JAMES III: THE MAN OF PEACE
Again the noises cease save for a wail of lamentation over the dead. The
operations of war are suspended, the dark ranks of the army stand aside,
and every trumpet and fatal cannon is silent while once more a woman and
a child come into the foreground of the historic scene. Once more, the
most pathetic figure surely in history, a little startled boy clinging
to his mother--not afraid indeed of the array of war to which he has
been accustomed all his life, and perhaps with an instinct in him of
childish majesty, the consciousness which so soon develops even in an
infant mind, of unquestioned rank, but surrounded by the atmosphere of
horror and affright in which he has been taken from among his
playthings--stands forth to be hastily enveloped in the robes so
pitifully over-large of the dead monarch. The lords, we are told, sent
for the Prince in the first sensation of the catastrophe, and had him
crowned at Kelso, feeling the necessity of that central name at least,
round which to rally. They were not always respectful of the real King
when they had him, yet the divinity which hedged the title, however
helpless the head round which it shone, was felt to be indispensable to
the unity and strength of the kingdom. Mary of Gueldres in her sudden
widowhood would seem to have behaved with great dignity and spirit at
this critical moment. She is said to have insisted that the siege should
not be abandoned, but that her husband's death might at least accomplish
what his heart had been set upon; and the army after a moment of
despondency was so "incouraged" by the coming of the Prince "that they
forgot the death of his father and past manfullie to the hous, and wan
the same, and justified the captaine theroff, and kest it down to the
ground that it should not be any impediment to them hereafter." The
execution of the captain seems a hard measure unless he was a traitor to
the Scottish crown; but no doubt the conflict became more bitter from
the terrible cost of the victory.
[Illustration: THE CANONGATE TOLBOOTH]
Once more accordingly the kingdom was thrown into the chaos which in
those days attended a long minority, the struggle for power, the
relaxation of order, and all the evils that follow when one firm hand
full of purpose drops the reins which half a dozen conflicting
competitors scramble for. There was not, at first at least, anything of
the foolish anarchy which drove Scotland into confusion during the
childhood of James II, and opened the way to so many subsequent
disasters, for Bishop Kennedy, the dead King's chief counsellor and
support and a man universally trusted, was in the front of affairs,
influencing if not originating all that was done: and to him, almost as
a matter of course, the education of the little heir was at once
confided. But Mary of Gueldres was a woman of resolution and force, and
did not give up without a struggle her pretensions to the regency.
Buchanan relates a scene which, according to his history, took place in
Edinburgh on the occasion of the first Parliament after James's death.
The Queen had established herself in the castle while Kennedy was in
Holyrood, probably with his little pupil, but there is no mention made
of James. On the second day of the Parliament Mary appeared suddenly in
what would seem to have been, according to modern phraseology, "a packed
house," her own partisans having no doubt been warned to be present by
the action of some energetic "whip," and was, then and there, by a hasty
Act, carried through at one sitting, appointed guardian and Regent,
after which summary success she returned with great pomp to her
apartments, though with what hope of having really attained a tenable
position it is impossible to say. When the news was carried to Holyrood,
Bishop Kennedy in his turn appeared before the Estates, which had been
thus taken by surprise. It is evident that the populace of Edinburgh was
excited by what had occurred--Mary's partisans no doubt rejoicing, while
the people in general, always jealous of a foreigner and never very
respectful of a woman, surged through the great line of street towards
the castle with all the fury of a popular tumult. The High Street of
Edinburgh was not unaccustomed to sudden encounters, clashing of swords
between two passing lords, each with fierce followers, and all the risks
of sudden brawls when neither would concede the "crown of the causeway."
But the townsfolk seldom did more than look on, with perhaps an
ill-concealed satisfaction in the wounds inflicted by their natural
opponents upon each other. On this occasion, however, the tumult was a
popular one, involving the interests of the citizens; and it is
difficult to believe that the inclinations of the townsfolk would not
rather lean towards the Queen, a woman of wealth and stately
surroundings, likely to entertain princes and great personages and to
fill Edinburgh with the splendour of a Court, than to the prelate,
although his tastes also were magnificent, whose metropolis was not
Edinburgh but St. Andrews, and who might consider frugality and sobriety
the best qualities for the Court of a minor. At all events the crowd had
risen and was ripe for tumult, when Bishop Kennedy persuaded them to
pause, and reminded them of the mutual forbearance and patience and
quiet which was above all necessary at such a troublous time. Other
prelates would seem to have been in his train, for we are told it was
the intercessions and explanations of "the bishops" which prevented the
tumult from rising into a fight. The parties would seem to have been so
strong, and so evenly divided, that the question was finally solved by a
compromise, Parliament appointing a council of guardians, two on each
side: Seaton and Boyd for the Queen; John Kennedy, brother of the
Bishop, and the Earl of Orkney, for the others--an experiment which was
no more successful than in the previous minority.
The Queen-mother had soon, however, something to occupy her leisure in
the visit, if visit it can be called, of Henry VI and his Queen and
household, fugitives before the victorious party of York, who had sought
refuge from the Scots, and lodging for a thousand attendants--a request
which was granted, and the convent of the Greyfriars allotted to them as
their residence. The Queen at the Castle would thus be a near neighbour
of the royal fugitives, and it is interesting to think of the meeting,
the sympathy and mutual condolences of the two women. Margaret, the
fervid Provencal, with her passionate sense of wrong and restless
energy, and the hopeless task she had of maintaining and inspiring to
play his part with any dignity her too patient and gentle king; and
Mary, the fair and placid Fleming, stung too in her pride and affections
by the refusal of the regency, and her subordination to those riotous
and unmannerly lords and the proud Bishop who had got the affairs of
Scotland in his hand. The two Queens might have had some previous
acquaintance with each other, at a time when both had fairer hopes; at
all events they amused themselves sadly, as they sat and talked
together, with fancies such as please women, of making a marriage
between the little Edward, the future victim of Tewkesbury, then a child
at his mother's knee, and the little Princess of Scotland who played
beside him, in the good days when all these troubles should be past, and
Henry or his son after him should have regained the English crown. One
follows with regretful interest the noble figure of Margaret, under the
guise in which that sworn Lancastrian Shakspeare has disclosed it to us,
before her sweeter mood had disappeared under the pressure of fate, and
when not curses but hopes came from her mouth in her young motherhood,
and every recovery and restoration, and happy marriage and royal state,
were possible for her boy. Mary too had been cut off in the middle of
her greatness. They were two Queens discrowned, two fair heads veiled
with misfortune, though nothing irremediable had as yet happened,
nothing that should make the future a desert though the present might be
dark; ready to live again in their children, and make premature treaties
over the little blonde heads at their knee. So natural a scene comes in
strangely to the records of violence and misery. Nothing more tragic
could be than the fate of Margaret; and the splendour and happiness had
been very shortlived in Mary's experience, soon quenched in sudden
destruction; but to see the two young mothers planning over the heads of
the little ones how the two kingdoms were to be united, and happiness
come back in a future that was never to be, while they sat together in
brief companionship in those strait rooms of Edinburgh Castle, which
were so narrow and so poor for a queen's habitation, or within the
precincts of the Greyfriars, looking out upon the peaceful Pentlands and
the soft hills of Braid, is like the recurring melody in a piece of
stormy music, the bit of light in a tempestuous picture. It teaches us
to perceive that, however the firmament of a kingdom may be torn with
storms, there are everywhere about, even in queens' chambers, scenes of
tenderness and peace.
Mary died in her own foundation of Trinity College Hospital--the
beautiful church of which was demolished within living memory--three
years after her husband, while her children were still very young: and
thus all further struggles about the regency were ended. She does not
seem indeed ever to have repeated her one stand for power. Bishop
Kennedy, we may well believe, was not a man with whom there would be
easy fighting. His sway procured a little respite for Scotland in the
ordinary miseries of her career. The Douglases were safely out of the
way and ended, and there was a truce of fifteen years with England which
kept danger from that side at arm's length--not, the chroniclers assure
us, from any additional love between the two countries, but because "the
Inglish had warres within themselves daylie, stryvand for the crown."
Kennedy lived some years after the Queen, guiding all the affairs of the
kingdom so wisely that "the commounweill flourished greatly." He was a
Churchman of the noblest kind, full of care for the spiritual interests
of his diocese as well as for the secular affairs which were placed in
his hands. "He caused all persones (parsons) and vicars to remain at
their paroche kirks," says Pitscottie, "for the instruction and edifying
of their flocks: and caused them preach the Word of God to the people
and visit them that were sick; and also the said Bishope visited every
kirk within the diocese four times in the year, and preached to the said
parochin himself the Word of God, and inquired of them if they were
dewly instructed by their parson and vicar, and if the poor were
sustained and the youth brought up and learned according to the order
that was taine in the house of God."
With all this, and many other gifts beside, among which are noted the
knowledge he had of the "civil laws, having practised in the same," and
his experience and sagacity in all public affairs--he was a scholar and
loved all the arts. "He founded," says Pitscottie, "ane triumphant
college in Sanct Androis, called Sanct Salvatore's College, wherein he
made his lear (library) very curiouslie and coastlie; and also he biggit
ane ship, called the Bishop's Barge, and when all three were complete,
to wit, the college, the lear, and the barge, he knew not which of the
three was the costliest; for it was reckoned for the time by honest men
of consideration that the least of the three cost him ten thousand pound
sterling." Major gives the same high character of the great Bishop,
declaring that there were but two things in him which did not merit
approval--the fact that he held a priory (but only one, that of
Pittenweem) _in commendam_, "and the sumptuositie of his sepulchre."
That sepulchre, half destroyed--after having remained a thing of beauty
for three hundred years--by ignorant and foolish hands in the end of the
eighteenth century, may still be seen in the chapel of his college at
St. Andrews, the only existing memorial of the time when all Scotland
was governed from that stormy headland to the great advantage of the
commonwealth. It is difficult to make out from the different records
whether the young King remained in the Bishop's keeping so long as he
lived, which was but until James had attained the age of thirteen, or
whether the usual struggle between the two sets of guardians appointed
by Parliament, the Boyds and Kennedies, had begun before the Bishop's
death. It may be imagined, however, that the evident advantages to the
boy of Bishop Kennedy's care would outweigh any formal appointment;
although at the same time the idea suggests itself whether in the
perversity of human nature this training was not in itself partly the
cause of James's weaknesses and errors. He would learn at St. Andrews
not only what was best in the learning of the time, but as much of the
arts as were known in Scotland, and especially that noble art of
architecture, which has been the passion of so many princes. And no
doubt he would see the advancement of professors of these arts, of men
skilful and cunning in design and decoration, the builders, the
sculptors, and the musicians, whose place in the great cathedral could
never be unimportant. A Churchman could promote and honour such public
servants in the little commonwealth of his cathedral town with greater
freedom than might be done elsewhere; and James, a studious and feeble
boy, not wise enough to see that the example of his great teacher was
here inappropriate and out of place, learned this lesson but too well.
The King grew up "a man that loved solitariness and desired never to
hear of warre, but delighted more in musick and politie and building nor
he did in the government of his realm." It would seem that he was also
fond of money, which indeed was very necessary to the carrying out of
his pursuits. It is difficult to estimate justly the position of a king
of such a temperament in such circumstances, whether he is to be blamed
for abandoning the national policy and tradition, or whether he was not
rather conscientiously trying to carry out his stewardry of his kingdom
in a better way when he withheld his countenance from the perpetual wars
of the Border, and addressed himself to the construction of noble halls
and chapels and the patronage of the arts. He was at least so far in
advance of his time, still concerned with the rudest interests of
practical life as to be universally misunderstood: and he had the
further misfortune of sharing the unpopularity of the favourites with
whom he surrounded himself, as almost every monarch has done who has
promoted men of inferior position to the high places of the State.
James's supineness, over-refinement, and love of peaceful occupations
were made the more remarkable from the contrast with two manly and
chivalrous brothers, the Dukes of Mar and Albany, of fine person and
energetic tastes, interested in all the operations of war, fond of fine
horses and gallant doings, and coming up to all the popular expectations
of what was becoming in a prince. Nothing is more difficult to make out
at any time than the real motives and meaning of family discords: and
this is still more the case in an age not yet enlightened by the clear
light of history. The chroniclers, especially Boece, have much doubt
thrown upon them by more serious historians, who quote them and build
upon them nevertheless, having really no better evidence to go upon. The
report of these witnesses is that James had been warned by witches, in
whom he believed, and by one Andrew the Fleming, an astrologer, that his
chief danger arose from his own family, and that "the lion should be
devoured by his whelps." Pitscottie's account, however, indicates a
conspiracy between Cochrane and the Homes, whom Albany had mortally
offended, as the cause at once of these prophecies and the King's alarm.
The only thing clear is that he was afraid of his brothers, and
considered their existence a danger to his life. It would appear that he
had already begun to surround himself with those favourites to whom was
attributed every evil thing in his reign, when this poison was first
instilled into his mind: and the blame was attributed rightly or wrongly
to Cochrane, the chief of his "minions," who very probably felt it to be
to his interest to detach from James's side the manly and gallant
brothers who were naturally his nearest counsellors and champions.
There is very little that is authentic known of the men whom James III
thus elevated to the steps of his throne. Cochrane was an architect
probably, though called a mason in his earlier career, and had no doubt
been employed on some of the buildings in which the King delighted,
being "verrie ingenious" and "cunning in that craft." Perhaps, however,
to make the royal favour for a mere craftsman more respectable,
according to the notions of the time, it is added in a popular story
that the favourite was a man of great strength and stature, whose
prowess in some brawl attracted the admiration of the timid monarch, to
whom a man who was a tall fellow of his hands, as well as a person of
similar tastes to himself, might well be a special object of approval. A
musician, William Roger, an Englishman, whose voice had charmed the
King--a weakness which at least was not ignoble, and was shared by
various other members of his race--was the second of James's favourites:
and there were others still less important--one the King's tailor--a
band of persons of no condition, who surrounded him no doubt with
flattery and adulation, since their promotion and maintenance were
entirely dependent on his pleasure. King Louis XI was at that time upon
the throne of France, a powerful prince whose little privy council was
composed of equally mean men, and perhaps some reflection from the Court
of the old ally of Scotland made young James believe that this was the
best and wisest thing for a King to do. Louis was also a believer in
astrologers, witches, and all the prophecies and omens in which they
dealt. To copy him was not a high ambition, but he was in his way a
great king, and it is conceivable that the feeble monarch of Scotland,
never roused to the height of his father's or grandfather's example,
took a little satisfaction in copying what he could from Louis. The
example of Oliver le Dain might make him think that he showed his
superiority by preferring his tailor, a man devoted to his service, to
Albany or Angus. And if Louis trembled at the predictions of his Eastern
sage, what more natural than that James should quake when the stars
revealed a danger which every spaewife confirmed? No doubt he would know
well the story of the mysterious spaewife who, had her advice been
taken, might have saved James I. from his murderers. It is rarely that
there is not a certain cruelty involved in selfish cowardice. In a
sudden panic the mildest-seeming creature will trample down furiously
any weaker being who stands in the way of his own safety, and James was
ready for any atrocity when he was convinced that his brothers were a
danger to his life and crown. The youngest, the handsome and gallant
Mar, was killed by one treachery or another; and Alexander of Albany,
the inheritor of that ill-omened title, was laid up in prison to be safe
out of his brother's way.
We find ourselves entirely in the regions of romance in this unfortunate
reign. Sir Walter Scott has painted for us the uncomfortable Court of
Louis with his barber and his prophet, and Dumas has reproduced almost
the identical story in his _Vingt Ans Apres_, of the Duke of Albany's
escape from Edinburgh. There could scarcely be a more curious scene.
Strangely enough James himself was resident in the castle when his
brother was a prisoner there. One would have thought that so near a
neighbourhood would have seemed dangerous to the alarmed monarch, but
perhaps he thought, on the other hand, that watch and ward would be kept
more effectually under his own eyes. Mar had died in the Canongate,
perhaps in the Tolbooth there, according to tradition in a bath, where
he was bled to death, probably in order that a pretence of illness or
accident might be alleged; and Edinburgh, no doubt, was full of dark
whispers of this strange end of one prince, and the danger of the other,
shut up within the castle walls where the King's minions had full sway,
and any night might witness a second dark deed. Prince Alexander's
friends must have been busy and eager without, while he was not so
strictly under bar and bolt inside that he could not make merry with the
castle officials now and then, and cheat an evening with pleasant talk
and a glass of good wine with a young captain of the guard. One day
there came to him an intimation of the arrival of a ship at Leith with
wine from France, accompanied by some private token that there was more
in this announcement than met the ear. Albany accordingly sent a trusted
servant to order two flasks of the wine, in one of which, contained in a
tube of wax, was enclosed a letter, in the other a rope by which to
descend the castle walls. The whole story is exactly as Dumas tells the
escape of the Duc de Beaufort, though whether the romancer could have
seen the old records of Scotland, or if his legend is sanctioned by the
authentic history of France, I am unable to tell. Alexander, like the
prince in the novel, invited the Captain of the Guard to sup with him to
try the new wine--an invitation gladly accepted. After supper the
Captain "passed to the King's chamber to see what was doing, who was
then lodged in the castle," probably to get the word for the night. It
is curious to think of the unconscious officer, so little aware of what
was about to befall, going from the chamber of the captive to that of
the King, where the little Court would be assembled at their music or
their "tables," or where perhaps James was taking counsel over the
leafage of a capital or the spring of an arch--and thence returning when
all the rounds were made, the great gates barred and bolted, the
sentries set, to the Prince in his prison, who was a finer companion
still. Alexander plied the unsuspecting Captain with his wine, spiced or
perhaps drugged to make it act the sooner, and along with him a warder
or two who were in constant attendance upon the royal prisoner. A prince
to drink with such carles! "The fire was hett, and the wyne was strong":
and the united influence of the spiced drink and the hot room soon
overcame the revellers, all but Alexander and his trusty man, who had
taken care to refrain. In Dumas the gaoler was but gagged and bound: but
in Scotland life went for little, and some of the authorities say that
when the Prince saw the drunkards in his power, "he lap from the board
and strak the captane with ane whinger and slew him, and also stiked
other two with his own hand." He had been informed that he was to die
the next day if he did not escape that night, which was some excuse for
him.[2] When the men were thus disposed of, in one way or another, the
Prince and his servant, "his chamber chyld," stole out with the rope to
"a quiet place" on the wall. Coming out into the dark freshness and
stillness of the night after that stifling and horrible room, seeing the
stars once more and the distant glimmer of the sea, and feeling freedom
at hand, it was little they would reck of the gaolers, always an
obnoxious class. One would imagine that it must have been on the most
precipitous side of the castle rock where there were few sentinels and
the exit was easy, though the descent terrible. The faithful servant
tried the rope first but found it too short, and fell, breaking his
thigh. With what feelings Alexander must have stolen back to get his
sheets with which to lengthen the rope, pushing through the smoke,
almost despairing to get off in safety! One is relieved to hear that he
took his crippled attendant on his back and carried him, some say to a
safe place--or, as others say, all the way across country to where the
ship rocked at the pier of Leith. They must have got down to some dark
spot on the northern slopes, where there would be no city watchman or
late passer-by to give the alarm, and all would be clear and still
before them to the water's edge--though a long, weary, and darkling way.
[2] Buchanan's account is not so bloodthirsty: he represents Alexander
as entertaining his guests with stories of his restoration to favour,
and approaching deliverance, and dismissing them in all mirth and
friendliness though heavy with wine: so that his guards having
incontinently fallen asleep at their posts he was able to make his
escape.
"But on the morne when the watchman perceived that the towis were
hinging over the walls, then ran they to seek the Captane to show
him the matter and manner, but he was not in his own chamber. Then
they passed to the Duke's chamber and found the door open and ane
dead man lying in the chamber door and the captane and the rest
burning in the fire, which was very dollorous to them; and when they
missed the Duke of Albanie and his chamber chyld, they ran speedilie
and shewed the King how the matter had happened. But he would not
give it credence till he passed himself and saw the matter."
These events happened in 1479, when Albany escaped to France, where he
remained for some years. Up to this period all that is said of him has
been favourable. His treatment by his brother was undeserved, and there
is no sign of either treachery or rebellion in him in these early years.
But when he had languished for a long time in France perhaps,
notwithstanding a first favourable reception, sooner or later eating the
exile's bitter bread--exasperation and despair must have so wrought in
him that he began to traffic with the "auld enemy" of England, and even
put his hand to a base treaty, by which his brother was to be dethroned
and he himself succeed to the kingdom by grace of the English king--a
stipulation which Albany must have well known would damn him for ever
with his countrymen.
In the meantime James had begun to breathe again in the relief he felt
to be freed of the presence of both his brothers. He "passed through all
Scotland at his pleasure, in peace and rest," says the chronicler. But
it was not long that a king of Scotland could be left in this repose.
The usual trouble on the Borders had begun again as soon as Edward IV
was secure upon his throne, and the English king had even sent his ships
as far as the Firth of Forth, where he burnt villages and spoiled the
coast under the very eyes of James. Though he would so much rather have
been left in quiet to complete his beautiful new buildings at Stirling
and arrange the choir in his new chapel, where there was a double supply
of musicians that the King might never want this pleasure, yet the
sufferings of the people and the angry impulse of the discontented
nobles were more than James could resist, and he set forth reluctantly
towards the Border to declare war. He had become more and more shut up
within his little circle of favourites after the death and disappearance
of his brothers, and Cochrane had gradually acquired a more and more
complete sway over the mind of his master and the affairs of the realm.
The favourite had been guilty of all those extravagances which
constitute the Nemesis of upstarts. He had trafficked in patronage and
promotion, he had debased the currency, and he was supposed to influence
the King to everything least honourable and advantageous to the country.
Last injury of all, he had either asked from the King or accepted from
him--at least, permitted himself to be tricked out in the name of Mar,
the title of the young prince whose death he was believed to have
brought about. The lords of Scotland had already remonstrated with the
King on various occasions as to the unworthy favourites who usurped
their place around his throne: and their exasperation seems to have
risen to a height beyond bearing when they found "the mason," as
Cochrane is called, with his new liveries and extravagance of personal
finery, at the head of the army which was raised to avenge the English
invasion, and in the closest confidence of the King. When they had got
as far as Lauder the great lords, who were left out of all James's
private councils, assembled in a council of their own in the parish
church to talk over their grievances, and to consult what could be done
to reform this intolerable abuse and to bring back the King to the right
way. Some, it would appear, went so far as to meditate deposition,
declaring that James was no longer fit to be their King, having
renounced their counsel and advice, banished one brother and slain
another, and "maid up fallowes, maissones, to be lords and earls in the
place of noblemen." The result of the meeting, however, was that milder
counsels prevailed so far as James was concerned: "They concluded that
the King should be taine softlie without harm of his bodie, and conveyed
to the Castle of Edinburgh with certain gentlemen," while Cochrane and
the rest were seized and hanged over Lauder Brig.
The question, however, remained, Who should be so bold as to take the
first step and lay hands upon the favourite? It was now that Lord Gray,
one of the conspirators, told, with that humour which comes in so grimly
in many dark historic scenes, the story of the mice and the cat--how the
mice conspired to save themselves by attaching a bell to the cat to warn
them of her movements--until the terrible question arose which among
them should attach to the neck of the enemy this instrument of safety.
One can imagine the grave barons with half a smile looking at each other
consciously, in acknowledgment of a risk which it needed a brave man to
run. Angus, the head of the existing branch of the Douglas family, who
had already risen into much of the power and importance of his forfeited
kinsman, answered with equally grim brevity "I'se bell the cat." But
while he spoke, the general enemy, mad with arrogance and
self-confidence, and not believing in any power or boldness which could
stop him in his career, forestalled the necessity. He came to the kirk,
where no doubt he had heard there was some unauthorised assembly,
arrayed in black velvet with bands of white, the livery he had chosen, a
great gold chain round his neck, a hunting horn slung about him adorned
with gold and jewels, and probably a marvel of mediaeval art--and "rushed
rudlie at the kirk door." The hum of fierce satisfaction which arose
when the keeper of the door challenged the applicant for admission, and
the answer, "The Earl of Mar," rang into the silence in which each man
had been holding his breath, may be imagined. It was Archibald
Bell-the-Cat, ever hereafter known by that name, who advanced to meet
the swaggering intruder in all his pride of privilege and place, but
with a welcome very different from that which the favourite expected,
who had come, no doubt, to break up the whisperings of the conspirators
and assert his own authority. Angus pulled the gold chain from
Cochrane's neck, and said "a rop would sett him better," while another
Douglas standing by snatched at the horn. Cochrane, astonished but not
yet convinced that any real opposition was intended, asked between
offence and alarm, perhaps beginning to doubt the sombre excited
assembly, "My lords, is it jest or earnest?" It would seem that the grim
and terrible event of the execution "over the Bridge of Lauder" though
why this special locality was chosen we are not told, followed with an
awful rapidity. The chief offender had fallen into the hands of the
conspirators with such unhoped-for ease that they evidently felt no time
was to be lost.
"Notwithstanding the lords held him quiet while they caused certain
armed men pass to the King's pavilion, and two or three wyse men
with them, and gave the King fair and pleasant words, till they had
laid hands on all his servants, and took them and hanged them over
the Bridge of Lauder before the King's eyes, and brought in the King
himself to the council. Thereafter incontinent they brought out
Cochrane and his hands bound with ane tow, behind his back, who
desired them to take ane of his own pavilion tows [cords] which were
of silk and bind his hands, for he thought shame to be bound with
ane hemp tow lyk ane thiefe. The lords answered and said, 'He was
worse than a thiefe, he was ane traitour and deserved no better.'"
The last despairing bravado of the condemned man desiring that his hands
might be bound with a silken cord at least, the horror and wrath of the
pale King, helpless, looking on, forced into the assembly of the lords
to witness their pitiless vengeance, are painfully tragical and
terrible. All James's favourite attendants, the friends of his retired
leisure and sharers in the occupations he loved, were thus executed
before his eyes--all but a certain young Ramsay, who was at least a
gentleman, and who, to save his life, leapt up behind his master upon
the horse which the King was compelled to mount to see the dreadful deed
accomplished. Ramsay's life was spared, not to the advantage of Scotland
as became afterwards apparent.
The historical student will not fail to note how close in almost every
particular is this grim incident to the catastrophe of Piers Gaveston in
England in a previous age.
The state of affairs in Scotland after this extraordinary event was more
extraordinary still, if possible. James was conveyed to Edinburgh,
"with certain lords in companie with him that took hold on him and
keeped him in the said castle and served and honoured him as ane
prince ought to be in all things: for he was not put there as a
prisoner, but for the maintaining of the commonweill: gave him leave
to use all his directions, gifts, and casualties at his pleasure.
For nothing was derogat from him by reason of his authority, and all
letters was given and proclamations made and printed in his name
lykas they were before at his inputting, nor no regent nor governour
was chosen at that time, but every lord within his own bounds was
sworn to minister justice and to punish theft and slaughter within
themselves, or else to bring the doers of the same to the King's
justice at Edinburgh."
"Thus there was peace and rest in the country the space of
three-quarters of a year," says Pitscottie. This, however, is a mistake,
for the time of the King's retirement was only three or four months,
from St. Magdalene's Day to Michaelmas. Short or long, it was one of the
most curious moments of interregnum that history knows. James was
conveyed back to Edinburgh with every show of respect, attended by the
triumphant lords, who despised his milder virtues, his preferences and
tastes, not one of whom could manage either pencil or lute, who cared
for none of these things--while his strained eyes could still see
nothing but the vision against the daylight, the impromptu gibbet of the
high-arched bridge over the Border stream, where his familiar friends
had been strung up with every sign of infamy. He had to contain within
himself the rage, the shame, the grief and loneliness of his heart, and
endure as he best could the exultation which his captors would scarcely
attempt to conceal. The historians tell us little or nothing of the
Queen, Margaret of Denmark, to whom James had been married for several
years, and who had brought with her the full allegiance of the isles,
the Hebrides, which up to that time had paid a tribute to the
Scandinavian kingdom, and Orkney and Shetland which were the Queen's
portion. Whether he found any comfort in her and in his children, when
he was thus brought back to them to the castle, which would seem to have
been their favourite residence, we are not told. At all events the shame
of such a return, and of the captivity which was veiled by so many
ironical appearances of freedom, must have been grievous to him, even as
reflected in the eyes of his foreign wife, or the wondering questions on
his sudden return of his baby son.
How this strange state of things was brought to an end it is difficult
to tell, for the story is confused and troublesome. According to
Pitscottie, James's private friends advised him first to take counsel
with the Earl of Douglas, the long-forfeited and banished Earl,
represented as being then imprisoned in Edinburgh, which is clearly
apocryphal: and afterwards with the Duke of Albany, to whom Pitscottie
is throughout very favourable, making no mention of his undoubted
treachery. For whatever may be the actual truth of all the curious and
confused movements that were going on, it appears to be beyond doubt
that Albany--though he had lately visited the English Court and formed a
treasonable bargain with Edward IV to dethrone James, and to be himself
made King in dependence upon England--now acted like a true brother.
His first use of his alliance with Edward seems to have been for the
advantage of the sovereign whom he intended to displace, a curious
paradox of which we can offer no explanation. In this magnanimous act he
had the support of the English who had engaged to help him, as the
documents prove, in so different an enterprise: all which is very
bewildering. Accompanied by the Duke of Gloucester and a small army, he
suddenly appeared in Edinburgh to deliver the royal prisoner. There
would seem to have been no fighting of any kind, nor any attempt on the
part of Albany to dethrone his brother--nothing, indeed, but what would
appear the most magnanimous action on his part, were not those secret
treaties in existence bearing a silent testimony against him. When the
lords heard of the coming of this expedition, which occurred in August
1482 (Albany having escaped in 1479, three years before), they "drew
themselves together to ane council," apparently to watch the proceedings
of the invaders.
"Soon therafter compeired the Duke of Albanie and the Duke of
Gloucester within the town of Edinburgh, with the number of ane
thousand gentlemen, and entered within the Tolbooth thereof before
the lords of Scotland, who were sitting at ane council at that time,
and there very reverently saluted the Duke of Albanie, reverenced
him and welcomed him home, and required of him what was his
petition. He answered, 'I desire the King's grace, my brother, to be
put to libertie,' which was granted to him incontinent. But the
Chancellor answered and said, 'My lord, we will grant you your
desires; but as to that man that is with you, we know him not, nor
yet will we grant nothing to his desire.'"
This speech, which breathes that undying defiance of English
interference which was the very inspiration of Scotland, is too
characteristic not to be genuine. "That man" was Richard, afterwards
Richard III, "Crookback Richard," the bitter and powerful hunchback of
Shakespeare, whom other authorities have endeavoured in vain to persuade
us to regard in a more favourable light. Whatever he might be in other
aspects, in Scotland he was merely Albany's companion, silently aiding
in what seems a most legitimate and honourable mission. The only way the
historians can find of reconciling this strangely virtuous and exemplary
behaviour with the secret engagements between Albany and England is by
the conjecture that the lords of Scotland were so evidently indisposed
to favour Albany, and there was so little feeling shown towards him by
any part of the population, that the treason was silently abandoned, and
in the hopelessness of playing a treasonable part he played a
magnanimous one, with the utmost grace and semblance of sincerity; which
is a bewildering conclusion. In any case he was the deliverer of his
brother. It would seem to be the fact, however, that James's deliverance
was much aided by the attitude of the burghers of Edinburgh, who were,
as so often, on the King's side--and to whom the character of a patron
of the arts, and promoter of so many persons of their own class into his
friendship, would naturally be as great a recommendation as it was an
offence to the others. Their action at this period excited the King's
gratitude so much that he conferred upon the city a special charter,
securing the independence of their municipal government, as well as
their right to levy customs in the port of Leith, and also, it is said,
a sign of these privileges, in the shape of the standard called the Blue
Blanket, which still remains in the possession of the Edinburgh guilds,
with liberty to display it for their king, country, and city rights,
when occasion calls.
The two Dukes of Albany and Gloucester marched together to the castle,
preceded by heralds, to claim the King from the officials who had him in
charge. One can imagine the mingled relief and humiliation of James when
delivered from that stronghold by the brother who had escaped from it by
night, within a few hours of the time when he had been ordered for
execution, and who in the meantime had been an exile. There is no reason
to suppose that he was aware of the secret understanding with England to
which his brother had set his seal, so that there was nothing to lessen
the intensity of the coals of fire thus heaped upon his head. No doubt
all Edinburgh was in the streets to watch that strange sight, as the
King rode from the castle gates, past the great Church of St. Giles, and
down the long line of the Canongate to Holyrood, making his emancipation
visible to all. Apparently he had not left the castle since he was
brought into it in shame and misery after the fatal episode at Lauder.
One wonders how he looked upon the crowd which no doubt would throng
after him with acclamations--whether thankfully and cheerfully in the
pleasure of release, or with a revengeful sense of how little he owed to
their easy applauses. It is said that Albany rode behind him on the same
horse as an exhibition of amity. It is very probable that James would
find bitterness in that too, as another humiliation.
The King was no sooner free than he made it evident that he had not
forgiven the humiliation and shame to which he had been subjected. He
imprisoned in their turn a number of the lords who had been foremost in
the death of Cochrane, and would have "justified" them we are told, but
for the interference of Angus--now too great apparently for James to
touch--and Albany. For some time after the latter remained with his
brother, fulfilling the functions of chief counsellor and Prime
Minister. But whether he displayed his ambition and evil intentions, or
the old jealousy and terrors of James got the upper hand as the lords
again became suspicious of him, it is difficult to tell. At all events
Albany was forced to escape once more for his life, and again took
refuge in France, where either now or previously, for the chronology is
difficult to follow, he had made a great marriage. Here he disappears
altogether from Scottish history, and not long after from life, having
been killed by accident in a tournament. Had Albany been the elder
instead of the younger brother it seems very probable that a dark
chapter might have been left out of the history of Scotland, and a third
patriotic and energetic King carried on the traditions of the first and
second James.
But it was scarcely to be looked for that, after all the dissensions
between the King and the lords, everything should settle into harmony
again. James is said to have removed to Stirling from Edinburgh, which
no doubt had acquired painful associations to him from the time of his
enforced residence there--and to have resumed or completed the buildings
in which he had taken so much pleasure--especially the great hall of
Stirling Castle, with all its grotesque and curious ornamentation, which
seems to prove that Scotland was still much behind in refinement, though
with a barbaric inspiration of her own. Whether the renewed tumults
began by the appropriation of certain Church lands hitherto in the power
of the Homes, for the endowment of the King's new chapel, it is
difficult to tell, a similar reason having been already alleged for
disturbances in which the Duke of Albany was the antagonist of that
powerful family; at all events a very small matter was enough to awake
again all the old rancours. The malcontents headed by the same men who
had already inflicted so much suffering and shame upon the King began to
draw together in alarming numbers. Roused from among his more congenial
occupations by this renewed commotion, James sent a herald to ask the
reason of their assembling: but the herald was disrespectfully treated
and his letters torn in pieces, an insult which seems to have convinced
the King that the strongest measures of defence were necessary. He is
said to have strongly fortified Stirling, where Prince James, the heir
of the kingdom, now a boy of fifteen or sixteen, was. Perhaps the King
was suspicious of the boy, perhaps his old terrors as to the danger to
his life which was to arise from his own family had returned to him: for
the restrictions under which young James was left were exceedingly
severe and arbitrary. No man was to be allowed to enter the castle,
great or small, till the King's return, nor was the Prince to be allowed
to pass the gates "to no game, nor to meet with no man." Pitscottie says
that Edinburgh Castle was also strengthened, and the King's treasury
placed in it and all his valuables laid up there. When these precautions
were taken James embarked "in ane ship of Captane Woode's"--probably the
most legitimate way in which he could have travelled, the vessel being
that of the Admiral, Andrew Wood, the greatest sailor in Scotland--and
went to Fife, from whence he marched to the north, calling the nobles of
the northern counties round him, and gathering an army with which to
oppose the greater lords and lairds who awaited him on the other side of
the Firth of Forth. James's unusual energy must have equally roused and
alarmed the rebels, against whom the royal name was as a strong tower.
That such men as Angus and the other great nobles of Scotland, who had
reduced their King to a puppet with such entire success, should now feel
it necessary to get possession of Prince James in order to confer
dignity, on their proceedings seems very strange; but perhaps when
rebellion comes to the dignity of a pitched battle its flags and
pretensions are of more importance than when it can so order matters as
to put on an appearance of acting in the King's own interests, as at
Lauder. And how far the Prince might be an independent actor in this
troubled drama there is no evidence to show. He had arrived at an age
when youths in these early-maturing days acted for themselves; even in
our own a lad of sixteen would scarcely allow his name to be employed
against his father without some protest, and could not be treated as a
child in a conflict so momentous. Therefore it is scarcely possible to
imagine that the Prince was entirely guiltless. And the spectator cannot
but enter with warmth into the feelings of the King when he discovered
what had been done, and that his heir was in the enemy's camp, giving
substance and reason to their rebellion.
There is a curious story told of how Lord Lindsay of the Byres, a fierce
and grim baron of Fife, presented on the very eve of the battle "a great
grey courser" to the King, assuring him that were he ever in extremity
that horse would carry him, "either to fly or to follow," better than
any horse in Scotland, "if well sitten"--a present which James accepted,
and which comes in as part of the paraphernalia of fate. On the morning
of the day of battle the King mounted this horse, and "rade to ane hill
head to see the manner of the cuming" of his enemies against him. He saw
the host defiling "in three battells," with six thousand men in each,
their spears shining, their banners waving, Homes and Hepburns in the
front, with Merse and Teviotdale and all the forces of the Border, and
the men of Lothian in the rear: while in the main body rose the ensigns
of all the great lords who had already beaten and humbled
him--Bell-the-Cat and the other barons who had hanged his friends before
his eyes--but now bearing his own royal standard, with his son among
them, the bitterest thought of all. James sat upon his fleet horse,
presented to him the night before with such an ominous recommendation,
and saw his enemies bearing down upon him--his enemies and his son.
"Then," says the chronicler, "he remembered the words which the witch
had spoken to him many days before, that he should be suddenly destroyed
and put down by the nearest of his kin." For this he had allowed the
murder of young Mar and driven Alexander of Albany into exile; but who
can wonder if in his stricken soul he now perceived or imagined that no
man can cheat the Fates? His own son, his boy! Some nobler poignancy of
anguish than the mere sick despair and panic of the coward must surely
have been in his mind as he realised this last and crowning horror. The
profound moral discouragement of a man caught in the toils, and for whom
no escape was possible; the sickening sense of betrayal; the wide
country before him, in which there might still be found some peaceful
refuge far from these distractions and contradictions of men; the whirl
of the dreadful yet beautiful sight, companies marching and ever
marching, spears and helmets shining, banners waving, and all against
him--a man who had never any pleasure in the pomp and circumstance of
war. Who can wonder as these hurrying thoughts overwhelmed his mind, and
the fleet courser pawed the turf, and the wild sweet air blew free in
his face, inviting him to escape, to flee, to find somewhere comfort and
peace--that such a man should have yielded to the mad impulse, and in an
access of despair, longing for the wings of a dove that he might flee
away and be at rest, have turned from the rising tumult and fled?
Of all the ironies of Fate there could be none more bitter than that
which drove the hapless fugitive, in growing consciousness of shame,
like a straw before the wind, across the famous field of Bannockburn.
What an association to be connected with that victorious name! He had
aimed at Stirling, but wild with despair and panic and misery missed the
way. As the grey courser entered the village of Bannockburn at full
flight a woman drawing water let fall her "pig" or earthen pot in
affright, and startled the horse; and the King "being evill sitten"
(having a bad seat) fell from his saddle before the door of the mill.
The sight of this strange cavalier in his splendid armour, covered with
foam and dust, borne to the earth like a log by the weight of his
armour, appalled the simple people, who dragged him inside the mill and
covered him where he lay with some rough horsecloth, not knowing what to
do. When he had come to himself James implored the wondering people to
fetch him a priest before he died. "Who are you?" they asked, standing
over him. What a world of time had passed in that wild ride! how many
ages since the dying fugitive lying on the dusty floor and covered with
the miller's rug was James Stewart, at the head of a gallant army! "This
morning," he said, with a bitter comprehension of all that had passed
since then, "I was your King." The miller's wife ran forth to her door
calling for a priest, and some one who was passing by answered her call;
but whether he was really a priest, or only one of the stragglers of the
rebel army, seems uncertain. He came into the mill, hearing no doubt the
cries of the astonished couple that it was the King, and kneeling down
recognised the fallen monarch; but instead of hearing his confession,
drew a knife and stabbed him three or four times in the breast. Thus
miserably ended James Stewart, the third of the name.
Of all the tragical conclusions to which his family had come this was
the most deplorable, as his life had been the least satisfactory.
Whether there was more than weakness to be alleged against him it is now
impossible to tell; and whether his favourite companions and occupations
proved a spirit touched to finer issues than those about him, or showed
only, as his barons thought, a preference for low company and paltry
pursuits of peace. But howsoever his patronage of the arts, the
buildings he has left to Scotland, or the tradition of the music and
gentle pleasures which he loved, may justify him to the reader, it is at
least clear that his stewardry of his kingdom was a miserable failure,
and his life a loss and harm to his country. Instead of promoting the
much-interrupted progress of her development, so far as his individual
influence went, he arrested and hindered it. And, difficult as the
position of affairs had been when he succeeded at seven years old to his
father's uncompleted labours, the situation which he left behind him,
the country torn in two, one half of his subjects in arms against the
other, his son's name opposed to his own, and every national benefit
postponed to the settlement of this quarrel, was ten times more
difficult and terrible. He was the first of his name whose influence was
all unfavourable to the progress of the nation, not only by evil
fortune, but by the disasters of a mind not sufficient for the weight
and burden of his time. He thus died ignominiously, in the month of June
1488, having reigned twenty-eight years and lived thirty-five--a short
lifetime for so much trouble and general misfortune.
[Illustration: ARMS OF JAMES IV OF SCOTLAND
(From King's College Chapel, Old Aberdeen)]