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Royal Edinburgh: Her Saints, Kings, Prophets and Poets

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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 mediæval 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.