Crusader

by Nigel Tranter

Genres: Historical Fiction

Synopsis

Alexander III of Scotland was just seven years old when he inherited the throne. South of the border, England's King Henry III saw this as his chance to assert his paramountcy over the kingdom. At the age of ten, the boy was married to Henry's daughter. But through the hazards of power politics and dynastic marriage - one man stood by the young monarch. Whether it was shooting wild geese, helping him escape from the prison-like confines of Edinburgh Castle or teaching him to stand up both to his ever-threatening English father-in-law and the unending feuds of his own countrymen, David de Lindsay of Luffness in East Lothian was Alexander's one true and constant friend. But David's only wish was to be a crusader, a wish he was finally to fulfil when the boy became a man. The turbulent 13th century story of the child king Alexander III of Scotland and David de Lindsay of Luffness, his one true supporter, in an age of crusades and wars.

Release date: September 13, 2012

Publisher: Hodder & Stoughton

Print pages: 352

Sample

It was the year 1264, midsummer, and the heat and humidity appalling. Sir David de Lindsay lay on a plank-bed in an airless cell of the mighty triple-walled castle of Acre – and if he could have seen himself, he might well have been struck by his likeness to his mother, that last time that he had seen her, thin, gaunt, wasted, eyes glittering, breathing fast and shallow. The man who sat beside him, in his ragged brown monk’s habit, bent head to listen, as now and then the other sought to speak, from dry, burning lips, however damp all else.

What the knight was trying to say the monk already had a fair grasp of; but the dying man was clearly urgent that there should be no mistake. He kept seeking to repeat parts of it, dire effort as it obviously was.

His sorrowing companion spoke soothingly, in a voice very similar, if so much stronger, than that of his patient – for it so happened that he was a fellow-Scot, indeed another Lothian man, Friar Kentigern de Lauder, of the family of the Bass Rock in the Firth of Forth, one of the monks from Mount Carmel, dispossessed by the Infidel from their famous monastery, and now acting as nurses and attendants to the crusading knights. And the said knights much needed their services, for fully half of them at Acre were sick of the terrible fevers which scourged that coast, in the insanitary quarters of this harsh fortress, dying not of wounds or in battle but of wasting disease. David de Lindsay was only one of them.

Friar Kentigern had pieced together the incoherent request of the man he had served and nursed so caringly. Sir David, once he had died – and that could be any day, any hour, now – wanted his body to be embalmed, and when ship was available, taken back to Scotland, to Luffness. And there his brother, Sir John de Lindsay, would give the friar land and aid to set up a new monastery, a Carmelite monastery on Luffness land, probably the first in all Scotland, in the chapel of which his body was to be interred, beside the altar. Friar Kentigern was to write this out on a paper, and he would sign it. Or, if he could no longer sign, his seal was there and he might make a cross – the only cross that he had been able to make, to advance this ill-starred crusade. And he was to say to his Lady de Lindsay not to forget that he would be waiting, wherever and whenever, as promised – a peculiar message.

And so it was.

It took four long years to get that embalmed body shipped and back to Scotland, and to set up the new Carmelite monastery, having Friar Lauder as its first Prior. In the chapel thereof a stone coffin, with a knight in effigy above, was fashioned lovingly, in a shirt of chain-mail, shield on chest and sword at side, in the chancel, left of the altar. It is still there today, seven centuries later.

David de Lindsay looked down at himself, hitched his belt round a little so that the handsome jewelled buckle was central and the decorative dirk hung at his right hip without dangling, and glanced over at his mother.

“Do I look aright?” he wondered.

The Lady Elizabeth nodded. “Well enough,” she judged. “You will never look so fine as did your father. But that is scarcely your fault, is it? Probably mine! But you will do well enough, Davy. Especially if you can find occasion to smile. You have a warmer smile than ever he had!”

Sir David de Lindsay, Justiciar, Baron of Luffness, Lord of Barnweill and The Byres, had been reckoned one of the handsomest men of his age, and one of the most spectacular dressers, suitable in one who had managed to marry one of the greatest heiresses in the land, and of the ancient royal line into the bargain – hard for a plain-faced and far from elegant young man to follow and live up to.

David nodded resignedly. “I cannot think that there will be much to smile at in a parliament,” he said.

“Who knows? Enough nonsense is usually talked!” The Lady Elizabeth had a mordant wit and a tongue to match. “You will scarcely need to sparkle and shine there, boy, I swear!”

“I shall say nothing, belike . . .”

“Probably that would be wisest. The less said, the less to regret. Would that so many would remember that. My brother in especial! He will no doubt much hold forth. And to little effect.” She smiled and her smile, considering her style and reputation, could be remarkably warm also, on occasion. “Off with you, then. A pity if you arrive late for your first parliament.” She looked as though she was going to kiss her elder son, then thought better of it. “Give your Uncle Patrick my greetings, even though he does not deserve them. And if you come across any young women at Roxburgh, remember that there are others just as fair-seeming all over this land, and possibly better endowed!”

David, who had heard that sort of advice before, made no comment. He bowed to the Lady of Luffness – who had clearly no wish to become the Dowager Lady of Luffness – and turned, to make for the door and down the winding turnpike stair, almost at the run now.

Out in the great courtyard of Luffness Castle he found Pate Dunbar waiting for him, with the two horses saddled and ready. Although Pate, a year older than himself, at twenty-three, was his servitor, he was also his friend – as was the more acceptable in that they were blood relations, full cousins indeed, save that Pate was illegitimate, the by-blow of the said Uncle Patrick, Earl of Dunbar and March, his mother’s brother; and so, in fact, as far as blood went, of even loftier strain than any Lindsays, who were only eight generations on from the Norman adventurer who had come north with David the First two centuries before. For the Earls of Dunbar and March were direct descendants of the ancient Celtic royal line of Scotland, more authentically royal than King Alexander himself. Of so lofty lineage were they that they allowed themselves no surname, baptismal names sufficing, so that David’s mother was styled the Lady Elizabeth only, not using her late husband’s Lindsay; and her brother was just Cospatrick, or more usually Earl Patrick. By the same token, his by-blow Pate added Dunbar to his name, as indication of his illegitimacy.

“Roxburgh, then,” David said, mounting. “How long, think you, Pate?”

“Going by the Ystrad of Gifford, over Lammermuir to the Dye Water and down the western edge of the Merse to Wedderlie and the Earlston of Ersildoune, thirty-five miles I’d say, but with the higher ground to climb. By Haddington and Humbie to Soutra and down Lauderdale, over forty, of easier going. Four hours either way, as you ride!”

“Aye, then. Let us take the shorter road. There is a council first, then the parliament to start at three hours after noon. We should have time aplenty.”

The other shrugged and grinned. He was a much better-looking young man than was David, less square and rugged of feature. “The poor horses!” he observed.

“They grow fat, lacking work.” Which was not strictly true of as fine a pair of beasts as would be seen south of the Scotwater, or Firth of Forth.

Pate mounted, and they rode together from the keep doorway across the cobbles of the courtyard and out through the gatehouse’s arched pend between the twin circular drum-towers which supported the portcullis and flanked the drawbridge. This last was already down for them, and the portcullis up; and with a wave to the gate-porters they clattered across the moat and down its quite steep seawards bank beyond to the fishing hamlet of Luffnaraw. Luffness Castle was a great and powerful place, built above the shore of the wide Aberlady Bay on the Scotwater Firth, a strong position reinforced by deep ditches and the water-filled moat, its twenty-foot-high curtain walls topped by parapet and wall-walk, its angle-towers and bastions. It had been built, a century before, by the Dunbar earls to guard their vast new central Lothian lands, just as Dunbar Castle itself, fifteen miles away, guarded those to the east. David’s great-grandfather, Sir William de Lindsay, had won it when he, like his grandson after him, had married a daughter of the then Earl of Dunbar, the fourth. This was her portion or dowry, on condition that the Lindsays protected the earl’s nearby properties.

The two young men, greeting such of the fisherfolk of Luffnaraw as were to be seen that morning, rounded the castle’s perimeter east-about and turned due southwards, to ride across the marshy levels of Luffness Muir, cattle-dotted but kept deliberately undrained and free of trees, save the odd stunted hawthorn, for defensive reasons; no enemy could creep up on the castle unseen this way. But there was a road, or rather something of a causeway across.

A mile of this and they came to firmer ground where was the nunnery of Ballencrieff, where there were the women to wave to at work in the fields, the orchards, and amongst the rows of bee-skeps, culling wax for their candle-making. Now the land began to rise in grassy folds to the Garmylton Hills, amongst which folds rose the lesser castle of The Byres of Garmylton, so known humorously from the first as indication by its Lindsay lords that it was little better than a cow-byre. Nevertheless it had been raised in time to be a lordship in its own right; and now, since his father’s death the year before, David’s full style was Lord of Luffness, Barnweill, Crawford and The Byres. It had indeed been his portion until he succeeded to all, although he had never lived there. Now, in due course, he would probably hand it over to his young brother John.

Surmounting that green ridge of the Garmylton Hills, suddenly the land opened before them, the wide and fertile Vale of Tyne, reaching across miles of tillable land up and up to the long, heather-clad escarpment, dominating all, that was the Lammermuir Hills, so much higher and more formidable than those of Garmylton, the watershed which separated Lothian from the Borderland. Across that vale and that great barrier they had to go, and far beyond. This was no easy-going ride by well-trodden tracks and by-ways – and with David dressed in his best, too.

Skirting well to the east of the county town of Haddington, they crossed Tyne at the ford of the nuns’ abbey, and began the long climb to Lammermuir. Thus far it was all very familiar to the horsemen, for not only were the Lindsays frequently in Haddington, where markets were held and justiciary courts sat and meetings were arranged, but the Lammermuirs themselves provided no little proportion of the baronial wealth, and not only for themselves. These long rounded hills, over four hundred square miles of them, were the main sheep-rearing area of Scotland, pasturing their hundreds of thousands of the creatures, the wool from which, exported mainly from Berwick-on-Tweed, the greatest seaport of the kingdom, constituted one of its principal sources of revenue. The Scots lords, temporal and spiritual, however lofty their lineage or resounding their style, would have been sore deprived without these baaing sheep.

Over those breezy heather uplands, then, they rode mile upon mile, across swelling, breastlike contours, dipping into and out of empty valleys, empty that is of all but sheep and the occasional shepherd and his dogs, until at length the land dwindled and sank before them to a vast rolling plain, ridged and furrowed in minor scale but a plain nevertheless, stretching into the hazy distance where, almost a score of miles away, another line of even higher summits could be discerned, the Cheviots, the border of England. For this before them was the Merse, or March, from which the Cospatrick earls took their second title, the boundary-land, and fair indeed, save for its bloody history. Battleground might have been a better name for it; but not at this present, with no war with England and Henry the Third the King’s brother-in-law.

Down into the plain they descended, to cross this western edge of the Merse, by Gimmerlaw, Lamb Hill, Ewelaw and Wedderlie and other places with sheepish names, however unsheepish were the occupants of these small Border towers and fortalices; necessarily so to survive constant English raiding, no war notwithstanding – and equal raiding from their own kind, as was the Marchmen’s way of life and death. They came to Gordon, where another of the Norman adventurers had settled, his descendants having taken the name and were now great. Now they could see the wide Tweed valley ahead of them and journey’s end. David reckoned that he might have half of an hour in hand.

Roxburgh might seem a strange place to hold a Scots parliament, at the very southern tip of the land, with the English borderline only ten miles away. But here, deliberately, the great David the First had established his seat, palace, and his abbeys nearby, in a determined effort to bring an end to the long-standing warfare between the two kingdoms; here rather than at one of the great fortress-citadels of Edinburgh, Stirling or Dumbarton – he who had been hostage in England for so long, and on succeeding to the throne of his brothers, had brought up all his young Norman friends to help him in his endeavours for good government and peace, Lindsay amongst them. That was well over a century ago, but his royal descendants still looked on this Roxburgh as their favourite base, indeed home. King Alexander the Second was David’s great-great-grandson, and normally held his court here.

Roxburgh Castle was an extraordinary place by any standards, and extraordinarily sited. It was, in itself, a fortified township crowning the ridge of a long, narrow peninsula where the great rivers of Tweed and Teviot joined, surely the longest castle in Scotland, since the ridge of rock was only some score of yards wide, dropping sheerly on each side into the two rivers, so that only lengthwise could building be extended. Thus the stronghold consisted of a series of towers, halls, barracks and narrow courtyards, even a church – for David had been a pious prince as well as all else; rather like an extended town-street in fact, one building thick, set up there on its rock spine, immensely strong since it was approachable only from its western end, and that heavily defended by three moats cut in the solid stone, each with gatehouse and drawbridge. The builder may have been a man of peace but he was versed in the arts of war.

Long before they reached the crossing of Tweed, by an artificial ford with underwater stonework, well upstream from the castle, and itself heavily guarded, David and Pate were no longer alone in their travelling, with contingents of men converging from all directions on this place. David de Lindsay seemed to be unique in bringing with him only a tail of one; the other lords, barons, lairds, churchmen and commissioners to the parliament all appeared to be intent on proving how potent they were in armed men, folk very much to be reckoned with. Perhaps parliaments were not so much for talking and debate and policy-making but for displaying strength and power?

There was quite a large town of Roxburgh half a mile west of the castle, near the fords of Tweed and Teviot, more than any mere castleton, the most important community in all the East and Middle Marches of the Borderland. Here the King’s officers were ordering all attenders at the parliament to leave their followings – there was no room for them, or their horses, at the castle itself. There were sundry objections to this, needless to say, but the officers were adamant. Even great lords and bishops had to walk – although most of the greatest would already be at the council of state being held beforehand.

David, for one, was quite glad to stretch his legs after the long riding, as they strode past older, stiffer or more portly parliamentarians and their aides and esquires. It occurred to him that either this parliament was to be somewhat delayed or that there were a lot of latecomers. Perhaps such occasions never started on time?

At the first of the gatehouses and bridges they had to join a queue, while credentials for entry were checked. Although some appeared to be having difficulties here, David had none, for the guards had been reinforced for the duty by some of the Earl of Dunbar’s men, the greatest lord of these parts, and his nephew was known. They moved on, past two more gatehouses unchallenged, and into the castle proper, where the Lion Rampant standard, red on gold, flew above the many towers. There was still some sneering at this emblem, amongst the native Celtic stock rather than the imported Norman-Scots; the Black Boar on silver had been a sufficient device for the age-old line of monarchy stemming from the High Kings of ancient Alba; and why the present King’s father, William the Lyon – or how he got that name, although he was far from lionlike – felt impelled to change it to this ramping feline, none knew.

At one of the courtyards, the sheep were separated from the goats, that is, the parliament members were shepherded into the main great hall of the castle, whilst their attendants of whatever rank were led off elsewhere; there would surely not be room for all these in the minstrel galleries, clerestories, window-embrasures and the like? David and Pate parted.

In the hall itself David found all strictly partitioned. Up on the dais at the far end were the throne, the seats for the high officers of state and the table for the Chancellor and his clerks, at present all empty save for a few bustling churchmen. Below the dais steps were the stalls for the earls, on the right, with those of the Lords of Parliament behind; and on the left those of the Lords Spiritual, the bishops and mitred abbots. Then on the main floor were the benches for the majority of the members, in their various groupings, the holders of baronies, such as David; the ordinary abbots and priors; the knights of the counties; the sheriffs and lower justiciars. So were comprised the Three Estates of the Realm, the monarch sitting with his lords, the commoners and Holy Church.

The body of the hall was already crowded. There had not been a parliament for long, King Alexander having no enthusiasm for them, preferring to make decisions himself, with the aid of a small council of state. But occasionally they were necessary and advisable, for council decisions to be ratified and for major changes of policy, alliances, and dealings with other nations. This one was going to be well attended, it seemed.

David was directed to the barons’ seats, in front of the rest. Distinctly diffident, uncertain of his place, he hesitated, only too well aware of how differently his celebrated father would have behaved. Then he saw two men whom he knew, one a friend and neighbour, the other a far-out kinsman, sitting together. Perceiving him, they beckoned for him to join them, making room for him on their bench. They were Alexander Seton of that Ilk – Seton being the sea-town of Tranent, a few miles up the Scotwater from Aberlady Bay – the other Serle de Dundas, from the west of Lothian, he being a cadet of the Cospatrick earls and so in vague cousinship with the Lindsays, both a little older than himself and both holders of baronies. Relieved to have their company and guidance, David took his seat between them.

These two, as well as welcoming the newcomer to his first parliament, were full of news. Durward, Earl of Atholl, the most powerful noble in the land, was in a bad mood, blaming the King for favouring the Comyns – although he was married to one of the monarch’s bastard daughters. Bruce of Annandale was complaining that the ever-grasping Comyns were usurping his interests in Galloway and Dumfries. David, the Primate, Bishop of St Andrews, was declaring that the Abbot of Dunfermline ought not to be Chancellor, and that as Primate he should have the choice of that great office. And so on. Also that there was increasing competition to wed others of the monarch’s illegitimate daughters, who were now coming of marriageable age – Alexander did not seem able to father any other son than one, his legitimate heir, also named Alexander, now aged eight. The present council meeting should have been over an hour ago, so presumably there was trouble thereat.

They had time enough and to spare for talk, for the King and his councillors continued to delay their appearance, and it was almost two hours after the parliament was due to open. David asked whether this was normal, and was told that it was not. But Seton had been only at the one parliament hitherto, and Dundas at two, so their experience was limited.

That hall had become notably rowdy in the interim.

Then, at last, the High Seneschal came hurrying on to the dais, looking somewhat flustered, with his heralds and trumpeters, resplendent in the new Lion Rampant tabards the King’s father had found for them. The instrumentalists blew a flourish, which effectively stilled the clamour in the hall. The Seneschal turned towards the doorway from which he had just entered.

There was a pause, and as it continued the stir and chatter began to rise again. Then a procession of proudly dressed earls and lords and robed bishops began to file in, far from orderly, indeed jostling rather for position. Most David did not recognise, save for Alan, Lord of Galloway, Bruce of Annandale, Livingstone and one or two others. This company dispersed to take their seats in the various stances, and there was another pause, again prolonged, with the last arrivals being even more vocal than the generality of members. The Seneschal was beginning to look anxious again when Donald, Abbot of Dunfermline, came in, almost at the run, clutching papers, and behind him three clerical assistants, also with documents. The abbot was the Chancellor of the Realm and would act chairman of the parliament. He went to sit at the table on the dais, arranging his papers and rolls thereon.

Now the Seneschal signed to his trumpeters, who produced another fanfare, and this time, without delay, in paced the great officers of state, the High Steward, the High Constable, the Knight Marischal, the Chamberlain, plus the Primate of Holy Church, the Bishop of St Andrews. These took up position at the back of the dais.

More trumpeting, and the Seneschal signed for all to stand. Then in came three individuals bearing the royal symbols – and these, however high they held their heads, seemed to be in some dubiety as to who should enter first. Then Alan Durward, Earl of Atholl, bearing aloft the great two-handed sword of state, distinctly aggressively, got in front, followed by Sir John Comyn, Lord of Badenoch and Lochaber, holding the sceptre, and then Patrick, Earl of Dunbar and March, carrying the crown on its cushion. These came to place their burdens on the Chancellor’s table, unceremoniously pushing aside mere papers, and went to their seats, but remaining standing.

There was another and still more lengthy pause. Then a herald at the door signalled to the Seneschal, and this time a prolonged blare of trumpets shook the hall. And in strode a short, thick-set figure of middle years, undistinguished as to features and carriage but having a strange air of almost scornful authority, clad much less notably than most of his councillors but wearing round his brows the simple circlet of gleaming gold – Alexander the Second, by the Grace of God, High King of Scots. He stalked over to the throne, stood beside it for a few moments, considering all the company with a careful, indeed almost critical scrutiny, as though possibly computing supporters or the reverse, and then sat down.

Everybody else could now sit.

Then there was an unusual and unexpected development. The King glanced back at the dais doorway and raised a beckoning hand. And out therefrom, led by a young woman, the only female in all that great assembly, came a small boy of about eight years, sturdy, open-featured, round-eyed but not apparently over-awed by it all, a fair-haired lad, and a deal more good-looking than the monarch. They went over to the throne where the girl patted her charge’s head and then left him beside the King and, bowing, turned to retire whence she had come, but unhurriedly, gracefully – and she was notably good-looking also. The boy, Prince Alexander, heir to the throne and apple of his father’s eye, grinned at his father. He remained standing there.

In the silence which prevailed, the King raised his hand again, and pointed to the Abbot of Dunfermline at the table.

The Chancellor lifted his gavel and struck the table-top with it, as indication that the parliament was now in session. His duty was to conduct the meeting under the presidency of the monarch, who could speak, intervene or even close the proceedings, wholly in command. It could not be a parliament without the King, or, if he was under age, his regent. But the Chancellor conducted proceedings under the royal authority. This important office was almost always occupied by a senior churchman, for it demanded much writing and paperwork – and many of the great nobles could not even sign their own names, much less read and write. Seals and crosses were all they required – and swords, of course.

Dunfermline was the foremost abbey in the land, the first founded in the Romish persuasion, erected by Queen Margaret Atheling, this Alexander’s great-grandmother, her initial gesture towards the replacement of the ancient Columban Celtic Church with that based on Rome. So this Donald was the senior mitred abbot. Moreover, he it was who had moved the Pope to have the said Queen Margaret canonised to sainthood. Nevertheless others grudged him the office, in especial the Primate, David, Bishop of St Andrews, who believed that it ought to be his, by right. The Scots, in Holy Church as elsewhere, were never good at agreeing amongst themselves.

The good abbot, an elderly man, cleared his throat. “This parliament is called by His Grace the King to consider and decide upon sundry matters of great import to this realm. All members and commissioners are entitled to speak to these, but necessarily with brevity and due respect, and to vote. All motions and statements will be addressed to myself, as Chancellor, and not directly to the King’s Grace. Is it understood?”

The slight growl which arose could have been taken as acceptance or the opposite.

“The first issue to be decided, already discussed in council, is of the most vital moment. King Hakon of Norway is again laying claim to the Hebrides and Western Isles, despite the freeing thereof from Norse domination by the late and puissant Somerled, Lord of the Isles. And not only the Isles but much of the West Highland mainland, including the great peninsula of Kintyre, Ardnamurchan, Cowal in Argyll and parts of Lochaber, even claiming parts of Galloway, by sword-right. His Grace and council consider this to be intolerable . . .”

His voice was drowned by a great outcry and angry shouts of indignation. He let it continue for a little, then banged his gavel for quiet.

“Unfortunately Ewan, Lord of Argyll and the Isles, is scarcely of his grandfather’s stature, and has not maintained the great fleets of fighting ships which Somerled built. He is in no position to give battle to any concentration of Norse longships, and so gives way to Hakon. As all know, the Norsemen have the greatest fleet of war-vessels in Christendom. And, to his sorrow, His Grace the King is not rich in such shipping.”

There was silence now.

“Since the Isles and Western Highlands can be protected or conquered only by sea and ships, aid is therefore required. This aid can come only from England, from Man or from Ireland. Sadly, Ireland is in a state of great weakness and internal struggle between the petty Kings, as is usual, and the Norse influence there is also strong. King Harald Godfreysson of Man is himself held prisoner and hostage in Norway, and the Manxmen lean towards their Norse cousins anyhow. Which leaves only England . . .”

The reaction to that simple statement was as sour as it was predictable. They might not be at war with England at the moment, but inborn hatred of the Auld Enemy was there, not to be denied, and ever ready to surface. The veteran fighter, Alan Durward, Earl of Atholl, a great bear of a man, Hereditary Doorward to the Scots monarchy, of ancient Celtic line, headed it. He rose.

“I say no pleas to the English!” he barked. “Accursed be the day when we have to go cap in hand to England for aid! If they gave any, it would be to try to subdue us to their will, as they have been seeking to do down the centuries. No dealing with the English, I say!”

“I say the same!” That was Robert Bruce, fourth of the name, Lord of Annandale, whose mother had been a granddaughter of King David, and he therefore distantly of the blood-royal. It was not often that these two great nobles agreed on anything.

There were supportive shouts from all over the hall.

The Chancellor had to use his gavel. “I do not judge my lord of Atholl’s comment to be a motion,” he observed carefully. “So my lord of Annandale’s declaration is not a seconding. I have to point out, as was made clear in council, that there is indeed little or no choice for us in this matter. If King Hakon and his Norsemen are to be kept from taking over the Isles again, we must have ships-of-war in large number. This realm has never sought conquest by sea, as have others, and we have built no fleets of fighting-ships, only merchanters. Do we yield to the Norsemen, then? Or swallow pride and seek aid from England? For it is certain that we cannot build such fleet in less than years.”

“I say that we must so seek!” John Comyn, Lord of Badenoch and Lochaber, spoke, chief of that ac