XXX    

AT Norham Castle Bothwell waited in vain for the arrival of his friend the Duke of Glasgow. As first weeks, and then months dragged by with no word from Gavin, he realised something had gone wrong, and it wasn’t long before his thoughts turned to Guthrie Jamieson. He had warned Gavin against trusting the Earl of Edinburgh, and now he felt sure, if the plan had misfired, Jamieson was responsible.

Fortunately for Bothwell, Sir Henry Percy allowed him the freedom to exercise in the courtyard and converse with those who visited the castle. One day, Bothwell came upon a tall powerfully-built man, his face disfigured by a distinctive scar that ran from his left eye to his chin. In an instant, Bothwell recognised him as Jock Armstrong, a borderer who had ridden with him on many raids into England.

‘Jock, is it really you?’ he cried out.

‘My Lord o’ Bothwell! Glad am I tae see a friendly Scots face here in England!’

‘I could say the same, my old friend! What brings you here?’

Armstrong told Bothwell of his most recent exploits, but he also mentioned how, a few months before, he had accompanied a raiding party led by the Earl of Edinburgh. Bothwell immediately demanded to know more.

‘Aye, a strange business that was. The young Duke of Glasgow was wi’ us. A bad affair indeed!’ And he went on to tell how McNaughton had been betrayed and cast into a dungeon in some isolated tower-house. Once he realised what was going on, Armstrong had wanted no part in such treachery.

‘You know me weel enough, my Lord, I have done much that I regret, but I have never betrayed anyone. I never did see such black-hearted villainy. But I had to hold my tongue, or I would have joined the Laird of Glasgow in that very dungeon!’

As soon as he had been paid off, Armstrong had taken his leave of Jamieson’s cut-throats. He had been paid well for his trouble, but now the money had run out.

‘And that is how ye find me here, my Lord, looking for new adventures to fill my purse.’

Bothwell was greatly troubled by what he had heard, although the depth of Jamieson’s duplicity did not entirely surprise him.

‘Where is this place that the young Duke is being held?’ he asked Armstrong.

‘Crookham Castle, a lonely peel tower in the hills no mair than five miles south o’ here.’

Instantly Bothwell knew what he must do. If Gavin was still alive, then he was honour-bound to try to rescue him. Bothwell knew the borders as few other men knew them, and he remembered Crookham well. A broken-down tower house that stood alone in the shadow of a windswept hillside. No-one went near it these days, as it was said to be haunted. Jamieson would have chosen it both for its evil reputation and its location—so isolated that no-one would ever have found Gavin there. Bothwell thanked God for the lucky chance that had brought Jock Armstrong to Norham and thus given him the slim possibility of saving his friend’s life.

‘Jock, I need your help. You say you are looking for adventure and for gold. Well, by God, I’ll give you more than enough of both if you agree to ride by my side for the next few days. What do you say?’

Armstrong’s face lit up.

‘My lord, I like your spirit! I dinnae ken what mad scheme ye have in mind, but I’ll be honoured to take your gold. My sword is at your service! When do we leave?’

‘Meet me with two horses outside the castle walls at nightfall, and be ready to ride at once for Crookham.’

‘Ah, so that’s how the land lies! We go tae save the bonny Duke o’ Glasgow, do we? A tricky proposition, even for twa such scoundrels as ourselves,’ he laughed, as they parted.

There was only one problem. Bothwell had not thought it prudent to tell Jock that he was not a guest, but a prisoner at Norham. Even a bold fellow like Jock Armstrong might think twice before aiding a fugitive and risking outlawry. And at night Bothwell was always securely locked up in his room at the top of the East tower. The window was not barred—as it led directly to a drop of about seventy-five feet onto the rocks below the castle walls. So far, even the bold Earl of Bothwell had declined the challenge of escaping that way, but this was now a matter of life and death. Bothwell thought back to that night at Edinburgh Castle. He had defied the precipitous castle rock of the greatest fortress in the land, so why not the walls of Norham?