilt, he tossed the sword up, to grab it again part-way down the blade — and almost bungling it, thought himself for an evil moment as good as carrion, with his horse and hound. But his fumbling clasp enclosed the steel again. The sword had been too long, before, to use effectively in his present contorted position. Now, twisting sideways, so that he could strike further back, he drove the stabbing blade down with all his power.

He felt the bull beneath him wince and quiver to the wound. But he felt also the jar of steel on bone, and groaned aloud. He had not struck far enough back. That would be the shoulder blade.

The brute’s jerkings and lashings and twistings reached new heights of frenzy, and its assailant would probably have been off had he not now something else to cling to — the sword itself, half-buried behind the creature’s shoulder. Hanging there like a limpet, he gasped deep breaths before seeking to make another attempt. He was aware of horsemen milling around him now, but aware also of how little anyone else could do in the situation — save only perhaps distract the bull’s attention a little.

It may be that this was to some extent achieved, for Will thought that there was a momentary relaxation in the beast’s furious efforts to dislodge him. Not wasting an instant of it, he sought to withdraw the sword — but found it more difficult than he had bargained for, in maintaining his awkward position. Cursing, he tugged. His right knee was cramping.

He got the sword out, and reaching further back still, but with a more forward-probing thrust, drove in the blade again, deep as he could.

The bull heaved, staggered a little, and coughed hugely.

That was the lung, he guessed — not the heart. Will sobbed another curse. Should he try somewhere else? The throat? In at the ear? Or the eye? He could not risk that, on the tossing jerking head. There could be little of the required accuracy in such stabs. Anyway, he was too far back, and dare not edge forward.

He was tugging out the blade again, his fingers sticky with the blood that was flowing from his hand, lacerated by his own steel, when he perceived that there was a new motion in the brute beneath him. It was running now, bucking and tossing head and hindquarters as it ran, but running. And in a more or less straight line, not turning and pivoting in circles. Tripping too, and coughing and roaring, sore-wounded; but there were still great reserves of strength in that massive body.

The creature was heading uphill again, back towards the huddled cows and calves. Will Douglas did not require his brother Archie’s shouted warning to inform him that the bull was not bolting, running away, seeking refuge in the herd. It was the tree that it sought. This was a forest bull, bred amongst trees. It would use them to rid itself of its enemy, to brush him off against the pine trunks.

In no doubts that if the animal once got him amongst the timber it would be the end of him, the young man recognised equally clearly that, if he threw himself off into the heather, the bull would almost certainly round swiftly upon him and he would be at the mercy of those daunting horns. The foresters were carrying bows and arrows — but could he rely on any of them, once he was off the brute’s back, to put an arrow accurately into a vital spot of a running bull, before it could gore him? He knew the answer to that, also.

There was only one advantage left to him; with the beast heading determinedly for the trees, it had stopped lashing its head from side to side. He could risk sitting up, instead of half-crouching, half-lying — and so be in a better position to use his sword. He raised himself almost to the upright. In that improved posture he could wield his blade much more effectively. He drove it down vehemently into the body beneath him. Again and again he struck, seeking the heart.

When the bull started to lash its head again, and to circle in its tracks once more, triumph began to swell within Will Douglas. He had to raise his legs again — but he could feel that the animal was stricken. Its rush, as well as losing direction, had changed both momentum and character. Its motion was now a scrabbling unsteady run, constantly tripping in the heather. The great head, though swinging still, drooped now; heavily. One of the thrusts must have reached the brute’s vitals.

The end came suddenly, without warning. One moment, the bull was still running and heaving, the next its forelegs had buckled under it. Over and down it crashed, its horns ploughing into the heather and peat, hindquarters still upright.

No amount of tenacious clutching could hold Will on that collapsing back. He was thrown violently forward, and hit the hillside more awkwardly than in his previous fall. But the tough, springy heather saved him. Shaken, the air knocked out of him, he sprawled there.

But only for a few seconds. He was already rising when eager hands reached down to help him up. Roughly he pushed them aside and staggered to his feet unaided, gasping for breath. He turned to stare. The bull lay a couple of yards from him, sides still heaving but mouth open and a scarlet stream of blood flowing from it. Even as he gazed the red-rimmed, angry eyes seemed to lose their heat. With a choke and a great shudder the brute died.

His three brothers were round Will, loud in exclamation; James anxious, apologetic, declaring that he was ashamed of himself, asking if Will was hurt; Archie, the twin, laughing, clapping him on the back, vowing that it was well done — but why in the name of all saints hadn’t he hamstrung the creature before he jumped on its back, that time? And young Hugh, only fifteen, choking with mixed excitement and adoration, gabbling praise.

Will Douglas ignored the last two, but swung on the shamefaced Jamie. Dark eyes blazing, he threw down his dripping sword, and clenching the bleeding hand, swept his fist up in a fierce buffet towards his brother’s cheek. Only an inch from the other’s face he managed to check the blow — and the fist quivered there for moments on end, scattering red drops on James’s flinching jaw. Then the obvious effort succeeded, and the hand dropped to the other’s shoulder and half-shook, half-patted it. Then thrusting his brother aside, and ignoring the other two, Will strode off. He was like that, a young man of vehement impulse, not always effectively controlled.

Pausing for a moment beside the bull, he looked down at it, biting his lip. He stooped to touch, almost to stroke, the great horned head, not in any naked triumph now but with a sort of compassion, regret. One of the foresters spoke, in respectful congratulation. Will answered nothing, stalking off across the heather. A hound, which came near to fawn on him, he kicked away savagely.

He made for where the sorry remains of the dead deer-hound lay in a shambles of blood and guts. Kneeling down, he raised the dog’s shaggy grey head, putting his arms around the neck, regardless of the gory mess which fouled him.

“Luath! Luath, my hero!” he cried, rocking the carcase like a baby. “You only! You only of them all dared the onslaught. You only put courage to the test. I might have known it, old friend.” Tears streamed down his darkly handsome, almost swarthy features, unchecked. He did not try to hide them. “Great Heart — we will hunt together some other day, some other where, you and I! . . .”

His voice broke. He laid the hound down gently, and rose to his feet, dashing the tears from his face now, and strode back towards the others. That also was Will Douglas.

Young Hugh brought him his abandoned sword, almost reverently; Jamie had torn a strip from his shirt to bind up the bleeding hand; and Archie made a somewhat offhand offering of his own garron. Will accepted all without comment, as his due, almost impatiently. He shouted to the chief herdsman.

“See to all this carrion, Wattle. I want the bull’s horns. Bring Luath to me at the castle, treated honorably. These others will bring down the cows and calves.” He mounted the garron a little stiffly, for he was bruised, and turned to his brothers. “Come, you.”

Archie mounted on Hugh’s beast — though making the younger boy ride pillion — and the four Douglas brothers on three horses rode away from the scene of the encounter, down the long slope of Fastheugh Hill, eastwards, the sun at their backs now.

“Will — do not be sore at me,” James pleaded, spurring alongside. “I am sorry. I did not see yon edge. I was watching the cattle . . .”

“Your folly cost me Luath!”

“Aye. But that was scarce my fault. If you had left the bull to me . . .”

The elder youth’s bark of laughter was mirthful rather than sour — but it brought a flush to the other’s cheeks nevertheless. “You? Leave the bull to you, Jamie? Sakes — it would have eaten you! I would still have had to slay it — but one brother short!”

When James did not answer, Will turned to glance at him — and seeing the dark stain of humiliation on those comely, sensitive features, he reached out a swift hand to grasp and shake the other’s arm.

“Man, man — take it not so hard!” he exclaimed. “You are something slow with the eye. And the sword. Likewise the spur! That is all, Jamie. With the pen, now — or the tongue, i’ faith — you have us all beat!”

“Say it!” his brother cried. “Say that you had to save my foolish life. That I would be dead now, like Luath and the garron, but for what you did. Say that you must ever watch over men, like a bairn!”

“Have I ever said that?. . .”

“I will say it for you, Jamie — if you must hear it!” Archie declared from behind them, laughing. “Not a bairn, perhaps — but a clerk. I swear that you should have been a priest. You would do better, ‘fore God, in a cloister, than on the hill. And with a missal than with the sword! Aye — and it is not too late. You could be an abbot, yet!”

James turned to look back. Twins are commonly notable for their sympathy, close in feelings as in looks. Not so this pair. They had a superficial similarity in appearance; both were dark — all the Douglases were that — and well built, though Archie was the taller and broader, even if Jamie the more delicately good-looking. But in the natures they were poles apart. Archie was bold, brash, forthright, seeing all in black-and-white, where the other was quiet, retiring, hesitant, introspective. That neither knew which was first-born was another barrier between them — for in that family such primacy could mean much. Not that the meditative James would have wished for it; but others were concerned, and to the out-going, vigorous Archie it was a matter of continual nagging moment.

“What is wrong with being clerkly? With learning? With books?” James asked. “In the end, is it not men skilled in these that rule this realm? All realms? Who make the laws? Is not the good Bishop Kennedy the greatest man in Scotland?. . .”

“Save us! You, a Douglas, say that? Kennedy, that wheyfaced priest! Only because he has king’s blood in him rides he so high. He does not rule, besides. Nor do law and parchments, his or others. The sword rules, here and always. Ask Crichton, that murderous hound! Ask the Chancellor what rules in Scotland. Ask Livingstone, who holds the King by his sword . . .”

“For the moment these seem to triumph. But the pen will triumph over the sword, in the end. Always it does. Holy Church will still prevail when Crichton and Livingstone are as dead as our cousins . . .”

“Holy Church! Think you prayers and mouthings will bring down these butchers? You are a fool, Jamie. Only a sharper sword, more stoutly and shrewdly wielded, will cleanse Scotland of the like. Pray God it will be a Douglas sword!”

“There! You pray despite yourself! . . .”

“Aye — a Douglas sword!” young Hugh joined in. “You can have your missals and prayers and books, Jamie. See what good they will do! When Douglas rides we will have no need of such, I say!”

“When Douglas rides — heaven pity us!” Archie said, with something between a snort and a groan. “When! In that day, when we can raise our heads again and look other men in the eyes, it will not be learning and law that wins the day, that is certain!”

“In that day, nevertheless, Douglas may be glad to have the support and prayers of Holy Church,” James insisted. “Call me fool if you will . . .”

“I do! And worse, man. It is such talk and such feeble flinching that has brought up to this pass. Such spineless, craven sloth that had made the name of Douglas a spitting and a byword! You are little better than, than . . .”

“I say so, too!” Hugh yelped excitedly.

“Quiet Enough! All of you.” Will turned in his saddle. “That is no way to speak — and you know it. Enough, I say. Archie — you have a tongue like a bell-clapper! Mute it — or I will mute it for you! Hughie — there are words which should never be spoken. Our father is . . . our father. And none speak so of him in my presence. Mind it. Mind it well. Jamie — all agree that you are a fool! The more so that you must provoke your still more foolish brothers! A God’s name, be quiet — all of you!”

Frequently the eldest brother had to speak thus. And when he did, in that tone of voice, it was seldom indeed that the others, even Archie, disobeyed. He was, after all, Master of Douglas.

From the skirts of Fastheugh Hill they crossed over on to the flanks of Newark Hill. They were out of the heather now, and down amongst the open glades of birch and oak and hazel, where the russet of dead bracken was just beginning to show a rash vernal green, with April only a day or two off. At the burnside below the hill they turned along the track there, and Will, in the lead, kicked his beast into a heavy canter. There was no more opportunity for unsuitable talk for a while.

The brothers had emerged into the broad open cattle-dotted haughlands of Yarrow, and could see the tall grey keep of Newark Castle, chief stronghold and messuage of all the vast Ettrick Forest,