The Captive Crown

by Nigel Tranter

Genres: Cultural Heritage; Historical Fiction

Synopsis

With the heir to the throne murdered, King Robert III a sick weakling, and his remaining son a child, Scotland and the Stewarts were in a bad way three generations on from the great Bruce. But two young men stood out: Alex Stewart, bastard son of the notorious Wolf of Badenoch, and his cousin, Brave John of Coull, a son of the hated regent. With their fortunes are entwined those of Sir Jamie Douglas, through whose eyes the story is told. The Captive Crown concludes the great trilogy of novels which charts the rise against all odds of the royal House of Stewart, as told by Nigel Tranter, master of Scottish historical fiction.

Release date: November 22, 2012

Publisher: Hodder & Stoughton

Print pages: 384

Sample

SIR JAMES DOUGLAS, lately of Aberdour, Stoneypath and Baldwinsgill, and now a landless fugitive, reined in his sturdy, broad-hooved Highland garron on the heather ridge and, shielding his eyes against the mellow October sunlight, gazed southwards over the wide and fair vale of mid-Strathspey, golden, scarlet and olive-green amongst the blue mountains. In a land of colour, with the heather fading from purple to brown, October was the most vivid of all months, the chromatic range and vehemence of the turning leaves almost unbelievable to Lowland eyes.

The Douglas was not on this occasion thinking about all that far-flung brilliance — or at least not Nature’s overwhelming contribution. It was man-made colour that he looked for, and had no difficulty in finding. For a couple of miles at least beside the wide, silver river, moving colour rippled and surged and gleamed, a great host — and by the flicker of sunlight on steel, an armed host, thousands strong, only a small proportion of it mounted. Yet it was moving fast, eastwards, down-river, and with a decided air of purpose about it all. It was further on by some miles than the man had looked for it. Nodding to his two companions, running gillies in ragged tartans, he kicked the barrel-like flanks of his shaggy mount, and set off at a trot, slantwise downhill, his gillies loping long-strided, tireless, at his sides. Parallel with the falling Tulchan Burn, they dropped from the wide heather wilderness of Dava Moor.

It took him some time to reach the head of that long column, passing company after company of kilted clansmen, Mackintoshes, Macphersons, MacGillivrays, Shaws, Cattanachs, MacQueens, MacBains and the like, armed with broadsword, dirk and Lochaber axe, most naked to the waist, leather targes slung over lean, sweating shoulders, the fastest-moving infantry in Christendom, going at the slow-trot which ate up the miles. They were almost opposite Ballindalloch, on the other side of Spey, before he saw the leadership.

Under a single great banner in front, the Stewart fess-chequey impaling the green-and-red of Badenoch, a group of chiefs rode, proud of bearing, eagles’ feathers in their bonnets. Amongst them, more modestly garbed than most, was Sir Alexander Stewart of Badenoch, acting Justiciar of the North, and nephew, although illegitimate, of the King of Scots, Robert the Third.

At sight of the newcomer, this young man pulled up sharply. “Jamie! Jamie Douglas!” he cried. “God be praised — yourself, by all that is blessed!” He reined his horse over, alongside to Douglas’s, and embraced his friend, from the saddle, there before them all. “Back from the dead — or nearly! Jamie — we feared for you.”

The other grinned, embarrassed, his dark and rather sombre good looks lightening up. His was a less forthcoming nature than that of the sunny Stewart’s, but he was no less pleased at the reunion.

“Alex!” he said. “It is good.”

They were so very different, these two, in more than their greetings. Both now in their early thirties, where Jamie Douglas was swarthy, stocky, strong-featured, of medium height, Alex Stewart was fair, slender, tall and of a fineness of feature which was almost beauty, but redeemed from any hint of weakness by the firm line of mouth and jaw. He did not look as though he was the eldest son of the late and notorious Wolf of Badenoch; but then Alexander, Earl of Buchan, himself had looked good, too — the Stewarts having a tendency that way.

“You have come from Lochindorb? How long? How long have you been there, Jamie?”

“Almost two weeks. I near came west, seeking you — but reckoned that Mary and the bairns were entitled to their husband and father for a space. And you with your battles won.”

“To be sure.” The other turned. “You will know most of these my friends — the Mackintosh, Cluny Macpherson, Shaw of Rothiemurchus, MacGillivray Mor, MacBain of Kinchyle, the Cattanach?”

One by one the chiefs bowed from their saddles, or inclined stiff heads towards the Lowlander, and he nodded back. MacGillivray, at whose side he had fought at Glen Arkaig, reached out to grip his hand, and murmured greetings in the Gaelic.

Then Stewart swung on another smaller group, distinguishable from the rest only in that they looked fiercer somehow, and wore winged helmets of an antique aspect.

“And here you see others of whom you have heard and even drawn sword against, but have not met, I think — Alastair Carrach MacDonald of Islay and Lochaber, brother to Donald of the Isles. And sundry of his captains.”

Jamie stared. “Alastair Carrach himself? Here? Your prisoner?”

“Say that I have persuaded him to return with me to the scene of his indiscretions, to the city of Elgin. To express suitable regrets to the representatives of Holy Church there, for having caused fire at the canons’ manses, and other parts of the town — as befits a Highland gentleman! Even from the Isles!”

The Islemen gazed back at the newcomer expressionless, from almost uniformly pale blue eyes, the Scandinavian Viking admixture in their Celtic blood very evident, not so much as a nod amongst them. Yet this Alastair, and of course his brother the Lord of the Isles, were likewise grandsons of the late Robert the Second, their mother the Princess Margaret who had married John of the Isles. The present monarch, Robert the Third, had some strange kinsmen.

“Guidsakes!” Jamie muttered, striving to repress a grin at the audacity and wry humour of this son of a father who had himself burned the same Elgin and its great cathedral almost to the ground, in malice, now imposing penance for a lesser deed on the Lord of the Isles’ brother. “You well won your campaign, then, Alex!”

“Say that we brought matters to a decent conclusion. You, unhappily, were less fortunate I gather, Jamie?”

“I served a fool as commander,” the other said briefly.

“Yes. Archibald Douglas something lacks the style of his proud line. But — tell me as we ride on, Jamie. I am eager to hear what went wrong with the English invasion. You will come with us to Elgin?”

As they resumed the march eastwards, Jamie gave his friend a typically cryptic account of the late abortive Scots campaign in Northumberland ending in the disaster of Homildon Hill five weeks before, under his chief, Archibald, 4th Earl of Douglas.

“Mismanaged from the start,” he said. “Ten thousand men wasted. No discipline. Angus, Moray, Murdoch of Fife, with no experience of war amongst them. They conceived it something between a tourney and a Border cattle-raid, where it was meant to be a vital counter-invasion stroke. Within hours of crossing Tweed, hundreds, possibly thousands, dispersed, looting, driving home beasts. I advised a hanging or two, but the Earl Archie would not. Folly all the way to Newcastle. Besieged that town, hoping Hotspur was inside — as only a fool would have been. I went seeking him. Found him at the head of Derwent, far to the west. Meeting a large force of mounted archers from King Henry’s army on the Welsh March.”

“Ha — archers! And you had none?”

“Aye. I took the word back to Douglas, at speed. He had wearied of sitting round Newcastle, without siege machinery, and was retiring north. Still burning, looting, burdened with cattle — untold thousands.”

“I can guess what happened, friend.”

“Wait you. The Percy got in front of us, in the Vale of Till. Barred the way. A great force. To win round, westwards, we had to ford the Glen Water. I took my father’s Dalkeith men, four hundred, and held the approaches to the fords. When I regained the host it was not where we had arranged, but crowded up on top of a hill. Homildon Hill.”

“Go on, man.”

“Safe from Hotspur’s cavalry, up there, yes. But a higher hill rose just to the east — Housedon Hill. A deal higher. And within arrow-shot.”

“God’s mercy — a death-trap!”

“That is what it was, yes — and thousands died, to prove it. Nor could strike a blow in return. I pleaded for a break-out. Down, in wedge-formation, through the encircling cavalry. Douglas refused. And he fell, at last, leading a foot-attack on the bowmen! The blind folly of it! After that, I led what I could off the field — nine hundred or so. Downhill, in wedges, through the cavalry. To escape. Leaving the rest — Douglas and the others. Two brothers of my own. That was Homildon Hill.”

Stewart considered him. “Folly, yes. We heard that it was a great defeat. But not all this of folly and weakness. Douglas did not die?”

“None of the earls died. Nor my brothers. But all were wounded, and captured. Many brave men did die. Whereas I — I escaped with a whole skin! And pay the price now.”

“You mean . . .? You are blamed? For surviving?”

“Blamed, yes. Damned as a craven and a traitor! The man who fled the field, leaving all to their fate. His chief, even his own kin. Worst of all, leaving Albany’s son and heir, the Earl Murdoch of Fife! I am a hooting and a hissing, in the South. Albany has seen to that. Even my own father miscalls me, for failing to bring home my brothers.”

“But this is crazy! You, of all men!”

Jamie shrugged. “Crazy or no, I am now a landless hunted man. Outlawed. My wife and bairns dependent on others for their bread.”

“Then your misfortune is my good fortune, man! For I need you here in Badenoch, as never before.”

“You mean, because of Drummond’s death?”

“Wha-a-at! Drummond — dead? Sir Malcolm?”

“Save us — did you not know? Have not heard? I would have thought that you must have heard of it. Been sent word . . .?”

“No. When? When was this? When did he die? How?”

The other cleared his throat. “See you, Alex — this is a bad business. I had not thought to be the bearer of such ill tidings . . .”

“Scarce so ill as that, Jamie! Sir Malcolm is, was, no friend of mine, as you know. His death will make for . . . changes. But . . .”

“Changes, yes. For you, I fear, Alex.” His friend’s discomfort was not to be hidden. “You see, you are getting the blame for it.”

“Damnation — me? How could that be? I knew naught of it. He was slain, then?”

“Slain, yes — after a fashion. Your lady-mother says that you sent a small force, under your brothers, to keep watch on Drummond when Donald of the Isles struck, and you yourself marched to deal with the Islesmen.”

“Yes. You mean . . . that it was my brothers who slew Sir Malcolm?”

“Who knows? But somebody did. The word is that he was taken unawares, as he rode between Kildrummy and Kindrochit, in Mar, by a band of caterans. Carried to some remote hold in those mountains. And, and there fed neither food nor drink. Until he starved to death.”

“Christ God!” Shocked, appalled, Stewart involuntarily drew rein, to state. “Starved . . .?”

“So it is said. Like the Duke David, your cousin. And you are being blamed. Can you wonder? If your brothers did it — and you sent them. Your fondness for the Countess, his wife, is well known.”

“But, but . . .” He paused, as the implications of it all began to dawn on him. “Saints of mercy — so evil a thing!”

“Evil, yes. I grieve to bring you such tidings. Your brothers have told you nothing of it?”

“I have not seen them since I left Lochindorb with my main force. They do not much find it necessary to inform me of their doings! But if they have done this thing, I, I . . .” He swallowed. “God pity us all, they shall suffer for it! It would be Duncan, of course. Andrew and Walter are hard — but would not do that. And James, new wedded, is still at Garth, in Atholl, not concerned in this fighting. It would be Duncan, if any. He has a devil in him. Like, like . . .” He did not complete that, but Jamie knew that he was thinking of his father, the Wolf.

“See you, Alex — perhaps your brother thought to do you a service?”

“A service! This will damage me as nothing else could. All the Southern Highlands, Atholl, Breadalbane, Angus, Gowrie, as well as Mar itself, will turn against me. Malcolm Drummond, An Drumanach Mor, was a great chief, head of a large clan, connected to other chiefs by marriage and kin. The King’s good-brother. To starve him to death will never be forgiven. Every chief will look askance at me — even those who follow us now. I can no longer remain the King’s Justiciar of the North. A service, you say!”

“Yet he may have considered it so, in ignorance — your brother. To have Drummond dead, for you — caring not how, freeing the Countess of Mar from her loveless marriage. For you . . .”

“Fiend seize you, man — how can you say such a thing! This is beyond all — to murder the husband in order to gain the wife!”

“Others will say it, Alex — nothing more sure. Mar is a great earldom. For you to gain some control of it, your brother may have seen it as worth a murder! When he could name it an act of war, the realm threatened by Donald’s Islesmen, and Drummond in secret league with them.”

“And what, think you, will Isobel say?”

The other did not risk an answer to that, and they rode on together, silent.

When at length Sir Alexander spoke again, he said, “Say naught of this, Jamie, meantime — until I know my own mind in the matter.” He smiled a little, ruefully. “When I said that I needed you as never before, I scarce knew how much it was to be! If you will hold to me, still?”

“Think you I would not? Forby, my need is as great as yours. We are both in trouble. And more like to win out of it better together than apart!”

“So say I, friend . . .”

* * *

Branching off the great Spey valley at Rothes, to head due northwards, they camped for the night in the mouth of Rothes Glen. The Douglas, who did not speak the Gaelic, could not have much converse with the assembled chiefs, but heard from Alex Stewart that evening, by the camp-fire, an account of his campaign against the Islesmen’s invasion — how he had caught up with them at Elgin, defeated them whilst they were in disarray at the sacking of the city, chased them right across the Highlands to Moidart, where they had left their galleys, and defeated them again as they were hastily embarking, capturing most of the leadership. Unlike his father, Alex made a point of maintaining excellent relations with the Church authorities, and he was taking Alastair Carrach back to Elgin to make some sort of reparation.

With their accustomed speed, astonishing for an infantry host, they covered the ten miles between Rothes and Elgin, in the fair Moray plain, in just three hours — having sent faster messengers ahead to warn the Church and burgh authorities. The city, The Lantern of the North, awaited them with evident suspicion and alarm, behind closed gates, Highland armies of any sort being held in grave doubts by the plainsmen, and justifiably. Their cathedral, after all, the finest in the land, was still being rebuilt after the Wolf of Badenoch’s burning of 1390, a dozen years before. But the Church dignitaries, led by the Bishop of Moray himself, William de Spynie, were moderately forthcoming, having had many dealings with Alex Stewart, who had done his best to redeem his father’s offences. They were waiting to greet the Highlanders at the Panns Port, the same southern gateway at which, as the Wolf’s prisoner, Jamie Douglas had waited that day, twelve years before, for sunrise to herald the attack on the city.

“Ha, my lord Bishop,” the Stewart called, dismounting. “A good day to you and your people. The better for being the Eve of the Blessed Saint Kenneth. I have brought you for your forgiveness and absolution, I hope, a sincere penitent, one Alastair Carrach MacDonald of Islay and Lochaber, who, having offended against Holy Church, is now concerned to redeem that offence in due and suitable fashion. With some of his brother’s island chieftains.”

“Indeed! You say so? Then you rejoice us, Sir Alexander,” the Bishop replied, carefully. “We always welcome the penitent — provided he is truly so. And, h’m, prepared to make required and adequate restitution.” The prelate, a heavily-built, square-jowled, florid man, inclining to fat but with eyes shrewd enough for a horse-dealer, sketched the sign of the cross vaguely over all.

“Ah, yes — that is important, my lord. I think our friend Alastair here, will prove sufficiently repentant. And . . . openhanded! You agree, Alastair?”

The Islesman stared blankly, expressionlessly. He had the thin down-turning moustache and tiny beard, which, with the pale glitter of his eyes, effected a sort of smouldering savagery which might send shivers down the impressionable spine. He did not speak.

“I hope that you may be right,” the Bishop replied, a little doubtfully. “You do not intend to bring all these men into the city?”

“No. They will wait out here. A few of my colleagues only. The Mackintosh, Cluny Macpherson, MacGillivray Mor, Shaw of Rothiemurchus . . .” He named the chiefs of the Clan Chattan federation, who offered little more acknowledgement than had the Islesman — and whom the clerics eyed with equal wariness. “And here is my friend Sir James Douglas of Aberdour, of whose fame you will undoubtedly have heard.”

“Ah, to be sure — we have heard of Sir James. And but recently! You have come north quickly, sir. The last we heard of you was in . . . Northumberland!”

“Then I hope that you are well informed, my lord,” Jamie said briefly.

“Holy Church is always that,” Alex observed. “Where, my lord Bishop, do you wish this little, er, celebratory office to take place?”

“Why, in the cathedral, Sir Alexander — where else? Thanks to your generosity, and that of others, it now has a roof again. The Lady Chapel is all but complete. We shall go there.”

Leaving most of the force outside the town-walls, the leaders and prisoners rode inside, with the clerical party, a mob of citizens following on, some jeering once it became known that their oppressor, MacDonald, was present. The Bishop glanced back at Alastair Carrach, and spoke, rich voice carefully lowered.

“Sir Alexander — what do you propose? The word you sent was that you held this MacDonald, had brought him to repentance and would fetch him here to make restitution. What would you have me do?”

“Why, do what the Church does with penitents of substantial offence, my lord. No doubt you will have seen fit to pronounce some suitable anathemas upon him? You will have some form of ceremony for lifting it? I seem to recollect my esteemed father taking part in some such exercise at Perth, once!”

“H’mm.” The Bishop looked away. “Perhaps. And reparation? Restitution?”

“I shall vouch for that. We captured much booty with the Islesmen.”

“Ah. Some may well have been stolen from Holy Church.”

“Then it shall be restored. With a sufficiency of further compensation.”

“Very good. Suitable, commendable, my son.” The other glanced sidelong at Alex. “And, ah, timely. Aye, timely, I think.”

“Why that?”

The prelate cleared his throat. “Later might have been . . . different. Difficult.”

“I do not understand you, my lord. Later?”

“In the matter of the unhappy death of Sir Malcolm Drummond. So very unfortunate. No sure word has reached us yet. But, when it does, Holy Church may be placed in a position of some awkwardness, Sir Alexander.”

“You mean, as regards myself?”

“I fear so, yes.”

The Stewart drew a deep breath. “I had nothing to do with the death of Drummond, my lord Bishop,” he said flatly.

“Ah, to be sure. Excellent. I would not have expected it of you. Indeed, no. But . . . until that is established, before all men, you will understand, Holy Church cannot be seen to accept gifts and service from one whom men may think of as a murderer. And whom she might be called upon to, h’m, excommunicate! You will perceive our difficulty, my friend?”

“I perceive that you have been listening to idle tales, my lord Bishop. I was in the west, dealing with your unfriends here, in Moidart, when Sir Malcolm Drummond died.”

“How fortunate. But the caterans who took him were your men, were they not? Led by your own brothers? And so, it might be deemed, under your command?”

Tight-lipped, Alex reined up at the great west portal of the cathedral, still smoke-blackened. “I do not myself know what took place,” he said. “I have not seen my brothers. But . . . you said, my lord, that my coming here today was timely? In these circumstances, why?”

“Do you not see, my friend? Because thus far it is only hearsay. Mere reports — which Holy Church need not heed. Meantime we may accept your good offices, this excellent restitution, still deeming all to be well. Later it could be too late.”

“Ah, yes. I see it. I see that the Church is glad to receive what I have to give — so long as it is sufficient — whether I am a murderer or not. So long as she may. Before she excommunicates me! Timely, indeed!”

“That is less than just, sir. The Church must not countenance sin. But she can and should exercise charity towards the alleged sinner, until the sin is proven. Just as she will exercise clemency towards this MacDonald repentant who has so shamefully used her.”

The Stewart, dismounting from his garron, did not have to answer that.

Jamie Douglas had listened to all this with grim interest, a little distracted by the emotions aroused by this his return to Elgin Cathedral, after twelve years. When last he had been here, this great and noble fane was spouting smoke and flame, its stained-glass windows exploding, coughing, choking Highlandmen staggering out clutching its treasures, not to save but to steal. Alex Stewart had been there then, too, at his side, as guard, deploring his father’s savage fury but unable to halt it, almost as much a prisoner as he was himself. Now they were here in almost opposite roles; they were the captors, not the prisoners.

Ordering their captives to dismount, they followed Bishop Spynie within. Scaffolding and workmen’s gear festooned the vast building outside and in; but one of the side-chapels was almost wholly rebuilt, and here they were led.

The clerics disappeared into a vestry, and Alex arranged his party to face the candle-lit altar. The Islesmen were not bound but kept hemmed in by a sufficiency of guards to ensure their security. They remained strangely impassive, almost as though they were the merest onlookers at the proceedings.

The Bishop and his assistants emerged, resplendent in full canonicals, in glittering and jewelled magnificence. For the first time the MacDonalds’ eyes betrayed interest, calculating the worth of all that finery. The prelate took up his position at the altar, and turned to them.

“In the name of Almighty God, the Father, the Son and the Holy Spirit,” he intoned impressively, “we are here to receive back into the outspread arms of Mother Church a repentant sinner such as is beloved of our Lord Christ. Although his sins be as scarlet they shall be whiter than snow.” He paused. “Sir Alexander Stewart of Badenoch — you have one such great and penitent sinner here present?”

“I have.”

“Name him.”

“Alexander MacDonald of Islay and Lochaber, known as Alastair Carrach, brother-german to Donald, Lord of the Isles and son of the late John, Lord of the Isles and the Princess Margaret, eldest sister of our Lord King.”

“This is he who entered this city by force with an armed host, slew many, burned many houses including the property of Holy Church, the manses of the canons of this cathedral, and so didst grievously sin against the Holy Ghost?”

“The same.”

“And he does now heartily and sincerely repent him of the said great sins, confesses his grievous fault before Almighty God and all present, and is prepared to make due, ample and fullest recompence and restitution, here before God’s holy altar and in the sight of all men?”

“He is.”

“Bring the said Alexander MacDonald forward.”

Alex, his hand on the Isleman’s shoulder, climbed the three steps nearer to the altar, the other allowing himself to be pushed forward, grinning now.

Noting that grin, the Bishop frowned. “Alastair of Islay and Lochaber,” he said sternly, “do you understand? Do you fully and truly repent you?”

“He says that I do, whatever. And Stewart is an honourable man, is he not? So it must be true!” Alastair Carrach had a most gentle, lilting, West Highland voice, in notable contrast with his reputation and appearance.

The prelate looked uneasily from one to the other, and cleared his throat. “You must say it yourself, man. Another’s word is not sufficient — even Sir Alexander’s.”

“I will be saying whatever he wishes, Clerk. Words cost a deal less than the ransom I am paying.”

“Ransom . . .?”

“He means reparation and sacrifice, my lord,” Alex said evenly. “In good measure.”

“Ah. Yes. Yes, indeed. That is important, to be sure. Deeds rather than words. Yet words are necessary also. Repeat after me these words. ‘I do confess before Almighty God and these present . . .’”

“I do confess before Almighty God and these present . . .”

“‘That I have sinned . . .’”

“That I have sinned — as who has not?”

“Repeat my words only, my son.”

“So long as they are your words, whatever!” That was cheerfully said.

“Be silent, sir!”

“Very well. I am silent.”

“Repeat, ‘I have grievously offended against the laws of God and man.’”

Silence.

“I say, ‘I have grievously offended against the laws of God and man.’”

“No doubt, Clerk.”

Alex Stewart coughed. “My lord — he has come here, and confessed that he has sinned, before God and all present. Moreover he has agreed to make fullest restitution and reparation. I respectfully suggest that this is the heart of the matter, and that the rest is less vital. Would not absolution now serve the case sufficiently — and save us all further delay?”

“H’mm.” The Bishop frowned again, eyed the Isleman’s arrogant amusement, and sighed. “Very well. It may be that you are right.” He raised his beringed hand high. “In the name of God the Father, God the Son and God the Holy Ghost, I absolve you, Alexander, of your grievous sin. And, and . . .” by way of postscript he added, “. . . and may God have mercy on your soul! Amen!” And turning, with the briefest of nods to the altar, he stalked off to the vestry-door, and through. Hurriedly, in some confusion, his subordinates followed him.

Alastair Carrach barked a single hooting laugh, and then relapsed into his accustomed uninterested silence.

A move was made, out into the open air, relief showing on not a few faces.

Before the west portal was now drawn up a train of laden pack-horses. Stewart gestured towards it.

“Alastair Carrach’s booty — or most of it,” he murmured to Jamie. “An offering for the Bishop. He will be round to inspect it in but moments, I swear!”

“Why?” the other demanded, low-voiced. “Why this . . . play-acting? So, so like your own father’s folly at Perth?”

“Good reasons, friend. It is the best way to deal with Alastair. In a day or two it will be all over the Highlands that he has come and made humble abasement before Holy Church at Elgin, and yielded up his booty — a deal more hurt to his name and reputation than sustaining a couple of small defeats. It is sheerest mummery, to be sure — but no matter. I learned that after my father’s case. His repentance was the greatest mockery — yet the word was accepted far and near that he had humbly atoned. Nothing so infuriated him, that I can recollect. Keeping Alastair a prisoner will not serve my cause. I do not need ransom moneys. Better that I should send him back to his brother, unwanted, with this tale of atonement and grovelling, however untrue. And I make the Church my still better friend. I think that I am going to need the Church’s friendship, Jamie!”

Bishop Spynie did indeed put in a prompt appearance at the west front of his cathedral, to set about examining the baggage-train with an expert eye and considerable diligence — an eye that lightened and brightened as he peered and poked into each pannier, package and bundle. There was the spoil of a score of churches, villages, townships and communities there, some undoubtedly from Elgin but most from otherwhere. Holy Church, however, was clearly glad to accept all, with no awkward questions about former ownership.

“Very good, very good!” The prelate beamed on all. “This is most . . . suitable. A worthy atonement. Most commendable. It will be cherished, I assure you — much cherished. And your faithful love of Mother Church not forgotten, Sir Alexander.”

“Then, I pray, remember it, when you hear further slanderous reports about me, my lord Bishop. Which my unfriends will put about, I have little doubt. Now — if you will tell me where you wish this treasure bestowed, we shall take it there and then be on our various ways. My people have marched far and fast to deliver it here, from Moidart. They would return now to their glens . . .”

So, presently, the Highland host turned southwards again from the Panns Port of Elgin, and soon began to break up and disperse, each contingent hiving off to take the shortest route back to its own clan territory amongst the great mountains of the Monadh Ruadh, the Monadh Liath or Braemoray.

Riding by Dunkinty, the now quietly thoughtful commander of it all turned to Jamie Douglas. “M