Warden of the Queen's March

by Nigel Tranter

Genres: Historical Fiction

Synopsis

Only eighteen years old when she returned to Scotland to rule, the beautiful but unfortunate Mary Stuart was in dire need of protection: from the savage religious intolerance of the time, from scoundrels in high places, even from the men she injudiciously married. While John Knox, the Regent Moray, Lord Darnley, the Earl of Bothwell, David Rizzio and England's Elizabeth I plotted and schemed, one man remained constant to his Queen. A loyal young Border laird, Thomas Kerr of Ferniehirst, struggled to protect Mary, Queen of Scots throughout her troubled reign. But even he could not prevent the tragedy that lay in wait. 'Through his imaginative dialogue, he provides a voice for Scotland's heroes' Scotland on Sunday

Release date: September 13, 2012

Publisher: Hodder & Stoughton

Print pages: 356

Sample

For mid-August it was surprising weather, even for Scotland – fairly dense fog, and cold. Already those so inclined were muttering about it being no good augury, presaging murky and chilling times ahead. But at least it was not stormy, the easterly breeze only moderate. Edinburgh was used to east winds off the Norse Sea, producing the notorious haar or sea-mist, which could indeed chill to the bone; but not usually in summertime. And on this occasion that easterly breeze had rather upset the folk, notably the great ones more than the ordinary citizens of the capital, confounding calculations, disorganising arrangements and imposing an abnormally early rising and hurried breakfasting for those in the know. For, fog or none, word had come by fastest horse from the Earl of Angus’s castle of Tantallon that the Queen’s flotilla of French ships had been sighted, dangerously close to the shore, between the Bass Rock and the Lothian mainland at dawn, considerably before expected. That was only some twenty-five sea-miles from Leith, the port of Edinburgh, which, with an easterly wind, even despite the fog, would be covered in less than three hours. So it was all haste, to dress, snatch a bite, get mounted, and hurry down the two miles to Leith, to be there when Mary arrived, to greet the returning Queen after so long, all this in no orderly fashion.

Young Thomas Kerr of Smailholm was eager, impatient, even with his father who, as chief of a Border mosstrooping clan, and superbly mounted, could surely have ridden faster; but Sir John Kerr of Ferniehirst was a quiet, deliberate and dignified man, markedly unlike his eldest son, and was not to be hurried, even for so important an occasion. Thomas, newly come of age, perforce had to restrain himself and his mount. His mother, two younger brothers and sisters had been left behind in their town-house in the Canongate of Edinburgh.

Astonishingly, as well as numbers of important folk like themselves, lords, lairds, clerics, the Provost of the city, even the English and French ambassadors, there were lots of citizenry, the commonality of Edinburgh, also hastening down the long Leith Walk, as the roadway was called which linked the capital with its port. How they had got to know of this so inconvenient arrival so soon was no mystery, for bell-men had been sent riding down through the city streets, the Lawnmarket, the High Street and the Canongate, from the castle, shouting aloud the news, so that those concerned were speedily informed; and the lower orders would hear just as well as their betters; but how they had got so quickly thus far, on foot, was a surprise, to Thomas at least, many actually running, men, women, children and dogs, in shouting, barking excitement, all highly unsuitable. Why they should be so interested and attached to a queen they had not seen for thirteen years was hard to understand.

‘If we are too late, sir, what will happen?’ Thomas demanded, the nearest he could go to rebuking his father’s deliberate riding. And to somewhat relieve his impatience, shouted, not for the first time, for the wretched impeding foot-folk to get out of their road. This was no progress for mosstrooping Kerrs.

‘There will be time enough, Tom,’ Sir John told him easily. ‘Fret you not. This fog will slow the ships as they approach the port. Getting them in to the quayside in this will take time.’

Down through the narrow twisting streets and wynds of Leith, their passage was further delayed, all choked with folk. And when they came, at last, out on to the wide quayside, backed by warehouses, where the Water of Leith entered the Firth of Forth, it was to find the available space already packed with people. They had to dismount and leave their horses with a servant, and push their way through the noisy throng to get anywhere near the waterside. This was not being at all well organised, Thomas declared. What would the Queen think?

There was, however, no sign of the French ships, although the fog seemed to be lifting a little. That did not mean a great deal, for, even so, visibility was not more than three hundred yards, not even to the harbour-mouth.

‘What now? Do we just stand here? Wait? Do nothing . . .?’

‘What do you suggest, son?’ his father asked, smiling. ‘Swim?’ And when he got no answer, pointed. ‘Yonder is the Lord James. And Argyll. They will know what is to do.’

They insinuated their way through the press of dignitaries lining the quay, to where a notably richly dressed group stood. Amongst these, one remained not so much apart as aloof, head held strangely high, unspeaking where the others were loud of voice. For him Sir John made.

‘Greetings, Lord James,’ he said. ‘Here is a broil! Most difficult. We just wait here?’

James Stewart, Commendator-Prior of St Andrews, merely inclined his head. He was like that, a man of few words, tall, good-looking after a fashion, but stern of features, sombre of demeanour. So it was not he who answered Kerr but an older, sallow-featured, slightly built man, Archibald, Earl of Argyll, chief of Clan Campbell and member of the Regency Council.

‘Ha – Ferniehirst! You are here. This damnable fog! We have word that the French ships are lying off the harbour-mouth. The harbour-master is rowed out in his barge, to bring the Queen’s vessel in. He has with him the Lyon King of Arms and Maitland the Secretary, to greet Her Grace.’ The softly sibilant Highland lilt came but strangely from that dangerous man.

‘Scarcely the most auspicious welcome for the Queen of Scots to her ancient kingdom,’ Sir John observed. ‘After all the years of absence. And, if I mind it aright, she was held up by storms off Dumbarton when she left her land for France. I fear that she will have but a poor notion of Scotland! We must seek to improve it.’

‘Why yes, my friend. We must seek to improve much where Her Grace is concerned.’ That was said with a certain significance.

Something between a sniff and a snort came from the Lord James Stewart.

Ferniehirst glanced from one to the other. These two were probably the most powerful and influential men in Scotland, together with Master Knox the churchman, and these together had been more or less ruling the realm for the year or so since Queen Marie of Guise, the Queen’s mother and Regent, died. There was a Regency Council appointed, but it was more or less a formality, and being composed of both Protestant and Catholic lords and prelates, seldom achieved any unanimity. That their young monarch was coming to take over the rule now meant that these two were going to have to play very different parts. Sir John knew just a hint of apprehension, for he was very well aware of their quality, having had to cross swords with both more than once, as a member of the Scottish parliament and as Warden of the Middle March of the Border.

Thomas, listening, touched his father’s arm. ‘Will the Queen come ashore in this harbour-master’s barge? Surely not . . .?’

‘No, no. Our sister requires better than that! They will bring her ship in to this quay for us to greet her here.’ That was not the Lord James speaking but one who stood close by, another of his many half-brothers – and therefore the Queen’s – the Lord Robert Stewart, Commendator-Abbot of Holyrood, an amiable character although notoriously profligate. Others of King James’s bastards were there also, none clergy but all bearing clerical titles – with their attached revenues and seats in parliament – conveniently made available by the blessed Reformation of a few years before. The late monarch, of partially blessed memory, had been a potent prince in this respect at least, although Mary was his only recognised legitimate offspring.

The Lord James, the eldest of the brood and the ablest, if not the most genial and voluble, found words now, turning to his half-brother Robert. ‘Discover if Kirkcaldy of Grange is here yet. Fetch him to me.’ That was quite peremptory. Nodding, the amiable Robert moved off.

Quite quickly he was back, with a stockily built, strong-featured man of middle years, Sir William Kirkcaldy, Keeper of Edinburgh Castle.

‘Sir William, your cannon? To fire a royal salute. Are they here?’

‘No, my lord James. How could they be? There has been no time. They are heavy, drawn by oxen. Slow. They cannot be here for an hour yet. More.’

‘If fired from the castle itself? Would they be heard here?’

‘Normally, yes. But this fog! It will much deaden sound . . .’

‘Then you must find other cannon here. On ships. There must be some. Have these fired.’

‘Cannon could be difficult to find. And there may not be powder available on board . . .’

‘Find some. See to it.’ The Lord James turned away. There was no doubt who was in command here, despite the presence of others more highly placed – the Chancellor, the High Constable, the Earl Marischal and so on. But this James Stewart had an inborn authority, allied to ability, and a temperament which few found convenient to contest. Had he been legitimately, born, he, the eldest of the late monarch’s offspring, would possibly have made a strong and effective King. In fact he asserted legitimacy, claiming that his mother, the Lady Margaret Erskine, had been secretly wed to his father, unlikely as this was, she having been previously married to Robert Douglas of Lochleven. His bastardy undoubtedly preyed on his mind, and he had applied for and received papal papers of legitimacy ten years earlier – but this could not give him any claim to his sister’s throne. Illegitimacy did not seem to worry any of his other numerous half-brothers.

His brother-in-law Argyll – he was wed to another of the late monarch’s bastards, the Lady Jean Stewart – looking round, remarked that he saw no sign of the good Master Knox. The Lord James made no reply to this, but the Lord Robert chucklingly commented that that saintly presbyter no doubt considered that he had better uses for his time of a morning than waiting on the arrival of the Catholic Whore of Babylon – a remark which raised the eyebrows of some within earshot.

Thomas Kerr glared at the speaker and wished that his father would suitably rebuke him. But Sir John seemingly elected not to hear. Instead, he pointed.

‘Is that not a ship coming in now? I think . . . yes, it is. This will be the Queen’s Grace.’

Slowly the bulk of a large galley loomed out of the fog, being towed into the harbour by three many-oared barges, only one of its sails unfurled, this painted with the Lilies of France. A tentative cheer arose from the crowd at sight of it, Thomas adding his voice strongly – although few around him did.

It took quite a long time for those barges to manoeuvre the large ship in to the quayside where the most important folk were standing, all eyes on the brilliantly clad group amidships on the galley, with exclamations, and demands as to which of the half-dozen women seen there was the Queen – for only the Lord James, who had been to France as an envoy recently, had seen Mary since her childhood. He did not enlighten anybody.

Thomas gazed. He had heard so much about Mary Stewart, or Stuart as they said she was now spelling the name, the French way, with no ‘w’ in their alphabet. She was tall, spirited and beautiful, they said, with reddish hair. The trouble was, all these women wore coifs over their hair, and two were tall. But one looked older than the other, without being of any great age. The other, then . . .?

At length, ropes thrown, the galley was moored securely to the pier, and a gangway pushed out. And the tall younger woman was the first to move forward to it, almost at a run indeed, as though eager to be ashore, so that sundry men had to run also, in order to assist her up on to the gangway, these including two over-dressed characters, presumably Frenchmen, and the soberly clad William Maitland of Lethington, the Secretary of State. So it must be the Queen.

There was a surge forward of the waiting crowd, so that the lofty ones at the front were in danger of being pushed off into the water, to their outraged cries, these lost however in the general cheering, as Mary paused in mid-gangway to smile brilliantly and wave. She was dressed all in black, unlike the others, save for white at throat and cuffs and the white silk coif, for the French court was still in mourning for the young King Francis the Second, her husband; and it was not much more than a year since her own mother had died, the Regent Marie de Guise.

Standing there, however, radiant, lovely, lissome, graceful and so obviously vivacious and mettlesome, she certainly showed no other aspect of mourning or sadness, joyful expectancy rather, and eager anticipation. That smile was a delight.

Thomas, for one, was fascinated, quite smitten. Perhaps romantically inclined anyway, he decided there and then that here was the most delicious creature it had ever been his fortune to set eyes upon; and that she should be his Queen, his liege-lady and sovereign, made her all the more a wonder. How many other impressionable young men were equally stirred, it would have been interesting to know.

The cheering and shouting continuing, the Queen of Scots started forward again, but now, remembering a suitable dignity, slowed her pace so that she stepped down on to the quayside in more regal style, although having to hitch up her skirts to do so with something almost of a flourish, revealing white silken and shapely ankles. This young Queen was all woman, most evidently, aware of it and not averse for others to be aware of it also.

Pausing for a moment to gaze around her, a hand raised to acknowledge the acclaim, she inclined her head now in wholly queenly fashion, turning this way and that. And who could have more right to seem queenly, for as well as being Queen of Scots, Mary was also Queen of France, or had been until her husband had died those months before, something hitherto unprecedented.

Unprecedented too, was this moment, as Mary Stewart set foot again on her own land. For never before had Scotland had a Queen-Regnant, a ruling female monarch not just a Queen-Consort of a King. This Mary came to govern, and although her mother, Queen Marie de Guise, had acted governor, or Regent, for her daughter in France, her role had been qualified by the Privy Council and parliament. Now, at least in theory, this young woman could rule and overrule, as well as reign. Were the Scots, a notably unruly nation, prepared for a female monarch? And a young one such as this, aged only eighteen years?

Mary, turning to scan the faces of those closest at hand, saw presumably the only one she recognised, her half-brother the Lord James, and moved impulsively to him. He allowed her to do the moving, for he was not of an impulsive nature, the warmth of his greeting a deal less evident than was hers as she embraced and kissed him. He was no smiler either, but he did return her kiss, if stiffly.

‘Welcome to your realm, Madam,’ he said formally.

She trilled a laugh. ‘Oh, I have been here before, James. I was five when I left, you remember. I was . . .’

The rest was lost in thunderous noise as from somewhere much too close at hand, cannon-fire crashed out, reverberating from the close-packed warehouses, sheds and buildings and sending seabirds screaming up from roofs and steeples. Kirkcaldy of Grange had found at least one gun and some powder.

Startled at first, the Queen blinked, then laughed as she realised what it was. She turned, and beckoned forward one of the men who had followed closest behind her.

‘Here is my uncle, the Marquis d’Elboeuf. You have met, I think?’

René de Guise of Lorraine was the youngest of the late Marie’s three brothers, a foppish-looking individual of early middle years, with painted cheeks and lips, and sporting rings in his ears. The Scots eyed him distinctly askance.

‘My lord Marquis,’ the Lord James said briefly. He turned. ‘Here, Madam, is another uncle, by marriage – my lord Earl of Argyll, wed to the Lady Jean Stewart.’

‘Ah, my lord. I have heard . . .’

Whatever she had heard was not disclosed, for another cannon-blast bludgeoned all eardrums. Some of the Queen’s ladies clapped hands to coifs, but Mary restrained herself. Whatever ship boasted the artillery was just too close for comfort. Mary smiled round at the company. Thomas asserted afterwards that she caught his eye as she did so.

How long the cannonade might go on was open to question and presentations to the Queen were hurried through, in the intervals, with more expedition than dignity: the half-brothers she had never met, officers of state, ambassadors, earls and high dignitaries, these including the Warden of the Middle March, Sir John Kerr. Thomas was not included, of course, but he got a glance – or assured himself that he did. He was not a bad-looking young man, in a rugged sort of way.

Impatient with all this, the Lord James ordered a servant to go find Sir William Kirkcaldy and tell him to stop all the damnable noise. Then he commanded various of his half-brothers to clear a way through the crowd, and took the Queen’s elbow, to urge her to walk on up the quay. They would go meantime to the house of one Andrew Lamb, a merchant, he said briefly, for refreshment, until all was ready for her at the Abbey of Holyrood.

So a move was made, Mary, flanked by the Lord James and Argyll and followed by her entourage and a long train of Scots notables, smiling and waving right and left and even pausing now and again to say a word or two to quite ordinary folk, a delay and gesture of which her half-brother obviously disapproved. Thomas got separated from his father in this long narrow column, and found himself walking with one of Mary’s young women, a plumply pretty dimpling creature on whom he tried out his halting French, to be answered in a good Scots tongue and to be informed that this was in fact Mary Fleming, daughter of the late Lord Fleming. The Queen always kept a group of four high-born Marys as her closest companions, replacing them if they married, not the first to support this royal custom, this one’s present colleagues, she told him, being the daughters of the Lords Seton, Livingstone and Beaton. Thomas found himself getting on well with Mary Fleming, a cheerful and friendly character, on this very slow progress. She informed him that although they had applied for a safe-conduct for the French ships from Queen Elizabeth of England, that strange woman had refused to grant it to her fellow-monarch. However, although they had been intercepted by English warships, these had not actually attacked them, content apparently to show that they were in command of the seas; and they had made a swifter voyage northwards than had been feared – which, with the favourable wind, accounted for their early arrival.

Although it was not far from the quayside, through the pressing, noisy throng, it took some time to reach a very substantial and tall-gabled and stair-turreted house, set only a little way back from the river-bank; this Andrew Lamb must be a very prosperous merchant indeed to own such an establishment, better than most of the nobles’ Edinburgh town-houses, although Thomas had never heard of him. Guards now stood at the door, and Thomas had little doubt that he would not have been let in had he not been with this Mary Fleming, who took his arm and ushered him past the scrutinising sentinels, who were forbidding most people entrance.

Even so, it was crowded within, and Thomas would not have dared to go upstairs when he saw his father held in the vaulted basement hallway, had his companion not drawn him up after her with entire confidence, declaring that she must always be at the Queen’s side.

In the large room on the first floor, crowded also, refreshments – cold meats, fish, oatcakes, honeyed scones, with wines and spirits – were being dispensed in liberal fashion. The Queen was holding court up beside a well-doing log fire, for the fog had been chilly; and Mary Fleming, seeing her brother near her, pressed forward to his side, Thomas a little hesitantly following. He was introduced to the Lord Fleming of Cumbernauld, who nodded civilly.

There was a great chatter in that great room, but at least the booming of the cannon had ceased, and as Mary Fleming talked to her brother, Thomas was near enough to the Queen to hear at least snatches of her talk. She spoke in Scots, not unnaturally with a somewhat French accent, which he for one considered the more delightful – no doubt her four Scots Marys had kept her in practice.

He learned from the conversation that they were awaiting word, to the Lord Robert, Commendator-Abbot of Holyrood, that the Abbey premises were ready for Her Grace, before proceeding up the two miles thereto. In theory, Edinburgh Castle was the royal residence in the capital, but in fact monarchs usually resided at the Abbey, where the abbatical quarters were much more comfortable and spacious than in the fortress on its rock. All should be ready very shortly – they had not expected the Queen for another day, at least.

Thomas missed what was being said thereafter by the Earl Marischal, and the next he heard was the Queen remarking to Archbishop Hamilton of St Andrews, a brother of the Hamilton chief, the Duke of Châtelherault, and her distant kin, that he must present to her the renowned Master John Knox, of whom she had heard so much.

There was a distinct pause at that, at least amongst those close at hand, and some embarrassment on the part of the archbishop. For one thing, Knox was most certainly not present; and anyway, presbyter and Primate were not on speaking terms. The so-called Reformation was far from complete in Scotland as yet, and although the Protestants had the upper hand and controlled parliament and most functions of state, the Catholics were still a power to be reckoned with, and the prelates still held their titles and privileges if not all their former lands and wealth; indeed the majority of the common people probably still upheld the old religion, as did the Kerrs of Ferniehirst.

The irrepressible Lord Robert Stewart answered for Hamilton, his religious affiliations being doubtful, if he had any, despite being Commendator-Abbot. ‘Master Knox is probably at his devotions, Madam, at this hour, since it is too early for him to be teaching folk the error of their ways! He is a very godly man, and not to be distracted by . . . frivolities!’

That caused at least one of his half-brothers to cough disapprovingly, the Lord James. ‘Master Knox will no doubt greet you at Holyrood, Madam,’ he said, in a voice that made it clear that this subject was closed.

This unfortunate incident was countered by the arrival of a further group of Frenchmen, loud in their demands to join the Queen. These proved to include two more de Guise uncles, brothers of d’Elboeuf, the Duke of Aumale and Francis, Grand Prior of France, who had voyaged north in another of the French galleys. This had now also been brought into the harbour. They were vehement in their complaints as to their reception, or the lack of it, at the quayside, their difficulty in finding their way here, and especially the fact that the Duke had lost his Duchess in the crowd, the good God alone knowing where she was now.

As some concern was expressed about this, the Queen declaring that her aunt must be rescued and brought to her, Thomas Kerr saw his opportunity. Raising his voice, he called out that he would go find the lady, who certainly could not be far away. No one else volunteering, he began to make his way out of the crowded room, when, near the door, he found Mary Fleming at his side.

‘She is large and fat,’ the girl informed. ‘And she will speak no Scots. Perhaps I should come with you.’

‘No, no. I will find her, lady,’ he asserted, and hurried off downstairs. That young woman evidently did not think much of his French.

Out on the street, although it was thronged with folk still, and noisy, he had in fact little difficulty in locating his quarry. A big, red-faced and very voluble female was creating quite a furore not far away, waving her arms about and berating all in sight, in French, to a certain amount of unkind hilarity. Thomas pushed his way through the press, and clutched at one of those urgent arms.

‘Madame la Duchesse,’ he shouted. ‘Venez vous avec moi.’

The lady eyed him suspiciously, treated him to a torrent of complaints in her own tongue, but came with him as he tugged at her.

Getting that Duchess through the throng was not easy, but at least her authoritative volubility got them past the sentinels at the door and up the stairs of the house, where she was reunited with her spouse, whom she lambasted for deserting her in this barbarous, uncouth land, and then fell on the Queen in a flood of Gallic eloquence. Mary sought to soothe her, and then looked over at Thomas, who was modestly now standing back.

‘Who is this gallant young man?’ she asked. And added, ‘With the bright eyes!’

When no one volunteered the information, Thomas, much affected by those last words, spoke up. ‘Kerr, Your Grace. Thomas Kerr of Smailholm.’ He was rather proud of that designation, which had not been his for long, having only received it on his twenty-first birthday from his father, a subsidiary property of the Kerrs. ‘Son to Ferniehirst.’

‘Then thank you, Thomas Kerr. Of, of . . . Smellum, did you say?’ That delightful tinkle of laughter. ‘I am sure a goodly place, whatever its name, to have produced you! My thanks for finding the good Duchess for me.’

Quite overcome, he bowed and backed away.

‘Is it really Smellum?’ That was Mary Fleming, at his side again, with a giggle. ‘I think that you should change that, Tom Kerr!’

‘Not so – Smailholm! A notable strength, in the East March.’ He shook his head. ‘Is she not wonderful? Divine! She thanked me. Did you hear?’

‘Ha! Another one! All the young men dote on her. Not that I blame you. She is an angel of heaven – but an angel with a temper, mind! But it is hard on the rest of us!’

Thomas found some refreshment for this frank young woman, and for himself, and was introduced to two more of the Queen’s Marys; Seton, a fair, calm girl whose father, the Lord Seton, had also come with the royal party from France; and Beaton, a slim, lively creature, kin to the late assassinated Cardinal David Beaton. Also to the older, taller woman who had stood beside the Queen as the galley docked, and who proved to be this Mary’s mother, the Lady Fleming, the former royal governess, and herself another bastard of the prolific King James. Thomas had lost count of these, but liked this one, although her reputation was not of the highest, she having been a mistress of King Henry the Second of France.

At length, with the refreshments demolished and many of the company becoming restive, the Lord Robert Stewart made announcement that he had word that Holyrood Abbey and palace was now ready for Her Grace, and a move thereto should be made by those concerned – a declaration which left not a few present uncertain as to who might be included in this invitation, Thomas Kerr amongst them. At any rate, the move away applied to all.

But down in the crowded street there was further delay, the difficulty being to get the horses of the great ones, and those provided for the new arrivals, through the great press of people. Fortunately, despite the heavy-handed tactics of the guards and lords’ servants, the common folk remained good-tempered and cheerful, acclaiming the Queen if not many of her associates. In the end, the royal party had to make their way to the horses, rather than the other way round; and since these were scattered in such few open spaces as the port boasted, the business took some time. Thomas felt bound to escort the four Marys and Lady Fleming to find their transport, and since these were not to be separated from the Queen, he lost touch with his father and became more or less attached to the royal party.

When Maitland of Lethington, the Secretary of State, who appeared to have the task of organising the move – however disorganised it all seemed – got them to a drying-green for fishermen’s nets and household washing, where a collection of horses was waiting, there was something of an outcry from the French visitors as to the quality of the animals provided, the Abbot of Brantôme in especial, a magnificently attired courtier of no more than Thomas’s own age with no ecclesiastical aspect to him, declaring that these sorry beasts were not fit to carry more than the fish-baskets lying around, much less the Queen of France – and, by implication, himself. Admittedly, Thomas’s own horse, nowhere near here, was an infinitely superior mount; presumably these were hired animals from Edinburgh. Mary Fleming confided that the Queen had shipped her own fine horseflesh for transport in two Dutch ships from Calais; but unfortunately, when the English warships had intercepted their flotilla, they had detained these while letting the royal galleys go on.

The young monarch, however, made no complaint about the steeds provided, and mounted one of them agilely and unaided. Unlike many of her attendants, she had obviously come prepared to make allowances and make the best of conditions. Thomas helped his ladies up on to the poorly saddled and caparisoned beasts, and, loth to leave this company, mounted another himself. His father could look after their own horses.

Maitland led them through a network of narrow lanes and wynds to the graveyard of St Mary’s Church. Here they f