Barr Robert
A Prince of Good Fellows

“Your mother’s house?” said the girl with an uncanny laugh. “When has the Lady Margaret set foot in Doune? Not since she was divorced from my uncle, Archibald Douglas, Earl of Angus! And the constable? Aye, the constable is in Stirling. Doune Castle stands gloomy and alone, but in Stirling with the young king, there are masques, and hunting and gaiety. Young Stuart draws the revenues of his charge, but pays slight attention to the fulfilment of his duty.”

“You are then Isabel Douglas? And now, to echo your own question, how came you here? If this is a den of Douglases, as you say, how comes my mother’s castle to be officered by the enemies of her son?”

“That you ask such a question shows little foresight or knowledge of men. When your first step-father, and my uncle, Archibald Douglas, had control of this castle through your mother’s name, he filled it with his own adherents.”

“Naturally; nepotism was a well-known trait of my domineering step-father, which did not add to his popularity in Scotland. Who can get office, or justice against a Douglas? was their cry. But did not young Stuart, when he was made constable, put in his own men?”

“The constable cares nothing for this stronghold so long as it furnishes money which he may spend gaily in Stirling.”

“I see. So you and your sister found refuge among your underlings? and where so safe from search as within the king’s mother’s own fortress, almost under the shadow of Stirling? An admirable device. Why then do you jeopardise your safety by letting me into the secret?”

The girl sighed deeply with downcast eyes, then she flashed a glance at him which had something in it of the old Douglas hauteur.

“I fear,” she said, “that it is not our safety which is jeopardised.”

“You mean that I am in danger?”

“The same stronghold which gives immunity to a family of the Red Douglases can hardly be expected to confer security upon James the Fifth, their persecutor.”

“No. Certainly that would be too much to expect. Are you then in this plot against me, my lady?”

“I have not heard of any plot. If there is one I know nothing of it. I merely acquaint you with some hint of my fears.”

“Then I charge you as a loyal subject of the lawful king, to guide me from this stronghold, into which I have been cozened by treachery and falsehood.”

Catherine, who had entered silently and unnoticed through the smaller door, now stepped forward, drew her sister into the room, took out the huge key, closed the door and locked it, then turned fiercely to the king. Her beautiful white right arm was bare to the elbow, the loose sleeve rolled up, and in her hand she held a dagger. With her back against the newly locked door, she said, —

“I’ll be your majesty’s guide from this castle, and your perjured soul shall find exit through a postern gate made by my dagger!”

“Oh, Catherine, Catherine,” sobbed Isabel, weeping in fear and horror of the situation, “you cannot contemplate so awful a deed, a murder so foul, for however unworthy he may be, he is still the king.”

“What is there foul in ridding the world of a reptile such as he? How many innocent lives has he taken to encompass his revenge? How many now of our name are exiled and starving because of his action? I shall strike the blow with greater surety, for in killing him I extinguish his treacherous race.”

“No good can come from assassination, Catherine.”

“What greater evil can spring from his death than from his life?”

“His killing will not bring back those whom he has slain; it will not cause our banished kinsmen to return. It will be a murder for revenge.”

“And not the first in Scotland,” said Catherine grimly.

The king had once more seated himself, and now, resting his chin on his open palm, listened to the discussion with the interested bearing of one who had little concern with its result. A half amused smile wreathed his lips, and once or twice he made a motion as if he would intervene, but on second thoughts kept silent.

“Do not attempt this fell deed, dear sister,” pleaded Isabel earnestly. “Let us away as we intended. The horses are ready and waiting for us. Our mother is looking for our coming in her room. The night wears on and we must pass Stirling while it is yet dark, so there is no time to be lost. Dear sister, let us quit Scotland, as we purposed, an accursed land to all of our name, but let us quit it with unstained hands.”

“Isabel, darling,” said Catherine in a low voice that quavered with the emotion caused by her sister’s distress and appeal, “what unlucky chance brought you to this fatal door at such a moment? Can you not understand that I have gone too far to retreat? Who, having caged the tiger, dare open again the gate and set him free? If for no other reason, the king must die because he is here and because I brought him here. Open the door behind you, Isabel, go down the circular stair, and at the postern step you will find the rope ladder by which I ascended. Get you to the courtyard and there wait for me, saying nothing.”

“Catherine, Catherine, the king will pardon you. He will surely forgive what you have done in exchange for his life.”

“Forgiveness!” cried Catherine, her eyes blazing again. “I want no forgiveness from the king of Scotland. Pardon! The tiger would pardon, till once he is free again. The king must die.”

“I shall go as you have bid me, Catherine, but not to do your bidding. I shall arouse this castle and prevent an abominable crime.”

Catherine laughed harshly.

“Whom would you call to your assistance? Douglases, Douglases, Douglases! How many of your way of thinking will you find in the castle? You know well, one only, and that is our mother, old and helpless. Rouse the castle, Isabel, if you will, and find a dead man, and perhaps a dead sister, when you break in this locked door.”

The helpless Isabel sank her head against the wall and burst into a fury of weeping.

“Ladies,” said the king soothingly, rising to his feet, “will you graciously condone my intervention in this dispute? You are discussing an important act, from the commission of which all sentiment should be eliminated; an act which requires the hard strong mind of a man brought to bear upon the pros and cons of its consummation. You are dealing with it entirely from the standpoint of the heart and not of the head, an error common with women, and one that has ever precluded their effective dealing with matters of State. You will pardon me, Lady Isabel, when I say that your sister takes a much more practical view of the situation than you do. She is perfectly right in holding that, having me prisoner here, it is impossible to allow me to go scatheless. There is no greater folly than the folly of half doing a thing.”

“Does your majesty argue in favour of your own murder?” asked Isabel amazed, gazing at the young man through her tears.

“Not so, but still that is a consideration which I must endeavour to eliminate from my mind, if my advice is to be impartial, and of service to you. May I beg of you to be seated? We have the night before us, and may consider the various interesting points at our leisure, and thus no irremediable mistake need be made.”

Isabel, wellnigh exhausted with the intensity of her feelings, sank upon the bench, but Catherine still stood motionless, dagger in hand, her back against the door. The king, seeing she did not intend to obey, went on suavely. There was a light of intense admiration in his eye as he regarded the standing woman.

“Ladies,” he said, “can you tell me when last a King of Scotland – a James also – and a Catherine Douglas bore relation to each other in somewhat similar circumstances?”

The king paused, but the girl, lowering at him, made no reply, and after a few moments the young man went on.

“It was a year more than a century ago, when the life of James the First was not only threatened, but extinguished, not by one brave woman, but by a mob of cowardly assassins. Then Catherine Douglas nearly saved the life of her king. She thrust her fair young arm into the iron loops of a door, and had it shattered by those craven miscreants.”

Isabel wept quietly, her face in her two open hands. But Catherine answered in anger, —

“Why did the Catherine Douglas of that day risk her life to save the king? Because James the First was a just monarch. Why does the Catherine Douglas of to-day wish to thrust her dagger into the false heart of James the Fifth? Because he has turned on the hand that nurtured him – ”

“The hand that imprisoned him, Lady Catherine. Pardon my correction.”

“He turned on the man who governed Scotland wisely and well.”

“Again pardon me; he had no right to govern. I was the king, not Archibald Douglas. But all that is beside the question, and recrimination is as bad as sentiment for clouding cold reason. What I wished to point out is, that assassination of kings or the capture of them very rarely accomplishes its object. James the First was assassinated and as result two Stuarts, two Grahams and two Chamberses were tortured and executed; so his murderers profited little. My grandfather James the Third was carried off by the Boyds, but Sir Alexander Boyd was beheaded and his brother and nephew suffered forfeiture. I think I have shown then that violence is usually futile.”

“Not so,” answered Catherine; “your grandfather was assassinated, and the man who killed him is not known to this day. Your great-grandfather basely murdered the Black Douglas in Stirling, thus breaking his word of honour for he had given Douglas safe conduct, yet he profited by his act and crushed my kinsmen.”

“I see, Lady Catherine, that you are too well versed in history for me to contend with you successfully on that subject,” said the king with a silent laugh. “We will therefore restrict the inquiry to the present case, as wise people should. Tell me then, so that I may be the better able to advise you, what is your true object – revenge and my death, or the wringing from me of concessions for your family?”

“I could not wring concessions from you, because you could not make good those concessions unless I released you. I dare not release you, because I dare not trust you.”

“I foresaw your difficulty, and so I told your sister that, having gone so far, you could not retreat. The issue is therefore narrowed down to death, and how it may best be accomplished. You have made the tactical mistake of forewarning me. I cannot understand why you did not mount my horse beside me and stab me in the back as we rode through the forest. Did this not occur to you, Lady Catherine?”

“It did, but there were objections. Your horse would doubtless have escaped me, and would have galloped riderless to Stirling; your body would have been found by break of day, and we but a few hours’ march from Stirling. Here I expect you to lie undiscovered in this locked room till we are safe in England.”

“That is clear reasoning,” commented the king with impartiality, “but have you looked beyond? Who will be the successor of the throne? I have neither brother nor sister; my two uncles died before I was born, and I perish childless. I think you mentioned that you wished to extinguish our line. Very well; what follows? Who is heir to the throne?”

“It matters nothing to me,” said Catherine firmly. “Whoever rules Scotland could not be a greater enemy to my race than you are.”

“I am not so sure of that. I think your dagger-blow will bring consequences you do not look for, and that your kin, now exiled in England will find the stroke a savage one for them. You forget that the stern King of England is my uncle, and on this relationship may lay claim to the Scottish throne. Be that as it may, it will be no secret that a Douglas committed the murder; and think you Henry VIII will offer safe refuge to his nephew’s assassins? You much misjudge him if you do. It would have been far better to have slain me in the forest. This castle business is but an ill-judged, ill thought-out plan. I am sorry to appear adversely critical, but such is my opinion, and it confirms me in the belief that women should leave steel and State alone.”

“I dare not let you go,” reiterated Catherine.

“Of a surety you dare not; that is what I have said from the beginning. On the other hand, I can make no concession, under coercion, that would save my life. You see we are both cowardly, each in a different way. And now having come to the absolutely logical conclusion that the king must die, you should turn your mind to the difficulties that confront you. I, you see, am also armed.”

The king as he spoke took from his doublet a dagger almost similar to the one held by the girl. A gentle smile graced his lips as he ran his thumb along the edge, and then glanced up at the two in time to notice their consternation at this new element in the situation.

“If you enter a tiger’s cage you should expect a touch of his claws, so, Lady Catherine, your task is more serious than you anticipated. There is furthermore another source of danger against you, and it is my sincere wish that in the struggle to come you may not be too severely handicapped. While the issue of our contest is still in doubt, your sister will assuredly unlock the door and give the alarm, hoping to prevent your contemplated crime, or my killing of you. I think it right that you should not be called upon to suffer this intervention, for, if you will permit me to say so, I admire your determination as much as I admire, in another way, the Lady Isabel’s leaning towards mercy. I shall then, take this key from the larger door and place it, with your sister, outside on the narrow stairway. You have withdrawn the rope ladder so she cannot alarm the garrison.”

“But I have not withdrawn it,” said Catherine quickly. “My sister must not leave this room or she will bring interference.”

“Then,” said the king calmly, as he rose and took the key from the large door, “we shall at least make it impossible for her to open the way into the hall.” And so saying, he stepped to the smaller door, which he opened, and before either of the women could prevent his action, or even grasp an inkling of his design, he stepped outside, key in hand, and thrust to their places the bolts of the stairway door.

The two girls looked at each other for a moment in silence, Isabel plainly panic-stricken, while in Catherine’s face anger struggled with chagrin. Each was quick to see the sudden consequences of this turning of the tables; the two were helpless prisoners in a remote portion of the castle, no one within its walls being acquainted with their whereabouts. The king, insulted, hoodwinked, and all but murdered, was now at liberty, free to ride the few short leagues that lay between Doune and Stirling, and before daybreak the fortress would be in the hands of an overwhelming force with the present garrison prisoners. In the awed stillness an unexpected sound came to them from the outside; the sound of a man endeavouring to suppress the hearty laughter that overmastered him. To be doomed is bad enough, but to be made the subject of levity was too much for the dauntless Catherine. She flung her dagger ringing to the stone floor with a gesture of rage, then sank upon a bench and gave way to tears; tears of bitter humiliation and rage.

“Ladies,” said the king from the outside, “I beg that you will allow me to open the door.” But, receiving no answer, the bolts were drawn once more; James again entered the apartment and gazed down upon two fair proud heads, crowned with ruddy hair.

“Dear ladies,” said the king, “forgive me my untimely mirth. Both of you take matters much too seriously; a little laughter is necessary in this world. My Lady Catherine, I told you that I could grant no concessions under coercion, but now coercion has vanished and I enter this room a free man of my own will. Tell me, my girl, what is it you want? The rescinding of your father’s exile? It is granted. The right to live unmolested in your own castle? It is granted. Safe conduct to England? It is granted. The privilege of remaining in Doune? It is granted. But do not ask me to rescind banishment against Archibald Douglas, Earl of Angus, for that I shall not concede. The Douglas ambition, and not the Scottish king, has wrecked the Douglas family, both Black and Red. But as far as concerns your own immediate kin, with one exception, I shall give anything you like to ask.”

Catherine rose to her feet, threw back her auburn tresses, and said curtly, —

“We ask nothing but the privilege of leaving the country you rule.”

The king bowed.

“And you, Lady Isabel?”

“I go with my sister and my mother.”

“I grieve at your decision, ladies, and for the first time in my life envy England in getting an advantage over poor old Scotland, which I hope will not be irreparable, for I trust you will return. But if such be your determination, then go in peace, and in the daylight. Your journey shall not be molested by me. But, before you add finality to your intentions, I think it would be but fair to inform your lady mother that the king is anxious to be of service to her, and perhaps she may be content to accept what her daughters are apparently too proud to receive.”

James placed the key once more in the lock, and turning to Catherine said, —

“My fair antagonist, I bid you good-night.”

He stretched out his right hand, and she, with some hesitation and visible reluctance placed her palm in his. Then the king raised to his lips the hand which at one time seemed like to have stricken him.

“And you, sweet Isabel, whose gentle words I shall not soon forget, you will not refuse me your hand?”

“No, your majesty, if you will promise to think kindly of me.”

The king, however, did not raise her hand to his lips, but placing an arm about her waist he drew her towards him and kissed her. Next moment he was hurrying down the stone steps, and the two were left alone together.

The King Investigates

The king, wishing to decide wisely, was troubled by a conflict of evidence, the bane of impartial judges all the world over. A courier from England had brought formal complaint that, while the two countries were ostensibly at peace, the condition along the border was practically a state of war. Raids were continually being made from the southern portion of Scotland across the boundary into England, and the robbers retreated unscathed to hide themselves among their hills, carrying their booty with them. These ruffians had long gone unpunished, and now England made friendly protest in the matter.

The king gathered his nobles about him and laid the case before them. Not a man among them but was older than himself, and therefore more experienced. James requested advice regarding the action it might be thought wise to take. Many of the nobles whose estates lay in the Lowlands of Scotland had themselves suffered from Highland cattle-lifters, and thus they were imbued with a fellow feeling for the raided English across the border. The English protest, they said, was courteously made. The evil was undoubted, and had existed unchecked for years, growing worse rather than better. Henry VIII, who now occupied the English throne, was a strong and determined man, and this continued source of irritation in the northern part of his realm might easily lead to a deplorable war between the two countries. In addition, James of Scotland was nephew to Henry of England, and the expostulation from uncle to nephew was of the mildest, without any threat even intimated.

The nobles thought that James might well put a stop to a state of things which no just man could approve, and thus do an act of justice which would at the same time please an august relative. James admitted that these were powerful arguments, but still if the Border robbers, who had many followers, resisted the Scottish force sent against them, there would be civil war, an outcome not to be looked forward to with light heart.

“In truth,” said the king, “I would rather lead an army against England, with England in the right, than against my own countrymen, even if they were in the wrong.”

This remark seemed to encourage certain gentlemen there present, who up to that moment had not spoken. The Earl of Bothwell, as the highest in rank among the silent phalanx, stepped forward and said, —

“Your majesty, there are always two sides to a question, and, with your permission, I should be glad to put in a word for those Border riders who have been so ruthlessly condemned by men who know nothing of them.”

“It is for the purpose of hearing all there is to say that I called you together,” rejoined the king. “Speak, my Lord of Bothwell.”

“In the first place, your majesty, these Border men have had to stand the first brunt of all invasions into our country for centuries past. It is, therefore, little to be wondered at that they have small liking for the English. We are at peace with those to the south of us now, it is true; but how long that peace will remain unbroken, no man can say. There is, however, one thing certain, that if the King of Scotland exercises the power he undoubtedly possesses, and crushes the Border forces, he will have destroyed a staunch bulwark of his realm, and I quite agree with those gentlemen who have spoken so eloquently against the Borderers, that the King of England, and the people of England, will be well pleased.”

This statement had a marked effect on King James, and it would have been well if those who agreed with the Earl of Bothwell had been as moderate in their denunciation. But some of them, apparently, could not forget the youth of the king, and, not having the sense to see that his majesty’s desire was to render a just decision, thought he might be frightened by strong language.

“It is easy for those to speak well of the pike, who have not felt the prod of its point,” cried Lord Maxwell angrily. “Few English invasions have reached Stirling, but every one of them have crossed the Border. What matters the lifting of some English cattle? The Southerners never scrupled to eat good Scottish beef whenever they set foot on Scottish soil. I would hang the English envoy for daring to come to a Scottish king with complaints of cattle lifting.”

The king frowned slightly but said nothing, and then Adam Scott of Tushielaw had to thrust his bull neck into the noose.

“I give you fair warning,” he cried, “that if the king’s forces are turned against the Borderers, my sword helps my neighbours.”

“And I say the same,” shouted Cockburn of Henderland.

Some of the opposition were about to speak, but the king held up his hand for silence.

“That is treason,” he said quietly. “Adam Scott, I have heard that you are called King of the Border. Scotland is blessed with a number of men who are king of this, or king of that, and I am sure I make no objection, as long as they do not forget the difference that exists between a king in name and a king in reality. I asked for advice, but not for threats.”

Then to the whole assemblage he went on —

“Gentlemen, I thank you for your counsel. I shall give a soothing reply to my uncle’s ambassador, keeping in mind the peace that exists between the two countries, and then I shall take what has been said on each side into consideration and let you know the result.”

Accepting this as dismissal, those there congregated withdrew, save only Sir David Lyndsay, the king having made a sign for him to remain. “Well, Davie,” he said, when they were alone, “what do you think of it all?”

“To tell truth, your majesty,” answered the poet, “it’s a knotty problem, not to be solved by rhyming brain. When the first spokesman finished I was entirely of his opinion, but, after that, the Earl of Bothwell’s plea seemed equally weighty, and between the two I don’t know what to think.”

“That is the disadvantage of an unbiased mind, Davie. Now, with good, strong prejudices, one side or the other, the way would be clear, and yet I despise a man who doesn’t know his own mind.”

“Scott and Cockburn seemed to know their minds very well,” ventured the poet, with a smile.

“Yes, and if one or two more of them had spoken as decidedly, I would have been off to the Border to-night at the head of my troops. It is a weakness of mine, but I can’t put up with a threat very well.”

“Kings are rarely called upon to thole a threat,” said Sir David, with a laugh.

“I’m not so sure of that, Davie. Kings have to thole many things if they are to rule justly. Now, Davie, if you’ll but tell me just what to do, it will be a great help, for then I can take the opposite direction with confidence.”

But the poet shook his head.

“I cannot tell you,” he said. “There seems much to be said for both sides.”

“Then, Davie, send down to the town for the cobbler; send for Flemming, he is a common-sense, canny body; he shall be the Solomon of the occasion. That broad-faced hammer of his seems to rap out wisdom as well as drive pegs. Bring him up with you, and we’ll place the case before him.”

As the rhymster left the room, Sir Donald Sinclair came clanking in, seemingly in something of a hurry.

“Was it your majesty’s pleasure,” began Sir Donald, “to have detained Adam Scott and Cockburn?”

“No. Why do you ask?”

“Because they have mounted their horses and are off to the Border as fast as two good steeds can carry them.”

“And where are Bothwell, Home, and Maxwell, and the Lairds of Fairniherst, Johnston and Buccleuch?”

“They are all closeted in the Earl of Bothwell’s room, your majesty. Shall I take any action regarding them?”

“Oh no; do not meddle with them. You heard the opinions given a while since, Donald? What conclusion did you arrive at?”

“I am scarcely an impartial judge, your majesty. A soldier is ever for fighting, and I fear he pays little attention to the right or wrong of it.”

“You would try a fall with the Border kings perhaps?”

“Yes, your majesty, I would.”

“Then I need have no fear but the troops will respond if I call on them?”

“None in the least, your majesty.”

“Well, I am glad to hear that, Sir Donald, and, meanwhile, I can think of the project without any doubt regarding my army.”

When the cobbler came to the castle with Sir David, the king led the way to one of his small private rooms, and there sketched out the argument on both sides of the question with great impartiality.

“Now, Flemming,” he said, at the conclusion, “what is there to do?”

For a long time the shoemaker made no reply; then he scratched his head in perplexed fashion. At last he said:

“It gets beyond me, your majesty. Thieving is not right unless it’s done under cover of law, which these reiving lads to the South seem to take small account of. On the other hand, to destroy them root and branch may be leaving Scotland naked to her enemy. I admit I’m fairly in a corner.”

Sir David Lyndsay laughed.

“You’re as bad as I am, cobbler,” he said.

“There is one point,” commented the king, “that no one seems to have taken any notice of, and that is this: Those who speak against the Border marauders are those who know little of them except by hearsay; while the lords in their neighbourhood, who should know them well, stand up for them, and even threaten to draw sword on their behalf.”

“That certainly speaks well for the villains,” admitted the cobbler.

“Then what is your verdict,” demanded the king.

“Well, I kind of think I should leave them alone,” said Flemming cautiously.

“Do you agree with him, David?”

“I’m not sure but I do. It seems a choice of two evils.”

The king laughed riotously and smote his thigh.

“Well, of all half-hearted counsellors, King James has the champion pair; and yet I had made up my mind before I asked the advice of either of you.”

“And what was that?” inquired Sir David, “to attack them?”

“No.”

“To leave them alone?” suggested the cobbler.

“No.”

“What then?” cried both together.

“What then? Why, just to get a little surer information. Here are three men of open minds. I propose that for the next week, or thereabouts, we three shall be honest cattle merchants, who will mount our honest horses and take a quiet bit journey along the Border. The scenery, they tell me, is grand, and David here will make poems on it. It’s a healthy country, and the cobbler has been bending too assiduously over broken shoes of late, so the fresh air and the exercise will do him good.”

“Losh, your majesty!” cried the cobbler, in dismay, “I’m no horseman. I never rode any four-legged thing but a cobbler’s bench, and that side-saddle fashion.”

“Oh, you’ll have learnt when we reach the Border,” said the king, with a laugh. “Before two days are past you’ll be riding as well as Sir David, who is at present the worst horseman in all Scotland.”

“Pegasus is the steed I yearn to ride,” returned the poet, with a wry face.

“Yes, and even it sometimes throws you, David. You’ll never be the Psalmist your namesake was. Well, we’ll look on it as agreed. Flemming shall be purse-bearer, and so our tour will be an economical one. Here is a purse well filled. You will look after the drover’s costumes, make all disbursements, and take care that you do not betray us by undue lavishness.”

Thus it came about that three supposed drovers took their way to the Border by a route which drovers were never known to travel before, and, besides this, they were travelling empty-handed towards England, whereas, real drovers faced the south with their herds before them, and the north with those herds sold or stolen. Not one of the three had in his vocabulary a single word pertaining to the cattle trade, and every man with whom they spoke knew at once that, whatever else they might be, they were not drovers, and so the ill-fated three went blundering through the free-booters’ country, climbing hills and descending dales, and frightening honest folk with the questions they asked; questions about men whose names should be spoken in a whisper, and even then with a look of fear over the shoulder. Innkeepers who saw them approach with delight, watched them leave with relief, thanking God that no raider had happened inside to hear their innocent inquiries; yet the three themselves were enjoying an interesting and instructive journey, and the king had come to the conclusion that the devil was not so black as he was painted.