Lion's Whelp

by Nigel Tranter

Genres: Historical Fiction

Synopsis

The brutal murder of James I, King of Scots, at Perth in 1437 left his seven-year-old son to rule over a troubled kingdom. Power-hungry lords seized their chance to gain control over the boy-king James II and his realm. When young Alexander Lyon, son of the Thane of Glamis, married Agnes, the daughter of Sir William Crichton, he found himself drawn into the wider affairs of the nation. Alec was to become a close attendant and friend of the young monarch at a time when James was in sore need of protection. Alec Lyon and Agnes Crichton were to shape the story of Scotland - and that of England, too. This was the period of the Wars of the Roses, and the northern kingdom was not to remain unaffected. A thrilling tale of cunning and treachery, danger and romance from master of Scottish historical fiction Nigel Tranter.

Release date: September 13, 2012

Publisher: Hodder & Stoughton

Print pages: 343

Sample

Alexander Lyon: Son of Sir Patrick Lyon.

Sir Patrick Lyon: Thane of Glamis.

Queen Joanna Beaufort: Widow of murdered James the First, King of Scots.

Agnes Crichton: Daughter of Sir William Crichton of that Ilk.

William, Lord Borthwick: Scots noble.

Sir William Crichton: Keeper of Edinburgh Castle, Chancellor of the realm.

James Stewart, King of Scots: Second of that name.

Bishop James Kennedy of Dunkeld: Later Primate. Uncle of king.

William, 6th Earl of Douglas: Chief of the Black Douglases, Duke of Touraine.

James, 3rd Earl of Angus: Chief of the Red Douglases.

Princess Arabella: Youngest sister of the king.

Sir James Stewart, Black Knight of Lorne: Second husband of the queen.

Sir James Douglas of Dalkeith: Great Scots noble.

Alexander, Earl of Ross, Lord of the Isles: Great Highland chief.

Alexander, Earl of Huntly: Great noble. Later lieutenant-general.

Princess Margaret: Eldest sister of the king.

James, 7th Earl of Douglas: Known as James the Gross.

Princess Jean: Another sister of the king; later Countess of Angus.

William, 8th Earl of Douglas: Eldest son of James the Gross.

Alexander, Earl of Crawford: Great noble, known as the Tiger Earl.

Hugh Douglas: Brother of Earl William, created Earl of Ormond.

Archibald Douglas: Brother of Earl William, created Earl of Moray.

John Douglas: Brother of Earl William, created Lord Balveny.

Arnold, Duke of Gueldres: Low Countries prince.

Mary of Gueldres: Daughter of the above. Wife of James the Second.

Aeneas Silvius Piccolomini: Papal Nuncio. Later Pope Pius the Second.

William Turnbull, Bishop of Glasgow: Lord Privy Seal and founder of Glasgow University.

Sir Patrick Gray: Son of the Lord Gray and captain of the royal guard.

Lord Gray: Father of above, and notable soldier.

Kim Graham: Blacksmith of Mollance, near Kirkcudbright.

John, Lord of the Isles and Earl of Ross: Son of Alexander thereof.

James, Lord Hamilton: Powerful noble.

James Stewart, Duke of Rothesay: Infant son of the king.

Margaret of Anjou, Queen of England: Wife of Henry the Sixth.

Edward, Prince of Wales: Son of above.

Alexander Lyon stared at his father. “The king dead!” he gasped. “Dead?”

“Aye. Slain! Murdered by those dastards! Assassins! Sir Robert Stewart, grandson of Atholl, Sir Robert Graham, and another. At the Blackfriars Monastery in Perth three nights past. In the presence of Queen Joanna. James slain! The King of Scots! A deed unknown since MacBeth’s murder. And at the behest of one of his own earls and kinsman, Walter Stewart of Atholl, his uncle.”

“But . . . why? Why?”

“Spite! Hatred! Atholl seeking the throne, it may be. Revenge for the death of Murdoch of Albany, his nephew. Who knows for certain? But Scotland has lost her monarch. Trapped in some cellar of the friary where he was lodging. A strong, a fine king, gone. Now what?” Sir Patrick Lyon of Glamis strode to and fro in the withdrawing-room of the castle hall of Glamis, in Strathmore. “A six-year-old son left to reign over us. Here is disaster!”

Alexander shook his head. “To slay His Grace! Their sovereign-lord to whom they will have sworn fealty! It is scarce to be believed. It is not some canard, some coggery?”

“That wandering friar, Anselm, told me. He had come from Perth. He is honest, and said that it is truth. James was about to seek his bed, with his wife. Her lady-in-waiting, Catherine Douglas, with them. And a younger Douglas maid. That evil dastard, Stewart, his own kinsman, and Graham and others, broke into the monastery. They overcame the few guards. Monks shouted the alarm, the friar said. The king heard it, and took refuge in some cellar beneath the bedchamber. With a trapdoor. The queen, when she heard them in the outer room, lay on it, the trapdoor, to hide it. They came up, the murderers. The Lady Catherine sought to hold the door, the room door. Used her arm as a drawbar – a stout-hearted woman! But they burst in, breaking her arm. They knew that the king was there – and no other door. They struck the queen, dragged her away. Found the trap. They went down to the cellar. He was a great fighter, was James. Always was. But he was for his naked bed. Had no arms. They had dirks and swords. They stabbed him to the death. James Stewart! Myself, I was hostage for him those years back, in England . . .”

“What . . . what is to be done?” Nineteen-year-old Alexander wagged his head, still hardly believing it.

“The good Lord knows! Vengeance on the assassins, aye. But – the rule of the land? Young Rothesay but a child. They, the murderers, will seek to get rid of him also, I would think. To make Walter Stewart, Atholl, the king.”

“Atholl was uncle to the king?”

“Aye. Robert the Second was wed twice. By his first queen he had John, Earl of Carrick, whose name was changed to Robert, John being an unhappy name for any king. Then he had Robert, who became Duke of Albany, and this Walter of Atholl, David of Strathearn and the Lord Brechin. Carrick became Robert the Third and his son David, Duke of Rothesay, and this James. Albany murdered young Rothesay to gain the throne. And would have slain James also. But he escaped for France, but was captured by the English, and held there. Now Walter of Atholl has done what his brother Albany could not do! Scotland is set for strife and turmoil! Again!”

“What is to be done?” the young man repeated. “Can we do anything?”

“God knows! I will have to think. Consider well. I will go to see your grandsire, at Auchterhouse. Sir Alexander is sheriff of Angus. Has a good head on his shoulders still, old as he is. Something we must do. I am Thane of Glamis!”

“The prince. Rothesay? He will now be rightful king. But . . . six years! He was not with his father and mother?”

“No, heaven be praised! Or they would have killed him also, I swear. He will be at Stirling in the care of Livingston. If care that can be named! I do not trust Alexander Livingston!”

Alec nodded. He knew sufficiently of the dislike between his father and Sir Alexander Livingston, keeper of Stirling Castle, the royal fortress. “The queen? What of her, now? She is a strong woman, is she not? What happened with her? Do they hold her?”

“I know not. The friar did not say. They would not slay her, I think. Too close to the English throne. Her uncle, the Cardinal Beaufort, High Chancellor of England. They would not want war with England, as well, belike, as civil war in Scotland!” He stopped pacing. “See you, Alec, go tell your mother that I must visit her father and brother at Auchterhouse. She might wish to accompany me.”

Alec found the Lady Isabel in the vaulted kitchen below, before the great arched fireplace and the stone ovens, instructing the cook on what she wanted for the midday meal. In front of the kitchen scullions he thought that he should not mention the dire news of the king’s death, so merely told his mother that Sir Patrick was going to Auchterhouse, which was eight miles south-west in Strathmore, nearer to Dundee, on receipt of sudden news, and wondered whether she would wish to go with him. Surprised, Lady Isabel did not question her son, but went off to see her husband.

Alec went to tell his two younger brothers and his sister the terrible tidings.

That evening, when Sir Patrick and his wife got back from Auchterhouse of the Ogilvys, he was much exercised. His old father-in-law had not heard of the tragedy for Scotland, and was greatly concerned at the news. He also did not trust Livingston of Calendar, who would now in effect become the governor of the young king. He had been favoured by King James, and had indeed been one of the jury which had tried and condemned to death the returned monarch’s enemy, Murdoch, second Duke of Albany, on the king’s return from his twenty-year captivity in England which had been contrived by Albany’s father – so his reputation was sound enough. But he had failed Sir Patrick’s own father at the foul Raid of Roxburgh in 1422, resulting in the older Lyon’s capture and imprisonment in England, and this had never been forgotten. He was known to be friendly with Atholl, who, it was said, had gained him the appointment at Stirling. The queen should be warned, and either dismiss Livingstone or possibly meantime remove her son from his care. Whether she was still at Perth they did not know. But Sir Patrick would ride there on the morrow. He would take Alec with him. Perth was only some thirty miles distant.

That young man was nothing loth. He had been aiding his father in many activities these last two years, but mainly in the management of the large Glamis estates and lands, and in some measure in the affairs of Strathmore, that wide and fertile vale in the centre of the shire of Angus, north of Tay. But he had never been involved in any national causes or matters of state. That his sire deemed him fit to accompany him on this vital and possibly dangerous mission elated him more than a little.

Early next day then they set off westwards, accompanied by an escort of a dozen armed men, as befitted the Thane of Glamis. The Lyons were proud of that ancient title and style, little used now but once so important in Scotland, with the only other thanage, that of Arbuthnott, none so far off. The Lyons, admittedly, had no ancestral ties with the famous Thane of Glamis who had featured so prominently in the reign of King MacBeth four centuries before, having only gained the lands and lairdship when Sir Patrick’s grandfather, who had been Chancellor of the realm, had married Jean, daughter of King Robert the Second, and had been granted Glamis as her dowery. But at least this royal connection gave them prestige, and some authority in approaching the queen at this period of crisis. Alec was not averse to telling his friends that he was a great-great-grandson of that King Robert, and therefore a descendant of the hero-king, the Bruce.

They rode up Strathmore that breezy late February day of 1437 by Meigle and Coupar Angus and Balbeggie, passing near the site of MacBeth’s castle of Dunsinane, north of the Sidlaw Hills, and so came to the Tay, near to Scone, coronation seat of the Kings of Scots, at the sacred point, in pre-Christian days, where the fresh water of the great river overcame the salt water of the tidal estuary, and fertility triumphed over the sea god’s destructive power. From Scone it was a mere three miles down river to St John’s Town of Perth.

They found the town still in a stir over the dire happenings there four days earlier, the citizens cowering away from the sight of one more group of armed horsemen. Sir Patrick knew the provost, and made for the Tolbooth, to ask if Queen Joanna was still in the town. A bailie there informed them that she had, the day before, departed for Stirling Castle.

This news presented a problem indeed. Should they go on to Stirling, where they could find Sir Alexander Livingston as well as the queen, when it was against the said Livingston that they wanted to warn Joanna, for her young son’s sake? Sir Patrick should have thought of this. Yet not to do so would be failing in their duty to their new monarch. It was decided to press on, some risks as this might represent. It was always possible that the assassins might also have repaired to the royal fortress.

It was only noon, so they had ample time to reach Stirling, some thirty-five miles to the south, before even February dark. They rode over into Strathearn, and by Auchterarder into the Allan Water vale, and so reached Dunblane. There, on the higher ground, they could see down to the River Forth to where, southwards still, in the sinking sunlight, they viewed the mighty castle on its towering rock above the levels where this other great river also reached the salt waters of the Firth of Forth, that vital first crossing-place of the seventy-mile-long barrier to travellers, which the fortress guarded. What sort of a reception would they have at that citadel?

Clattering through the narrow cobbled streets of the town, which climbed steeply towards the rock-top castle, impregnable there on its dizzy perch between Highlands and Lowlands, they reached the wide dry-ditch and gatehouse beyond. They found the drawbridge down, but well guarded by spearmen. Sir Patrick announced with every appearance of confidence that the Thane of Glamis had come to see the Queen’s Grace, and craved audience.

Dismounting, they waited there at the gatehouse arch, wondering whether admittance would indeed be granted. Livingston, when he heard of the identity of the callers, might well refuse entry; after all, he could say that the queen, in her distress, was seeing no callers, lofty or otherwise. And if the king’s murderers were indeed there . . .!

However, it was not Livingston but the captain of the royal guard who came down to the gate, one Sir Robert Menteith of Rusky, kin by marriage to the keeper, but with whom Sir Patrick had no quarrel. A good-looking youngish man, he greeted the Thane of Glamis respectfully, led the Lyons in, and said that he did not know whether the queen would see them, in her present state of loss, but he would inform Her Grace. He mentioned that the keeper, Sir Alexander, was absent meantime, the queen having sent him off on urgent errands connected with the shocking death of her royal husband.

That was some relief, at least, for the visitors.

They were conducted up to the wing of the fortress containing the royal apartments. There, in an anteroom, they were left, their escort remaining near the gatehouse.

When Menteith returned he had a companion, a man with a bandaged hand, whom he introduced as Sir David Dunbar, another member of the royal household. Her Grace would see the Thane of Glamis.

This Dunbar, of middle years, leading them upstairs without asking what was their business with the queen, did indicate that Her Grace was in a state of much grief and hurt but was maintaining the spirits of her young family. He hinted that the visitors should not remain with her for overlong, Sir Patrick agreeing. For his part, he asked why Sir David had his hand so fully bandaged, to be told, briefly, that he had had three fingers cut off. At this unusual answer he could not but enquire further, and learned that Dunbar had been at Perth those four nights ago, and had sought to prevent Stewart and Graham from intruding on the royal couple, and had had his hand slashed with a dirk in consequence, by Graham, to the loss of his fingers – although he had managed to kill one of the wretches. What comment were the visitors to make to that?

They heard children’s voices, cries and laughter, before ever they reached the royal chamber, girlish voices predominating and scarcely sounding like a mourning family. James and Joanna had had six offspring, five daughters and one son; Margaret, the eldest, of eight years; Jean, the youngest, but three. So no doubt the queen was concerned that grieving for their father should not too greatly upset them.

The callers were ushered into the royal presence, and bowed low, only too well aware that their coming was in the nature of an intrusion. The queen sat at a table, with papers before her, while the six children played vigorously around, the boy on hands and knees on the floor, with his smallest sister sitting on his back, as though horse-riding, a pleasing domestic scene. Alec wondered whether he should bow again, to the new king.

Joanna Beaufort was a strikingly beautiful woman, and despite all her child-bearing, had retained an excellent figure, tall and fairly slender. She had notably fine eyes, patrician features and a firm chin, her long chestnut-brown hair looped back with a fillet with no coif, a woman who had proved herself as one to be reckoned with, as well as admired for her looks. She would be in her thirty-fifth year.

“Ah, Sir Patrick, it is some time since we forgathered,” she said, as he approached her, and offered her hand for him to kiss. “Greetings! Even in these sorry circumstances, I could not fail to receive the Thane of Glamis, remotely of my husband’s kin.” And she turned that handsome head to shush her children to make less noise.

“Highness, what am I to say?” Sir Patrick answered. “It is beyond all words, all acceptance, all belief! We come, offering you our sympathy, our compassion and understanding, our devotion. And our fealty and duty towards our new liege-lord – indeed our lives, if necessary.” And he did bow towards the boy on the floor, Alec also now.

“You are good, kind, Sir Patrick. I, and he, shall need all the service you offer, I think! For there is much to be done. I am planning some of it now!” And she gestured to the papers. “I will see some justice done, God helping me!” She brought a fist down on the table in a strange gesture for a woman, but significant enough. Then, expression changing, she opened her hand towards Alec. “And this? A son, I think?”

“Yes, Your Grace, my eldest. Alexander. And eager to be at your aid and support.”

“My service, or rather my son’s, may be less than pleasing, I fear, my friends. There are deeds to be done which will demand . . . strong wills!”

“That is why we are here, Highness. We know it.”

Behind them, Dunbar, of the Earl of March’s line, spoke. “I have told Her Grace that there are many, many awaiting to do her royal bidding. To wreak vengeance on those foul miscreants!”

“Oh, yes, I will have vengeance, if I may!” That was said in tones which were almost steely, despite her normally light and pleasing voice.

“Vengeance, yes,” Sir Patrick agreed. “Dire vengeance! But first, I say, safeguards, precautions. For His young Grace, here.”

Joanna eyed him keenly.

“See you, Highness, those dastards, had your son been with you at Perth, would have slain him also, I think, child as he is. They want the throne. For Atholl himself, or for his grandson Robert Stewart. If they could slay the father, they could slay the son, an only son. And then their way is open. With Murdoch of Albany executed, and his son, Atholl is next in line for the crown. I would say that they are not finished their evil tasks yet!”

She pursed her lips. “You think so, dear God!” She half rose, the mother in her superseding the queen. “But he is safe enough in this stronghold of Stirling.”

“Is he, Your Grace? A stronghold is no stronger than its keeper!”

“What mean you by that?”

“I mean that Sir Alexander Livingston may be assured. Of good faith. Leal. But . . . he may not be. He betrayed my father once, out of spite and self-gain. And he is said to be friendly with both Stewart and Graham. If he thinks that he might do better under Atholl as king, or even Robert Stewart, and they come chapping at your gate here, I say that he might, might just, let them in!”

“No, no, Sir Patrick! Not that. I trust Livingston. He is loyal, I swear. My husband trusted him. Made him keeper here. He would not fail me. Or young Jamie.”

“Perhaps not, Your Grace. Perhaps I wrong him. But conditions have changed. A child king can unsettle all in a kingdom, unsettle all who are, or would be, in power. You will find that so, I greatly fear.”

“But I have sent Sir Alexander to apprehend the murderers! Or some of them. If he can . . .”

“M’mm. Yes. But I would advise caution, Your Grace, to ensure the young king’s safety. In cases of possible trouble. See you, Edinburgh Castle is as strong as this one. In the care of Sir William Crichton, a good man, stoutly leal, trusted. Placed there by your royal husband. And no friend of Atholl and the others.”

“Sir William is a Gentleman of the Bedchamber, yes. I know him well.”

“I would suggest, Highness, that you send your son, His Grace, to Sir William’s keeping meantime. Until the present unrest is past. All go to Edinburgh, if so you wish. There is bound to be upset for a time, while you seek your . . . redress. And this Stirling will be at the centre of it. The murderers will know that you will take vengeance, if you can. They may act further, therefore. And quickly. I say that this is no place for the young king. And for Your Highness’s self, in this time. Even if you can trust Livingston.”

“Y-e-e-es. Perhaps. You believe that they will strike again? And in force? Soon?”

“Having gone so far as to assassinate the king, they will not leave it at that, to be sure. And they can raise many men, Atholl in especial. I would advise that Your Grace does the same. Raises men, to deal with these traitors. Many, many men will rally to your cause. Aye, including the Lyons and the Ogilvys. Use Crichton to muster them all. And, I mind you, his daughter is wed to the Gordon chief, the Earl of Huntly. He has great numbers of his clan. And up there, near to Atholl’s lands. Huntly could pose a dire threat to Atholl.”

“You have me all but convinced, Sir Patrick . . .”

“I would agree with the thane, Your Grace. Edinburgh would be safer than here,” Dunbar put in. “Crichton is a good man. My own kinsman, the Earl of March, none so far from there, in the Merse, could raise his thousands – Dunbars, Homes, Swintons and the like.”

“We will think on this.” Joanna had to raise her voice to counter the children’s noise, these becoming impatient for attention. “We will talk of it over our repast. Once these noisy ones are abed. Sir David, find you a bedchamber for the thane and his son. And a servitor to attend them. We shall eat in an hour or so, Sir Patrick. And . . . Alexander, is it?”

Audience over meantime, they bowed themselves out, Sir Patrick reasonably satisfied that his advice would be taken.

In that he was proved right when, later, at table, the queen clearly had decided on a move to Edinburgh, Sir Robert Menteith now also agreeing that it would be wise, the talk really centring on how best to arrange it all, and how quickly.

Alec, not a little bemused to be part of this exalted company, presently was further exercised when he heard his father suggesting that he, Alec, should act messenger to Crichton at Edinburgh Castle, to have Sir William come and collect, and escort in strength, the royal party to his citadel, the three knights present all conceiving it their duty to remain with the queen and her family in the interim, while he could be spared. He would be given a letter . . .

Much flattered by this acceptance of his usefulness in such high affairs, his dwelling on it all was interrupted when he realised that the talk over the wine had switched to the subject of vengeance on the murderers, when and if they could be taken. And listening, he learned that women, however beautiful and fair-seeming, could be just as forceful and stern in their attitudes and judgments as could men, Joanna Beaufort making it entirely clear that she desired the harshest measures to be taken against her husband’s killers and all connected with that foul deed. Menteith, as captain of the royal guard, was to ensure it, as opportunity arose.

Alec shared a bed with his father that night, for the first time, and took some time to sleep, unlike his progenitor, his sudden initiation into affairs of state scarcely restful on the mind, even though he had ridden over seventy miles that day and was bodily tired.

In the morning, then, it was more riding, although not so far, Stirling being but thirty-five miles from Edinburgh, going south-eastwards, as it were down Forth. Taking two of the Glamis escort, and with a letter in the queen’s hand, he set off soon after first light, to go by the Tor Wood, Falkirk, Linlithgow and Niddry-Seton, whereafter they soon came in sight of the majestic, lion-like isolated hill of Arthur’s Seat in the distance, with lesser ranges to the south nearby and the long barrier of the Pentland Hills beyond, the loftiest seen since leaving the Highland Line.

A dozen more miles and they were in the capital city with its walls, not clustering beneath its castle rock like Stirling but slanting up more gradually to a very similar precipice-sided fortress, from the Abbey of the Holy Rood, below that Arthur’s Seat, a ridge-back mile to the tourney-ground before the citadel. The two castles themselves were remarkably alike, in buildings and fortifications as in site. Alec had been here only once before, when he had accompanied his father to a parliament.

He had more difficulty in gaining access than they had had at Stirling, he not being able to claim that he was the Thane of Glamis, only the son thereof, seeking Sir William Crichton, keeper. And when he did win admittance over the drawbridge and moat, it was to learn, to his concern, that the keeper was absent, having gone the day before to his own castle of Crichton in Middle Lothian. And it was not known just when he would be back.

What, then? Alec’s mission was as urgent as it was important. Nothing for it but to go on to this Crichton, unknown territory, apparently south-eastwards beyond Dalkeith and Cranstoun on the upper Lothian Tyne, some fifteen miles.

Beyond hilly enough Edinburgh, they rode on, to reach the Rivers Esk, North and South, and come to the Black Douglas castle and town of Dalkeith. The Douglases, Black and Red, were possibly the strongest family in all Lowland Scotland; and Alec wondered how they would react to the present critical situation. The Earl of Douglas was based on Lanarkshire and Galloway. His mother had been the daughter of Robert the Third, while his grandfather had married a daughter of Robert the Second, so the links with the royal house were close. Would he support the queen, or his kinsman Atholl? Again, the Lord of Dalkeith, the secondary branch, had also married a daughter of Robert the Third. What of him?

After Dalkeith they faced a long climb to the Cranstoun area, where they could see the long green summits and folds of the Lammermuir Hills on their left and the more rugged ranges of the Morthwaites on their right, the Pentlands now behind them. Alec had not realised how hilly were the Lothians, and in consequence, well supplied with rivers. After Cranstoun they had to dip down to another of these, the Tyne, flowing eastwards, which they had to ford at a place called Pathhead, and thereafter were instructed to turn right-handed and follow the river up for another three miles to Crichton.

They came into closer country now of grassy braes and narrow glens, and presently, at a bend in the river, found themselves in a hidden valley, quite deep but wider, oddly enough the mouth of it seeming to be guarded by a large church with parapeted tower rather than the castle, although this could be seen on a mound further up half a mile. This was Crichton, it seemed, and a secluded entity it was. Even the castleton hamlet was near the church, not the fortalice.

As Alec rode up towards the latter, he saw that it was strongly sited above the water meadows of the river, on a steep bluff, but not large as such houses went, a simple square battlemented tower within a high curtain wall, with the usual landward ditch, or moat, and gatehouse. There was, however, an unusual feature, especially in view of that large church back there, of a chapel-like building not far beyond the castle itself. Were the Crichtons so holy a family?

The newcomers recognised that, holy or not, and secluded as was their seat, the Crichtons were nowise careless as to security, for, glancing behind them, they saw that they were being followed up from the castleton by fully a score of men on foot, the sunlight glinting on steel.

The drawbridge was down and the gatehouse portcullis up, a banner flying from a flagstaff at the tower head. A large bell hung from a gibbet at the bridge-end, and this Alec clanged, to the startled sidling of the horses.

Immediately there was response from the gatehouse parapet, indicating that their approach had not gone unnoticed. “Who comes to Crichton unbidden?” was demanded.

“Alexander Lyon comes, son to the Thane of Glamis,” he called. “To see Sir William Crichton.”

“Sir William is not here,” came the brief reply.

Alec frowned. “We come from Edinburgh Castle seeking him. I bring important word for him. I was told that he was here.”

“He was. But he is gone.”

“Gone far? Will he be back?”

There was silence for moments. “We shall seek information. Wait you.”

They sat their horses.

It was some time before there was further contact, with the score of men behind now forming a semicircle not far off, waiting also. It was a feminine voice that they heard presently. “Was I told aright?” came to them, high and clear. “Glamis, was it? Lyon of Glamis? You come from Glamis, seeking my father?”

“I do, lady. I am Alexander Lyon. With a message, a weighty message. From, from the queen.” Somehow Alec felt foolish saying that.

“The queen!”

“Yes, lady, the Queen’s Grace. A letter.”

There was no reply to that. But presently a young woman appeared within the gatehouse arch, and waiting there, beckoned the trio forward.

They rode into the courtyard, and dismounted.

“I am Agnes Crichton,” the young woman told them. “My father has gone to Borthwick, none so far off. You have come all the way from Glamis, sir? From beyond Tay?” She was probably about Alec’s own age, a well-built and attractive female, dark of hair and eyes, with a wide mouth and dimples in her cheeks. She eyed Alec with frank interest.

“No, lady, only from Stirling, this day. We called at the castle of Edinburgh, where Sir William is keeper, but were told that he had come here. It was urgent, so I came on.”

“From the queen, you said? She will be . . . in much distr