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Title: The Wolfe of Badenoch - A Historical Romance of the Fourteenth Century
Author: Dick-Lauder, Thomas
Language: English
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THE
WOLFE OF BADENOCH
A Historical Romance of the
Fourteenth Century
BY
SIR THOMAS DICK-LAUDER, Bart.
Of Fountainhall
Complete Unabridged Edition
LONDON: HAMILTON, ADAMS & CO.
GLASGOW: THOMAS D. MORISON
1886
PREFACE TO FIRST EDITION.
The “Wolfe of Badenoch” was advertised in June, 1825, at which time it
was ready for the press. Since then, certain circumstances, easily
guessed at, have subjected it, with many a more important work, to an
embargo, from which critics may possibly say it should never have been
liberated. The author himself had forgotten it, until now that it has
been unexpectedly called for; and this must be his apology for that
want of revision which he fears will be but too apparent.
The author has been accused of being an imitator of the Great Unknown.
In his own defence, however, he must say, that he is far from being
wilfully so. In truth, his greatest anxiety has been to avoid intruding
profanely into the sacred haunts of that master enchanter. But let it
be remembered, that the mighty spirit of the magician has already so
filled the labyrinth of romance, that it is not easy to venture within
its precincts without feeling his influence; and to say that, in
exploring the intricacies of these wizard paths, one is to be denounced
for unwittingly treading upon these flowers which have been pressed by
his giant foot, amounts to a perfect prohibition of all entrance there.
In the “Wolfe of Badenoch,” the author has adhered strictly to
historical fact, as far as history or historical character has been
interwoven with his story. He has felt, indeed, that this scrupulosity
has considerably fettered his invention; and, had circumstances
permitted the public so to judge of his former production, some of the
remarks thrown out upon it would have been spared.
[Note to the present edition.—The author of course refers here to Sir
Walter Scott, at that time, one may almost say, inaugurating a new era
in historical romance. The “Wolfe of Badenoch” was first published in
1827 under circumstances of disadvantage, from having to stand the
contrast with the famous series of tales by the above distinguished
author. It, nevertheless, passed successfully through this trying
ordeal, and was most favourably reviewed in many critical publications,
some of which ranked it alongside the best productions of Sir Walter
Scott. A still more certain and gratifying estimate of its worth was
the favourable hold it took on public opinion, the work being
extensively read and successive editions speedily called for.]
CONTENTS.
CHAPTER I. PAGE
The Scottish Knights—Journeying Homewards—The Hostelry
of Norham Towers, 17
CHAPTER II.
The Host and the Hostess—Preparing the Evening Meal, 29
CHAPTER III.
The Knights Invited to Norham Castle, 33
CHAPTER IV.
The Evening Meal at the Castle—The Minstrel and the Tourney
of Noyon—Master Haggerstone Fenwick the Ancient, 39
CHAPTER V.
Night at the Castle—The Friar’s Visit to the Ancient, 47
CHAPTER VI.
Making Love on the Ramparts, 54
CHAPTER VII.
The Midnight Meeting in the Ancient’s Chamber—Strange
Proposal—A Dreadful Alternative, 61
CHAPTER VIII.
Arrival of Sir Rafe Piersie—The Challenge, 70
CHAPTER IX.
The Combat—Departure of the Scots—Master Kyle Swears by
St. Cuthbert, 77
CHAPTER X.
The Home of the Hepbornes—Remembrances of Childhood—The Old
Wolf-Hound, 84
CHAPTER XI.
The Wolf Hunt—A Desperate Encounter, 90
CHAPTER XII.
The Freaks of Love at Hailes Castle—The Tournament at
Tarnawa Announced, 97
CHAPTER XIII.
Sir Patrick Hepborne’s Departure for the North—Consternation
at the Castle, 109
CHAPTER XIV.
The Pursuit—Surprising the Camp, 115
CHAPTER XV.
Norham Castle again—The Ancient’s Divination—Sir Walter
Bewitched—The Franciscan Friar to the Rescue, 121
CHAPTER XVI.
Raising the Devil—Delivered to the Flames, 126
CHAPTER XVII.
Sir John’s Pursuit in Quest of the Missing Lady—The
Forester’s Hunting Camp—Sir Miers de Willoughby’s
Border Keep, 134
CHAPTER XVIII.
The Horrors of the Dungeon, 140
CHAPTER XIX.
Dawn in the Dungeon—An Appalling Sight—Rough Visitors, 147
CHAPTER XX.
A Dreadful Situation—Daniel Throckle the Old Jailor, 153
CHAPTER XXI.
Crooked-hold-him-fast—Making a Lantern of Burnstower Castle, 160
CHAPTER XXII.
Waiting for the Spearmen—The Lady Isabella’s Tale—The Fight, 166
CHAPTER XXIII.
Sir Patrick Hepborne’s Journey North—Passes through
Edinburgh—King Robert II.—The Wilds of the Highlands—The
Celtic Host, 171
CHAPTER XXIV.
Savage-looking Visitors—Night in the Highland Hostelry—
Wolf Dogs, 180
CHAPTER XXV.
Wild Scottish Bisons—Fight with a Bull—Cold and Fatigue, 184
CHAPTER XXVI.
The Evening Encampment—Treachery, 191
CHAPTER XXVII.
Another Night attack—A Desperate Encounter, 198
CHAPTER XXVIII.
Meeting the Wolfe of Badenoch—The Cavalcade, 205
CHAPTER XXIX.
The Wolfe of Badenoch’s Hunting Encampment—Letter from King
Robert—Arrival at the Wolfe’s Stronghold, 210
CHAPTER XXX.
The Castle of Lochyndorbe—An Evening Episode on the
Ramparts—The Wolfe’s Raid on the Bishop’s Lands, 224
CHAPTER XXXI.
The Lady Mariota and the Page—The Fury of the Wolfe, 231
CHAPTER XXXII.
Maurice’s Song—The Franciscan Friar—Excommunication, 238
CHAPTER XXXIII.
The Water Pit Vault—Friar or Devil, which? 247
CHAPTER XXXIV.
The Wolfe of Badenoch and the Earl of Moray, 251
CHAPTER XXXVI.
The Castle of Tarnawa—Distinguished Guests, 260
CHAPTER XXXVII.
The Banquet at the Castle—Alarm—Forres on Fire, 267
CHAPTER XXXVIII.
The Burning of the Church and Town of Forres, 272
CHAPTER XXXIX.
Sir Patrick and the Earl at Forres, 279
CHAPTER XL.
In the Countess of Moray’s Apartments—Sir Patrick gets
Quizzed, 283
CHAPTER XLI.
Rory Spears, the Earl’s Henchman, 288
CHAPTER XLII.
The Lovely English Damosel, 292
CHAPTER XLIII.
Mustering for the Tournament—The Proclamation—The Procession
at St. John’s Chapel, 293
CHAPTER XLIV.
The Italian Armourer—The Knight of Cheviot, 304
CHAPTER XLV.
The Tournament, 311
CHAPTER XLVI.
The English Ambassador and the Gallant Lindsay, 321
CHAPTER XLVII.
The Earl of Fife’s Council Meeting—The Challenge between
the Scottish and English Knights, 326
CHAPTER XLVIII.
The Departure from the Castle of Tarnawa—The Alarm of War, 333
CHAPTER XLIX.
The Lord of Dirleton’s Tale—The Bishop of Moray and his
Clergy, 342
CHAPTER L.
The Mystery of the Lady Beatrice—Arrival of the Nobles and
Men-at-arms at Aberdeen, 351
CHAPTER LI.
King Robert at Aberdeen—Duncan MacErchar again, 356
CHAPTER LII.
The Wolfe of Badenoch at Aberdeen—Father and Son, 366
CHAPTER LIII.
The English Lady’s Departure from Tarnawa Castle—The Crafty
Son of the Wolfe of Badenoch, 376
CHAPTER LIV.
Sir Andrew’s Deep-laid Plot—An Unexpected Arrival, 384
CHAPTER LV.
Travelling through the Wild Forest—A Dreadful Spectacle—
Arrival at the River Tweed, 394
CHAPTER LVI.
Old Acquaintances at the Hostel of Norham Tower—Great
Gathering at Jedworth—The Council of War, 402
CHAPTER LVII.
The Scots Besieging Newcastle—The Fight on the Walls, 415
CHAPTER LVIII.
Combat between Douglas and Hotspur—The Fight for the Pennon, 426
CHAPTER LIX.
The Battle at Otterbourne, 444
CHAPTER LX.
The Bishop’s Army—Sorrow for the Fate of the Heroic Douglas, 459
CHAPTER LXI.
The Field of Otterbourne after the Fight, 465
CHAPTER LXII.
Withdrawal of the Scots Army—Obsequies of the Gallant Dead—
The Mystery Solved, 471
CHAPTER LXIII.
The Scottish Knights at the English Court—The Wealthy London
Merchant—Combat on London Bridge, 485
CHAPTER LXIV.
Lady de Vere and her lovely Guest—Innocence and Purity
Endangered—The King’s Confessor and the Franciscan Friar, 506
CHAPTER LXV.
In the Dungeons of the Tower of London, 525
CHAPTER LXVI.
A Ship of Olden Times—Tempest Tossed—Arrival at the Maison
Dieu in Elgin, 529
CHAPTER LXVII.
The Wolfe of Badenoch again—The Burning of Elgin Cathedral, 536
CHAPTER LXVIII.
The Bishop’s Palace at Spynie—The Wolfe gets a Surprise, 547
CHAPTER LXIX.
Changes at the Castle of Lochyndorbe—The Wolfe tamed—Alarm
for the Lady Beatrice, 555
CHAPTER LXX.
Bishop Barr at Lochyndorbe Castle—Reception by the Wolfe, 566
CHAPTER LXXI.
The Scottish Knights in London—Father Rushak’s Tale, 576
CHAPTER LXXII.
At the Scottish Court—The Penitential Procession—Sir Patrick
and the Friar, 582
CHAPTER LXXIII.
Accusation made in presence of the King—The Challenge, 595
CHAPTER LXXIV.
The Missing Lady Beatrice, 604
CHAPTER LXXV.
The Ordeal of Battle, 608
CHAPTER LXXVI.
The Friar’s Tale—The Two Combatants—Lady Eleanore’s
explanation—All is well that ends well, 615
THE WOLFE OF BADENOCH.
CHAPTER I.
The Scottish Knights—Journeying Homewards—The Hostelry of Norham
Towers.
It was in the latter part of the fourteenth century that Sir Patrick
Hepborne and Sir John Assueton—two young Scottish knights, who had been
serving their novitiate of chivalry under the banners of Charles the
Sixth of France, and who had bled their maiden lances against the
Flemings at Rosebarque—were hastening towards the Border separating
England from their native country. A truce then subsisting betwixt the
kingdoms that divided Britain had enabled the two friends to land in
Kent, whence they were permitted to prosecute their journey through the
dominions of Richard II., attended by a circumscribed retinue of some
ten or a dozen horsemen.
“These tedious leagues of English ground seem to lengthen under our
travel,” said Sir John Assueton, breaking a silence that was stealing
upon their march with the descending shades of evening. “Dost thou not
long for one cheering glance of the silver Tweed, ere its stream shall
have been forsaken by the last glimmer of twilight?”
“In sooth, I should be well contented to behold it,” replied Hepborne.
“The night droops fast, and our jaded palfreys already lag their ears
from weariness. Even our unbacked war-steeds, albeit they have carried
no heavier burden than their trappings, have natheless lost some deal
of their morning’s metal, and, judging from their sobered paces,
methinks they would gladly exchange their gay chamfronts for the more
vulgar hempen-halters of some well-littered stable.”
“Depardieux, but I have mine own sympathy with them,” said Assueton.
“Saidst thou not that we should lie at Norham to-night?”
“Methought to cast the time and the distance so,” replied Hepborne;
“and by those lights that twinkle from yonder dark mass, rising against
that yellow streak in the sky, I should judge that I have not greatly
missed in meting our day’s journey to that of the sun. Look between
those groups of trees—nay, more to the right, over that swelling
bank—that, if I mistake not, is the keep of Norham Castle, and those
are doubtless the torches of the warders moving along the battlements.
The watch must be setting ere this. Let us put on.”
“Thou dost not mean to crave hospitality from the captain of the
strength, dost thou?” demanded Assueton.
“Such was my purpose,” replied Hepborne; “and the rather, that the good
old knight, Sir Walter de Selby, hath a fair fame for being no churlish
host.”
“Nay, if thou lovest me, Hepborne, let us shun the Castle,” said
Assueton. “I have, ’tis true, heard of this same Sir Walter de Selby;
and the world lies if he be not, indeed, as thou sayst, a hospitable
old knight. But they say he hath damsels about him; and thou knowest I
love not to doff mine armour only to don the buckram of etiquette; and
to have mine invention put upon the rack to minister to woman’s vanity.
Let us then to the village hostel, I entreat thee.”
“This strange unknightly disease of thine doth grow on thee, Assueton,”
said Hepborne, laughing. “I have, indeed, heard that the widowed Sir
Walter was left with one peerless daughter, who is doubtless the pride
of her father’s hall; nay, I confess to thee, my friend, that the
much-bruited tale of her beauty hath had its own share in begetting my
desire to lodge me in Norham; but since thou wilt have it so, I am
content to pleasure thee, trusting that this my ready penance of
self-denial may count against the heavy score of my sins. But
stay;—What may this be that lies fluttering here among the gorse?”
“Meseems it a wounded hawk,” said Assueton, stooping from his horse to
look at it.
“In truth, ’tis indeed a fair falcon,” said Hepborne’s esquire,
Mortimer Sang, as he dismounted to pick it up. “He gasps as if he were
dying. Ha! by’r Lady, but he hath nommed a plump partridge; see here,
it is dead in his talons.”
“He hath perchance come by some hurt in the swooping,” said Hepborne;
“Canst thou discover any wound in him?”
“Nay, I can see nothing amiss in him,” replied Sang.
“I’ll warrant me, a well-reclaimed falcon,” said Hepborne, taking him
from his esquire; “ay, and the pet of some fair damsel too, if I may
guess from his silken jesses. But hold—he reviveth. I will put him here
in the bosom of my surcoat, and so foster the small spark of life that
may yet remain in him.”
At this moment their attention was arrested by the sound of voices;
and, by the meagre light that now remained, they could descry two
ladies, mounted on palfreys, and followed by two or three male
attendants, who came slowly from behind a wooded knoll, a little to the
left of the path before them. Their eyes were thrown on the ground, and
they seemed to be earnestly engaged in looking for something they had
lost.
“Alas, my poor bird!” said one of the ladies, “I fear I shall never see
thee more.”
“Mary, ’tis vain to look for him by this lack of light,” said an
esquire.
“Do thou thy duty and seek for him, Master Turnberry,” said the second
lady, in a haughty tone.
“A murrain on’t!” said the esquire again; “this comes of casting a hawk
at a fowl at sundown.”
“I tell thee he must be hereabouts,” said the second lady again; “it
was over these trees that I saw him stoop.”
“Stoop! ay, I’ll be sworn I saw him stoop,” said the esquire. “But an I
saw him not dash his brains ’gainst one of those gnarled elms, my name
is not Thomas, and I have no eyes for falconry. He’s amortised, I
promise thee.”
“Silence, Master Turnberry,” said the same lady again; “thou givest thy
tongue larger license than doth well beseem thee.”
“By the Rood, but ’tis well to call silence,” replied the esquire,
sulkily, “and to me too who did verily steal these two hours’ sport of
hawking for thee at mine own proper peril.”
“Ay, stolen indeed were they on thy part, Master Turnberry,” replied
the same lady; “but forget not that they were honestly bought of thee
on ours.”
“Nay, then, bought or not,” said the esquire, “the last nail’s breadth
of thy merchandize hath been unrolled to thee. We must e’en clip short,
and haste us to Norham, else will Sir Walter’s grey beard become redder
than a comet’s tail with ire. Thou knowest this has been but a testy
day with him.”
“Peace with thy impudence, sir knave,” said the same lady hotly. “Dost
thou dare thus to speak in presence of the Lady Eleanore de Selby? A
greybeard’s ire shall never——”
“Nay, talk not so,” said the first lady, mildly interrupting her. “The
honest squire equeary hath reason. Though it grieveth me to lose my
poor falcon thus, we must e’en give him up, and haste us to the
Castle.”
“Stay, stay, fair damsel,” cried Hepborne, urging his steed forward
from the hollow bushy path where he and his party had hitherto remained
concealed, from dread of alarming the ladies, a precaution which he now
entirely forgot in his eagerness to approach her, whose person and
manners had already bewitched him. “Stay, stay—fly not, lady—your
hawk—your falcon!”
But the sudden appearance of armed men had so filled the ladies with
alarm, that they had fled at his first word; and he now saw himself
opposed by sturdy Squire Turnberry, who being too much taken by
surprise to catch the knight’s meaning, and taking it for granted that
his purpose was hostile, wheeled his horse round, and planting himself
firmly in the midst of the path, at the head of the grooms, couched his
hunting-spear, as if determined to prevent pursuit.
“What, ho! sir stranger knight—what seek ye, in the fiend’s name?”
demanded the squire, sternly.
“Credit me no evil,” said Sir Patrick. “It galleth me sore that mine
intemperate rudeness should have so frayed these beauteous damsels.
Mine intent was but to restore the fair lady’s lost falcon, the which
it was our chance to pick up in this hollow way. He had ta’en some
unseen hurt in swooping at this partridge, which he had nommed.”
“Nay, by the mass, but I thought as much,” said the squire.
“Tell the lovely mistress of this fair bird, that Sir Patrick Hepborne
willingly submits him to what penance she may enjoin for the alarm he
caused her,” said the knight; “and tell, too, that he gave life to her
expiring falcon, by cherishing it in his bosom.”
“I give thee thanks in mine own name, and that of the lady who owneth
the hawk,” said the esquire. “Trust me, thy sin will be forgotten in
the signal service thou hast done her. The bird, methinks, rouseth him
as if there were no longer evil in him.”
“Yea, he proyneth and manteleth him as if rejoicing that he shall again
embrace his lady’s wrist with his sengles,” said the knight. “Happy
bird! depardieux, but he is to be envied. Tell his fair mistress, that
if the small service it hath been my good fortune to render her, may
merit aught of boon at her hands, let my reward be mine enlistment in
that host of gallant knights who may have vowed devotion to her will.”
“Sir Knight,” said the squire, “I will bear thy courteous message to
her who owneth the falcon; and if I tarry not longer to give the
greater store of thanks, ’tis that the Lady Eleanore de Selby hath
spurred away so fast, that I must have a fiend’s flight if I can catch
her.” And turning his horse with these words he tarried not for further
parlance.
“’Tis a strange adventure, Assueton,” said Hepborne to his friend, as
they pursued their journey; “to meet thus with the peerless Eleanore de
Selby at the very moment she formed the subject of our discourse.”
“’Tis whimsical enow,” said Assueton, drily; “yet it is nothing
marvellous.”
“Albeit that the growing darkness left me but to guess at the
excellence of her features, from the elegance of her person,” continued
Hepborne, “yet do I confess myself more than half enamoured of her by
very intuition. Didst thou observe that her attendant who talked so
forwardly, though not devoid of grace, showed in her superior presence
but as a mere mortal beside a goddess?”
“Nay,” replied Assueton, “though I do rarely measure or weigh the
points of women, and am more versant in those of a battle-steed, yet
methought that the attendant, as thou callest her, had the more noble
port of the two.”
“Fie on thy judgment, Assueton,” cried Hepborne; “to prefer the saucy,
pert demeanour of an over-indulged hand-maid, to the dignified
deportment of gentle birth. The Lady Eleanore de Selby—she, I mean, in
the reddish-coloured mantle, she who wept for the hawk—was as far above
her companion in the elegance of her air, as heaven is above earth.”
“May be so,” replied Assueton with perfect indifference. “’Tis a
question not worth the mooting.”
“To thee, perhaps, it may be of little interest,” said Hepborne; “but I
could be well contented to be permitted to solve it in Norham Castle.
Why wert thou born with feelings so much at war with what beseemeth a
knight, as to make thee eschew all converse with those fair beings, the
sun of whose beauty shineth but to brace up the otherwise damp and
flaccid nerves of chivalrous adventure?”
“Nay, thou mightest as well demand of me why my raven locks are not as
fair as thine,” said Assueton with a smile; “yea, or bid him who is
born blind to will to see.”
“By Saint Baldrid, but I do pity thee as much as if thou wert blind,”
said Hepborne. “Nay, what is it but to be blind, yea, to want every
sense, to be thus unmoved with——”
“Ha! see where the broad bosom of Tweed at last glads our eyes,
glistening yonder with the pale light that still lingers in the west,”
exclaimed Assueton, overjoyed to avail himself of so happy an
opportunity of interrupting his friend’s harangue.
“Yonder farther shadowy bank is Scotland—our country,” cried Hepborne,
with deep feeling.
“God’s blessing on her hardy soil!” said Assueton, with enthusiasm.
“Amen!” said Hepborne. “To her shall we henceforth devote our arms,
long enow wielded in foreign broils, where, in truth, heart did hardly
go with hand.”
“But where lieth the hamlet of Norham?” inquired Assueton.
“Seest thou not where a few feeble rays are shed from its scattered
tenements on the hither meadow below?” replied Hepborne. “Nay, thou
mayest dimly descry the church yonder, sanctified by the shelter it did
of erst yield to the blessed remains of the holy St. Cuthbert, what
time the impious Danes drove them from Lindisferne.”
“But what, methinks, is most to thy present purpose, Sir Knight,”
observed Mortimer Sang, “yonder brighter glede proceedeth, if I rightly
guess, from the blazing hearth of Master Sylvester Kyle, as thirsty a
tapster as ever broached a barrel, and one who, if he be yet alive,
hath hardly, I wot, his make on either side the Border, for knavery and
sharp wit.”
“Pray heaven his sharp wit may not have soured his ale,” muttered Roger
Riddel, the laconic esquire of Sir John Assueton.
They now hastened down the hollow way that led to the village and soon
found themselves in its simple street.
“Ay,” exclaimed Sang, “by St. Andrew, but old Kyle’s gate is right
hospitably open. I promise ye, ’tis a good omen for Border quiet to
find it so. So please thee, Sir Knight, shall I advance and give note
of thine approach?”
“Do so,” said Hepborne, to the esquire, who immediately cantered
forward.
“Ho! house there!” cried Sang, halting in the gateway. “Come forth,
Monsieur, mine host of the hostel of Norham Tower. Where art thou, Mr.
Sylvester Kyle? Where be thine hostlers, drawers, and underskinkers?
Why do not all appear to do themselves honour by waiting on two most
puissant knights, for I talk not of their esquires, or the other
gentlemen soldiers of pregnant prowess, of the very least of whom it
were an honour to undo the spur?”
By the time that Sang had ended his summons, the party were at the
gate, and had leisure to survey the premises. A rude wall of
considerable length faced the irregular street of the village, having
the gateway in the centre. The thatch-roofed buildings within formed
the other three sides of the quadrangular court. Those to the right
were occupied as stables, and in those to the left were the kitchen,
and various other domestic offices; whilst the middle part was entirely
taken up by one large room, from whence gleamed the light of a great
fire, that burned on a hearth in the midst, shedding around a common
comfort on the motley parties of noisy ale-drinkers seated at different
tables.
“What, ho! Sylvester, I say—what a murrain keeps thee?” cried Sang,
although the portly form of the vintner already appeared within the
aperture of the doorway, like a goodly portrait in a frame, his
carbuncled face vying in lustre with the red flare of the torch he held
high in his hand. “Gramercy, Master Kyle, so thou hast come at last. By
the mass, but that paunch of thine is a right fair warrant for the
goodness of thine ale, yet it will be well that it do come quicker when
it be called for than thou hast.”
“Heyday, what a racket thou dost make, gaffer horseman!” cried Kyle.
“But the emptiest vessel doth ever make the most din.”
“Tut, man, thou hast hit it for once with thy fool’s head,” replied
Sang. “I am, as thou sayest, at this present, in very sober earnest, an
empty vessel; yea, and for that matter, so are we all. But never trust
me and we make not a din till we be filled. The sooner thou stoppest
our music, then, the better for thine ears, seeing that if we be forced
to pipe thus, and that thou dancest not more quickly to our call, thou
mayest perchance lose them.”
“By the mass, but thy music is marvellously out of tune, good fellow,”
replied the publican. “Thy screeching is like that of a cracked rebeck,
the neck of which must be hard griped, and most cruelly pinched, ere
its tone be softened. But of what strength is thy company?” continued
he, whirling his torch around so as to obtain a general view of the
group of horsemen. “By St. Cuthbert, I wish there may be stabling for
ye all.”
“Stabling for us all, sir knave?” cried Sang; “marry, thou dost speak
as if we were a herd of horses.”
“Cry you mercy, noble esquire,” rejoined Kyle. “An thou beest an ass,
indeed, a halter and a hook at the gate-cheek may serve thy turn, and
so peraunter I may find room for the rest.”
A smothered laugh among his comrades proclaimed Squire Sang’s defeat.
The triumphant host ran to hold Sir Patrick Hepborne’s stirrup.
“By the Rood,” cried the squire, as he dismounted, with a good-natured
chuckle at his own discomfiture—“by the Rood, but the rogue hath
mastered me for this bout. But verily my wit is fasting, whilst his, I
warrant, hath the full spirit of his potent ale in’t. Never trust me
but I shall be even with him anon.”
“Master Kyle,” said Assueton, to their host, as he ushered his guests
into the common room, “we should be glad to see some food. The rising
sun looked upon our last meal; so bestir thyself, I pr’ythee, goodman,
and let us know as soon as may be how we are to fare.”
“Room there, sirs, for two valiant knights,” cried Kyle, getting rid of
the question by addressing himself to a party seated at a table near
the hearth; “room, I say, gentlemen. What, are ye stocks, my masters?”
“Nay, treat not the good people so rudely,” said Hepborne, as some
eight or ten persons were hastily vacating their places; “there is room
enow for all. Go not thou, at least, old man,” continued he, addressing
a minstrel who was following the rest, his snowy locks and beard
hanging luxuriantly around a countenance which showed all the freshness
of a green old age; “sit thee down, I do beseech thee, and vouchsafe us
thy winning discourse. Where is the chevalier to whom a bard may not do
honour?”
The minstrel’s heart was touched by Sir Patrick’s kind words; his full
hazel eye beamed on him with gratitude; he put his hand to his breast,
and modestly bowed his head.
“My time is already spent, most gentle knight,” said he. “Ere this I am
looked for at the Castle; yet, ere I go hence, let me drink this cup of
thanks for thy courtesy. To thee I wish tender love of fairest lady;
and may thy lance, and the lance of thy brave companion, never be
couched but to conquer.” And so draining the draught to the bottom, he
again bowed, and immediately retired.
“So, Master Kyle,” said Assueton to the host, who returned at this
moment, after having ascertained the country and quality of his new
guests, “what hast thou in thy buttery?”
“Of a truth, Sir Knight, we are now but ill provided for sike guests,”
replied Kyle. “Had it been thy luck to have sojourned here yestere’en,
indeed, I wot ye mought ha’ been feasted. But arrives me my Lord Bishop
of Durham at the Castle this morning; down comes me the seneschal with
his buttery-men, and whips me off a whole beeve’s carcase; then in pour
me the people of my Lord Bishop—clerks, lacqueys, and grooms; bolt goes
me a leg of mutton here—crack goes me a venison pasty there—gobble goes
me a salmon in this corner, whilst a whole flock of pullets are riven
asunder in that; so that there has been nothing from sunrise till
sundown but wagging of jaws.”
“Marry, these church-followers are wont to be stout knights of the
trencher,” said Assueton, with a smile. “But let us have a supper from
what may be left thee, and that without more ado.”
“Anon, courteous Sir Knight,” said Master Kyle, with a grin. “But, as I
was a-saying, there hath been such stuffing; nay ye may know by the
clinking of their cans that the rogues drink not fasting. By the mass,
’tis easy to guess from the seas of ale they are swallowing, what
mountains of good provender they have to float in their stomachs. Why,
yonder lantern-jaws i’ the corner, with a mouth that opens as if he
would swallow another Jonas, and wangs like the famine-ground fangs of
a starving wolf—that same fellow devoured me a couple of fat capons
single-head; and that other churl——”
“Have done with thine impertinence, villain, said Assueton,
interrupting him; “have done with thine impertinence, I say, and let us
straightway have such fare as thou canst give, or by St. Andrew——”
“Nay, then, sweet sir,” replied the host, “there be yet reserved some
delicate pig’s liver for myself and Mrs. Kyle, but they shall be
forthwith cheerfully yielded to thy necessities.”
“Pestilence take thee, knave,” cried Assueton, “couldst thou not have
set them down to us at once, without stirring up our appetites to
greater keenness by thine enumeration of the good things that are gone?
Come, come, despatch—our hunger is beyond nicety.”
Sir John Assueton now sat down to put in practice that patience of
hunger, the exercise of which was one of the chief virtues of
knighthood. As for Sir Patrick Hepborne, his attention was so entirely
absorbed by a conversation that ensued at the adjoining table, to which
the Bishop’s people had retired, that he altogether forgot his wants.
“And was it thy luck to see the Lady Eleanore de Selby, Master Barton?”
demanded one of the persons of the dialogue; “Fame speaketh largely of
her perfections.”
“Yea, Foster, I did indeed behold her,” replied the other, who seemed
to be a person of more consequence than the rest. “When I entered the
Castle-hall this morning, to receive the commands of my Lord the
Bishop, she was seated between him and her father. They were alone, and
the old knight was urging something to her in round soldier-like terms;
but I gathered not the purport of his speech, for he broke off abruptly
as I appeared.”
“And is she so rare a beauty as folks do call her?” demanded Foster.
“Verily, so much loveliness did never bless these eyes before,” replied
Barton. “Yet was the sunshine of her face disturbed by clouds.
Tear-drops, too, had dimmed the lustre of her charms. But methought
they were more the offspring of a haughty spirit than of an afflicted
heart.”
“Nay, of a truth, they do say that she lacketh not haughtiness,”
observed Foster. “’Tis whispered that she hath already scorned some
noble knights who would fain have wedded the heiress of the rich Sir
Walter de Selby.”
“Nay, I warrant me she hath had suitors enow, and those no mean ones,”
replied Barton. “What thinkest thou of Sir Rafe Piersie, brother to the
gallant Hotspur? Marry, they say that he deigns to woo her with right
serious intent.”
“Sayest thou so?” exclaimed Foster; “then must the old knight’s gold
have glittered in the young knight’s eyes, that a proud-blooded Piersie
should even him thus to the daughter of him who is but a soldier of
Fortune.”
“Ay, and welcome, I ween, would the old knight’s hard-won wealth be to
the empty coffers of a younger brother who hath never spared expense,”
replied Barton.
“Yea, and high, I wot, mought Sir Walter’s hoar head be held with such
a gallant for his son-in-law,” observed Foster again.
“Trust me,” said Barton, “he would joyfully part with all the golden
fruits he hath gleaned from Scottish fields, to see this solitary scion
from his old stock grafted on the goodly and towering tree of
Northumberland. But they say that the Lady Eleanore is so hard to win,
that she even scorns this high alliance; and if I might guess at
matters the which to know are beyond my reach, I should say, hark ye,
that this visit of our Right Reverend Lord Bishop to Sir Walter de
Selby, hath something in it of the nature of an ambassage from the
Piersie touching this same affair.”
“I do well know our Right Reverend Lord’s affection for that house,”
said Foster.
“Nay, he doth stand related to the Piersie in no very distant degree,”
replied Barton.
“Perchance this marriage treaty then had something to do with the
lady’s tears,” observed Foster.
“Doubtless,” said Barton. “But I mistake if she carrieth not a high
brow that will be ill to bend. Her doting father hath been ever too
foolishly fond of her to thwart her will, till it hath waxed too strong
for his opposing. She will never yield, I promise thee.”
“Then hath our Bishop lost his travel,” said Foster. “But when
returneth our Reverend Lord homeward?”
“His present orders are for to-morrow,” replied Barton.
“How sayst thou, Assueton?” said Hepborne, in a whisper to his friend,
after the conversation between the two strangers had dropped; “how
sayst thou now? Did I right, think ye, to yield to thine importunity,
to shun the hospitality of Norham Castle, that we might hostel it so
vilely here i’ the nale of the Norham Tower? Dost thou not grieve for
thy folly?”
“Why, faith,” replied Assueton, “to thee it may be cause of some
regret; and I may grieve for thee, seeing that thou, an idolater of
woman’s beauty, hast missed worshipping before the footstool of this
haughty damsel. Thou mightest have caught a shred of ribbon from her
fair hand, perchance, to have been treasured and worn in thy helmet;
but, for mine own particular part, I despise such toys. Rough,
unribboned steel, and the joyous neighing of my war-steed, are to me
more pleasing than the gaudy paraments and puling parlance of love-sick
maidens.”
“Nay, then, I do confess that my desire to behold this rare beauty hath
much grown by what I have heard,” replied Hepborne. “Would that thou
hadst been less indolently disposed, my friend. We might have been even
now in the Castle; and ere we should have left it, who knows but we
might have rescued this distressed damosel from an alliance she
detesteth. Even after all these protestations to the contrary, thine
icy heart mought have been thawed by the fire of her eyes, and the
adventure mought have been thine own.”
“St. Andrew forbid!” replied Assueton. “I covet no such emprise. I
trust my heart is love-proof. Have I not stood before the
lightning-glances of the demoiselles of Paris, and may I not hold my
breastplate to be good armour against all else?”
“Nay, boast not of this unknightly duresse of thine, Assueton,” replied
Hepborne. “Trust me, thou wilt fall when thine hour cometh. But, by St.
Baldrid, I would give this golden chain from my neck—nay, I would give
ten times its worth, to be blessed with but a sight of her.”
“Ay,” said Assueton, “thou art like the moth, and wouldst hover round
the lamp-fire till thy wings were singed.”
“Pshaw, Sir Adamant,” said Hepborne, “thou knowest I have skimmed
through many a festal hall, blazing with bright eyes, and yet are my
opinions as whole as thine. But I am not insensible to woman’s charms
as thou art; and to behold so bright a star, perdie, I should care
little to risk being scorched by coming within the range of its rays.”
“Nay, then, I do almost repent me that I hindered thee from thy design
of quartering in the Castle,” said Assueton. “Thou mightest have levied
new war on our ancient and natural foemen, by snatching an affianced
bride from the big house of Northumberland.”
“Depardieux, but it were indeed a triumph, and worthy of a Scottish
knight, to carry off the Lady Eleanore de Selby by her own consent from
the proud Piersie,” said Hepborne. “But ’tis well enow to jest of.”
Whilst this dialogue was going on between the two friends, their
esquires entered the place. Mortimer Sang, after reconnoitring the
different tables, and perceiving that there were no convenient places
vacant, except at that occupied by the attendants of the Bishop, went
towards it, followed by his comrade Roger Riddel.
“By your good leave, courteous gentlemen,” said Sang, with a bow, at
the same time filling up an empty space with his person; “I hope no
objection to our joining your good company? Here, tapster,” cried he,
at the same time throwing money on the table, “bring in a flagon of
Rhenish, that we may wash away the dryness of new acquaintance.”
This cheering introduction of the two esquires was received with a
smiling welcome on the part of those to whom it was addressed.
“Come ye from the south, Sir Squire?” demanded Barton, after the wine
had silently circulated, to the great inward satisfaction of the
partakers.
“Ay, truly, from the south, indeed,” replied Sang, lifting the flagon
to his head.
“Then was I right, Richard, after all,” said Barton, addressing one of
his fellows. “Did I not tell thee that these strangers had none of the
loutish Scot in their gait?”
“Loutish Scot!” cried Sang, taking the flagon from his lips, and
starting up fiercely; “What mean ye by loutish Scot?”
Barton eyed the tall figure, broad chest, and sinewy arms of the
Scottish esquire.
“Nay, I meant thee not offence, Sir Squire,” replied he.
“Ha!” said Sang, regaining his good-humour; “then I take no offence
where none is meant. Your Scot and your Southern are born foes to fight
in fair field; yet I see no just cause against their drinking together
in good fellowship when the times be fitting, albeit they may be called
upon anon to crack each other’s sconces in battle broil. Thine hand,”
said he, stretching his right across the table to the Bishop’s man,
whilst he poised the flagon with his left. “Peraunter thou be’st a
soldier, though of a truth that garb of thine would speak thee to be as
much of a clerk as an esquire; but, indeed, an thy trade be arms, I am
bold to say, that Scotland doth not hold a man who will do thee the
petites politesses of the skirmish more handsomely than I shall, should
chance ever throw us against each other. Meanwhile my hearty service to
thee.”
“Spoke like a true man,” said Roger Riddel, taking the flagon from his
friend. “Here, tapster, we lack wine.”
“Nay, Roger,” said Sang, “but we cannot drink thus fasting. What a
murrain keeps that knave with the——Ha! he comes. Why, holy St. Andrew,
what meanest thou, villain, by putting down this flinty skim-milk?
Caitiff, dost take us for ostriches, to digest iron? Saw I not hogs’
livers a-frying for our supper?”
“Nay, good master Squire,” said the flaxen-polled lad of a tapster,
“sure mistress says that the livers be meat for your masters.”
“Meat for our masters, sirrah!” replied Sang; “and can the hostel of
Master Sylvester Kyle, famed from the Borders to the Calais Straits—can
this far-famed house, I say, afford nothing better for a brace of
Scottish knights, whose renown hath filled the world from Cattiness to
the land of Egypt, than a fried hog’s liver? Avoid, sinner, avoid; out
of my way, and let me go talk to this same hostess.”
So saying, he strode over the bench, and, kicking the rushes before him
in his progress towards the door, made directly for the kitchen.
CHAPTER II.
The Host and the Hostess—Preparing the Evening Meal.
On entering the kitchen, Master Mortimer Sang found the hostess, a
buxom dame with rosy cheeks, raven hair, and jet-black eyes, busily
employed in cooking the food intended for the two knights. Having
already had a glimpse of her, he remarked her to be of an age much too
green for so wintry a husband as Sylvester Kyle; so checking his haste,
he approached her with his best Parisian obeisance.
“Can it be,” said he, assuming an astonished air—“can it possibly be,
that the cruel Master Sylvester Kyle doth permit so much loveliness to
be melted over the vile fire of a kitchen, an ’twere a piece of butter,
and that to fry a paltry pig’s liver withal?”
The dame turned round, looked pleased, smiled, flirted her head, and
then went on frying. Sighing as if he were expiring his soul, Sang
continued,—
“Ah, had it been my happy fate to have owned thee, what would I not
have done to preserve the lustre of those charms unsullied?”
Mrs. Sylvester Kyle again looked round, again she smiled, again she
flirted her head, and, leaving the frying-pan to fry in its own way,
she dropped a curtsey, and called Master Sang a right civil and
fair-spoken gentleman.
“Would that thou hadst been mine,” continued Sang, throwing yet more
tenderness into his expression: “locked in these fond arms, thy beauty
should have been shielded from every chance of injury.” So saying he
suited the action to the word, and embracing Mrs. Kyle, he imprinted on
her cheeks kisses, which, though burning enough in themselves, were
cold compared to the red heat of the face that received them. Having
thus paved the way to his purpose—
“What could possess thee, beauteous Mrs. Kyle,” said he, “to marry that
gorbellied glutton of thine, a fellow who, to fill his own rapacious
bowke, and fatten his own scoundrel carcase, starveth thee to death? I
see it in thy sweet face, my fair hostess; ’tis vain to conceal it; the
wretch is miserably poor; he feedeth thee not. The absolute famine that
reigneth in his beggarly buttery, nay, rather flintery (for buttery it
were ridiculous to call it), cannot suffice to afford one meal a-day to
that insatiable maw of his, far less can it supply those cates and
niceties befitting the stomach of an angel like thyself.”
Mrs. Kyle was whirled up to the skies by this rhapsody; Master
Sylvester had never said anything half so fine. But her pride could not
stand the hits the squire had given against the poverty of her larder.
“Nay thee now, but, kind sir,” said she, “we be’s not so bad off as all
that; Master, my goodman Kyle hath as fat a buttery, I warrant thee, as
e’er a publican in all the Borders.”
“Nay, nay, ’tis impossible, beautiful Mrs. Kyle,” said Mortimer
again—“’tis impossible; else why these wretched pigs’ entrails for a
couple of knights, of condition so high that they may be emperors
before they die, if God give them good luck?”
“La, now there,” exclaimed Mrs. Kyle; “and did not Sylvester say that
they were nought but two lousy Scots, and that any fare would do for
sike loons. Well, who could ha’ thought, after all, that they could be
emperors? An we had known that, indeed, we might ha’ gi’en them
emperor’s fare. Come thee this way, kind sir, and I’ll let thee see our
spense.”
This was the very point which the wily Master Sang had been aiming at.
Seizing up a lamp, she led the way along a dark passage. As they
reached the end of it, their feet sounded hollow on a part of the
floor. Mrs. Kyle stopped, set down her lamp, slipped a small sliding
plank into a groove in the side wall made to receive it, and exposed a
ring and bolt attached to an iron lever. Applying her hand to this, she
lifted a trap door, and disclosed a flight of a dozen steps or more,
down which she immediately tripped, and Sang hesitated not a moment to
follow her. But what a sight met his eyes when he reached the bottom!
He found himself in a pretty large vault, hung round with juicy barons
and sirloins of beef, delicate carcases of mutton, venison, hams,
flitches, tongues, with all manner of fowls and game, dangling in most
inviting profusion from the roof. It was here that Master Kyle
preserved his stock-in-trade, in troublesome times, from the rapacity
of the Border-depredators. Mortimer Sang feasted his eyes for some
moments in silence, but they were allowed small time for their banquet.
A distant foot was heard at the farther extremity of the passage, and
then the angry voice of Kyle calling his wife. Mortimer sprang to the
top of the steps, just as mine host had reached the trap-door.
“Eh! what!” exclaimed Kyle with horror and surprise—“A man in the
spense with my wife! Thieves! Murder!”
He had time to say no more, for Sang grappled him by the throat, as he
was in the very act of stooping to shut the trap-door on him, and down
he tugged the bulky host, like a huge sack; but, overpowered by the
descent of such a mountain upon his head, he rolled over the steps with
his burthen into the very middle of the vault. More afraid of her
husband’s wrath than anxious for his safety, Mrs. Kyle put her lamp on
the ground, jumped nimbly over the prostrate strugglers, and escaped.
The active and Herculean Sang, rising to his knees, with his left hand
pressed down the half-stunned publican, who lay on his back gasping for
breath; then seizing the lamp with his right, he rose suddenly to his
legs, and, regaining the trap-door in the twinkling of an eye, sat him
down quietly on the floor to recover his own breath; and, taking the
end of the lever in his hand, and half closing the aperture, he waited
patiently till his adversary had so far recovered himself as to be able
to come to a parley.
“So, Master Sylvester Kyle,” said the esquire, “thou art there, art
thou—caught in thine own trap? So much for treating noble Scots, the
flower of chivalry, with stinking hog’s entrails. By’r Lady, ’tis well
for thee thou hast such good store of food there. Let me see; methinks
thou must hold out well some week or twain ere it may begin to putrify.
Thou hadst better fall to, then, whiles it be fresh; time enow to begin
starving when it groweth distasteful. So wishing thee some merry meals
ere thou diest, I shall now shut down the trap-door—bolt it fast—nail
up the sliding plank—and as no one knoweth on’t but thy wife, who, kind
soul, hath agreed to go off with me to Scotland to-night, thou mayest
reckon on quiet slumbers for the next century.”
“Oh, good Sir Squire,” cried Kyle, wringing his hands like a maniac,
“let me out, I beseech thee; leave me not to so dreadful a death. Thou
and thy knights and all shall feast like princes; thou shalt float in
sack and canary; thou shalt drink Rhinwyn in barrelfuls, and Malvoisie
in hogsheads, to the very lowest lacquey of ye. No, merciful Sir
Squire, thou canst not be so cruel—Oh, oh!”
“Hand me up,” said Sang, with a stern voice, “hand me up, I say, that
venison, and these pullets there, that neat’s tongue, and a brace of
the fattest of these ducks; I shall then consider whether thou art
worthy of my most royal clemency.”
Mine host had no alternative but to obey. One by one the various
articles enumerated by Sang were handed up to him, and deposited beside
him on the floor of the passage.
“Take these flagons there,” said he, “and draw from each of these buts,
that I may taste.—Ha! excellent, i’ faith, excellent.—Now, Sir knave,
those of thy kidney mount up a ladder to finish their career of
villainy, but thy fate lieth downwards; so down, descend, and mingle
with thy kindred dirt.”
He slapped down the trap-door with tremendous force, bolted it firmly,
and replaced the sliding plank, so that the wretch’s shrieks of
horrible despair came deafened through the solid oak, and sounded but
as the moaning of some deep subterranean stream.
Master Sang had some difficulty in piling up the provender he had
acquired, and carrying it with the flagons to the kitchen. There he
found Mrs. Kyle, who, in the apprehension of a terrible storm from her
lord, was sitting in a corner drowned in tears.
“Cheer up, fair dame,” said Sang to the disconsolate Mrs. Kyle; “thou
needest be under no fear of him to-night. I have left him in prison,
and thou mayest relieve him thyself when thou mayest, and on thine own
terms of capitulation. Meanwhile, hash up some of that venison, and
dress these capons, and this neat’s tongue, for the knights, our
masters, and make out a supper for my comrade and me and the rest as
fast as may be. I’ll bear in the wine myself.”
Mrs. Kyle felt a small smack of disappointment to find that the so
lately gallant esquire, after all he had said, should himself put such
an office upon her; but she dried her eyes, and quickly begirding
herself for her duty, set to work with alacrity.
CHAPTER III.
The Knights Invited to Norham Castle.
On the return of Mortimer Sang to the common room, he found that a new
event had taken place in his absence. An esquire had arrived from the
Castle, bearing a courteous message from Sir Walter de Selby, its
captain, setting forth that it pained him to learn that Sir Patrick
Hepborne and Sir John Assueton had not made experiment of his poor
hospitality; that their names were already too renowned not to be well
known to him; and that he trusted they would not refuse him the
gratification of doing his best to entertain them, but would condescend
to come and partake of such cheer and accommodation as Norham Castle
could yield. An invitation so kind it was impossible to resist. Indeed,
whatever Sir John Assueton might have felt, Sir Patrick Hepborne’s
curiosity to see the fair maid of the Castle was too great to be
withstood. The distance was but short, and Sir Walter’s messenger was
to be their guide. Leaving their esquires and the rest of their
retinue, therefore, to enjoy the feast so ingeniously provided for them
by Sang, their horses were ordered out, and they departed.
The night was soft and tranquil. The moon was up, and her silvery light
poured itself on the broad walls of the keep, and the extensive
fortifications of Norham Castle, rising on the height before them, and
was partially reflected from the water of the farther side of the
Tweed, here sweeping wildly under the rocky eminence, and threw its
shadow half-way across it. They climbed up the hollow way leading to
the outer ditch, and were immediately challenged by the watch upon the
walls. The password was given by their guide, the massive gate was
unbarred, the portcullis lifted, and the clanging drawbridge lowered at
the signal, and they passed under a dark archway to the door of the
outer court of guard. There they were surrounded by pikemen and
billmen, and narrowly examined by the light of torches; but the officer
of the guard appeared, and the squire’s mission being known to him,
they were formally saluted, and permitted to pass on. Crossing a broad
area, they came to the inner gate, where they underwent a similar
scrutiny.
They had now reached that part of the fortress where stood the
barracks, the stables, and various other buildings necessarily
belonging to so important a place; while in the centre arose the keep,
huge in bulk, and adamant in strength, defended by a broad ditch, where
not naturally rendered inaccessible by the precipitous steep, and
approachable from one point only by a narrow bridge. Lights appeared
from some of its windows, and sounds of life came faintly from within;
but all was still in the buildings around them, the measured step of
the sentinel on the wall above them forming the only interruption to
the silence that prevailed.
The esquire proceeded to try the door of a stable, but it was locked.
“A pestilence take the fellow,” said he; “how shall I get the horses
bestowed?—What, ho!—Turnberry—Tom Equerry, I say.”
“Why, what art thou?” cried the gruff voice of the sentinel on the
wall; “what art thou, I say, to look for Tom Turnberry at this hour?
By’r lackins, his toes, I’ll warrant me, are warm by the embers of
Mother Rowlandson’s suttling fire. He’s at his ale, I promise thee.”
“The plague ride him, then,” muttered the squire; “how the fiend shall
I find him? I crave pardon, Sirs Knights, but I must go look for this
same varlet, or some of his grooms, for horses may not pass to the
keep; and who knoweth but I may have to rummage half the Castle over
ere I find him?” So saying, he left the two knights to their
meditations.
He was hardly gone when they heard the sound of a harp, which came from
a part of the walls a little way to the left of where they were then
standing. The performer struck the chords, as if in the act of tuning
the instrument, and the sound was interrupted from time to time. At
last, after a short prelude, a Scottish air was played with great
feeling.
“By the Rood of St. Andrew,” exclaimed Assueton, after listening for
some time, “these notes grapple my heart, like the well-remembered
voice of some friend of boyhood. May we not go nearer?”
“Let us tie our horses to these palisadoes, and approach silently, so
as not to disturb the musician,” said Hepborne.
Having fastened the reins of their steeds, they moved silently in the
direction whence the music proceeded, and soon came in sight of the
performer.
On a part of the rampart, at some twenty yards’ distance, where the
wall on the outside rose continuous with the rock overhanging the
stream of the Tweed, they beheld two figures; and, creeping silently
for two or three paces farther, they sheltered themselves from
observation under the shadow of a tower, where they took their stand in
the hope of the music being renewed. The moonlight was powerful, and
they easily recognized the garb of the harper whom they had so lately
seen at the hostel. He was seated on the horizontal ropes of one of
those destructive implements of war called an onager or balista, which
were still in use at that period, when guns were but rare in Europe.
His harp was between his knees, his large and expressive features were
turned upwards, and his long white locks swept backwards over his
shoulders, as he was in the act of speaking to a woman who stood by
him. The lady, for her very mien indicated that she was no common
person, stood by the old man in a listening posture. She was enveloped
in a mantle, that flowed easily over her youthful person, giving to it
roundness of outline, without obscuring its perfections.
“By St. Dennis, Assueton,” whispered Hepborne to his friend, “’tis the
Lady Eleanore de Selby. The world lies not; she is beautiful.”
“Nay, then, thine eyes must be like those of an owl, if thou canst tell
by this light,” replied Assueton.
“I tell thee I caught one glance of her face but now, as the moonbeam
fell on it,” said Hepborne; “’twas beauteous as that of an angel. But
hold, they come this way.”
The minstrel arose, and the lady and he came slowly along the wall in
the direction where the two knights were standing.
“Tush, Adam of Gordon,” said the lady, in a playful manner, as if in
reply to something the harper had urged, “thou shalt never persuade me;
I have not yet seen the knight—nay, I doubt me whether the knight has
yet been born who can touch this heart. I would not lose its freedom
for a world.”
“So, so,” whispered Assueton, “thou wert right, Master Barton; a
haughty spirit enow, I’ll warrant me.”
“Hush,” said Hepborne, somewhat peevishly; “the minstrel prepares to
give us music.”
The minstrel, who had again seated himself, ran his fingers in wild
prelude over his chords, and graduating into a soft and tender strain,
he broke suddenly forth in the following verses, adapted to its
measure:—
Oh think not, lady, to despise
The all-consuming fire of Love,
For she who most his power defies
Is sure his direst rage to prove.
Was never maid, who dared to scorn
The subtle god’s tyrannic sway,
Whose heart was not more rudely torn
By his relentless archery.
Do what thou canst, that destined hour
Will come, when thou must feel Love’s dart;
Then war not thus against his power,
His fire will melt thine icy heart.
Oh, let his glowing influence then
Within thy bosom gently steal;
For sooth, sweet maid, I say again,
That all are doom’d Love’s power to feel.
“Why, Adam,” exclaimed the lady, as the minstrel concluded, “this is
like a prophecy. What, dost thou really say that I must one day feel
this fire thou talkest of? Trust me, old man, I am in love with thy
sweet music, and thy sweet song; but for other love, I have never
thought of any such, and thou art naughty, old man, to fill mine ears
with that I would fain keep from having entrance there.”
“Nay, lady, say not so,” cried Adam of Gordon, earnestly; “thou knowest
that love and war are my themes, and I cannot ope my lips, or touch my
harp, but one or other must have way with me. How the subject came, I
know not; but the verses were the extemporaneous effusion of my
minstrel spirit.”
“Come, Hepborne,” whispered Assueton, “let us away; we may hear more of
the lady’s secrets than consists with the honour of knights wilfully to
listen to.”
“Nay, I could stay here for ever, Assueton,” replied Hepborne; “I am
spell-bound. That ethereal creature, that enchantress, hast chained me
to the spot; and wouldst thou not wish to have more of that old man’s
melody? Methought his verses might have gone home to thee as well as to
the lady.”
“Pshaw,” said Assueton, turning away, “dost think that I may be
affected by the drivelling song of an old dotard? Trust me, I laugh at
these silly matters.”
“Laugh while thou mayest, then,” replied Hepborne; “thou mayst weep
anon. Yet, as thou sayst, we do but ill to stand listening here. Let us
away then.”
When they reached the spot where their horses were tied, they found
that the esquire who guided them to the Castle had but just returned
with Master Turnberry, the equerry, whose state sufficiently betrayed
the manner in which he had been spending his evening, and showed that
the sentinel had not guessed amiss regarding him. He came staggering
and grumbling along.
“Is’t not hard, think ye, that an honest man cannot be left to enjoy
his evening’s ease undisturbed? I was but drinking a draught of ale,
Master Harbuttle.”
“A draught of ale,” replied Harbuttle; “ay, something more than one
draught, I take it, Master Thomas. But what makest thou with a torch in
such a moonshiny night as this?”
“Moonshiny,” cried Turnberry, hiccuping; “moonshiny, indeed, why, ’tis
as dark as a pit well. Fye, fye, Mr. Harbuttle, thou must have been
drinking—thou must have been drinking, I say, since thou hast so much
fire in thine eyes; for, to a sober, quiet, cool-headed man like
myself, Master Harbuttle, the moon is not yet up. Fye, fye, thou hast
been taking a cup of Master Sylvester Kyle’s tipple. ’Tis an abominable
vice that thou hast fallen into; drink will be the ruin of thee.”
“Thou drunken sot, thou,” exclaimed Harbuttle, laughing, “dost not see
the moon there, over the top of the keep?”
“That the moon!” cried Turnberry, holding up his torch as if to look
for it; “well, well, to see now what drink will do—what an ass it will
make of a sensible man; for, to give the devil his due, thou art no
gnoffe when thou art sober, Master Harbuttle. That the moon! Why,
that’s the lamp burning in Ancient Fenwick’s loophole window. Thou
knowest he is always at his books—always at the black art. St. Cuthbert
defend us from his incantations!”
“Amen!” said the squire usher, fervently crossing himself.
“But what a fiend’s this?” cried Turnberry; “here are two horses, one
black and t’other white. I see that well enow, though thou mayn’t, yet
thou would’st persuade me I don’t know the Wizard Ancient’s lamp from
the moon. Give me hold of the reins.”
But as he stretched forth his hand to take them, he toppled over and
fell sprawling among the horses’ feet, whence he was opportunely
relieved by two of his own grooms, who arrived at that moment.
“Where hast thou been idling, varlets?” demanded Turnberry, as he
endeavoured to steady himself, and assume the proper importance of
authority; “drinking, varlets, drinking, I’ll be sworn—John Barleycorn
will be the overthrow of Norham Castle. See, villains, that ye bestow
these steeds in good litters, and that oats are not awanting. I’ll e’en
return to my evening’s repose.”
At this moment the lady, followed by Adam of Gordon, came suddenly upon
the group from a narrow gateway, at the bottom of a flight of steps
that led from the rampart, and were close upon Hepborne and his friend
before they perceived the two knights. The lady drew back at first from
surprise, and seemed to hesitate for an instant whether she would
advance or not. She pulled her hood so far over her face as to render
it only partially visible; but the flame of Master Turnberry’s torch
had flashed on it ere she did so, and Hepborne was ravished by the
momentary glance he had of her beauty. The lady, on the other hand, had
a full view of Sir Patrick’s features, for his vizor was up. The
minstrel immediately recognized him.
“Lady,” said the old man, “these are the courteous stranger knights who
came hither as the guests of Sir Walter de Selby.”
“In the name of Sir Walter de Selby, do I welcome them then,” said the
lady, with a modest air. “Welcome, brave knights, to the Castle. But,”
added she, hesitatingly, “in especial am I bound to greet with mine own
guerdon of good thanks him who is called Sir Patrick Hepborne, to whose
gentle care I am so much beholden for the safety of my favourite hawk.”
“Proudly do I claim these precious thanks as mine own rich treasure,
most peerless lady,” exclaimed Sir Patrick, stepping forward with
ardour. “Blessed be my good stars, which have thus so felicitously
brought me, when least expecting such bliss, into the very presence of
a demoiselle whose perfections have already been so largely rung in
mine ears, short as hath yet been my time in Norham.”
“Methinks, Sir Knight,” replied the lady, in some confusion, “methinks
that thy time, albeit short, might have been better spent in Norham
than in listening to idle tales of me. Will it please thee to take this
way? Sir Walter, ere this, doth look for thee in the banquet-hall.”
“Lady, the tale of thy charms was music to me,” said Sir Patrick; “yet
hath it been but as some few notes of symphony to lure me to a richer
banquet. Would that the gentle zephyrs, which do now chase the fleecy
cloud from yonder moon, might unveil that face. Yet, alas! I have
already seen but too much of its charms for my future peace.”
“Nay, Sir Knight,” replied the lady, “this fustian is but thrown away
on me. Thy friend, perhaps, may talk more soberly—Shall I be thy guide,
chevalier?” added she, addressing Assueton.
“No, no, no,” interrupted Hepborne, springing to her side; “I’ll go
with thee, lady, though thou should’st condemn me to eternal silence.”
“Here, then, lieth thy way,” said the lady, hurrying towards the bridge
communicating with the entrance to the keep; “and here come the
lacqueys with lights.”
The squire, who had gone in before, now appeared at the door, with
attendants and torches. Hepborne anxiously hoped to be blessed with a
more satisfactory view of the lady’s face than accident had before
given him; but as she approached the lights, she shrouded up her head
more closely in her hood, yet not so entirely as to prevent her eyes
from enjoying some stolen glances at the noble figure of Sir Patrick.
She had no sooner got within the archway of the great door, however,
than she took a lamp from an attendant, and, making a graceful
obeisance to the two friends, disappeared in a moment, leaving Sir
Patrick petrified with vexation and disappointment.
CHAPTER IV.
The Evening Meal at the Castle—The Minstrel and the Tourney of
Noyon—Master Haggerstone Fenwick the Ancient.
Sir Patrick Hepborne was roused from the astonishment the sudden
disappearance of the lady had thrown him into, by the voice of the
Squire Usher, who now came to receive them.
“This way, Sirs Knights,” cried he, showing them forwards, and up a
staircase that led them at once into a large vaulted hall, lighted by
three brazen lamps, hanging by massive chains from the dark wainscot
roof, and heated by one great projecting chimney. A long oaken table,
covered with pewter and wooden trenchers, with innumerable flagons and
drinking vessels of the same materials, occupied the centre of the
floor. About a third of its length, at the upper end, was covered with
a piece of tapestry or carpet, and there the utensils were of silver.
The upper portion of the table had massive high-backed carved chairs
set around it, and these were furnished with cushions of red cloth,
whilst long benches were set against it in other parts. The rest of the
moveables in the hall consisted of various kinds of arms, such as
helmets, burgonets, and bacinets—breastplates and
back-pieces—pouldrons, vambraces, cuisses, and greaves—gauntlets, iron
shoes, and spurs—cross-bows and long-bows, hanging in irregular
profusion on the walls; whilst spears, pikes, battle-axes, truncheons,
and maces, rested everywhere in numbers against them. The floor was
strewed with clean rushes; and a dozen or twenty people, some of whom
were warlike, and some clerical in their garb, were divided into
conversational groups of two or three together.
Sir Walter de Selby, an elderly man, with a rosy countenance, and a
person rather approaching to corpulency, clad in a vest and cloak of
scarlet cloth, sat in tête-à-tête with a sedate and dignified person,
whose dress at once declared him to be of the religious profession and
episcopal rank.
“Welcome, brave knights,” said Sir Walter, rising to meet them as the
Squire Usher announced them; “welcome, brave knights. But by St.
George,” added he, with a jocular air, as he shook each of them
cordially by the hand, “I should have weened that ye looked not to be
welcomed here, seeing ye could prefer bestowing yourselves in the
paltry hostelry of the village, rather than demanding from old Sir
Walter de Selby that hospitality never refused by him to knights of
good fame, such as thine. But ye do see I can welcome, ay, and welcome
heartily too. My Lord Bishop of Durham, this is Sir Patrick Hepborne,
and this, Sir John Assueton, Scottish knights of no mean degree or
renown.” Sir Walter then made them acquainted with the chief personages
of the company, some of whom were knights, and some churchmen of high
rank.
After the usual compliments had passed, the Scottish knights were shown
to apartments, where they unarmed, and were supplied with fitting robes
and vestments. Sir Patrick Hepborne was happy in the expectation of
being speedily introduced to the Lady Eleanore; but, on returning to
the hall, he found that she had not yet appeared, and he was mortified
to hear Sir Walter de Selby give immediate orders for the banquet.
“These gallant knights,” said he, “would, if I mistake not, rather eat
than talk, after a long day’s fast. We shall have enow of converse
anon. Bring in—bring in, I say.” And, seating himself at the head of
the table, he placed the Lord Bishop on his right hand, and the two
stranger knights on his left, while the other personages took their
places of themselves, according to their acknowledged rank. Immediately
after them came a crowd of guests of lesser note, who filled up the
table to the farther extremity.
The entertainment consisted of enormous joints of meat, and trenchers
full of game and poultry, borne in by numerous lacqueys, who panted
under the loads they carried; and the dishes were arranged by the
sewer, whose office it was to do so.
When the solid part of the feast had been discussed, and the mutilated
fragments removed, Sir Walter called for a mazer of Malvoisie. The wine
was brought him in a silver cup of no despicable manufacture, and he
drank a health to the stranger knights; which was passed round
successively to the Bishop and others, who sat at the upper end, and
echoed from the lower part of the table by those who drank it in deep
draughts of ale. Numerous pledges succeeded, with hearty carouse.
“Sir Walter,” said Hepborne, taking advantage of a pause in the
conversation, “the fame of thy peerless daughter, the Lady Eleanore de
Selby, hath reached our ears: Shall our eyes not be blessed with the
sight of so much beauty? May we not look to see thy board graced with
her presence ere the night passeth away?”
“Nay, Sir Knight,” replied Sir Walter, his countenance undergoing a
remarkable change from gay to grave, “my daughter appeareth not
to-night. But why is not the minstrel here?” exclaimed he aloud, as if
wishing to get rid of Hepborne’s farther questioning; “why is not Adam
of Gordon introduced? Let him come in; I love the old man’s music too
well to leave him neglected. Yea, and of a truth, he doth to-night
merit a double share of our regard, seeing that it is to him we do owe
the honour of these distinguished Scottish guests. A chair for the
minstrel, I say.”
A chair was accordingly set in a conspicuous place near the end of the
hall. Adam entered, with his harp hanging on his arm, and, making an
obeisance to the company, advanced towards the top of the table.
“Ay, ay, come away, old man; no music without wine; generous wine will
breed new inspiration in thee: Here, drink,” said Sir Walter,
presenting him with the mantling cup.
The minstrel bowed, and, drinking health to the good company, he
quaffed it off. His tardy blood seemed quickened by the draught; he
hastened to seat himself in the place appointed for him; and, striking
two or three chords to ascertain the state of his instrument, he
proceeded to play several airs of a martial character.
“Come, come, good Adam, that is very well,” said Sir Walter, as the
harper paused to rest his fingers awhile—“so far thou hast done well;
but my good wine must not ooze out at the points of thy fingers with
unmeaning sounds. Come, we must have it mount to thy brain, and fill
thee with inspiration. Allons! Come, drink again, and let the contents
of this cup evaporate from thee in verse. Here, bear this brimming
goblet to him: And then, dost thou hear, some tale of hardy dints of
arms; ’tis that we look for. Nay, fear not for my Lord Bishop; I wot he
hath worn the cuirass ere now.”
“Thou sayest truly, Sir Walter,” said the Bishop, rearing himself up to
his full height, as if gratified by the remark; “on these our Eastern
Marches there are few who have not tasted of war, however peaceful may
have been their profession; and I cannot say but I have done my part,
thanks be to Him who hath given me strength and courage.”
Adam quaffed off the contents of the cup that had been given him, and,
seizing his harp again, he flourished a prelude, during which he kept
his eyes thrown upwards, as if wrapt in consideration of his subject,
and then dashed the chords from his fingers in a powerful accompaniment
to the following verses:—
THE TOURNEY OF NOYON.
Proud was the bearing of fair Noyon’s chivalry,
Brave in the lists did her gallants appear;
Gay were their damosels, deck’d out in rivalry,
Breathing soft sighs from the balconies near.
Each to her knight,
His bright helm to dight,
Flung her love-knot, with vows for his prowess and might;
And warm were the words
Of their love-sick young lords,
Mingling sweet with the tender harp’s heart-thrilling chords.
But long ere the trumpet’s shrill clamour alarming
Told each stark chevalier to horse for the strife;
Ere yet their hot steeds, in their panoply arming,
Were led forth, their nostrils wide breathing with life;
Ere the lists had been clear’d,
The brave Knollis appear’d
With his heroes, the standard of England who rear’d;
But nor billman nor bowman
Came there as a foeman,
For peace had made friends of these stout English yeomen.
As afar o’er the meadows, with soldiers’ gear laden,
They merrily marched for their dear native land;
Their banners took sighs from full many a maiden,
And trembled, as love-lorn each waved her white hand.
But see from the troops
Where a warrior swoops,
From the speed of his courser his plume backward droops;
’Tis a bold Scottish Knight,
Whose joy and delight
Is to joust it in sport—or at outrance to fight.
His steed at the barrier’s limit he halted,
And toss’d to his Squire the rich gold-emboss’d rein;
Cased in steel as he was, o’er the high pales he vaulted,
And, bowing, cried, “Messieurs Chevaliers, prey deign
To lend me an ear—
Lo, I’m singly come here,
Since none of you dared against me to appear.
One and all I defy,
Nor fear I shall fly,
Win me then, if you can—for my knighthood I try.”
Then a huge massive mace round his head quickly whirling,
He charged their bright phalanx with furious haste,
And some he laid prostrate, with heads sorely dirling,
And some round the barrier swiftly he chased.
Where’er he attacked,
The French knighthood backed,
Preux Chevalier le brave Jean de Roy he thwacked,
Till his helmet rang well,
Like the couvre-feu bell—
By the Rood, but ’twas nearly his last passing knell.
Then Picardy’s pride, Le Chevalier de Lorris,
He soon stretch’d on the sand in most pitiful case,
And he rain’d on the rest, till they all danced a morris
To the music he played on their mails with his mace.
Till tired with his toil,
He breathed him a while,
And, bowing again, with a most courteous smile,
“Adieu, Messieurs!” said he,
“Je vous rend graces, Perdie!
For the noble diversion you’ve yielded to me.”
Then some kind parting-blows round him willingly dealing,
That on breastplates, and corslets, and helmets clang’d loud,
Sending some ten or dozen to right and left reeling,
He soon clear’d his way through the terrified crowd.
O’er the pales then he bounded
As all stood confounded.
To the saddle he leap’d—and his horse’s heels sounded
As he spurrd out of sight,
Leaving proofs of his might,
That had marr’d the bold jousting of many a knight.
Loud applause followed the minstrel’s merry performance, and Sir Walter
de Selby called Adam towards him to reward him with another cup of
wine.
“But thou hast not told us the name of thy mettlesome knight, old
bard,” said he.
Adam looked over his shoulder, with a waggish smile, towards Sir John
Assueton.
“’Twas a certain Scottish knight,” said he, “one whose heart was as
easily wounded as his frame was invulnerable—one who was as remarkable
for his devotion to the fair as for his prowess in the field. It was
whispered at Noyon that the feat was done to give jovisaunce to a pair
of bright eyes which looked that day from the balcony.”
“By St. Andrew, but thou art out there, goodman harper,” cried
Assueton, caught in the trap so cunningly laid for him by the minstrel;
“trust me, thou wert never more out in thy life. My heart was then, as
it is now, as sound, entire, firm, and as hard as my cuirass. By’r
Lady, I am not the man to be moved by a pair of eyes. No pair of eyes
that ever lighted up a face could touch me; and as to that matter,
a—a—” But observing a smile playing over the countenances of the
guests, he recollected that he had betrayed himself, and stopped in
some confusion. The harper turned round to the host—
“Sir Walter,” said he, “there never sat within this wall two more
doughty or puissant knights than these. Both did feats of valour abroad
that made Europe ring again. Sir John Assueton was indeed the true hero
of my verses. As to his love I did but jest, for I wot ’tis well known
he hath steeled himself against the passion, and hath never owned it. I
but feigned, to draw him into a confession of the truth of my tale, the
which his consummate modesty would never have permitted him to avow.”
Sir Walter called for a goblet of wine—
“To the health of the brave knight of Noyon!” cried he. “Well did we
all know to whom the merry minstrel alluded.”
The health was received with loud applause, and compliments came so
thick upon Assueton, that he blushed to receive them.
“Load me not thus, courteous knights, load me not thus, I beseech you,
with your applause for a silly frolic. Here sits one,” said he, wishing
to turn the tide from himself, and tapping Hepborne on the
shoulder—“Here sits one, I say, who hath done feats of arms compared to
which my boyish pranks are but an idle pastime. This is the Scottish
knight who, at the fight of Rosebarque, did twice recover the flag of
France from the Flemings, and of whom the whole army admitted that the
success of that day belonged to the prowess of his single arm.”
This speech of Assueton’s had all the effect he desired. Sir Walter was
well aware of the renown acquired by Hepborne upon that occasion, and
there were even some at table who had witnessed his glorious feats of
arms on that day. His modesty was now put to a severe trial in its
turn, and goblets were quaffed in honour of him. He looked with a
reproachful eye at his friend for having thus saved himself at his
expense; and at last, to get rid of praises he felt to be oppressive,
he signified to his host a wish to retire for the night. Accordingly
the Squire Usher was called, and the two knights were shown to their
apartments; soon after which the banquet broke up, leaving the Lord
Bishop and Sir Walter in deep conference.
As Hepborne and Assueton passed up the narrow stair that led to the
apartments appropriated to them, they were interrupted in their
progress by a pair of limbs of unusual length, that were slowly
descending. The confined and spiral nature of the stair kept the head
and body belonging to them entirely out of view; and the huge feet were
almost in Hepborne’s stomach before he was aware. He called out, and
the limbs, halting for an instant, seemed to receive tardy instructions
to retire, from the invisible head they were commanded by, which,
judging of the extent of the whole person by the parts they saw, must
have been, at that moment at least, in the second storey above them.
The way being at last cleared, the two friends climbed to the passage
leading to their apartments. Irresistible curiosity, however, induced
them to linger for a moment on the landing-place to watch the descent
of a figure so extraordinary. It came as if measured out by yards at a
time. In the right hand was a lamp, carried as high as the roof of the
stair would permit, to enable the bearer to steer his head under it
without injury, and the light being thus thrown strongly upon the face,
displayed a set of features hardly human.
The complexion was deadly pale, the forehead unusually low and broad,
and the head was hung round with lank tangles of black hair. A pair of
small fiery eyes smouldered, each within the profound of a deep cavity
on either side of the nose, that, projecting a good inch or two nearly
in a right angle from the forehead, dropped a perpendicular over the
mouth, almost concealing the central part of that orifice, in which it
was assisted by the enormous length of chin thrust out in a curve from
below. The cheekbones were peculiarly enlarged, and the cheeks drawn
lankly in; but the corners of the mouth, stretching far backwards, were
preternaturally expanded, and, by a convulsive kind of twist, each was
alternately opened wide, so that, in turn, they partially exhibited the
tremendous grinders that filled the jaws. It is not to be supposed that
Hepborne and Assueton could exactly note these particulars so
circumstantially as we have done; but the uncouth figure moved with so
much difficulty downwards, with a serpentizing sort of course, that
they had leisure to remark quite enough to fill them with amazement.
The apparition, clad in a close black jerkin and culottes, had no
sooner wormed itself down, than both knights eagerly demanded of the
Squire Usher who and what it was.
“’Tis Master Haggerstone Fenwick, the Ancient,” replied he with a
mysterious air.
“Nay,” said Assueton, “he surely is fitter for hoisting the broad
banner of the Castle upon, than for carrying the colours in the field.”
“Why, as to that, Sir Knight,” said the Usher, “he might i’faith do
well enough for the banner; and he would be always at hand too when
wanted, seeing that he rarely or ever quitteth the top of the keep. He
liveth in the small cap-room, where he must lig from corner to corner
to be able to stretch himself; yet there he sitteth night and day,
reading books of the black art, and never leaveth it, except when he
cometh down as now, driven by hunger, the which he will sometimes defy
for a day or two, and then he descendeth upon the buttery, like a wolf
from the mountains, and at one meal will devour thee as much provender
as would victual the garrison for a day, and then mounteth he again to
his den. He is thought to possess terrible powers; and strange sights
and horrible spectres have been seen to dance about the battlements
near his dwelling.”
“Holy Virgin! and is all this believed by Sir Walter de Selby?”
inquired Hepborne.
“Ay, truly,” said the Usher gravely; “most seriously believed (as why
should it not?) by him, and all in the Castle. But I beseech thee, Sir
Knight, let us not talk so freely of him. Holy St. Mary defend us! I
wish he may not take offence at our stopping him in his way to his
meal. Let us not talk more of him. I bid thee good night.”
“But tell me ere thou goest why we saw not that star of female beauty,
the Lady Eleanore de Selby, at the banquet this evening?” demanded
Hepborne.
“’Tis a fancy of her father’s, Sir Knight,” replied the Squire Usher,
smiling; “and, if it may not offend thee, ’tis because he willeth not
that the lady may marry her with a Scottish chevalier, that he ever
doth forbid her entrance when any of thy nation are feasted in his
hall.”
“It irketh me to think that we should have caused her banishment,” said
Hepborne. “What, is she always wont to keep her chamber on like
occasions?”
“Yea,” replied the Squire Usher, “ever save when the evening air is so
bland as to suffer her to breathe it upon the rampart. She is often
wont to listen to the minstrel’s notes there. But there are your
chambers, Sirs Knights. The squires of your own bodies will be with you
in the morning. Sir Walter hath issued orders for the admission of your
retinue into the Castle. And he hopes you will sojourn with him as long
as your affairs may give you sufferance. Good night, and may St. Andrew
be with you.”
The two friends separated, and quickly laid themselves down to repose.
The hardy and heart-whole Assueton slept soundly under the protection
of his national saint, to whom he failed not to recommend himself, as a
security against the incantations of the wizard. Nor did Sir Patrick
Hepborne neglect to do the same; for these were times when the
strongest minds were subject to such superstitions. But his thoughts
soon wandered to a more agreeable subject. He recalled the lovely face
he had seen, and he sighed to think that he had not been blessed with a
somewhat less transitory glance of features which he would have wished
to imprint for ever upon his mind.
“Why should her father thus banish her from the eyes of all Scotchmen?
By the Rood, but it can and must be only from the paltry fear of his
wealth going to fatten our northern soil. But I can tell him that there
be Scots who would cheerfully take her for her individual merit alone,
and leave her dross to those sordid minds who covet it.”
Such was Sir Patrick’s soliloquy, and, imperfect as his view of the
lady had been, it was sufficient to conjure up a vision that hovered
over his pillow, and disturbed his rest, in defiance of the good St.
Andrew. Having lain some time awake, he heard the laborious ascent of
the Ancient Fenwick to his dwelling in the clouds; but fatigue at
length vanquished his restlessness, and he had been, for some hours, in
a deep sleep, ere another and a much lighter footstep passed up in the
same direction.
CHAPTER V.
Night at the Castle—The Friar’s Visit to the Ancient.
The Ancient Fenwick was sitting drawn together into a farther corner of
his den. His everlasting lamp was raised on a pile of manuscript
volumes near him, that it might throw more light on a large parchment
roll that lay unfolded on the floor before him. His right elbow rested
on the ground, and the enormous fingers of his hand embraced and
supported his head; while his eyes, burning without meaning, like two
small red fragments of ignited charcoal, could have been supposed to be
occupied with the characters before them, only from the position of his
face, which was so much turned down that the tangled hair, usually
drooping from behind, was thrown forwards over his ears. He was so
absorbed that he heard not the soft barefooted tread of the step on the
stair, or as it approached his den along the vaulted roof of the keep.
The person who came thus to have midnight converse with him, stooped
his head and body to enter the low and narrow doorway, and halted with
his head thrust forward within it to contemplate the object he was
about to address.
“Ancient Fenwick,” said he, after a pause of some moments.
Fenwick started at the sound of the voice, and looked towards the
little doorway. A pair of keen eyes glared upon him from beneath a dark
cowl; and, plunged as he had been in the mysteries of conjuration, it
is not wonderful that he should have believed that the Devil himself
had appeared to further his studies.
“Avaunt thee, Sathanas!” exclaimed he, speaking with the alternate
sides of his mouth, and drawing himself yet more up into the corner—“I
say unto thee, Sathanas, avaunt?”
“What?” said the figure, creeping into the place, and seating himself
on the floor opposite to him, “what! Master Ancient Fenwick, dost thou
wish to conjure up the Devil, and yet art afraid to look on him? I
weened that thou hadst been a man of more courage than to be afraid of
a friar coming to thee at midnight.”
Fenwick made an exertion to compose himself, seeing his visitor bore
all the externals of a mortal about him.
“And what dost thou see in me,” said he, in his usual harsh,
discordant, and sepulchral utterance, “that may lead thee to think
differently!”
“Umph, why, nothing—nothing now,” said the monk, bending his brows, and
throwing a penetrating glance from under them into the Ancient’s face;
“nothing now, but methought, for a conjuror, thou wert rather taken
unawares.”
“And who art thou, who thus darest to disturb my privacy?” demanded
Fenwick, somewhat sternly, and advancing his body at the same time,
from the more than ordinarily constrained attitude he had assumed.
The monk drew up his lips so as to display a set of long, white teeth,
and raising his eyelids so as to show the white of his eye-balls, he
glared at the Ancient for some time, and then slowly pronounced in a
deep voice, “The Devil! what wouldst thou with me now?”
In a paroxysm of terror, Fenwick again drew himself up in his corner,
with a force as if he would have pressed himself through the very wall;
his teeth chattered in his head, and he sputtered so vehemently with
the alternate corners of his mouth, that his words were unintelligible,
except that of “Sathanas,” frequently repeated. The monk relaxed his
features, and, with a scornful laugh, and a look of the most sovereign
contempt—
“So,” said he, “thou must confess now that I proved thy courage to be
in my power. I banished it with a look and a word. But ’tis not with
thy courage I have to do at present; ’tis thy cunning I want.”
“Art thou then verily no devil?” demanded the Ancient, doubtingly.
“Tush, fool, I am a poor monk of the order of St. Francis; so calm thy
craven fears, and listen to me.” He paused for some moments, to give
Fenwick time to recollect himself, and when he saw that the latter had
in some degree regained his composure: “Now listen to me, I say. Thou
knowest doubtless that the Bishop of Durham came to Norham Castle this
morning?” He waited for a reply.
“I did hear so,” answered the Ancient, “when I went down to take food.”
“Knowest thou what he came about?” demanded the Franciscan.
“I know not, I inquired not,” replied the Ancient.
“Then I will tell thee,” proceeded the Franciscan—“Sir Rafe Piersie,
brother to the noble Hotspur, has stooped to fix his affection on the
Lady Eleanore de Selby; he has deigned to court her for his bride, and
has met with ready acceptance from her father. Not sufficiently
sensible of this his great condescension, the lady has treated his high
offer with neglect—with indifference. Her father, a weak man, though
eager for so splendid an alliance, hath allowed himself to be trifled
with by the silly girl, who hath done all she could to oppose it,
though to the sacrifice of her own happiness. But Sir Rafe Piersie,
being too much love-stricken, abandoneth not the demoiselle so easily.
He therefore availeth himself of his ally the Bishop of Durham, to
urge, through him, his suit with the lady, and to endeavour to stir up
Sir Walter to a more determined bearing with his daughter, should she
continue in her obstinacy. I shall not tell how I know, yet I do know,
that the lady treated the proposals of the Bishop, as well as the name
and person of the renowned Piersie, with contempt. His efforts to rouse
Sir Walter de Selby to the assertion of his rights as a father, have,
however, been more successful. The old man, who passionately desireth
great connexion, even became irritated against her obstinacy. But Sir
Rafe Piersie, wisely considering that a peaceful religious pastor was
not the fittest instrument for his purpose, judgeth it right to put
hotter and more efficient irons in the work. Unknown to the Bishop, and
unknown to every one, therefore, he hath deputed me to seek thee and to
urge thee to aid his plans. Now, Master Ancient Fenwick, thou hast the
whole intricacies of the affair; thou understandest me, dost thou not?”
The Franciscan paused for a reply, and tried to read the face of him he
was addressing; but it was in vain he tried it, for, except when very
strongly excited by the passion of fear, or something equally forcible,
the features of the Ancient were at all times illegible. After twisting
and smacking the alternate corners of his mouth, which was always his
prelude to speaking, and which even his actual utterance did not always
go much beyond—
“Well,” said he, “and what can I do in this matter? What can magic do
in it?”
“Magic!” exclaimed the Franciscan; “pshaw, fool that thou art, thinkest
thou that thou canst impose upon me as thou dost on the common herd of
mankind?—on one who hath dived into the arcana of nature as I have
done? Thinkest thou that an active mind like mine hath not searched
through all the books of these divinals—hath not toiled by the midnight
lamp, and worked with their uncouth and horrible charms and
incantations? Thinkest thou——”
“Hast thou so, brother?” exclaimed the Ancient, eagerly interrupting
him; “hast thou in truth studied so deeply?” Then throwing his body
earnestly forward, “Perhaps thou wilt clear up some small difficulties
that have arisen in my path towards perfection in the invaluable art.”
The Franciscan paused. He saw at once that he had so far mistaken his
man. The Ancient, whilst engaged in deceiving others, had also
succeeded in deceiving himself, and was in truth a believer in the art
he professed. To undertake the barren task of convincing him of his
error was foreign to the Franciscan’s present purpose; and seeing that
Fenwick, in his eagerness for an accession to his knowledge of magic,
had mistaken the contemptuous expressions he had thrown out against it
for the approbation and eulogy of an adept, he deemed it best to permit
him to continue in his mistake, nay, rather to foster it. He therefore
commenced a long and very mystical disquisition on necromancy,
answering all his questions, and solving all his doubts, but in such a
manner, that although Fenwick, at the moment, firmly believed they were
solved, yet, when he afterwards came to look back into his mind, he
could find nothing there but a vast chaos of smoke and ashes, from
which he in vain tried to extract anything tangible or systematic.
But this is not to our point. The Franciscan gained all he wanted, in
acquiring a certain ascendancy over his mind by pretended superiority
of knowledge—an ascendancy which he afterwards hoped to bring to bear
towards the object of his mission; and to this object he gradually led
the Ancient back from the wide waste of enchantment he had been
wandering over.
“Thou art indeed much more learned in the sublime art than I did at
first suppose thee,” said the Franciscan at length, gravely; “thy study
hath been well directed; and now that I have poured the mere drop of
knowledge I possessed into the vast ocean flowing in thy capacious
head, thou art well fit to be my master. Some of those ingredients I
talked of are of high price; thou must buy them with gold.”
“Ah!” exclaimed Fenwick; “but where shall I find gold to buy them
withal?”
The Franciscan groped in the canvas pouch that hung at his girdle of
ropes, and, drawing forth a leathern bag, with a weight of broad gold
pieces in it, he threw it down on the floor between the Ancient’s
knees.
“There!” said he; “Sir Rafe Piersie sends thee that; ’tis to secure
thee as his friend. Use thine art magic in his favour, to incline the
haughty damosel to his wishes. Thou mayest do much with her father.
’Tis well known that the old knight looketh with awe upon thy powers.
Thou art thyself aware that thou canst bend him as thou wilt; he doth
hold thee as his oracle. Work upon his fears, then; work upon him, I
say, to compel this marriage—a marriage the which is so well calculated
to gratify his desire of high family alliance. He is ignorant that thou
knowest of the negotiation; to find that thou dost, when he supposes
that it is only known to the chief parties, will increase his
veneration for thy skill. Exert thy power over him; he is weak, and
thou mayest easily make him thy slave. Stimulate him to firmness, to
severity, nay, if necessary, to harshness with his daughter. Thou
knowest ’tis for his happiness, as well as for the happiness of the
silly damosel, that she should be coarted. Then do thy best to screw
him up to the pitch of determination that may secure her yielding. I
leave it to thyself to find out what schemes and arguments thou must
employ. The world lies if thou canst not invent enow to make him do as
thou wouldst have him. Remember, the Piersie is thy friend, as thou
mayst do him proper service. There are more bags of broad pieces in the
same treasury that came from. And now I leave thee to the hatching of
thy plans. Let them be quickly concerted, and speedily put in
execution, for your Piersie never was famous for patience. Farewell,
and may powerful spirits aid thee!”
The Franciscan gathered up his grey gown, drew his cowl over his face,
and, creeping on hands and knees to the door, disappeared in a moment.
The Ancient remained for some minutes in stupid astonishment, with his
back against his corner, and his vast length of limbs stretched across
the floor. He almost doubted the reality of the vision that had
appeared to him. He drew up his knees to his mouth, and the leathern
bag appeared. He thought of the Devil as he seized it; and, as he
poured the glittering gold into his broad palm, he almost expected to
see the pieces change into dried leaves, cinders, slates, or some such
rubbish. Twice or thrice the thought recurred that it might have been
the Great Tempter himself who had visited him. The hour—the place—the
difficulty of anything mortal reaching him there, through all the
intricacies of a well-watched garrison—the great knowledge displayed by
the unknown—all contributed to support the idea that his visitor was
something more than man. Then, on the other hand, he remembered the
friar’s bare feet, that were certainly human. He again looked at the
broad pieces of gold; they were bright, and fresh, and heavy as he
poised them. His confidence that they were genuine became stronger, and
he slipped them into the bag, and the bag into an inner pocket of his
black jerkin, resolving that they should be the test of the reality of
the seeming friar.
The Ancient had been for many years plunged in the study of necromancy.
His uncouth appearance, and awkward ungainly port, rendered him so
unfit for the gay parade of war, that Sir Walter de Selby had more than
once refused him that promotion to which he was entitled in the natural
course of things, and of which he had been very ambitious. This rankled
at his heart, and made him shun his fellows, slight the profession of
arms, and take to those studies that, in so superstitious a period, met
with the readiest belief and reverence, and from which he hoped to
discover the means of gratifying both his ambition and his avarice. His
necromantic fame, increased by tales hatched or embellished by the
fertile imaginations of weak and superstitious minds, rapidly grew
among all ranks; and Sir Walter de Selby was as firm a believer in his
powers as the meanest soldier under his command. He readily excused the
Ancient from all duty; so that, being thus left to the full and
undisturbed possession of that solitary cap-house he had himself
selected for his habitation, he became so immersed in his work that he
rarely left it, except when driven by hunger to seek food. Living so
entirely secluded as he did, it is not to be wondered at that he had
hardly seen a female face. As for Lady Eleanore, he had never beheld
her since her childhood, until a few days previous to the time we are
now speaking of, when, having been led by some extraordinary accident
beyond the walls of the keep, he had met her by chance in the
court-yard; and the young lady was alarmed by the appearance of the
strange monster, who blocked up her way to the bridge, and stood
surveying her with his horrible eyes, that she fled from him
precipitately. It must be admitted, then, that he was but little
calculated to produce any favourable change on her mind in behalf of
Sir Rafe Piersie, unless, indeed, it were by the art magic. With that
brave old soldier of fortune, Sir Walter de Selby, he was much more
likely to be successful, since the chief wish of his heart was that his
daughter and his wealth should be the means of allying him with some
family eminent for the grandeur of its name, as well as for its power
and influence. It was a grievous disappointment to him that he had had
no son; but as he had been denied this blessing, he now looked forward
to having a grandson, who might give him good cause to be proud, from
the high rank he should be entitled to hold in the splendid galaxy of
English chivalry. He was far from being without affection for his
daughter; yet his affection was in a great measure bottomed upon these
his most earnest wishes and hopes; and of all this the Ancient, Mr.
Haggerstone Fenwick, was very sufficiently aware.
CHAPTER VI.
Making Love on the Ramparts.
When Sir Patrick Hepborne and Sir John Assueton arose in the morning,
they found their own squires and lacqueys in attendance. The busy note
of preparation was in the Castle-yard, and they were told that the
Bishop of Durham was just taking his departure.
The mitred ecclesiastic went off on an ambling jennet, accompanied by
the knights and churchmen who had come with him, and followed by a long
cavalcade of richly-attired attendants; and he was saluted by the
garrison drawn up in array, and by the guards as he passed outwards. He
was, moreover, attended by Sir Walter and his principal officers, who
rode half a day’s journey with him. The two friends were thus left to
entertain themselves until the evening. Assueton occupied himself in
studying the defences of the place, whilst Hepborne loitered about the
exterior of the keep, and the walls commanding a view of its various
sides, in the hope of being again blessed with a sight of the Lady
Eleanore.
As he was surveying the huge mass of masonry, so intently that a
bystander might have supposed that he was taking an account of the
number of stones it was composed of, the lady appeared at one of the
high windows on the side facing the Tweed. The knight had his eyes
turned in a different direction at the moment, so that she had a full
and undisturbed view of him, as he stood nearly opposite to her on the
rampart, for some time ere he perceived her. He turned suddenly round,
and she instantly withdrew; but not before he had enjoyed another
transient glimpse of that face which had already created so strong a
sensation in his breast.
“Provoking!” thought Hepborne; “yet doth the very modesty of this
angelic lady lead me the more to admire her. Unbending spirit, said
that knave at the hostel? She is as gentle as a dove. Would I could
behold her again.”
Sir Patrick stepped back upon the rampart so as to have a better view
inwards, and he was gratified by observing that her figure was still
within the deep window, though her face was obscured by its shade. He
recognized the rose-coloured mantle she had formerly appeared in. He
kissed his hand and bowed. He saw her alabaster arm relieve itself from
the mantle, and beheld the falcon he had rescued seated on her glove.
She stepped forward in such a manner to return his salute, that he
enjoyed a sufficient view of her face to make him certain that he was
not mistaken in the person. The lady pointed with a smile to her
falcon, kissed it, waved an acknowledgment of his courtesy, and again
retreating, disappeared.
As Sir Patrick was standing vainly hoping for her re-appearance, the
old minstrel, Adam of Gordon, chanced to come by. Hepborne saluted him
courteously.
“Canst thou tell me whose be those apartments that do look so cheerily
over the Tweed into Scotland?” demanded he.
“Ay,” said the old man, “’tis, as thou sayest, a cheering prospect;
’tis the country of my birth, and the country of my heart; I love it as
lover never loved mistress.”
“But whose apartments be those?” demanded Hepborne, bringing him back
to the question.
“Those are the apartments of the Lady Eleanore de Selby,” replied the
minstrel.
“Is it thy custom to play thy minstrelsy under the moonlight on the
rampart, as thou didst yestere’en?” demanded Hepborne.
“Yea, I have pleasure in it,” said Adam, with a shrewd look.
“And art thou always so attended?” demanded Hepborne; “is thy music
always wont to call that angel to thy side whom I last night beheld
there?”
“So thou dost think her an angel, Sir Knight?” cried Adam, with
pleasure glancing in his eyes.
“I do,” said Sir Patrick. “Already hath my heart been wounded by the
mere momentary glances to which chance hath subjected me, and eagerly
do I look for a cure from those eyes whence my hurt doth come. She is
beautiful.”
“Yea,” said old Adam, “and she is an angel in soul as well as in form.
But St. Andrew keep thee, Sir Knight, I must be gone;” and he hurried
away without giving Hepborne time to reply.
Assueton now came up, and Sir Patrick detailed to him the occurrences
we have just narrated, after which he walked about, looking every now
and then impatiently towards the window.
“Would I could have but one more sight of the Lady Eleanore,” cried he;
“her features have already become faint in my mind’s eye; would I might
refresh the picture by one other gaze.” But the lady appeared not; and
he became vexed, and even fretful, notwithstanding all his resolution
to the contrary.
“Hepborne, my friend,” said Sir John Assueton, “why shouldst thou
afflict thyself, and peak and pine for a silly girl? A knight of thy
prowess in the field may have a thousand baubles as fair for the mere
picking up; let it not irk thee that this trifle is beyond thy reach.
Trust me, women are dangerous flowers to pluck, and have less of the
rose about them than of the thorn.”
“Pshaw!” replied Hepborne, “thou knowest not what it is to love.”
“No, thank my good stars,” answered Assueton, “I do not, and I hope I
shall never be so besotted; it makes a fool of a man. There, for
instance, thou art raving about a damosel, of whose face thou hast seen
so little that wert thou to meet her elsewhere thou couldst never tell
her from another.”
“It is indeed true, Assueton,” replied Hepborne, “that I have seen but
too little of her face; but I have seen enough of it to know that it is
the face of an angel.”
In such converse as this did they spend the day until the evening’s
banquet. Then Sir Walter exhibited the same hospitality towards his
guests that had characterised him the night before; but he seemed to be
less in spirits, nay, he was even sometimes peevish. Hepborne, too,
being restless and unhappy, mirth and hilarity were altogether less
prevalent at the upper end of the festal board than they had been the
previous evening. The minstrel, however, was not forgotten, and was
treated with the same personal attention as formerly; but he sang and
played without eliciting more than an ordinary meed of applause. At
last he struck some peculiarly powerful chords on the instrument, and
as Hepborne turned his head towards him, in common with others, at the
sound, old Adam caught his eye, and looking significantly, began to
pour forth the following irregular and unpremeditated verse:—
’Twas thus that a minstrel address’d a young knight,
Who was love-lorn, despairing, and wan with despite,
What, Sir Knight, canst thou gain by these heart-rending sighs?
The hero ne’er pines, but his destiny tries,
And pushes his fate with his lance in the rest,
Whether love or renown be his glorious quest.
Let not those who droop for Love
Fly in grief to wild Despair,
She, wither’d witch, can ne’er remove
The cruel unkindness of the fair.
Then with the gladd’ning ray
Of Hope’s bright star to cheer thee,
Do thou still press thy way,
Nor let obstructions fear thee.
True love will even bear
A hasty moment’s slighting,
And boldly will it dare,
Nor ever fear benighting.
’Twill often and again
Return, though ill entreated;
’Twill blaze beneath the rain;
Though frozen, ’twill be heated.
When least thy thoughts are turn’d on joy,
The smiling bliss is nigh;
No happiness without alloy
Beneath the radiant sky.
But haste to-night, to meet thy love
Upon the Castle-wall;
Thou know’st not what thy heart may prove,
What joy may thee befal.
These seemingly unmeaning verses passed unnoticed by all at table
except by Hepborne, on whom they made a strong impression. He was
particularly struck by the concluding stanza, containing an invitation
which he could not help believing was meant to apply to himself. He
resolved to visit the ramparts as soon as he could escape from the
banquet. This he found it no very difficult matter to accomplish, for
Sir Walter was abstracted, and evidently depressed with something that
weighed on his spirits; so, taking advantage of this circumstance,
Hepborne rose to retire at an early hour. His friend followed him, and,
when left to the secresy of their own apartments—
“Assueton,” said Sir Patrick, “didst thou remark the glance, full of
meaning, which the minstrel threw on me to-night? or didst thou note
the purport of his ditty?”
“As for his glances,” replied Sir John, “I noticed nothing particular
in them; your bards are in use to throw such around them, to collect
their barren harvest of paltry praise; and as for his verses, or rather
his rhymes, I thought them silly enow in conscience. But thou knowest I
do rarely listen when love or its follies are the theme.”
“But I saw, and I listened,” replied Hepborne. “By St. Denis, they
carried hints to me that I shall not neglect. I go to take the air on
the ramparts, and hope to meet the angelic Eleanore de Selby there.”
“Art thou mad?” said Assueton. “What can old Adam have looked or said
that can induce thee to go on such a fool’s errand? Thou hast but
fancied; thy blind passion hath deceived thee.”
“I shall at least put his fancied hints to the proof,” said Hepborne,
“though I should watch all night.”
“Then I wish thee a pleasant moonlight promenade,” said Assueton. “I’ll
to my couch. To-morrow, I presume, we shall cross the Tweed, and yede
us into Scotland. By St. Andrew, I would gladly meet again with those
well-known faces whose smiles once reflected the happiness of my
boyhood!”
“Go to-morrow!” exclaimed Hepborne, as if their so speedy departure was
far from being agreeable in the contemplation; “surely thou wilt stay,
Assueton, if thou seest that thy so doing may further my happiness?”
“Nay,” replied Assueton, “thou needst hardly fear that I will scruple
to sacrifice my own wishes to thy happiness, Hepborne; but I confess I
would that my happiness depended on some more stirring cause, and one
in which we both could join.”
Here the friends parted. Hepborne, wrapped up in a cloak, stole gently
down stairs, and slipping unperceived from the keep, bent his steps
towards that part of the ramparts where he had formerly seen the lady.
To his inexpressible joy, he saw the minstrel already on the spot.
There were two ladies in company with the old man. As Sir Patrick
passed near the base of the tower under which he and his friend had
concealed themselves the night before, a huge figure began to rear
itself from under it, throwing a shadow half-way across the court-yard.
It looked as if the tower itself were in motion. He stood undaunted to
observe it, as it gradually arose storey over storey. It was the
Ancient Fenwick. His enormous face looked downwards upon Hepborne, and
his red cinder-like eyes glared upon him as he sputtered out some
unintelligible sounds from the corners of his mouth, and then moved
away like a walking monument.
Whilst Hepborne’s attention was occupied in observing the retreat of
the monster, who seemed to have secreted himself there for no good
purpose, the minstrel, and the two ladies who were with him, had
already walked down the rampart until they were lost within the shade
of a projecting building. He began to fear that they were gone, but he
soon saw one of them, whom he believed to be the attendant, emerge from
the shadow and retire by a short way to the keep, whilst the other
returned along the wall with the minstrel. As they stopped to converse,
the lady leaned on one of the engines of war. A breeze from the Tweed
threw back the hood of her mantle, and Hepborne could no longer doubt
it was the Lady Eleanore de Selby he saw. Her long and beautiful hair
streamed down, but she hastily arranged it with her fingers, and then
came onwards with Adam of Gordon. Sir Patrick flew to the rampart and
sprang on the wall. The lady was alarmed at first by his sudden
appearance, but perceiving immediately that it was Sir Patrick
Hepborne, she received him graciously yet modestly.
“The soft and perfumed air of this beauteous night,” said Hepborne,
“and yonder lovely moon, lady, tempted me forth awhile; but what bliss
is mine that I should thus meet with her who, in softness, sweetness,
and beauty, doth excel the Queen of Night herself!”
“Sir Patrick Hepborne, thou art at thy fustian again,” replied the lady
seriously. “This high-flown phrase of thine, well suited though it may
have been to the pampered ears of Parisian damsels, sorteth but ill
with plainness such as mine. Meseems,” continued she somewhat more
playfully, “meseems as if the moon were thy favourite theme. Pray
Heaven that head may be right furnished, the which hath the unstable
planet so often at work within it.”
“And if I am mad, as thy words would imply,” said Hepborne, smiling,
“’tis thou, lady, who must answer for my frenzy; for since I first saw
thee last night, I have thought and dreamt of thee alone.”
“Nay, Sir Knight,” said the lady, blushing, “methinks it savours of a
more constitutional madness to be so affected by so short a meeting. We
were but some few minutes together, if I err not.”
“Ay, lady,” said Adam of Gordon, significantly; “but love will work
miracles like this.”
“’Tis indeed true,” said the lady, with a sigh; and then, as if
recollecting herself, she added, “I have indeed heard of such sudden
affections.”
“Ay,” said Sir Patrick, “and that fair falcon of thine! Depardieux, I
begin to believe that he was Cupid himself in disguise, for ever sith I
gave the traitor lodgment in my bosom, it hath been affected with the
sweet torment the urchin Love is wont to inflict. My heart’s disease
began with thy hawk’s ensayning.”
“Nay, then, much as I love him,” said the lady, “yet should I hardly
have purchased his health, I wot, at the price of that of the gallant
knight who did so feelingly redeem it.”
“Heaven’s blessings on thee for thy charity, lady,” exclaimed Hepborne;
“yet should I rejoice in my disease were it to awaken thy sympathy, so
that thou mightest yield me the healing leechcraft that beameth from
those eyes.”
“Verily, my youth doth lack experience in all such healing skill,” said
the lady.
“Nay, ’tis a mystery most easily learned by the young,” replied
Hepborne. “Thou dost possess the power to assuage, if not to heal, my
wound,” added he tenderly. “Let me but be enlisted among the humblest
of the captives whom thine eyes hath made subject to thy will; and
albeit thy heart may be already given to another, spurn not the
adoration of one whose sole wish is to live within the sphere of thy
cheering influence, and to die in thy defence.”
“In truth, Sir Knight, these eyes have been guiltless of any such
tyranny as thou wouldst charge them withal,” replied the lady,
artlessly; “at least they have never wilfully so tyrannized. As for my
heart, it hath never known warmer feeling than that which doth bind me
to him to whom I owe the duty of a daughter.”
“Then is thy heart unenthralled,” cried Hepborne in an ecstacy, in the
transport of which he threw himself on one knee before her who had
produced it. “Refuse not, then, to accept my services as thy true and
faithful knight. All I ask is, but to be allowed to devote my lance to
thy service. Reject not these my vows. Cheer me with but one ray of
hope, to nerve this arm to the doing of deeds worthy of the knight who
calleth himself thy slave. I swear——”
“Swear not too rashly, Sir Knight,” said the lady, with a deep sigh,
and with more of seriousness than she had yet displayed, “to one such
as me, to one so obscure——”
“Obscure, lady!” cried Hepborne, interrupting her; “Hath not high
Heaven stamped thee with that celestial face and form to place thee far
above all reckonings of paltry pedigree? What, then, is that obscurity
which may have dimmed the birth of so fair a star? What——”
“Nay,” said the lady, interrupting him with an air of uncommon dignity
and animation, “obscure though mine origin may be, Sir Patrick, yet do
I feel within me that which doth tell me that I might match with
princes.”
“Lady, I well know thy high and justly-grounded pretensions,” said
Hepborne, in a subdued tone; “yet scorn not mine humble devotion.”
“I scorn thee not, Sir Knight,” said the lady, with combined modesty
and feeling, and again sighing deeply; “it would indeed ill become me
to scorn any one, far less such as thee; nor is my heart insensible to
the courtesy thou hast been pleased to show to one who——”
“Thanks, thanks, most peerless of thy sex,” cried Hepborne, gazing with
ecstacy in her face, that burned with blushes even under the cold light
of the moon.
“But in truth it beseemeth me not to stand talking idly with thee thus,
Sir Knight,” said the lady, suddenly breaking off; “I must hie me to my
chamber.”
“Oh, stay, sweet lady, stay—one moment stay!” cried Hepborne; “rob me
not of thy presence until thou hast left me the cheering prospect of
meeting thee to-morrow.”
“I hope Sir Walter hath induced thee and thy friend to tarry some
longer space in Norham; if so, it will pleasure me to meet thee again,”
said the lady, with a trembling voice.
“Then trust me I go not from Norham, betide me what may,” cried Sir
Patrick, energetically. “But tell me, lady, I entreat thee, when these
eyes may be again blest with thy presence; give me hope, the which is
now the food I feed on.”
“Nay, in sooth, I can enter into no arrangements,” said the lady, with
yet greater agitation; “but,” said she, starting away, “I have tarried
here too long; in truth, Sir Patrick Hepborne, I must be gone; may the
Holy Virgin be with thee, Sir Knight!”
“And may thou be guarded by kindred spirits like thyself!” cried Sir
Patrick, earnestly clasping his hands, and following her with his eyes
as she hastily retreated with old Adam.
Sir Patrick took several turns on the walls, giving way to the rapture
which this meeting had occasioned him, and then hastened to regain his
apartment, where he laid himself down not to repose, but to muse on the
events of the evening.
“The minstrel was right,” thought he; “the good Adam’s prophecy did not
deceive me. She admitted that her heart was free, and she confessed, as
far as maiden modesty might permit her, that she is not altogether
without an interest in me. She was pleased with the idea of our farther
stay at Norham; and in her confusion she betrayed, that to meet me
again would give her pleasure. And she shall meet me again—ay, and
again; mine excellent Assueton’s patience must e’en bear some days’
longer trial, for go, at least, I shall not. Days, did I say? ha! but
let events determine.” With such happy reflections, and yielding to a
train of the most pleasing anticipation, he amused himself till he fell
asleep.
CHAPTER VII.
The Midnight Meeting in the Ancient’s Chamber—Strange Proposal—A
Dreadful Alternative.
It was past the hour of midnight, when all in the Castle had been for
some time still, save when the sentinels on the ramparts repeated their
prolonged call, that a footstep was again heard upon the stair leading
to the top of the keep. It was the heavy, slow step of Sir Walter de
Selby. He carried a lamp in his hand, and often stopped to breathe; but
at last he made his way to the roof, and sought the aerial den of the
monstrous Ancient. He went thither, deluded man, imagining that he went
of his own free will; but the crafty Ancient had taken secret measures
to insure his coming.
When the good old knight had sought the little private oratory within
his chamber, immediately after his attendants had retired, he was
fearfully dismayed by observing a blue lambent light flitting over the
surface of an ancient shield that hung above a small altar within a
dark Gothic recess. In that age of ignorance, a circumstance so
unaccountable might have shaken the firmest nerves; but it had been the
shield of his father, a bold moss-trooper, and from him he had learned
that this was the ill-omened warning sign that was always said to
appear to foretell some dire calamity affecting him or his issue. With
extreme agitation of mind he at once recurred to recent events for an
explanation of it. During his ride with the Bishop of Durham, that
prelate had repeated the arguments he had employed the day before,
particularly in the long conference they had held after the banquet, to
fortify him in the resolution of pressing the Lady Eleanore into a
marriage with Sir Rafe Piersie; and, indeed, Sir Walter’s heart was so
eagerly set on the accomplishment of a union in every respect equal to
his most sanguine wishes, that little eloquence was necessary to
convince him of the propriety of urging his daughter to it by every
means in his power. Nay, although she was his only child, and that he
so doted on her as to have got into a habit of yielding to every wish
she expressed, yet this was a point on which he was very easily brought
to adopt a determined line of conduct with her. She had somewhat
provoked him, too, by the license she had given her tongue in presence
of the Bishop, when she indulged herself in ridiculing the very august
person he was proposing to her as a husband; and the knight’s passion
at the moment had so far got the better of his affection, that he spoke
to her with a degree of harshness he had never used before. His after
conversations with the Bishop had now brought him to the determination
of compelling the Lady Eleanore to a marriage so much to her advantage,
and so flattering to his own hopes of high alliance. So firmly was he
fixed in this resolution, that, in a meeting he had with his daughter
after his return from accompanying the Bishop, he withstood all her
entreaties, and steeled himself against all her grief, and all her
spirited remonstrances. After such an interview, it is not surprising
that Sir Walter should have immediately supposed that the menacing
prodigy, which now appeared before his eyes, had some reference to the
purposed marriage of the Lady Eleanore. On all similar occasions of
threatened misfortune, he had been for some years accustomed to apply
for counsel to the cunning Ancient Fenwick, whom he believed to possess
supernatural powers of foretelling and averting the greatest
calamities; nay, he had more than once been convinced of the happy
effects of his interference in his behalf. His impatience to seek him
at present, therefore, was such that he could hardly restrain himself
until he had reason to think that all eyes in the Castle were closed
but his own. He paced his chamber in a state bordering on distraction,
stopping from time to time at the door of the oratory to regard the
terrific warning, and wringing his hands as he beheld it still flitting
and playing over the surface of the shield.
He was no sooner certain, however, that he might move from his
apartment without risk of observation, than he seized his lamp, and, as
we have seen, sought the lonely cap-house of the Ancient. The small
door of the place was closed. So strongly were men’s minds bound by the
thraldom of superstition in those days, that the gallant Sir Walter de
Selby, who had so often faced the foe like a lion in the field, and who
would even now have defended the Castle of Norham to the uttermost
extremity, yea, so long as one stone of its walls remained upon
another—this brave old warrior, I say, absolutely trembled as he tapped
at the door of the wretched Ancient Haggerstone Fenwick, who once
formed his most common subject of jest. He tapped, but no answer was
returned; he listened, but not a sound was heard. He tapped again—and
again he tapped louder. He called the Ancient by his name; but still
all was profound silence. He hesitated for some moments, in doubt what
to do. At last he brought himself to the determination of pushing the
door up. He bent down on his knees to force it, and it yielded before
his exertions; but the sight which met his eyes so appalled him, that
he was unable at first to advance.
The Ancient Fenwick, to all appearance dead, lay stretched, with his
arms and legs extended on the floor. His face had the leaden hue of
death on it; and a small orb, composed of a number of points of bluish
lambent flame, like that so ominously illuminating the shield, flitted
on his forehead—a book of necromancy lay open on the floor—his lamp
burned on the usual pile of volumes—and, on a temporary altar, composed
of several folios, raised one above the other against the wall, were
placed a human skull, and thigh bones, and an hour-glass. Immediately
over these a number of cabalistical figures were described with
charcoal on the plaster; and a white rod seemed, from the position it
lay in, to have been pointed towards them, and to have fallen from his
hand, as if he had been suddenly struck down in the very act of
conjuration.
Sir Walter was so overpowered with horror and superstitious fear, that
some moments elapsed ere he could summon up resolution to creep into
the place and examine the body more narrowly. He looked down on the
hidous ghastly face, over which the magical flame still flitted. The
small fiery eye-balls glared—but they were still; not a feature moved,
nor was there the slightest sound or appearance of respiration.
Scarcely bearing to behold such a spectacle, the old knight looked
timorously around him, afraid that the demon, who had done this fearful
work upon his disciple, might appear to annihilate him also. In truth
his terrors so far overcame him, that he was just about to retreat
hastily, when he observed a certain spasmodic twitch about the mouth,
which soon afterwards became powerfully convulsed, writhing from side
to side, and throwing the whole features of the countenance into the
most fearful contortions. By degrees, the convulsion seemed to extend
itself along the muscles of the body, arms, and limbs, until the whole
frame was thrown into violent agitation; unintelligible sputtering
sounds came from the alternate corners of the mouth; and Sir Walter
quaked to hear the name of “Sathanas” often repeated energetically. At
last, by a convulsion stronger than the rest, the head and body were
erected, and, after a little time, the Ancient seemed to recover the
use of his senses, and the command over his muscles, as well as of his
powers of utterance.
“What, Master Ancient Fenwick, hath befallen thee?” exclaimed Sir
Walter, in a voice almost indistinct from trepidation; “tell me, I
beseech thee, what hath happened.”
“My brain burneth,” cried the Ancient, with a hideous yell, and
striking his forehead with the palms of both hands, after which the
flame no longer appeared. Then, after a pause, “Where am I?” said he,
staring wildly around, “Where am I? Ha! I see I am again in the world
of men. What?” exclaimed he, with surprise, on beholding Sir Walter,
“art thou here? How camest thou to this place?”
“My friend,” replied the old knight, “my excellent friend, I came to
consult thee; I came to take counsel from thy superhuman knowledge—thy
knowledge gathered from converse with the spirits of another world.”
“Another world!” exclaimed the Ancient, in a sepulchral voice—“in
another world, didst thou say? Ay, I have indeed long had converse
here, face to face, with some of its blackest inmates: but never till
this night,” added he, shuddering, “did I visit its fiery realms.”
“Where hast thou been, then?” asked the knight, in a tone of alarm.
“In hell!” cried the Ancient, with a horrible voice that chilled the
very blood in Sir Walter’s brains. “Yes,” continued he, “I have visited
those dreadful abodes; but I may not tell their awful secrets. Some, it
is true, I am permitted to disclose, if I can bring myself to speak of
them—of things on which depend the fate of thyself and thy daughter,
and deeply affecting thy country’s weal.”
“What, good Ancient, hast thou learned, that may affect me or my
daughter? I do beseech thee, let me straightway be informed. The blue
fire burns on my father’s shield to-night; some dreadful calamity
impends.”
“Ha! saidst thou so?” cried the Ancient, with a sudden start. “The blue
fire, saidst thou? Signs meet then; prodigies combine to overwhelm
thee.”
“They do, indeed, most terribly,” said the knight, shuddering with
alarm.
“Their portent is direful,” said the Ancient, groaning deeply.
“In mercy tell me by what means they may be averted,” anxiously
inquired Sir Walter.
“Nay,” said the Ancient, with a desponding air, “’tis thyself who art
bringing them on thine own head.” Then, after a long pause—“Thou art
about to marry thy daughter to the brother of the Piersie?”
“By what miracle knowest thou this?” demanded Sir Walter, in amazement.
“Ask me not by what miracle I know this,” replied the Ancient, “after
what thou hast thyself witnessed. Have I not been in the world below?
Do I not know all things? Do I not know that Sir Rafe Piersie hath
sought the hand of the Lady Eleanore?—that he hath been scorned by
her?—that even the Lord Bishop of Durham’s influence hath been employed
by him to incline thee to the match; and that, overcome by his
counsels, thou art about to compel thy daughter to accept of his hand?
Yea, all this do I know, to the veriest item of the conversation held
between thee; and now, canst thou doubt whence I have had this
knowledge?”
Sir Walter replied not, but groaned deeply.
“Sit down by me,” said the Ancient, “and listen to me. ’Tis registered
in the dread Book of Fate,” continued he solemnly, “that if this
marriage be concluded, consequences the most direful will result from
it. First, thy daughter shall produce a son, of countenance so inhuman,
that it shall be liker that of a wild boar than a man; and the
monstrous birth will produce the death of the mother. Then the child
shall grow up, and wax exceeding strong, so that his might shall
overmatch that of the most powerful men. But though his mind shall not
ripen in proportion, yet shall his passions terribly expand themselves;
and, after murdering thee, from whom he shall have sprung, he shall
gather unto himself a host of demons of his own stamp, and lay waste
the fair face of England, cruelly slaying and oppressing its innocent
people for the space of ten years, when he shall be at last overthrown
by a Scottish army, which being brought against him, shall subdue and
enslave our nation.”
The white hairs of the aged Sir Walter bristled on his head as he
listened to this dreadful prophecy. The scourge with which his country
was menaced was worse, in his eyes, than even his own unhappy fate.
“Tell me, oh tell me, most excellent Ancient,” said he, in the agony of
despair, “tell me, I entreat thee, how this awful mass of approaching
misery may be averted.”
“There is only one way to shield yourself and mankind from the
threatened curse,” replied the Ancient tardily, and rather as if he
felt difficulty in bringing it out; “there is only one course to
pursue, but it is such that, slave as thou art to the prejudices of the
world, it is vain to hope that even the dread of these impending
calamities will induce thee to adopt it.”
“Talk not so, good Ancient, talk not so,” cried the old knight
impatiently, “There is nothing I would not do—Holy Virgin, forgive
me!—there is nothing I would not do honestly to prevent this threatened
curse from arising, to the destruction of my family and my country.”
“Sayest thou so?” said the Ancient, calmly shaking his head, as if in
doubt; “I will put thee to the proof then. It is written, as I have
already declared, in the Book of the Fates of men, that this marriage
shall take place, and that from it shall proceed this two-edged sword,
to smite both thee and England, unless thou shalt bestow thy daughter
on one whom—but thou wilt never condescend——”
“Nay,” impatiently interrupted the knight, “better she should marry any
honest man of good family than that she should be suffered to match so
proudly only to be the mother of destruction to herself, to me, and to
her country.”
“Thou sayest well,” calmly replied the Ancient; “but the Fates have not
left the choice of her mate to thee or to her. Yet hear me patiently,
and thou shalt know all. Thou art not ignorant that I have long abjured
the pitiful affairs of men. ’Tis now more than fifteen years since,
quitting their society, I have devoted myself to those studies by which
thou hast more than once benefited. I have sacrificed all earthly
prospects and enjoyments for the sake of that sublime knowledge which
doth enable me to foresee and control coming events; and it is to me a
reward in itself so great, as to make every other appear despicable in
comparison with it. But though I have forsworn the world, yet cannot I
rid myself of attachment to thee; my early feelings must tie me to thee
and thine for ever. Thou hast had proofs of this devotion too often, to
require me to repeat that it doth exist; but I am now prepared to give
thee a demonstration of it yet stronger than any thou hast hitherto
received from me.”
“Kind, excellent Ancient,” exclaimed the grateful Sir Walter, “I well
know the care with which thou hast watched over the welfare of my
house; I feel the magnitude of the debt I owe thee, and ’tis with
gratitude I acknowledge it. What is it, I beseech thee, thou canst do?”
“Yes,” exclaimed the Ancient, with a show of much feeling, “yes; I will
sacrifice myself. I will come forth again into the haunts of deceitful
and cold-blooded men. I will give up all I prize—my quiet, my
solitude—to save thee and thine from the destruction that impendeth. On
my part there shall be no failure, however at war with my habits and
inclinations the sacrifice may be. ’Tis upon thyself, therefore—upon
thine own decision—that thine own fate, and the fate of thy daughter,
and of thy country, must depend.”
“Name, name, I entreat thee, the terms!” cried the anxious old knight;
“name the conditions that I must fulfil; tell me what I must do, and no
time shall be lost in carrying it into effect.”
The Ancient paused for some moments, during which he looked into the
face of the knight with his fiery inexpressive eyes, and then, with
slow and solemn, though harsh utterance—“I must espouse thy daughter,
the Lady Eleanore!” said he. “The Fates have willed it so; no other
remedy doth now remain against the overwhelming destruction thou art
doomed to behold.”
This fatal declaration—this dreadful contrast to all those hopes of
splendid alliance which had filled Sir Walter’s thoughts, came upon him
like a thunderbolt, and was perfectly annihilating. He could not stand
the bitter alternative that was thus presented to him. Overcome by his
feelings, he threw himself back among the straw composing the lair of
the monster he had been listening to, and, covering his eyes with the
palms of his hands, he, hardy soldier as he was, burst into a flood of
tears.
A grim meteor smile of inward satisfaction shot over the pallid face of
the impostor.
“Ay,” said he, “no one can expect thee to match thy daughter with such
as me. Better that she should give birth to ten thousand such demons as
her fated marriage with the brother of the Piersie is infallibly
destined to produce—better that she should die, and thou be cruelly
murdered by the parricidal hand of thine inhuman grandchild, than that
thou shouldst call such a wretch as me son. Thy determination hath been
well taken; ’tis like a good soldier, as thou art, to brave the Fates.
I thank thee, too, for mine emancipation from the vow I had resolved to
subject myself to for thy sake. My time, and my quiet, and my solitude,
shall be again mine own, and my darling studies shall receive no
interruption.”
“Is there no other alternative?” cried the distracted father, rising
with energy from the position he had thrown himself into.
“None!” replied the Ancient. “But that thou mayest be ignorant of no
tittle of what it so deeply concerns thee to know,” continued he after
a pause, “it is destined that if ever I do so espouse me, my son shall
be the most perfect model of bravery and of virtue that ever England
saw; and that, taking the proud name of de Selby, he shall wax
exceeding mighty, and, leading a small band of gallant youths, march
into Scotland as a conqueror, until at last, dethroning the monarch of
the North, he shall himself be proclaimed king of that country, and,
uniting himself by marriage with the King of England, he and his
posterity shall reign for twelve centuries. To look farther into
futurity is denied; but enow hath been told thee to point out the way
that doth lie before thee. The space of three days and three hours is
given thee to choose thy daughter’s destiny. And now,” continued the
Ancient, putting out his hand to the hour-glass, and solemnly inverting
it; “and now the stream of thy time beginneth to run; see how the sand
floweth down—a portion of it hath already glided away; so will the
rest, till the period assigned thee be irrecoverably gone. ’Twere
better that thou shouldst retire to thy chamber, to weigh well the
fates of thy daughter, for the balance of her destinies is in thine
hand.”
The impostor paused. The agitated mind of Sir Walter de Selby had
eagerly grasped at the flattering picture which the Ancient had so
cunningly reserved to the last, and which was so perfectly in harmony
with every wish of the old man’s heart. In his contemplation of it, he
had almost forgotten the uncouth son-in-law destined to make him the
grandfather of a hero, who was to raise the glory of his country’s arms
so high, and who was at last to become a King of Scotland. His pride
was peculiarly flattered by the notion of the name of de Selby being
retained to become eventually royal; and he began to reason with
himself as he sat, that it was but stooping to present humiliation in
order to rise to the summit of human ambition. The crafty Ancient saw
the working of his mind, from its operation on his honest countenance,
as well as if he had been thinking audibly.
“Such proud prospects of an issue so glorious tempt not me,” said he.
“These dark volumes, and the retirement of this unseemly chamber,
whence the stars can be most easily conversed with, are to me worth a
world of such. But for thee, if thou demandest it of me, the sacrifice
shall be made; and shouldst thou make me the humble instrument of the
salvation and exaltation of thyself and issue, it would,” said he, with
an affectation of extreme humility, “be no more, after all, than
burying good seed in the soil of a dunghill, to see it buxion with the
more vigour, shoot the more aloft, and rear its proud head far above
the meagre plants on higher but more sterile spots. But it is matter
worthy of grave thought. Yet judge me not as I seem—the poor, the
wretched inmate of this owlet’s nest. Why am I so? Even because I
despise all those gewgaws men esteem most valuable, and covet only that
most precious of all jewels—the perfection of knowledge. Thinkest thou
that it would not help me to all the rest, were it my pleasure to
command them? Thinkest thou that I could not command worldly wealth and
honours, were I to fancy such baubles? Wouldst thou have me conjure up
gold? Lo!—there!” said he, plucking the leathern bag from his jerkin,
and emptying the shining contents of it on the ground, to the
astonishment of Sir Walter; “a little midnight labour would raise me up
a hoard that might purchase the earth itself. But what is the vile
dross to me? Nay, I would not inundate the wretched world with that
which hath already caused sufficient human misery. To pour out more
would be to breed a more accursed scourge than e’en thy grandson
Piersie will prove.”
“Talk not of him,” exclaimed the knight in terror; “the very thought of
his existence is racking to me. I want not time for consideration on a
point so plain. I do now resolve me on the alliance with thee. Sir Rafe
Piersie comes to-morrow morning; I shall break with him abruptly—and
then, my resolution being taken, my daughter must yield to the
irresistible decrees of Fate.”
With these words Sir Walter rose to his knees, and snatching up his
lamp, scrambled hastily to the door, and stole softly down to his
apartment. He looked with fear and trembling into the oratory, when, to
his extreme relief, he saw that the ominous flame had left the fatal
shield, and he retired to his couch in a state of comparative
composure.
“So,” said the Ancient, in grim soliloquy, after Sir Walter’s footsteps
had died away on the stairs—“so the hook is in thy nose, and thou shalt
feel the power, as well as the vengeance, of him thou didst despise and
make thy mock of. Thou didst thwart mine ambition; but my helm ere long
shall tower amid the proudest crests of chivalry, and wealth and
honours, yea, and the haughty smile of beauty too, shall be at my will.
This is indeed to rise by mine abasement, even beyond the highest
soaring of those early hopes which this man did so cruelly level with
the earth. The thought is ecstasy.”
CHAPTER VIII.
Arrival of Sir Rafe Piersie—The Challenge.
Sir John Assueton was early astir next morning, for his head was so
filled with the remembrance of those friends and scenes of his youth,
he now hoped to revisit after a long absence, that he was impatient to
depart from Norham Castle. He had already given orders to the squires
to hold themselves in readiness, and he had visited the stable, where
Blanche-etoile neighed a recognition to his master, and was spoken to
with the kindness of a friend. The knight then ascended the ramparts to
enjoy a short promenade; and there he was soon afterwards joined by
Hepborne, who came springing towards him, urged by an unusual flow of
spirits.
“Good morrow, Hepborne,” said Assueton; “I am glad to see thee so alert
this morning. I have looked at our steeds; they are as courageous as
lions, and as gamesome as kids. They will carry us into Scotland with
as much spirit as we shall ride them thither. After breaking our fast,
and bestowing our meed of thanks on the good old knight for his
hospitality, we may yet make our way o’er many a good mile of Scottish
ground ere yonder new-born sun shall sink in the west.”
“Nay, my dear Assueton,” said Hepborne, “what need hast thou for such
haste? Hadst thou some fair damsel in Scotland—some lady bright, who,
with her swan-like neck stretched towards the mid-day sun, looketh day
after day from her lofty towernet, with anxious eyes, in the hope of
descrying thee, her true and constant Knight—hadst thou such a fair one
as this, I say, impatience might indeed become thee; but what reason
hast thou, despiser of the lovely sex as thou art, to long for a change
of position? By the Rood of St. Andrew, I begin to believe that thou
art no such woman-hater as thou wouldst pretend, and that all this
seeming coldness of thine is nothing but thy laudable constancy to some
Scottish maid, who hath thine early-pledged vows of love in keeping.”
“Thou art welcome to rally me as it may please thee, Hepborne,” replied
Assueton, with a smile: “but, on the faith and honour of my knighthood,
I have not seen the maiden for whom I would go three ells from my
intended path, except for common knightly courtesy, or to redress some
grievous wrong. Nay, nay, thou knowest my natural duresse—that my heart
is adamant to all such weak impressions. Perdie, I cannot understand
how any such affect the good, hardy, soldier-like bosom, though I do
observe the melancholy truth exampled forth, in daily occurrence, with
those around me. But I perceive thy drift, my politic friend. To assail
is the best tactique against being assailed. Thou camest forth
conscience-stricken, and being well aware that thy foolish fondness of
this masquing damosel of the Castle here would come under my gentle
lash, to divert the attack against thyself, thou dost begin to skirmish
against me. But I see well enow ’tis the Lady Eleanore’s attraction
that would keep thee here.”
“It is e’en so, I candidly confess it,” replied Hepborne. “I candidly
confess it, dost mark me? so, throwing myself at thy feet, I cry for
quarter.”
“Nay, an thou dost disarm me thus,” replied Assueton, “I can say no
more.”
“Oh, Assueton, Assueton, my bel ami,” said Hepborne, enthusiastically,
“I was the happiest of human beings last night. I did indeed meet her
on the ramparts. Old Adam of Gordon was a good seer; nay, perchance,
though as to that I know not, he may have been Cupid’s messenger. Yet,
hold! Depardieux, I do her most foul wrong in so supposing; for she
hath too much maiden modesty to have been guilty of so much boldness.
But, be that as it may, her words—her looks—were kind and most
encouraging. She did blushingly confess that her heart had known no
other affection than that which she bears towards her venerable father.
She half admitted that I was not altogether indifferent to her; she did
utter a hope that we should remain her father’s guests for some longer
space; yea, and she even admitted that to see me again would give her
pleasure. Then her accents were so sweet, and her demeanour so
gentle—Oh, Assueton, she is in very truth an angel! But what is all
this to thee, thou Knight of Adamant? I forgot that I might as well
speak to the stones of these walls of amorets and love passages, as to
Sir John Assueton.”
“Thou art right, i’ faith, Hepborne,” replied Assueton; “they say walls
have ears, whilst I, in good earnest, may with truth enow be said to
have none for such matters, since they do irk whenever the theme of
love is handled in their hearing. Yet my friendship for thee bids me
listen to thy ravings, and compassion for thy disease makes me watch
the progress of its symptoms, as I should do those of any other fever.
From all thou hast said, then, I would gather that thou wouldst fain
loiter off another day or two, to catch fresh smiles and deeper wounds
from the Lady Eleanore. Is’t not so, Hepborne?”
“In truth, Assueton,” replied Sir Patrick, “her whole deportment
towards me last night hath buoyed me up with hope, yea, and hath even
led me to flatter myself that I am not indifferent to her, Scot though
I be. At so critical a period, then, I cannot go, my dear Assueton; and
I am sure thy good nature will never allow thee to abandon thy friend
in the crisis of his distemper.”
“No, Hepborne,” said Assueton, laughing, “I shall certainly not be so
little of a Christian knight as to abandon thee when thine estate is so
dangerous. Well, then, I must wait thy time, I suppose. But parfoy I
must have some rounds of the tiltyard, were it but to joust at the
quintaine, or Blanche-etoile and I too will lose our occupation. Wilt
thou not take a turn with me for exercise? But soft—I need not talk to
thee of any such thing, for yonder comes the cause of thy malady.”
“By St. Dennis, it is she indeed!” exclaimed Hepborne: “that is the
very mantle she wore. But who is that cavalier on whose arm she hangs
so freely?” added he with a jealous tone and air.
“St. Genevieve! but he is a tall, proper, handsome knight,” said
Assueton.
“Pshaw?” said Hepborne pettishly, “I see nothing handsome about him;
meseems he hath the air of a sturdy swineherd.”
“Is not that the Lady Eleanore de Selby?” inquired Assueton of a
sentinel who walked on the ramparts at some little distance from where
the knights then stood.
“Ay, in truth, it is she,” replied the man, stopping to look at her.
“And who may yonder knight be with whom she holds converse?” demanded
Hepborne eagerly.
“By the mass, I know not, Sir Knight,” replied the man as he turned to
tread back his measured pace; “I never saw him before, that I knows
on.”
But notwithstanding the unfavourable remark which jealousy had made
Hepborne cast on the stranger’s appearance, he could not help secretly
confessing that the knight with whom the Lady Eleanore had come forth
from the keep, and on whose arm she was now leaning with so little
reserve, was indeed very handsome, even noble-looking. An esquire
waited for him at the end of the bridge, with two
magnificently-caparisoned black horses. The lady seemed to be a drag on
his steps, and to keep him back, as it were, with a thousand last
words, as if with a desire of prolonging the few remaining minutes of
their converse. On his part he displayed signs of the tenderest
affection for her; and after they had crossed the bridge tardily
together, she threw herself upon his mailed neck, and he enfolded her
in his arms, both remaining locked together for some moments in a last
embrace. The warrior then tore himself from her, and vaulting on his
steed, struck the pointed steel into his sides, and galloped off at a
desperate pace. The lady, leaning on the balustrades of the bridge,
rested there a little space, and then turning slowly towards the door
of the keep, disappeared.
The two knights commanded a full though distant view of this scene of
dumb show, from the part of the rampart where they then stood. Assueton
turned his eyes with compassion upon his friend to observe its effect
upon him. He was standing like a marble statue, still gazing on the
spot where it had been acted—his eyes fixed in his head as with
apathetical stupor. At length, after remaining in the same attitude for
several minutes, he struck his forehead violently with the palms of his
hands, and addressing his friend in hurried accents—“Assueton,
Assueton,” said he, “didst thou see? didst thou mark! Oh, woman, woman,
woman! But it mattereth not. Assueton, let our horses be ordered; I
will forth with thee for Scotland even now; ay, even now. Thou wert
indeed right, my friend; there is more of thorns than of roses about
them all. Thou wert wise, Assueton; but I am cured now—nay, I am as
sane as thyself. Our horses, Assueton—our squires and cortege. Let us
not lose a moment; we may despatch good store of Scottish miles ere we
sleep.”
“Nay, let us not be guilty of doing violence to the courtesy of
knighthood,” replied Assueton; “Sir Walter de Selby hath used much fair
hospitality towards us. It beseems us not to leave Norham Castle
without giving thanks to the good old governor in person, and bidding
him adieu. Besides, ’twere as well, methinks, to go with less
suspicious haste, lest we may be misjudged; and, indeed, Sir Walter can
have hardly left his couch as yet.”
“Ay, ay, true—thou sayest true, my friend,” said Hepborne, interrupting
him keenly. “I had forgotten. Her father not yet astir, and she taking
leave of her lover so tenderly at such an hour. Oh, damnable! He came,
doubtless, last night, and has been i’ the keep without the old man’s
knowledge. So, all her deep and long drawn suspires were but the
offspring of her fears lest her leman should break faith.”
“Come, come, Hepborne, my bel ami, compose thyself,” said Sir John;
“thou must not let this appear within; ’tis but a short hour sacrificed
to common civility, and then let us boune us for Scotland.”
“Thou sayest well, Assueton,” said Hepborne, recollecting himself after
a short pause, during which he sighed deeply; “I must endeavour to
command myself; my passion too much enchafeth me. The good old man hath
indeed been to us kindness itself. How cruel that he should be so
deceived in his daughter! I pity him from the bottom of my soul. My
wounds will soon be healed—war-toil must be their confecture; but his,
alas! are yet to be opened, for now they do fester all unwist to him,
and when they do burst forth, I fear me they may well out his life’s
blood. But come,” added he, rousing himself, “let’s in.”
They turned their steps towards the keep, but before they had descended
from the ramparts their ears were struck with the sound of a bugle, and
as they looked over the walls they descried a long cavalcade of
knights, esquires, grooms, lacqueys, and spearmen, advancing with
lances and pennons up the hollow way leading towards the outer gate of
the Castle. The party soon came thundering over the drawbridge, and
were saluted by the guards as they passed. At the head of the troop
rode the proud Sir Rafe Piersie. The array of the very meanest of his
people was magnificent; but his armour and his horse-gear shone like
the sun, and glittered with the splendour of their embossments. They
passed into the inner courtyard; loud rang the bugle of announcement,
and the ear was assailed by the neighing of hot steeds, the clattering
and pawing of impatient hoofs, the champing of foam-covered bits, the
jingling of chains, and the clinking of spurs; whilst a rout of
soldiers and grooms, with Master Thomas Turnberry at their head, ran
clustering around them. The squires of the Castle, with the hoary
seneschal and a host of lacqueys, came forth from the keep, and ushered
in Sir Rafe Piersie and his suite.
Hepborne and Assueton soon afterwards followed, and, on reaching the
banquet-hall, they found Sir Walter de Selby in the act of receiving
and welcoming his newly-arrived guest, whose supercilious air, when
addressing the plain, honest old soldier by no means prepossessed the
two Scottish knights in his favour. Sir Walter introduced them to
Piersie, and he received them with the same offensive hauteur. There is
something in such a deportment that provokes even the humble man to put
on haughtiness. Hepborne, from late events, was not prepared to be in
the most condescending humour, so that he failed not to carry his head
fully three inches higher than he had done since he became an inmate of
the Castle of Norham. Nor was Assueton at all behind him in
stateliness.
The table was covered with the morning’s meal, and but little
conversation passed during the time it was going on. Sir Walter de
Selby seemed to be more reserved, and even less disposed to risk his
words than he had been the previous night.
“I marvel much, Sir Governor,” said Sir Rafe Piersie with a haughty
sneer—“Methinks ’tis marvellously strange, I say, that thou hast as yet
said nothing touching the object of the visit I have thus paid thee. Am
I, or am I not, to have this girl of thine? Depardieux, there hath been
more ambassage about this affair than might have brought home and
wedded a queen of England. The damsel, I am informed, knew not her own
mind, and thou were weak enough to suffer thyself to be blown about by
her wayward whimsies; but my kinsman, the Bishop of Durham, tells me
that, having at last brought thine own determination up to the proper
point, thou art finally resolved she shall be mine. Marry, a matter of
great exertion, truly, to accept of Sir Rafe Piersie as a husband for
Eleanore de Selby!”
“My mind has indeed been made up, Sir Rafe Piersie,” said the old
knight, “and would to Heaven, beausir, that it could have been made up
differently; for, certes, it doleth me sorely to be driven to answer
thee as I must of needscost do. I should not have broached this matter
till privacy had put the seal on our converse: but, since thou hast
opened it, I am forced to tell thee that, since I saw the Bishop of
Durham, obstacles have appeared which render it impossible for me to
give thee my daughter, the Lady Eleanore, to wife. She is affianced to
another.”
“So,” thought Hepborne, the ideas passing rapidly through his mind,
“her father knows of the attachment between her and the knight who left
her this morning. Then, perhaps, she has been less to blame than I
thought; yet why were her words and manner such, last night, towards
me, as to mislead me into the idea that I had reason to hope? Oh,
deceitful woman, never satisfied with the success of thy springes as
long as there is a foolish bird to catch. So! thou must have me limed
to? But, grammercy, I have escaped thy toils.”
Such were Hepborne’s thoughts; but what Sir Rafe Piersie’s were during
the pause of astonishment he was thrown into, may be best gathered from
the utterance he gave them.
“What is this I hear? has a limb of the noble Piersie been brought here
to be insulted? Thou art a false old papelarde; and were it not for
those hoary hairs of thine, by the beard of St. Barnabas, I would brain
thee with this gauntlet;” and saying so, he dashed it down on the
board, making it ring again.
Hepborne and Assueton both started up, and stretched out their hands
eagerly to seize it.
“Ah, thou art always lucky, Hepborne,” said Assueton, much disappointed
to see that his friend had snatched it before him.
“Sir Rafe Piersie,” said Hepborne, “in behalf of this good old knight,
whom thou hast so grossly insulted at his own board, I defy thee to
instant and mortal debate; and in thy teeth I return the opprobrious
epithets thou didst dare to throw in his face; and here, I say, thou
liest!” and with these words he threw down his gauntlet.
“And who art thou?” said his antagonist, taking it up; “who art thou,
young cockerel, who crowest so loud? By St. George, but thou showest
small share of wisdom to pit thyself thus against Sir Rafe Piersie. But
fear not, thou shalt have thy will. Was thy darreigne for instant
fight, saidst thou? In God’s name, let us to horse then without farther
parley. Let Sir Richard de Lacy here, and thine eager friend there, be
the judges of the field; and as for the place, the Norham meadow below
will do as well for thine overthrow as any other; thou wilt have easy
galloping ere thou dost meet it. What, defy Sir Rafe Piersie to combat
of outrance, and give him the lie, too! Thou art doomed, young man,
thou art doomed; thine insolence hath put thee beyond the pale of my
mercy. By the holy Rood, thou must be the young cock-sparrow the old
dotard hath chosen as a mate for his pretty popelot, else thou never
couldst have been so bold.”
“I am not so fortunate,” replied Hepborne, with calm and courteous
manner.
“And what may thy name and title be, then?” demanded Piersie, with yet
greater hauteur.
“My name,” replied he, with a dignified bow, “is Sir Patrick Hepborne.”
“Ha! then, by my faith, thou hast some good Northern blood in thee,”
replied Piersie; “thou art less unworthy of my lance than I did ween
thou wert. Thy father is a right doughty Scot; and, if I mistake not, I
have heard of some deeds of thine done in France, which have made thine
honours and renomie to bud and buxion rathely. But ’tis a warm climate
they have sprouted in, and such early and unnatural shoots are wont to
be air-drawn and unhealthy; and albeit they may vegetate under the more
southern sun, they are often withered by the blasts of the North as
soon as they appear amongst us. But come, come, my horse, Delaval—my
horse and gear, I say;” and, leaving the hall hastily, he sought a
chamber where he might prepare himself for single combat.
CHAPTER IX.
The Combat—Departure of the Scots—Master Kyle Swears by St.
Cuthbert.
Hepborne was not slow on his part, and in a very short time the
Castle-yard was again in commotion, and grooms and esquires were seen
running in all directions, bringing out horses and buckling on
trappings. Hepborne’s gallant steed Beaufront was led proudly forth
from his stall by Mortimer Sang, and was no sooner backed by his master
than he pranced, neighed, and spurned the ground, as if he had guessed
of the nature of the work he had to do. Attended by Assueton and their
small party of followers, Sir Patrick rode slowly down to the mead of
Norham, extending from under the elevated ground on which the Castle
stood, for a considerable way to the westward, between the village and
the bank of the Tweed. Here he halted, and patiently awaited the
arrival of his opponent. Piersie came in all his pomp, mounted on a
dapple-grey horse, of remarkable strength, figure, and action. Both
horse and rider were splendidly arrayed, and his friends and people
came crowding after him, boasting loudly of the probable issue of the
combat. Sir Walter de Selby came last, attended by some few officers,
esquires, and meaner people, and joined Hepborne’s party, stationed
towards one end of the field, Sir Rafe Piersie’s having filed off and
taken post towards the other extremity of it. Little time was lost in
preparation. The two judges placed themselves opposite to the middle of
the space, and there the combatants met and measured lances.
The bugle-mot gave them warning, so turning their steeds round, they
each rode back about a furlong towards their respective parties, and,
suddenly wheeling at the second sound of the bugle, they ran their
furious course against each other with lance in rest. The shock was
tremendous. The clash of their armour echoed from the very walls of the
neighbouring Castle; nor had the oldest and most experienced
men-at-arms who were there present ever seen anything like it. Sir
Patrick Hepborne received his adversary’s lance, with great adroitness,
on his shield, at such an angle that it glanced off broken in shivers;
yet the force was so great that it had almost turned him in his saddle.
But he, on his part, had borne his point so stoutly, so steadily, and
so truly, that, taking his adversary in the centre of the body, he
tossed him entirely over the croupe of his horse. Piersie lay stunned
by the fall; and Sir Patrick, checking Beaufront in his career, made a
circuit around his prostrate adversary, and speedily dismounting, went
up to him, and kneeling on the ground beside him, lifted up his head,
and opened his vizor and beaver to give him freer air. Sir Richard de
Lacy and Assueton came up.
“Sir Richard,” said Hepborne, “thou seest his life is in mine hands;
and after the bragging and insolent threats he used towards me, perhaps
I might be deemed well entitled to use the privileges of my victory,
and take it. But I engaged in this affair only to wipe off the disgrace
thrown on this good old knight, Sir Walter de Selby, in whose
hospitality I and my brother-in-arms have so liberally shared; and the
blot having been thus removed, by God’s blessing on mine arm, I leave
Piersie his life, that he may use it against me when next we meet in
fair fight in bloody field, should the jarring rights of our two
countries summon us against each other. But through thee, his friend, I
do most solemnly enjoin him that, on the honour of a knight, he shall
hold Sir Walter de Selby as acquitted of all intention of doing him any
injury or insult in the matter of the marriage he contemplated with the
Lady Eleanore, and that he think not of doing Sir Walter violence on
that account.”
For all this Sir Richard de Lacy immediately pledged himself in name of
Sir Rafe Piersie; and the discomfited knight, who was still insensible,
having been lifted up by his esquires, was straightway borne towards
the Castle. As they were carrying him away, Mortimer Sang, who had by
chance caught the dapple-grey steed, as he scoured past him on the
field after his rider’s overthrow, trotted up to the group leading him
by the bridle. The worthy esquire had heard and treasured up the taunts
and boasting of Piersie’s people, as they were approaching the field.
“Hath any of ye lost perchance a pomely grise-coloured horse, my
masters?” exclaimed he; “here is a proper powerful destrier, if he had
been but well backed. Hast thou no varlet of a pricksoure squire who
can ride him? Here, take him, some of ye; and, hark ye, let his saddle
be better filled the next time ye do come afield.”
Piersie’s men were too much crestfallen to return his jibes, so he rode
back to the group that surrounded the conqueror, chuckling over his
triumph. The good old Sir Walter de Selby, his eyes running over with
gratitude, approached Sir Patrick Hepborne, and embraced him cordially.
“The time hath been,” said he, “the time hath been, Sir Patrick, when
it pleased Heaven to permit me to reap the same guerdon of inward
satisfaction thou art now feeling, and could the weight of a few years
have been lifted from off this hoar head, by God’s blessing, thou
shouldst not have had this noble chance of gathering fame at the cost
of Sir Rafe Piersie. As it is, I thank thee heartily for thy gallant
defence of an old man, as well as for the generous use thou hast made
of thy victory. Come, let us to the Castle, that by my treatment of
thee, and Sir Rafe Piersie, I may forthwith prove my gratitude to the
one and my forgiveness of the other.
“Thanks, most hospitable knight,” said Sir Patrick, “I beseech thee in
mine own name, and that of my friend, to receive our poor thanks for
thy kind reception of us at Norham. But now our affairs demand our
return to our own country; nay, had it not been for this unlooked-for
deed of arms, we had been ere now some miles beyond that broad stream.
We boune us now for Scotland. Farewell, and may the holy St. Cuthbert
keep thee in health and safety. We may yet haply meet again.”
Sir Walter de Selby was grieved to find that all his efforts to detain
the two knights were ineffectual.
“Since it is thy will, then, to pleasure me no longer with thy good
company and presence, Sirs Knights, may the blessed Virgin and the holy
St. Andrew guide you in safety to your friends; and may you find those
you love in the good plight you would wish them to be.” And saying so,
he again cordially embraced both the knights, and slowly returned
towards the Castle with his attendants.
The bustle and commotion occasioned by the appearance of the knights
and their followers on the mead of Norham, the sound of the bugle, and
the clash of the shock, had brought out many of the inhabitants of the
village to see what was a-doing. Amongst these was the black-eyed Mrs.
Kyle, who came up to Master Mortimer Sang, and laying hold of his
bridle-rein—
“When goest thou for Scotland?” said she anxiously.
“Even now, fair dame,” said he calmly.
“Then go I with thee, Sir Squire,” returned she. “Let me have a seat on
that batt-horse; I can ride right merrily there.”
“Nay, my most beautiful Mrs. Kyle,” replied Sang, “that may in no wise
be, seeing I am an honest virtuous esquire, not one of those false
faitors who basely run away with other men’s wives. Thou canst not with
me, I promise thee.”
“Yea, but thou didst promise to take me,” cried Mrs. Kyle, a flood of
tears bursting from her eyes, as she began to reproach Sang, with a
voice half-chocked by the violence of her sobbing. “So false foiterer
that thou art, I—I—I—I must be foredone by thee, must I, after all thy
losengery and flattery? Here have I kept goodman Kyle all this time i’
the vault, ygraven, as a body may say, that I mought the more sickerly
follow thee when thou wentest. Oh, what will become of me? I am but as
one dead.”
“Why, thou cruel giglet, thou,” cried Sang, “didst thou in very truth
mean to go off to Scotland with me, and leave thy poor husband ygraven
i’ the vault to die the most horrible of deaths? Did not I tell thee to
let him out at thy leisure and on thine own good terms? By the mass, a
pretty leisure hast thou taken, and pretty terms hast thou resolved to
yield him.”
“Nay, judge not so hastily, good Sir Squire,” replied Mrs. Kyle. “That
I would boune me to Scotland is sure enow; but, as to leaving Sylvester
Kyle to die a cruel death, Thomas Tapster here knows that I taught him
the use of the sliding plank and the clicket of the trap door, and that
Master Sylvester was to receive his franchise as soon as Tweed should
be atween us. But what shall I do? I can never go back to the Norham
Tower again; goodman Sylvester will surely amortise me attenes when he
doth get freedom.”
“Squire,” said Hepborne, “thou must e’en get thee back to the village,
and make her peace with the bear her husband: we shall wait for thee at
the ferry-boat.”
“Nay, as for that matter,” said Sang, “I must go back at any rate, for
I have yet to pay the rascal for the excellent supper we had of him,
and for the herborow of our party for the night we spent there. Come
along then, Dame Kyle, I see thou art not quite so savage as I took
thee to be.”
They soon reached the hostel, and Master Mortimer Sang, dismounting
from his horse in the yard, entered, and strode along the passage to
the place where he knew the trap-door to be, and, sliding aside the
plank that covered its fastenings, he hoisted up the lever.
“Sylvester Kyle, miserable lossel wight,” cried he, “art thou yet
alive? Sinner that thou art, I have compassion on thee, and albeit thou
hast been there but some short space—small guerdon for thy wicked
coulpe, seeing thou art in the midst of so great a mountance of good
provender and drink, with which to fill thine enormous bowke—I
condescend to let thee come forth. Come up, come up, I say, and show
thy face, that we may hold parley as to the terms of thine
enlargement.”
A groaning was heard from the farther end of the place, and by and by
Sylvester’s head appeared above the steps, his countenance wearing the
most miserable expression. Horrible fear of the agonizing death he had
thought himself doomed to die had prevented him from touching food; but
the anxious workings of his mind had done even more mortification upon
him than a starvation of a fortnight could have accomplished. The red
in his face was converted into a deadly pale copper hue, for even death
itself could never have altogether extinguished the flame in his nose;
his teeth projected beyond his lips, and chattered against each other
from the cold he had undergone: and his eyes stared in their sockets,
from the united effects of want and terror.
“Should it please me to give thee the franchise, thou agroted lorrel,
thou,” said the Squire, “wilt thou give me thy promise to comport
thyself more honestly in time to come, to have done with all knavery
and chinchery, and to give thy very best to all Scots who may, in time
to come, chance to honour thy hostelry with their presence?”
“Oh, good Sir Squire,” replied the host, “anything—I will promise
anything that thou mayest please.”
“Nay, nay, Sir Knave,” cried Sang, “horrow tallowcatch that thou art—no
generals—swear me in particulars—item by item, dost thou hear, as thou
framest thy reckonings? If thou dost not down goeth the trap-door
again, and I leave thee here to meditate and ypend my proposal, until
my return from the Holy Wars, whether I am boune. By that time thou
wilt be more humble, and more coming to my terms. Swear.”
“I swear, by the holy St. Cuthbert,” replied the host, “that all Scots
shall henceforth be entertained with the best meats and drinks the nale
of the Norham Tower can afford, yea, alswa the best herborow it can
yield them.”
“’Tis well,” said Sang; “swear me next, then, and let the oath be
strong, that thou wilt never again score double.”
“Nay, Master Squire, that is a hard oath for a tapster to take; ’tis
warring against the very nicest mystery of my vocation,” said Kyle.
“No matter, Sir Knave,” said Sang, “I shall not have my terms agrutched
by thee. An thou swearest not this, down thou goest, and I leave thee
to settle scores with a friend of thine below, with whom thou wilt find
the single reckoning of thy sins a hard enough matter for thee to pay.”
“Oh, for mercy’s sake, touch not the trap-door, Sir Squire, and I will
swear anything,” cried Kyle, much alarmed at seeing Sang’s brawny arm
preparing to turn it over upon his head.
“Well, thou horrow lossel,” cried Sang, “dost thou swear thou wilt
never more cheat, or score double?”
“I do, I do,” said the host; “by the holy Rood, I swear that I will
never cheat or score double again. God help me,” cried he, after a
pause, “how shall I eschew it, and what shall I do without it?”
“Now, thou prince of knaves,” cried Sang, “thou hast yet one more
serment to swallow. Swear by the blessed Virgin, that thou wilt receive
thy wife back into thy bosom, and abandoning thy former harshness
towards her, that thou wilt kindly cherish her, and do thy possible to
comfort and pleasure her, forgetting all that may have hitherto
happened amiss between ye. I restore her to thee pure. She was not to
blame for my being in the vault with her. The coulpe was all thine own.
Thou madest me ravenous with hunger by thy villainous chinchery. My
nose, through very want, became as sharp in scent as that of a
sleuth-hound. I winded the steam that came from the trap-door, yea,
from the very common room where I sat. I ran it up hot foot, and
descending the stair, I had but just begun to feast mine eyes with that
thou hadst denied to my stomach, when thy pestiferous voice was heard.
Thy wife is as virtuous and innocent as the child unborn. So swear, I
say.”
Master Sylvester Kyle shook his head wofully, and looked very far from
satisfied; but he had no alternative; he swore as the squire wished him
to do, and then was permitted to issue from his subterranean prison.
“And now, Sir Knave,” said Sang, “do but note my extreme clemency. Thou
wouldst have starved me, the knights, and our good company, because we
were Scots, for the which grievous sin I did put thee in a prison full
of goodly provender and rich drinks; whence I now let thee forth, with
thy greedy carcase crammed to bursting, and thy whole person plump and
fair as a capon. Do but behold him, I beseech ye, how round he looks.
Now get thee to thine augrim-stones, and cast up thine account withal.
Thou knowest pretty well what we have had, for thou didst give me the
victuals and wine with thine own hand.”
“Nay, good Sir Squire,” said Kyle, glad to escape, “take it all, in
God’s name, as a free gift, and let us part good friends.”
“Nay, nay,” said Master Sang, “we take no such beggarly treats, we
Scottish knights and squires. Come, come—thy reckoning, thy reckoning,
dost hear? No more words; my master doth wait, and I must haste to join
him.”
Kyle, with his wife’s assistance, and that of the pebbles or
augrim-stones, by which accounts were usually made out in those days,
scored up the first fair reckoning he had ever made in his life, and
Sang paid it without a word.
“And now,” said he, “let us, as thou saidst, Master Kyle, let us e’en
part good friends. Bring me a stirrup-cup of thy best.”
The host hastened to fetch a cup of excellent Rhenish. They drank to
each other, and shook hands with perfect cordiality; and the squire,
smacking the pouting lips of Mrs. Kyle, mounted his horse, and rode
away to join his party.
As the knights and their small retinue were crossing the Tweed in the
ferry-boat, Hepborne cast his eyes up to the keep of the Castle,
towering high above them, and frowning defiance upon Scotland. A white
hand appeared from a narrow window, and waved a handkerchief; and, by a
sort of natural impulse, he was about to have waved and kissed his
fervently in return.
“Pshaw!” said he, pettishly checking himself, for being so ready to
yield to the impulse of his heart. The white hand and handkerchief
waved again—and again it waved ere he reached the Scottish shore; but
he manfully resisted all temptation, and gave no sign of recognition.
As he mounted, however, he looked once more. The hand was still there,
streaming the little speck of white. His resolution gave way—he waved
his hand, and his eyes filling with tears, he dashed the rowels of his
spurs against the sides of his steed, sprang off at full gallop, and
was immediately lost amongst the oak copse through which lay their
destined way.
CHAPTER X.
The Home of the Hepbornes—Remembrances of Childhood—The Old
Wolf-Hound.
After tarrying for a little while at the small town of Dunse, the two
knights pursued their journey over the high ridge of Lammermoor, and
early on the second day they reached Hailes Castle, the seat of the
Hepbornes, a strong fortress, standing on the southern banks of the
river Tyne, in the heart of the fertile county of East Lothian. At the
period we are now speaking of, the varied surface of the district
surrounding the place was richly though irregularly wooded; and even
the singular isolated hill of Dunpender, rising to the southward of it,
had gigantic oaks growing about its base, and towering upon its sides,
amidst thick hazel and other brushwood, wherever they could find soil
enough to nourish them.
Sir Patrick Hepborne had been particularly silent during their march.
The events which took place at Norham, and the conviction he felt that
the Lady Eleanore de Selby had indirectly endeavoured to draw him into
an attachment for her, when her heart either was or ought to have been
engaged to another, made him unhappy. It was needless to inquire why it
should have done so, since he was ever and anon congratulating himself
on having escaped uninjured from the toils of one so unworthy of him.
But the truth was he had not escaped uninjured; he had “tane a hurt”
from her, of a nature too serious to be of very easy cure. Assueton,
who had never felt the tender passion, and who had consequently very
little sympathy for it, had more than once complained of the unwonted
dulness of his companion, who used to be so full of life and
cheerfulness, and had made several vain attempts to rouse him, until at
last, despairing of success, he amused himself in jesting with Master
Mortimer Sang, who possessed a never-failing spring of good humour.
As they drew near the domains of Sir Patrick Hepborne the elder,
however, a thousand spots, and things, and circumstances, began to
present themselves in succession, and to force themselves on the
attention of the love-sick knight, awakening warm associations with the
events of his youthful days, and overpowering, for a time, his
melancholy. To these he began to give utterance in a language his
friend could not only comprehend, but participate in the feelings they
naturally gave rise to.
“Assueton,” said he, “it was here, in this very wood, that I took my
first lessons in the merry art of woodcraft; in yonder hollow were the
rethes and pankers spread to toyle the deer; and, see there, under
yonder ancient tree, was I first planted with my little cross-bow, as a
lymer, to have my vantage of the game. It was Old Gabriel Lindsay, then
a jolly forester, who put me there, and taught me how to behave me. He
is now my father’s seneschal, if, as I hope, he be yet alive. He was a
hale man then, and though twenty years older than my father, he had a
boy somewhat younger than myself, who took up his father’s trade of
forester, just before I went to France. Alas, the old tree has had a
fearful skathe of firelevin since last I saw it. See what a large limb
hath been rent from its side. Dost see the river glancing yonder below,
through the green-wood? Ay, now we see it better. In yonder shallow
used I to wade when a child, with my little hauselines tucked up above
my knees. I do remember well, I was so engaged one hot summer’s day,
when, swelled by some sudden water-spout or upland flood, I saw the
liquid wall come sweeping onwards, ready to overwhelm me. I ran in
childish fear, but ere I reached the strand it came, and overtaking my
tottering steps, hurried me with it into yonder pool. I sank, and rose,
and sank again. I remember e’en now how quickly the ideas passed
through my infant mind, as I was whirling furiously round and round by
the force of the eddy, vainly struggling and gasping for life, now
below and now on the surface of the water. I thought of the dreadful
death I was dying; I thought of the misery about to befall my father
and mother—nay, strange as it may seem, I saw them in my mind’s eye
weeping in distraction over my pale and dripping corpse, and all this
was intermixed with flitting hopes of rescue, that were but the flash
amidst the darkness of the storm. The recollections of the five or six
years I could remember of my past childhood were all condensed into the
short period of as many minutes; for that was all the time my lucky
stars permitted me to remain in jeopardy, till Gabriel Lindsay came,
and, plunging into the foaming current, dragged me half dead to the
shore. Full many a time have I sithence chosen that very pool as a
pleasure bayne wherein to exercise my limbs in swimming, when hardier
boyhood bid me defy the flood.”
“My dear friend,” said Assueton, “trust me, I do envy thee thine
indulgence in those remembrances excited by the scenes of thy
childhood; they make me more eager than ever to revel in those that
await me around my paternal boure. I shall be thy father’s guest
to-night; but I can no longer delay returning to my paternal
possessions, and in especial to my widowed mother, who doubtless longs
to embrace me. I must leave thee to-morrow.”
“Nay, Assueton, thou didst promise to bestow upon me three or four days
at least,” said Hepborne: “let me not then have thy promise amenused.
To rob me of so large a portion of thy behote were, methinks, but
unkind.”
“I did promise, indeed,” said Assueton, “but I wist not of the time we
should waste at Norham. I must e’en go to-morrow, Hepborne; but, trust
me, I shall willingly boune me back again some short space hence.”
Hepborne was not lacking in argument to overcome his friend’s
intentions, but he could gain no more than a promise, reluctantly
granted, that his departure should be postponed until the morning after
the following day.
“But see, Assueton,” said Hepborne, “there are the outer towers and
gateway of the Castle, and behold how its proud barbicans rise beyond
them. As I live, there is Flo, my faithful old wolf-dog, lying sunning
himself against the wall. He is the fleetest allounde in all these
parts for taking down the deer at a view. What ho, boy, Flo, Flo! What
means the brute, he minds me not?” continued Hepborne, riding up to
him: “I wot he was never wont to be so litherly; he used to fly at my
voice with all the swiftness of the arrow, which he is named after. Ah!
now I see, he is half-blind; and peraunter he is deaf too, for he seems
as if he heard me not. But, fool that I am, I forget that some years
have passed away sith I saw him last, and that old age must ere this
have come upon him. ’Twas but a week before I left home, Assueton, that
he killed a wolf. But let us hasten in, I am impatient to embrace my
father, and my dear mother, and my sister Isabelle.”
Loud rang the bugle-blast in the court-yard of the Castle. Throwing his
reins to his esquire, Hepborne sprang from his horse, and running
towards the doorway, whence issued a crowd of domestics, alarmed by the
summons, he grasped the hand of an old white-headed man, who presented
the feeble remains of having been once tall and powerful, but who was
now bent and tottering with age.
“My worthy Gabriel,” said he in an affectionate tone and manner, and
with a tear trembling in his eye, “dost thou not know me? How fares my
father, my mother, and my sister, the Lady Isabelle?”
The old man looked at him for some moments, with his hand held up as a
pent-house to his dim eyes.
“Holy St. Giles!” exclaimed he at last, “art thou indeed my young
master? Art thou then alive and sound? Well, who would hae thought,
they that saw me last winter, when I was so ill, that I would hae lived
to hae seen this blessed day!”
“But tell me, Gabriel,” cried Hepborne, interrupting him, “tell me
where are they all; I suppose I shall find them in the banquet hall
above?”
“Stop thee, stop thee, Sir Patrick,” said the old seneschal, “thy
father and the Lady Isabelle rode to the green-wood this morning. There
was a great cry about a route of wolves that have been wrecking doleful
damage on the shepens; they do say, that some of the flocks hae been
sorely herried by them; so my master and the Lady Isabelle rode forth
with the sleuth-hounds, and the alloundes, and the foresters; and this
morning, ere the sun saw the welkin, my boy rode away to lay out the
rethes and the pankers. I wot, thou remembers thee of my son Robert? He
is head forester now. Thy noble father, Heaven’s blessing and the
Virgin’s be about him, did that for him; may long life and eternal joy
be his guerdon for all his good deeds to me and mine! And Ralpho
Proudfoot was but ill content to see my Rob get the place aboon him; so
Ralpho yode his ways, and hath oft sithes threatened some malure to
Rob; but as to that——”
“Nay, my good Gabriel,” said Hepborne, impatiently interrupting him,
“but where, I entreat thee, is my mother?”
A cloud instantly overcast the face of the venerable domestic; he
hesitated and stammered—
“Nay, then, my dear young master, thou hast not heard of the doleful
tidings?”
“What doleful tidings? Quick, speak, old man. My mother! is she ill?
Good God, thou art pale. Oh, thy face doth speak too intelligibly—my
mother, my beloved mother, is no more!”
The old man burst into tears. He could not command a single word; but
the grief and agitation he could not hide was enough for Sir Patrick
Hepborne. In a choked and hollow voice—
“Assueton,” said he, “walk up this way, so please thee; there is the
banquet-hall; I must retire into this apartment for some moments. If
thou hadst known my mother—my excellent, my tenderly affectionate
mother—my mother, by whose benignant and joy-beaming eyes I looked to
be now greeted withal—thou wouldst pardon me for being thus unmanned.
But I shall be more composed anon.”
And with these words, and with an agitation he could not hide, he burst
away into an adjacent chamber, where he shut himself in, that he might
give way to his emotions without interruption.
It was his mother’s private room. In the little oratory opening from
the farther end of it, was her prie-dieu and crucifix, and on the floor
opposite to it was the very velvet cushion on which he found her
kneeling, and offering up her fervent orisons to Heaven on his behalf,
as he entered her apartment to embrace her for the last time, the
morning he left Hailes for France. He remembered that his heart was
then bounding with delight at the prospect of breaking into the world,
and figuring among knights and warriors, amidst all the gay splendour
of the French Court. Alas! he little thought then he was embracing her
for the last time. He now looked round the chamber, and her
missal-books, with a thousand trifles he had seen her use, called up
her graceful figure and gentle expression fresh before his eyes. He
wept bitterly, and, seating himself in the chair she used, wasted
nearly an hour in giving way to past recollections, and indulging in
the grief they occasioned. At last his sorrow began to exhaust itself,
and he became more composed. The cushion and the little altar again
caught his eye, and, rising from the chair, he prostrated himself
before the emblem of the Saviour’s sufferings and the Christian’s faith
and hope, pouring out his soul in devotional exercise. As his head was
buried in the velvet drapery of the prie-dieu, and his eyes covered,
his imagination pictured the figure of his mother floating over him in
seraphic glory. He started up, almost expecting to see his waking
vision realized; but it was no more than the offspring of his fancy,
and he again seated himself on his mother’s chair, to dry his eyes and
to compose his agitated bosom.
Though still deeply afflicted, he now felt himself able to command his
feelings, and he left his mother’s apartment to rejoin Assueton. At the
door he met old Gabriel Lindsay, and he being now able to ask, and the
hoary seneschal to tell, the date and circumstances of his mother’s
death, he learned that she had been carried off by a sudden illness
about three months previous to his arrival. The firmness of the warrior
now returned upon him, and, with a staid but steady countenance, he
rejoined his friend.
“Assueton,” said he, “if thou art disposed to ramble with me, it would
give me ease to go forth a little. Let us doff our mail, and put on
less cumbrous hunting-garbs and gippons, and go out into the woods. We
may chance to hear their hunting-horns, and so fall in with them; else
we may loiter idling it here till nightfall ere they return.”
Assueton readily agreed; and both having trimmed themselves for active
exercise, and armed themselves with hunting-spears, and with the
anelace, a kind of wood-knife or falchion, usually worn, together with
the pouch, hanging from the girdlestead of the body, they left the
Castle, with the intent of taking the direction they were informed the
hunting-party had gone in. As they passed from the outer gateway, the
great rough old wolf-hound again attracted his master’s attention.
“Alas! poor old Flo,” said Hepborne, going up to him, and stooping to
caress him, “thou canst no more follow me as thou wert wont to do. Thou
art now but as a withered and decayed log of oak—thou who used,
whenever I appeared, to dart hither and thither around me like a
firelevin.”
The old dog began to lick his master’s hand, and to whine a dull
recognition.
“I believe he doth hardly remember me,” said Hepborne, moving away; “he
seems now to be little better than a clod of earth.”
The old dog, however, though he had scarcely stirred for many months
before, began to whimper, and rearing up his huge body with great pain,
as if in stretching each limb he required to break the bonds that age
had rivetted every joint withal, and getting at last on his legs, he
began to follow Sir Patrick, whining and wagging his tail. Hepborne,
seeing his feeble state, did what he could to drive him back; but the
dog persisted in following him.
“Poor old affectionate fellow,” said Hepborne, “go with me, then, thou
shalt, though I should have to carry thee back. Assueton,” continued
he, “let us climb the lofty height of Dunpender, whence we shall have
such a view around us as may enable us to descry the hunting-party, if
they be anywhere within the range of our ken.”
CHAPTER XI.
The Wolf Hunt—A Desperate Encounter.
They accordingly made their way through the intervening woods, lawns,
and alleys, and ascended the steep side of the hill. From the summit,
the beautiful vale of the Tyne was fully commanded, and the extent and
variety of the prospect was such as to occupy them for some time in
admiration of it. Hepborne discovered a thousand spots and points in it
connected with old stories of his youth. He touched on all these in
succession to Assueton, his heart overflowing with his feelings, and
his eyes with the remembrance of his beloved mother, whose image was
continually recurring to him. He made his friend observe the distant
eminences in parts of Scotland afar off; and Assueton, amongst others,
was overjoyed to descry the blue top of that hill at the base of which
he had been born, and whither his heart bounded to return.
“Hark,” said Hepborne, suddenly interrupting the enthusiastic greeting
his friend was wafting towards his distant home—“hark! methinks I hear
the sound of bugles echoing faintly through the woods below; dost thou
not hear?”
“I do,” said Assueton, “and methinks I also hear the yelling note of
the sleuth-hounds.”
“That bugle-mot was my father’s,” said Hepborne; “I know it full well;
I could swear to it anywhere. Nay, yonder they ride. Dost not see them
afar off yonder, sweeping across the green alures and avenues, where
the wood-shaws are thinnest? Now they cross the wide lawnde yonder—and
now they are lost amid the shade of these oakshaws. They come this way;
let us hasten downward; we shall have ill luck an we meet them not at
the bottom of the hill.”
Hepborne was so eager to embrace his father, that, forgetting his
friend was a stranger to the perplexities of the way, he darted off,
and descended through the brushwood, leaving Assueton to follow him as
he best might. Assueton, in his turn, eager to overtake Hepborne, put
down the point of his hunting-spear to aid him in vaulting over an
opposing bush. There was a knot in the ashen shaft, and it snapt
asunder with his weight. He threw it away, and, guided by the distant
sounds of the bugle-blasts and the yells of the hounds, he pressed
precipitately down the steep, but in his ignorance he took a direction
different from that pursued by Hepborne.
As he was within a few yards of the bottom of the hill, he saw an
enormous wolf making towards him, the oblique and sinister eyes of the
animal flashing fire, his jaws extended, and tongue lolling out.
Assueton regretted the loss of his hunting-spear, but judging him to be
much spent, he resolved to attack him. He squatted behind a bush
directly in the animal’s path, and springing at him as he passed, he
grappled him by the throat with both hands, and held him with the grasp
of fate. The furious wolf struggled with all his tremendous strength,
and before Assueton could venture to let go one hand to draw out his
anelace, he was overbalanced by the weight of the creature, and they
rolled over and over each other down the remainder of the grassy
declivity, the knight still keeping his hold, conscious that the moment
he should lose it he must inevitably be torn in pieces. There they lay
tumbling and writhing on the ground, the exertions of the wolf being so
violent, as frequently to lift Assueton and drag him on his back along
the green sward. Now he gained his knees, and, pressing down his savage
foe, he at last ventured to lose his right hand to grope for his
anelace; but it was gone—it had dropped from the sheath; and, casting a
glance around him, he saw it glittering on the grass, at some yards’
distance. There was no other mode of recovering it but by dragging the
furious beast towards it, and this he now put forth all his strength to
endeavour to effect. He tugged and toiled, and even succeeded so far as
to gain a yard or two; but his grim foe was only rendered more
ferocious in his resistance, by the additional force he employed. The
wolf made repeated efforts to twist his neck round to bite, and more
than once succeeded in wounding Assueton severely in the left arm, the
sleeve of which was entirely torn off. As the beast lay on his back
too, pinned firmly down towards his head, he threw up his body, and
thrust his hind feet against Assueton’s face, so as completely to blind
his eyes, and by a struggle more violent than any he had made before,
he threw him down backwards.
The situation of the bold and hardy knight was now most perilous, for,
though he still kept his grasp, he lay stretched on the ground; and
whilst the wolf, standing over him, was now able to bring all his
sinews to bear against him, from having his feet planted firmly on the
ground, Assueton, from his position, was unable to use his muscles with
much effect. The panting and frothy jaws, and the long sharp tusks of
the infuriated beast, were almost at his throat, and the only salvation
that remained for him, was to prevent his fastening on by it, by
keeping the head of the brute at a distance by the strength of his
arms. The muscles of the neck of a wolf are well known to be so
powerful, that they enable the animal to carry off a sheep with ease;
so that, with all his vigour of nerve, Assueton had but a hopeless
chance for it. Still he held, and still they struggled, when the tramp
of a horse was heard, and a lady came galloping by under the trees. She
no sooner observed the dreadful strife between the savage wolf and the
knight, than, alighting nimbly from her palfrey, she couched the light
hunting-spear she carried, and ran it through the heart of the
half-choked animal. The blood spurted over the prostrate cavalier, and
the huge carcase fell on him, with the eyes glaring in the head, and
the teeth grinding together in the agony of death.
The bold Assueton, sore toil-spent with the length of the contest,
threw the now irresisting body of the creature away from him, and
instantly recovered his legs. All bloody and covered with foam as he
was, he bowed gracefully to his preserver, and gazed at her for some
time ere he could find breath to give his gratitude utterance. She was
lovely as the morning. Her fair hair, broken loose from the thraldom of
its braiding bodkins by the agitation of riding, streamed from beneath
a hunting hat she wore, and fell in flowing ringlets over the black
mantle that hung from her shoulder. Her mild and angelic soul spoke in
expressive language through her blue eyes, though they were more than
half veiled by her modest eyelids. Her full fresh lips were half open,
and her bosom heaved with her high breathing from the exercise she had
been undergoing, and the unwonted exertion she had so lately made, and
her cheek was gently flushed by the consciousness of the glorious deed
she had achieved.
“Sir Knight,” inquired she, timidly though anxiously, “I hope thou hast
tane no hurt from the caitiff salvage? Thou dost bleed, meseems?”
“Nay, lady,” said Assueton, at last able to speak, “I bleed not; ’tis
the blood of the brute yonder. Perdie, thy bold and timely aid did rid
me of a strife that mought have ended sorely to my mischaunce. Verily,
thou camest like an angel to my rescue, and my poor thanks are but
meagre guerdon for the heroic deed thou didst adventure to effect it.
Do I not speak to the sister of my friend, Sir Patrick Hepborne? Do I
not address the fair Lady Isabelle?”
“Patrick Hepborne?” inquired she eagerly; “art thou, indeed, the friend
of my brother? Welcome, Sir Knight; thou art welcome to me, as thou
wilt be to my father. What tidings hast thou of my gallant brother?”
“Even those, I ween, beauteous lady, which shall give thee belchier,”
said Assueton; “my friend is well as thou wouldst wish him; nay, more,
he is here with me. We parted but now above yonder at the crop of the
hill. I lost him in the thickets on its side, just before I encountered
with gaffer wolf yonder.”
“Pray Heaven,” said Isabelle, with alarm in her countenance, “that he
may not meet with some of the wolves we drove hither before us. Thou
seemest to be altogether without weapon, Sir Knight; perhaps he is
equally defenceless.”
“Nay, lady,” replied Assueton, “I broke a faithless rotten shafted
hunting-spear ere I came down, and I lost my anelace from my
girdlestead as I was struggling with the wolf. Sir Patrick has both, I
warrant thee, and will make a better use of them than I did. Shall we
seek him, so please ye?”
“Oh, yes,” cried the Lady Isabelle joyfully; “how I long to clasp my
dear brother in these arms. But hold, Sir Knight,” said she, her face
again assuming an air of anxiety, “thou dost bleed, maugre all thou
didst say. Truly thy left arm is most grievously torn by the miscreant
wolf; let me bind it up with this rag here.” And notwithstanding all
Assueton’s protestations to the contrary, she took off a silken scarf,
and bound up his wounds very tenderly, even exposing her own lovely
neck to the sun, that she might effect her charitable purpose.
“And now,” said she, “let’s on in the direction my father took; he and
my brother may have probably met ere this. Hey, Robert,” cried she to a
forester who appeared at the moment, “whither went my father?”
“This way, lady,” said he, pointing in a particular direction; “I heard
his bugle-mot but now.”
“Charge thyself with the spoils of this wolf, Robert,” said the Lady
Isabelle; “I do mean to have his felt hung up in the hall, in
remembrance of the bold and desperate conflict, waged without aid of
steel against him, by dint of thewes and sinews alone, by this valiant
knight; ’tis a monster for size, the make of which is, I trow, rarely
seen.”
“Nay, lady,” cried Assueton, “rather hang up his spoils in
commemoration of thine own brave deed; for it was thou who killed him.
And had it not been for thee, gaffer wolf might, ere now, have made a
dinner of me.”
“In truth, Sir Knight,” replied Isabelle, “hadst thou not held him by
the throat so starkly, I trow I should have had little courage to have
faced him.”
The lady vaulted on her palfrey, and Assueton, his left arm decorated
with her scarf, and holding her bridle with his right, walked by the
side of the palfrey, like a true lady’s knight, unwittingly engaged,
for the first time in his life, in pleasing dialogue with a beautiful
woman.
Sir Patrick Hepborne, who thought only of seeing his father, had rushed
down the steep of Dunpender in the hope of meeting him somewhere near
the base of the hill, for the sound of the chase evidently came that
way. His old dog Flo had difficulty in following him; and stumbling
over the stumps of trees, and the stones that lay in his way, he was at
last completely left behind. As Sir Patrick had nearly reached the
bottom of the steep, he too observed a large wolf making up the hill.
The animal came at a lagging pace, and was evidently much blown.
Hepborne hurled his hunting-spear at him without a moment’s delay,
wounding him desperately in the neck; and, eager to make sure of him
with his anelace, rushed forward, without perceiving a sudden
declivity, where there was a little precipitous face of rock, over
which he fell headlong, and rolling downwards his head came in contact
with the trunk of an oak, at the foot of which he lay stunned and
senseless. The wolf, writhing for sometime with the agony of the wound
he had received, succeeded at last in extricating himself from the
spearhead, and then observing the man from whose hand he had received
it, lying at his mercy on the ground near him, he was about to take
instant vengeance on him, when he was suddenly called on to defend
himself against a new assailant.
This was no other than poor Flo, who, having followed his master’s
track as fast as his old legs could carry him, came up at the very
moment the gaunt animal was about to fasten his jaws on him. His
ancient spirit grew young within him as he beheld his master’s danger.
He sprang on the wolf with an energy and fury which no one who had seen
him that morning could have believed him capable of, and, seizing his
ferocious adversary by the throat, a bloody combat ensued between them.
Hepborne having gradually recovered from his swoon, and hearing the
noise of the fight, roused himself, and, getting upon his legs, beheld
with astonishment the miraculous exertions his faithful dog was making
in his defence, and the deadly strife that was waging between him and
the wolf. The fierce and powerful animal was much an overmatch for the
good allounde, who had already received some dreadful bites, but still
fought with unabated resolution. Hepborne ran to his rescue, and
burying his anelace in the wolf’s body, killed him outright. But his
help came too late for poor old Flo, who licked the kind hand that was
stretched out to succour and caress him, and, turning upon his side,
raised his dim eyes towards his master’s face, and slowly closed them
in death.
Hepborne lifted him up, all streaming with blood, and, carrying him to
a fountain a few paces off, bathed his head and his gaping wounds, with
the vain hope that the water might revive him; but life was extinct.
Sir Patrick laid him on the ground, and wept over him as if he had been
a friend.
The sound of the horns now came nearer, the yell of the dogs
approached, and by and by some of the hounds appeared, and ran in upon
their already inanimate prey. Immediately behind them came Sir Patrick
Hepborne the elder, a powerful, noble-looking man, in full vigour of
life, mounted on a gallant grey, and with a crowd of foresters at his
back. He took off his hunting hat to wipe his brow as he halted, and
though he displayed a bald forehead, the hinder part of his head was
covered with luxuriant black hair, on which age’s winter had not yet
shed a single particle of snow. His beard and moustaches were of the
same raven hue; and his eyes, though mild, were lofty and penetrating
in their expression.
“How now, young man,” said he to his son, as he reined up his steed,
“what, hast thou killed the wolf?”
“My father!” cried the younger Sir Patrick, starting up and running to
his stirrup.
“My son!” exclaimed the delighted and astonished Sir Patrick the elder;
and, vaulting from his horse, they were immediately locked in each
other’s arms.
It was some minutes before either father or son could articulate
anything but broken sentences. The minds of both reverted to the
overwhelming loss they had sustained since they last saw each other,
and they both wept bitterly.
“My dear boy, forgive me,” said the father; “but these tears are—we
have lost—but yet I see thou hast already gathered the sad
intelligence. ’Tis now three months—Oh, bitter affliction!—but she is a
saint above, my dear Patrick.”
Again they enclasped each other, and, giving way to their feelings, the
two warriors wept on each other’s bosoms, till the rude group of
foresters around them were melted into tears at the spectacle. Sir
Patrick the elder was the first to regain command of himself, and the
first use he made of the power of speech was to put a thousand
questions to his son. The younger knight satisfied him as to
everything, and concluded by giving him the history of his accident,
and the glorious but afflicting death of his faithful old allounde.
“Poor fellow,” said the elder Sir Patrick, going up to the spot where
he lay, and dropping a tear of gratitude over him—“poor fellow, he has
died as a hero ought to do—nobly, in stark stoure in the field. Let him
be forthwith yirded, dost hear me, on the spot where he fell; I shall
have a stone erected over him, in grateful memorial of his having died
for his master.”
Some of the foresters, who had implements for digging out the vermin of
the chase, instantly executed this command, and the two knights tarried
until they had themselves laid his body in the grave dug for him.
“And now let us go look for Isabelle and thy friend Sir John Assueton,”
said the elder Sir Patrick. “Sound thy bugles, my merry men, and let us
down to the broad-lawnde, where we shall have the best chance of
meeting.”
They had no sooner entered the beautiful glade among the woods alluded
to by the elder knight, than the younger Sir Patrick descried his
sister, the Lady Isabelle, coming riding on her palfrey, and his friend
Assueton leading her bridle-rein. He ran forward to embrace her, and
she, instantly recognizing him, sprang from the saddle into his arms.
The meeting between the brother and sister was rendered as affecting by
the remembrance of the loss of their mother, as that of the father and
son had been. But the elder Sir Patrick having mastered his feelings,
soon contributed to soothe theirs. The younger Sir Patrick introduced
his friend Assueton to his father, and after their compliments of
courtesy were made, the adventures of both parties detailed, and mutual
congratulations had taken place between them—
“Come,” said the elder Sir Patrick, “come Isabelle, get thee to horse
again, and let us straightway to the Castle. The welkin reddens i’ the
west, and the sun is about to hide his head among yonder amber clouds;
let us to the Castle, I say. I trow we shall have enow of food for talk
for the rest of the evening. We shall have the spoils of these wolves
hung up in the hall, in memorial of the strange events of this day—of
the gallantry of the Lady Isabelle, who so nobly rescued Sir John
Assueton, and of the courage and fidelity of the attached old allounde
Flo, who so nobly died in defence of his master.”
The bugles sounded a mot, and the elder Sir Patrick, with his son
walking by his side, moved forward at the head of the troop. The Lady
Isabelle sprang into her saddle, and Sir John Assueton, never choosing
to resign the reign he had grasped, led her palfrey as before, and
again glided into the same train of conversation with her which he had
formerly found so fascinating. The foresters, grooms, and churls who
formed the hunting suite, some on foot and others on horseback, armed
with every variety of hunting-gear, followed in the rear of march, and
in this order they returned to the Castle.
CHAPTER XII.
The Freaks of Love at Hailes Castle—The Tournament at Tarnawa
announced.
The affliction which had so lately visited the elder Sir Patrick
Hepborne had made him avoid company, and Hailes Castle had consequently
been entirely without guests ever since his lady’s death. But it must
not be imagined that the evening of the hunting day passed dully
because the board was not filled. The sweet and soothing sorrow
awakened by tender and melancholy reflections soon gave way before the
joy arising from the return of Sir Patrick the younger. In those days
letters could not pass as they do now, with the velocity of the winds,
by posts and couriers, from one part of Europe to another; and, during
Hepborne’s absence, his father had had no tidings of his son, except
occasionally through the medium of those warriors or pilgrims who,
having fought in foreign fields, or visited foreign shrines, had
chanced during their travels to see or hear of him, and who came to
Hailes Castle to receive the liberal guerdon of his hospitality for the
good news they brought. The elder Sir Patrick, therefore, had much to
ask, and the son much to answer; so that the ball of conversation was
unremittingly kept up between them.
The Lady Isabelle was seated between her brother and his friend Sir
John Assueton, in the most provoking position; for she was thus placed,
as it were, between two magnets, so as to be equally attracted by both.
Her affection for Sir Patrick made her anxious to catch all he said,
and to gather all his adventures; whilst, on the other hand, Sir John
Assueton’s conversation, made up, as it in a great measure was, of the
praises of his friend, intermixed with many interesting notes on the
accounts of battles and passages of arms her brother was narrating to
her father, proved so seducing that she found it difficult to turn away
her ear from him. Nor were Assueton’s illustrations the less gratifying
that they often brought out the whole truth, where her brother’s
modesty induced him to sink such parts of the tale as were the most
glorious to himself. As for Assueton himself, he seemed to have become
a new man in her company. He was naturally shrewd, excessively
good-humoured, and often witty in his conversation, but he never in his
life before bestowed more of it on a lady than barely what the courtesy
of chivalry required. This night, however, he was animated and
eloquent; and the result was, that the Lady Isabelle retired to her
couch at an unusually late hour, and declared to her handmaiden, Mary
Hay, as she was undressing her, that Sir John Assueton was certainly
the most gallant, witty, and agreeable knight she had ever had the good
fortune to meet with.
“But thou dost not think him so handsome as thy brother Sir Patrick,
Lady?” said the sly Miss Mary Hay.
“Nay, as to that, Mary,” replied the Lady Isabelle, “they are both
handsome, yet both very diverse in their beauty. Thou knowest that one
is fair, and the other dark. My brother, Sir Patrick, and I, do take
our fair tint from our poor mother. Is it not common for fair to affect
dark, and dark fair? My father, thou seest, is dark, yet was my dear
departed mother fair as the light of day. Is it unnatural, then, that I
should esteem Sir John Assueton’s olive tint of countenance, his
speaking black eyes, his nobly-arched jet eyebrows, and the raven curls
of his finely-formed head, more than the pure red and white complexion,
the blue eyes and the fair hair of my dear brother? Nay, nay, my
brother is very handsome; but algate he be my brother, and though I
love him, as sure never sister loved brother before, yet must I tell
the truth, thou knowest, Mary; and, in good fay, I do think Sir John
Assueton by much the properer man.”
Hepborne had been by no means blind to that of which neither his sister
nor Sir John Assueton were, as yet, themselves aware. He saw the change
on Assueton with extreme delight. He enjoyed the idea of this
woman-hater being at last himself enslaved, and, above all, he rejoiced
that the enslaver should be his sister, the Lady Isabelle. He longed to
attack him on the subject; but, lest he might scare him away from the
toils before he was fairly and irrecoverably meshed, he resolved to
appear to shut his eyes to his friend’s incipient disease. As he went
with Sir John, therefore, to see him comfortably accommodated for the
night, he only indulged himself in a remark, natural enough in itself,
upon his wounded arm.
“Assueton,” said he, “wilt thou not have thine arm dressed by some
cunning leech ere thou goest to rest? Our chaplain is no mean
proficient in leechcraft; better take that rag of a kerchief away, and
have it properly bound up.”
“Nay, nay,” cried Assueton, hastily, “I thank thee, my good friend; but
’tis very well as it is. Thy sister, the Lady Isabelle, bound it up
with exceeding care; and in these cases I have remarked that there is
no salve equal in virtue to the bloody goutes of the wound itself. Good
night, and St. Andrew be with thee.”
“And may St. Baldrid, our tutelary saint, be with you,” replied
Hepborne, as he shut the door. “Poor Assueton,” said he then to
himself, with a smile, “my sister has cured one wound for him, only to
inflict another, which he will find it more difficult to salve.”
The next day being devoted to the gay amusement of hawking, was yet
more decisive of the fate of poor Sir John Assueton. He rode by the
side of the Lady Isabelle; and as the nature of the sport precluded the
possibility of her using that attention necessary to make her palfrey
avoid the obstacles lying in its way, or to keep it up when it
stumbled, Sir John found a ready excuse for again acting the part of
her knight; and, one-armed as he had been rendered by the bites of the
wolf, he ran all manner of risks of his own neck to save hers. Hepborne
was more occupied in regarding them than in the sport they were
following. He rode after the pair, enjoying all he saw; for in the
malicious pleasure he took in perceiving Assueton getting deeper and
deeper entangled in the snares of love, and its fever mounting higher
and higher into his brain, he almost forgot the toils he had himself
been caught in, and found a palliative for his own heart’s disease,
producing a temporary relaxation of its intensity. Thus then they rode.
When the game was on wing, the fair Isabelle galloped fearlessly on,
with her eyes sometimes following the flight of the falcon after its
quarry, but much oftener with her head turned towards Sir John
Assueton, whilst Sir John’s looks were fixed now with anxiety on the
ground, to ensure safe riding to the lady, and now thrown with
love-sick gaze of tenderness into the heaven of her eyes, for his had
no wish to soar higher.
In the evening, the Lady Isabelle and her knight were again left to
themselves by the father and son. Her brother’s tales were less
interesting to her than they had been the previous night, and though
Assueton talked less of his friend, yet she by no means found his
conversation duller on that account; nay, she even listened much more
intensely to it than before. The younger Sir Patrick, towards the close
of the night, begged of his sister to sit down to her harp, and when
she did so, Assueton hung over her with a rapture sufficiently marking
the strength of his new-born passion, and the little art he had in
concealing it.
Having been asked by her brother to sing, she accompanied her voice in
the following canzonette:—
Why was celestial Music given,
But of enchanting love to sing!
Ethereal flame, that first from heaven
Angels to this earth did bring.
What state was man’s till he received
The genial blessing from the sky?
What though in Paradise he lived?
Yet still he pined, and knew not why.
But when his beauteous partner came,
The scene, that dreary was and wild,
Grew lovely as he felt the flame,
And the luxuriant garden smiled.
Oh, Love!—of man thou second soul,
What but a clod of earth is he
Who never yet thy flame did thole,
Who never felt thy witchery!
Assueton’s applauses were more energetic, and his approbation more
eloquently expressed at the conclusion of this song, than Hepborne had
ever heard them on any former occasion. Though the theme was wont to be
so very unpalatable to him, yet he besought the Lady Isabelle again and
again to repeat it, and it seemed to give him new and increased
pleasure every time he heard it. At last the hour for retiring came,
and Hepborne inwardly rejoiced to observe a certain trembling in the
voices of both Assueton and his sister, as they touched each other’s
hands to say good night.
Sir Patrick Hepborne the younger had no sooner accompanied his friend
to his apartment than Assueton seated himself near the hearth, and put
up his feet against the wall, where he fell into a kind of listless
dream. Hepborne took a seat on the opposite side of the fire-place,
and, after he had sat silently watching him for some time, in secret
enjoyment of the state he beheld him reduced to, the following
conversation took place between them:—
“Well, Assueton,” said Hepborne, first breaking silence, and assuming
as melancholy a tone as the humour he was in would permit him to use,
“Well, mon bel ami, so we must part to-morrow? The thought is most
distressing. My heart would have urged me to press thee to a farther
sojourn with us at Hailes; but thou wert too determined, and urged too
many and too strong reasons for thy return home, when we last talked of
the matter, to leave room for hope that I might succeed in shaking thy
purpose. I see that of very needscost thou must go; nay, in good sooth,
thy motives for departure are of a nature that, feeling as I have
myself felt, I should inwardly blame thee were thy good nature to lead
thee to yield to my importunate entreaty. Yea, albeit thou shouldst
consent to stay with me, I should verily tine half the jovisaunce that
mought otherwise spring from thy good company; since, from the
all-perfect being I now hold thee to be, thou wouldst dwindle in my
esteem, and be agrutched of half the attraction thou dost possess in
mine eyes, by appearing to lose some deal of those strong feelings of
attachment for thy home, and for the scenes and friends of thy boyhood,
which thou hast hitherto so eminently displayed, and in which, I am led
to think, we do so much resemble each other. Having now had mine
somewhat satisfied, perdie, I could almost wish to boune me with thee,
were it only to participate in thine—were it only to see thee approach
the wide domains and the ancient castle of thine ancestors—to see thee
meet thy beloved mother, now so long widowed, and panting to press her
only child, her long absent son, to her bosom—to watch how thou mayst
encounter with old friends—to behold the hearty shakes of loving
souvenaunce, given by thy hand to those with whom thou hast wrestled,
or held mimic tourney when thou wert yet but a stripling. Oh, ’twould
be as a prolonging of mine own feelings of like sort to witness those
that might arise to thee. But the journey is too long for me to take as
yet; and besides, I cannot yet so soon leave my father and Isabelle.
Moreover, thou knowest that my heart yet acheth severely from the
wounds which it took at Norham. Heigh ho! But, gramercy, forgive me, I
entreat thee, for touching unwittingly on the (by thee) hated subject
of love, the which, I well know, is ever wont to erke thee.”
During this long address, Assueton remained with his heels up against
the wall, his toes all the time beating that species of march that in
more modern times has been called the devil’s tattoo, and with his eyes
firmly fixed on the embers consuming on the hearth.
“I hope, however, my dearest friend,” continued Hepborne, “that thou
mayest yet be able to return to me at Hailes. Thine affairs (though,
perdie, thou must have much to settle after such a succession, and so
long an absence), thine affairs, I say, cannot at the worst detain thee
at home longer than a matter of twelve months or so; after which (that
is, when thou shalt have visited thy friends in divers other parts) I
may hope perchance to see thee again return hither.”
Assueton shifted his position two or three times during this second
speech of Hepborne’s, always again commencing his devil’s tattoo on the
wall; but when his friend ceased, he made no other reply than—
“Umph! Ay, ay, my dear Hepborne, thou shalt see me.”
“My dear Assueton,” continued Hepborne, “that is but a loose and vague
reply, I ween. But, by St. Genevieve, I guess how it is. Thou hast
thoughts (though as yet thou wouldst fain not effunde them to me) of
returning to France in short space; and thou wouldst keep them sicker
in thy breast for a time, lest peradventure I should grieve too deeply
at thy so speedy abandonment of thy country.”
“Nay, nay,” said Assueton, hastily, “trust me I have no such emprize in
head.”
“What then can make thee so little satisfactory in thy reply?” said
Hepborne; “surely ’tis but a small matter to grant me; ’tis but a small
boon to ask of thee to return to Hailes Castle some twelve months or
year and half hence? I doubt me sore that thou hast been but half
pleased with thy visit here; and truly, when I think on’t, it has been
but a dull one.”
“Nay,” replied Assueton, eagerly interrupting him, “I do assure thee,
Hepborne, thou art grievously mistaken in so supposing. On the
contrary, my hours never passed so happily as they have done here;
nor,” added he, with a deep sigh, “so swiftly, so very swiftly.”
“’Tis all well in thee, Assueton,” said Hepborne, “’tis all well in
thee to use thy courtesy to say so; yet, I wot well, ’tis but to please
thy friend. Thou knowest that my father hath been so voracious in his
inquiries into the history of my life during my stay in France, that he
hath never suffered me to leave him, so that thou hadst neither his
good company nor my poor converse to cheer thee, but, much to my
distress, thou hast been left to be erked by the silly prattle and
trifling speech of that foolish pusel my sister Isabelle, worn out by
the which, ’tis no marvel thou shouldst now be thus moody, as I see
thou art; and to rid thyself of this dreriment of thine, it is natural
enow that thou shouldst be right glad to escape hence, yea, and sore
afraid ever to return here. But fear thee not, my friend; she shall not
stand long in thy way. She hath had many offers of espousal, on the
which my father and I are to sit in counsel anon, that is, when other
weightier matters are despatched; and as soon as we shall have time to
choose a fitting match for the maid, she shall forthwith be tochered
off. She cannot, then, remain much longer at Hailes than some three or
four weeks at farthest, to frighten from its hall my best and dearest
friend. So that if she be the hindrance to thy return thither, make no
account of her, and promise me at once that thou wilt come. By St.
Baldrid, we shall have a houseful of jolly stalwart knights to meet
thee there; and our talk shall be of deeds of arms, and tourneys, till
thy heart be fully contented.”
This speech of Hepborne’s very much moved Assueton. He shifted his legs
down from the wall and up again at least a dozen times, and his tattoo
now became so rapid, that it would have troubled the legions for whom
the march may have been originally composed to have kept their feet
trotting in time to its measure.
“Nay, verily, Hepborne,” said he seriously, “thou dost thy sister but
scrimp justice, methinks. The Lady Isabelle was anything but tiresome
to me; nay, if I may adventure to say so much, she hath sense and
judgment greatly beyond what might be looked for from her age and sex;
there is something most truly pleasing in her converse—something, I
would say, much superior to anything I have heretofore chanced to
encounter in woman. But, methinks thou art rather hasty in thy disposal
of her. The damosel is young enow, meseems, to be thrust forth of her
father’s boure, perhaps to take upon her the weight of formal state
that appertaineth to the Madame of some stiff and stern vavesoure.
Perdie, I cannot think with patience of her being so bestowed already;
’twould be cruel, methinks—nay, ’twould, in good verity, be most unlike
thee, Hepborne, to throw thy peerless sister away on some harsh lord,
or silly gnoffe, merely to rid thy father’s castle of her for thine own
convenience. Fie on thee; I weened not thou couldst have even thought
of anything so selfish.”
“Nay, be not angry, Assueton,” said Hepborne, “thou knowest that they
have all a wish to wed them. But ’tis somewhat strange, methinks, to
hear thee talk so; the poppet seems to have made more impression on
thee than ever before was made by woman. What means this warmth? or why
shouldst thou step forth to be her knight?”
“’Tis the part of a good knight,” replied Assueton hastily, “to aid and
succour all damosels in distress.”
“Nay, but not against a distress of the knight’s own fancying, yea, and
contrary to the wishes of the damosel herself,” replied Hepborne.
“What! wouldst thou throw down the gauntlet of defiance against thy
friend, only for being willing to give his sister the man of her own
heart?”
“And hath she then such?” exclaimed Assueton, his face suddenly
becoming the very emblem of woe-begone anxiety.
“Yea, in good truth hath she, Assueton,” replied Sir Patrick. “I did
but suspect the truth last night, but this day I have been confirmed in
it.”
“Then am I the most wretched of knights,” cried Assueton, at once
forgetting all his guards; and rising hastily from his seat, he struck
his breast, and paced the room in a frenzy of despair.
Hepborne could carry on the farce no longer. He burst into a fit of
laughter that seemed to threaten his immediate dissolution; then threw
himself on the couch, that he might give full way to it without fear of
falling on the floor, and there he tossed to and fro with the
reiterated convulsions it occasioned him. Assueton stood in mute
astonishment for some moments, but at last he began to perceive that
his friend had discovered his weakness, and that he had been all this
time playing on him. He resumed his seat and position at the hearth,
and returned again to his tattoo.
“So,” said Hepborne—“so—ha, ha, ha!—so!—ha, ha!—so!—Oh, I shall never
find breath to speak—ha, ha, ha! So, Sir John Assueton, the
woman-hater, the knight of Adamant, he who was wont to be known in
France by the surnoms of the Knight sans Amour, and the Chevalier cœur
caillou—who, rather than submit to talk to a woman, would hie him to
the stable, to hold grave converse with his horse—who railed roundly at
every unfortunate man that, following the ensample of his great
ancestor Adam, did but submit himself to the yoke of love—who could not
bear to hear the very name of love—who sickened when it was
mentioned—who had an absolute antipathy to it, as some, they knew not
why, have to cats or cheese—who, though he liked music to admiration,
would avoid the place if love but chanced to be the minstrel’s
theme;—he, Sir John Assueton, is at last enslaved, has his wounds bound
up by a woman, and wears her scarf—plays the lady’s knight, and leads
her palfrey rein—rownes soft things in her ear, hangs o’er her harp,
and drinks in the sweet love-verses she sings to him!”
“Nay, nay, Hepborne, my dearest friend,” said Assueton, starting up,
and clasping his hands together in an imploring attitude, “I confess, I
confess; but sith I do confess, have mercy on me, I entreat thee; ’tis
cruel to sport with my sufferings, since thou knowest, alas, too surely
that I must love in vain.”
“But, pr’ythee, ‘why shouldst thou afflict thyself, and peak and pine
for a silly girl?’” said Hepborne ironically, bringing up against him
some of the very expressions he had used to himself at Norham. “‘A
knight of thy prowess in the field may have a thousand baubles as fair
for the mere picking up; let it not erke thee that this trifle is
beyond thy reach.’” And then rising, and striding gravely up to
Assueton, and shaking his head solemnly—“‘Trust me, women are dangerous
flowers to pluck, and have less of the rose about them than the thorn.’
Ha, ha, ha! Oh, ’tis exquisite—by St. Dennis, ’tis the richest treat I
ever enjoyed.”
“Nay, but bethink thee, my dear friend,” said Assueton, with an
imploring look; “bethink thee, I beseech thee, what misery I am
enduring, and reflect how much thou art augmenting it by thy raillery.
Depardieux, I believe thou never didst suffer such pain from love as I
do now.”
“‘No, thank my good stars,’” said Hepborne, returning to the charge,
and again assuming a burlesque solemnity of air and tone, “‘and I hope,
moreover, I never shall be so besotted: it makes a very fool of a
man.’”
“Well, well,” said Assueton, sighing deeply, “I see thou art determined
to make my fatal disease thy sport; yet, by St. Andrew, it is but cruel
and ungenerous of thee.”
“Grammercy, Assueton, I thought my innocent raillery could do thee no
harm,” said Hepborne; “methought that ‘thou mightst be said to have no
ears for such matters.’ But if thou in good truth hast really caught
the fever, verily I shall not desert thee, ‘my friendship for thee
shall make me listen to thy ravings;’ yea, and ‘compassion for thy
disease shall make me watch the progress of its symptoms. Never fear
that I shall be so little of a Christian knight as to abandon thee when
thy estate is so dangerous.’ But what, I pr’ythee, my friend, hath
induced this so dangerous malady?”
“Hepborne,” replied Sir John, “thy angelic sister’s magnanimity, her
matchless beauty, her enchanting converse, and her sweet syren voice.”
“Ay, ay,” said Hepborne roguishly; “so ’twas her voice, her warbles,
and her virelays that gave thee the coup-de-grace? Nay, it must be
soothly confessed, thou didst hang over her chair to-night in a most
proper love-like fashion, as she harped it; yet her verses ‘were silly
enough in conscience, methought’—and then, thou knowest, thou dost
‘rarely listen to music when love or follies are the theme.’”
“Hepborne,” said Assueton gravely, and with an air of entreaty, “it was
not after this fashion that I did use thee in thine affliction at
Norham. Think, I beseech thee, that my case is not less hopeless than
thine. But who, I entreat thee, is the happy knight who is blessed by
the favouring smile of thy divine sister, of the Lady Isabelle
Hepborne, whom I now no longer blush to declare to be the most peerless
damosel presently in existence?”
“He is a knight,” replied Hepborne, “whose peer thou shalt as rarely
meet with, I trow, as thou canst encounter the make of my sister, the
Lady Isabelle. He is a proper, tall, athletic, handsome man, of dark
hair and olive complexion, with trim moustaches and comely beard—nay,
the very man, in short, to take a woman’s eye. Though as yet but young
in age, he is old in arms, and hath already done such doughty deeds as
have made him renowned even in the very songs of the minstrels.
Moreover, he is a beloved friend of mine, and one much approved of my
father, and he shall gladly have our consent for the espousal of my
sister.”
“Nay, then,” said Assueton, in the accents of utter hopelessness, “I am
indeed but a lost knight, and must hie me to some barren wilderness to
sigh my soul away. But lest my disease should drive me to madness, tell
me, I entreat thee, the name of this most fortunate of men, that I may
keep me from his path, lest, in my blind fury, I might destroy him in
some ill-starred contecke, and through him wrack the happiness of the
Lady Isabelle, now dearer to me than life.”
“Thou knowest him as well as thou dost thyself, my dear Assueton,” said
Hepborne. “Trust me, he is one to whom thou dost wish much too well to
do him harm. His name is—Sir John Assueton.”
“Nay, mock me not, Hepborne, drive me not mad with false hopes,” said
Assueton; “certes, thy raillery doth now exceed the bounds that even
friendship should permit.”
“Grammercy,” said Hepborne, “thou dost seem to me to be mad enough
already. What! wouldst thou quarrel with me for giving thee assurance
of that thou hast most panted for? By the honour of a knight, I swear
that Isabelle loves thee. ’Tis true, I heard it not from her lips; but
I read it in her eyes, the which, let me tell thee, inexperienced in
the science, and all unlearned in the leden of love as thou art, do
ever furnish by far the best and soothest evidence on this point that
the riddle woman can yield. Never doubt me but she loves thee,
Assueton. She drank up the words thou didst rowne in her ear with a
thirst that showed the growing fever of her soul. And now,” continued
he, as he observed the happy effects of the intelligence upon the
countenance of his friend—“and now, Assueton, tell me, I pr’ythee, at
what hour in the morning shall I order thine esquire and cortege to be
ready for thy departure?”
“Hepborne,” said Assueton, running to embrace him, “thou hast made me
the happiest of mortals. Go! nay, perdie, I shall stay at Hailes till
thou dost turn me out.”
“But, my dearest Assueton,” cried Hepborne, smiling, “consider thy
mother, and the friends and the scenes of thy boyhood—consider what
thou——”
“Pshaw, my dear Hepborne,” cried Sir John, interrupting him, “no more
on’t, I entreat thee. Leave me, I beseech thee, to dreams of delight.
Good night, and may the blessed Virgin and St. Andrew be thy warison,
for this ecstacy of jovinaunce thou hast poured into my soul.”
“Good night,” said Hepborne, with a more serious air—“good night, my
dear and long-tried brother-in-arms; and good night, my yet dearer
brother by alliance, as I hope soon to call thee.”
The meeting of the lovers on the next day was productive of more
interesting conversation than any they had yet enjoyed; and although
Assueton was, as his friend had said, a novice in the science and
language of love, yet he caught up the knowledge of both with most
marvellous expedition, and was listened to with blushing pleasure by
the lovely Isabelle.
As the party was seated at breakfast, the sound of trumpets was heard
followed by that of the trampling of horses in the court-yard, and
immediately afterwards a herald, proudly arrayed, and followed by his
pursuivants, was ushered into the hall.
“Sir Patrick Hepborne,” said he, “and you, Sirs Knights, I come to
announce to you and to the world, that on the tenth day of the next
month, the noble John Dunbar, Earl of Moray, will hold a splendid
meeting of arms on the mead of St. John’s; and all princes, lords,
barons, knights, and esquires, who intend to tilt at the tournament,
are hereby ordained to lodge themselves within his Castle of Tarnawa,
or in pavilions on the field, four days before the said tournament, to
make due display of their armouries, on pain of not being received at
the said tournament. And their arms shall be thus disposed: The crest
shall be placed on a plate of copper large enough to contain the whole
summit of the helmet, and the said plate shall be covered with a
mantle, whereon shall be blazoned the arms of him who bears it; and on
the said mantle at the top thereof shall the crest be placed, and
around it shall be a wreath of colours, whatsoever it shall please him.
God save King Robert!”
The herald having in this manner formally pronounced the proclamation
entrusted to him, was kindly and honourably greeted by Sir Patrick
Hepborne, and forthwith seated at the board and hospitably entertained,
after which he arose and addressed the knight.
“Sir Patrick Hepborne,” said he, “myself and my people, being now
refreshed, I may not waste my time here, having yet a large district to
travel over. I drink this cup of wine to thee and to thy roof-tree,
with a herald’s thanks for thy noble treatment. Say, shall the Lord of
Moray look for thy presence at the tourney? I know it would be his wish
to do thee and thine particular honour.”
“Of that I may judge by his sending thee to Hailes,” said Sir Patrick
courteously. “But in truth I cannot go. I must leave it to thee to tell
the noble Earl how sorely grieved I am to say so; but my heart ha’ been
ill at ease of late.”
“Thine absence will sorely grieve the noble Earl, Sir Knight,” replied
the herald, “but, natheless, I shall hope to see thy gallant son, and
the renowned Sir John Assueton, chiefest flowers in the gay garland of
Scottish knights, who shall that day assemble at St. John’s. Till then
adieu, Sirs Knights, and may God and St. Andrew be with ye all.”
The trumpets again sounded, and the herald, being waited on by the
knights to the court-yard, mounted his richly caparisoned steed, and
rode forth from the castle, again attended by all the pomp of heraldry.
“Assueton,” said Hepborne, with a roguish air of seriousness, as they
returned up stairs, “goest thou to this tourney?”
“Nay, of a truth,” replied Assueton, with his eyes on the ground. “I
cannot just at present yede me so far. Besides, these wounds in my
bridle-arm do still pain me grievously, rendering me all unfit for
jousting.”
“Then, as I am resolved to go,” said Hepborne, “I do beseech thee make
Hailes Castle thy home till my return, and play the part of son to my
dear father in mine absence.”
CHAPTER XIII.
Sir Patrick Hepborne’s Departure for the North—Consternation at the
Castle.
As the way was long, and the day of the tournament not very distant,
Sir Patrick Hepborne the younger resolved to leave Hailes Castle next
morning for the North, that he might save himself the necessity of
forced marches. He accordingly made instant preparations for his
journey; his father gave immediate orders for securing him a cortege as
should not disgrace the name he bore; and his horses, arms, and
appointments of every description were perfectly befitting his family
and rank. When the morning of his departure arrived, he took an
affectionate leave of his father and Assueton, who left the Castle with
their attendants at an early hour, for the purpose of hunting together.
The Lady Isabelle would gladly have made one of the party with her
father and her lover, but, attached as she was to Sir John Assueton,
her affection for her brother was too strong to permit her to leave the
Castle till he should be gone. That he might enjoy her society in
private till the last moment, Hepborne despatched his faithful esquire,
Mr. Mortimer Sang, at the head of his people, to wait for him at a
particular spot, which he indicated, at the distance of about a mile
from the Castle; and he also sent forward the palfrey he meant to ride,
for his noble destrier Beaufront was to be led by a groom during the
whole march.
His fond Isabelle resolved to walk with him to the place where he was
to meet his attendants, and accordingly the brother and sister set out
together arm in arm.
Sir Patrick resolving to probe his sister’s heart, adroitly turned the
conversation on Sir John Assueton, and, with extreme ingenuity, touched
on those agrémens and virtues which his friend evidently possessed, as
well as on a number of weak and faulty points, both in person and
manner, which he chose, for certain purposes, to feign in him, or
greatly to exaggerate. In praising the former, the Lady Isabelle very
much surpassed her brother; for, however highly he might laud his
friend, she always found something yet more powerful and eloquent to
say in his favour; but whenever Sir Patrick ventured to hint at any
thing like a fault or a blemish, the lady was instantly up in arms, and
made as brave a defence for him against her brother as she had done for
him some days before against the wolf. This light skirmishing went on
between them until they reached a knoll covered with tall oaks, whence
they beheld the party, about to take shelter in the appointed grove of
trees, on the meadow by the river’s side, at a considerable distance
below them.
“Isabelle,” said Hepborne, taking her hand tenderly, “thou hast walked
far enough, my love; let us rest here for an instant, and then part.
Our converse hath not been vain. My just praise of Assueton, as well as
the faults I pretended to find in him, were neither of them without an
object. I wished ere I left thee to satisfy myself of the true state of
thy little heart; for I should have never forgiven myself had I
discovered that I had been mistaken, and that I had told what was not
true, when I assured Assueton, as I did last night, that thou lovest
him.”
“Told Sir John Assueton that I love him?” exclaimed the Lady Isabelle,
blushing with mingled surprise and confusion; “how couldst thou tell
him so? and what dost thou know of my sentiments regarding him?
Heavens! what will he think of me?”
“Why, well, passing well, my fair sister,” said Hepborne; “make thyself
easy on that score. He loves thee, believe me, as much as thou lovest
him; so I leave thee to measure the length, breadth, height, and depth
of his attachment by the dimensions of thine own. But as to knowing the
state of thy heart—tut! I could make out much more difficult cases than
it presents; for well I wot its state is apparent enough, even from the
little talk I have had with thee now, if I had never heard or seen
more. But, my dear Isabelle, after my father, thou and he are the two
beings on earth whom I do most love. Ye are both perfect in mine eyes.
I could talk to thee of Assueton’s qualities and perfections for days
together, and of virtues which as yet thou canst not have dreamt of;
but I must leave thee to the delightful task of discovering them for
thyself. All I can now say is, may heaven make ye both happy in each
other—for I must be gone. And so, my love, farewell, and may the
blessed Virgin protect thee.”
He then threw his arms about his sister’s neck, pressed her to his
bosom, and, having kissed her repeatedly with the most tender
affection, tore himself from her, ran down the hill, and, as she
cleared her eyes from the tear-drops that swelled in them, she saw him
disappear in the shade of the clump of trees where his party was
stationed. A good deal of time seemed to be lost ere the whole were
mounted and in motion; but at last she saw them emerging from the
wood-shaw, and winding slowly, in single files, up the river-side. She
sat on the bank straining her eyes after them until they were lost in
the distant intricacies of the surface, and then turned her steps
slowly homewards, ruminating agreeably on her brother’s last words, as
well as on the events of the preceding days, which had given her a new
and more powerful interest in life than she had ever before
experienced.
“Oh, my dear brother,” said she to herself, “thou didst indeed say
truly that I do love him; and if thou sayest as soothly that he doth
love me, then am I blessed indeed.”
It was courtesy alone that induced Sir John Assueton to agree to Sir
Patrick Hepborne’s proposal of going that morning to the woodlands to
hunt the deer. He went with no very good will; nay, when his host
talked of it, he felt more than once inclined, as he had done with his
friend about the tournament, to plead his wounded arm as an excuse for
remaining at home with the Lady Isabelle; and, perhaps, if it had not
been for absolute shame, he might have yielded to the temptation. Hence
he had but little pleasure in the sport that day, although it was
unusually fine; and he was by no means gratified to find himself led on
by the chase to a very unusual distance. But to leave Sir Patrick was
impossible. He was therefore compelled, very much against his
inclination, to ride all day like a lifeless trunk, whilst his spirit
was hovering over the far-off towers of Hailes Castle. The deer was
killed so far from home, that it was later than ordinary before the
party returned.
“I am surprised Isabelle is not already here to receive us,” said Sir
Patrick, as they entered the banquet hall; “I trowed she might have
been impatient for our return ere this. Gabriel,” said he to the old
seneschal, “go, I pr’ythee, to Mary Hay, and let her tell her lady that
we are come home, and that we have brought good appetites with us.”
Gabriel went, and soon returned with Mary Hay herself, who appeared in
great agitation.
“Where is thy lady?” demanded Sir Patrick, with an expression of
considerable anxiety.
“My lady! my good lord,” said the terrified girl; “holy St. Baldrid! is
she not with thee then?”
“No,” said Sir Patrick, with increasing amazement and alarm, “she went
not with us. We left her here with my son, when he rode forth in the
morning.”
“Nay, I knew that,” said the terrified Mary Hay, “but—good angels be
about us—I weened that her pages and palfrey might have gone with thee,
and that she might ha’ been to join thee in the woods, after having
given her brother the convoy.”
“Merciful powers! did she leave the Castle with her brother?” “Good
Heavens! hath she never been seen since morning?” exclaimed Sir Patrick
and Assueton, both in the same breath, and looking eagerly in the faces
of the people around them for something satisfactory; but no one had
seen her since morning. Some of the domestics ran out to question those
who had kept guard; but though she had been seen as she went out with
her brother, neither warder or sentinel had observed her return.
Meantime the whole Castle was searched over from garret to cellar by
Assueton, Sir Patrick, and the servants, all without success.
The consternation and misery of the father and the lover were greater
than language can describe. Broken sentences burst from them at short
intervals, but altogether void of connection. A thousand conjectures
were hazarded, and again abandoned as impossible. Plans of search
without number were proposed, and then given up as hopeless; while all
they said, thought, or did, was without concert, and only calculated to
show their utter distraction. But matters did not long continue thus.
“My horse, my horse!” cried the agonized and frenzied father; and “My
horse, my horse!” responded Assueton, in a state no less wild and
despairing.
Both rushed down to the stable, and the horses which yet remained
saddled from the chase being hurriedly brought out, they struck the
spurs into their sweltering sides, and, almost without exchanging a
word, galloped furiously from the gateway, each, as if by a species of
instinct, taking a different way, and each followed by a handful of his
people, who mounted in reeking haste to attend his master. They scoured
the woodlands, lawns, and alleys, from side to side, and all around;
they beat through the shaws and copses, and hollowed and shouted to the
very cracking of their voices. By and by, to those who listened from
the walls, their circles appeared to become wider, and their shouts
were no longer heard. Forth rushed, one by one, as they could horse
them in haste, or gird themselves for running, grooms, lacqueys,
spearmen, billmen, bowmen, and foresters, until none were left within
the place but the men on guard, the old, the feeble, and some of the
women. Even Mary Hay ran out into the woods, beating her breast,
tearing her hair, screaming like a maniac, and searching wildly among
the bushes, even less rationally than those who had gone before her.
Sir Patrick, as he rode, began, in the midst of his affliction, to
collect his scattered ideas, and, calling to mind what they had told
him of Lady Isabelle having gone to convoy her brother, he immediately
halted from the unprofitable search he was pursuing, and turned his
horse’s head towards that direction which they must have necessarily
taken. He rode on as far as the knoll where the brother and sister had
bid adieu to each other, and there being a cluster of cottages at the
bottom of the hill, he made towards one of them himself, and sent his
attendants to all the others in search of information. From several of
the churls, and from their wives, he learned that his son had been seen
taking an affectionate leave of a lady whom they now supposed to have
been the Lady Isabelle, among the oaks on the knoll, and that he had
afterwards joined his party, waiting for him under the trees by the
river’s side, whilst the lady seemed to turn back, as if to take the
way to the Castle. With this new scent, Sir Patrick made his panting
horse breast the hill, and, assisted by his men, beat the ground in
close traverse, backwards and forwards, from one side to another, with
so great care and minuteness that the smallest object could not have
escaped their observation. They tried all the by-routes that might have
been taken, but all without success; though they spent so much time in
the search that darkness had already begun to descend over the earth
ere they were compelled to desist from it as hopeless.
They returned towards the Castle, still catching at the frail chance,
as they hurried thither, that though they had been unsuccessful, some
one else might have been more fortunate, and that probably the Lady
Isabelle had been already brought back in safety. But unhappily the
guards, who crowded round them at the gate, and to whom both master and
men all at once opened in accents of loud inquiry, had no such
heart-healing tidings to give them. They obtained such intelligence,
however, as had awakened a spark of hope. Sir John Assueton had
returned a short time before Sir Patrick, with the horse he had ridden
so exhausted that the wretched animal had dropped to the ground, and
died instantly after his rider had quitted the saddle. He had called
loudly for fresh horses and a party of spearmen, and had then rushed
into the Castle to arm himself in haste; and a number of those who had
gone to search independently having fortunately by this time come in
one by one, some fifteen or twenty bowmen, spearmen, and billmen had
been hastily got together, and provided with brisk and still unbreathed
horses. Without taking time, however, to give the particulars of what
he had gathered, or to say whither he was bound, Sir John had merely
called out to the guard, as he was mounting, to tell Sir Patrick, if he
should return before him, that he had heard some tidings of the Lady
Isabelle, and that he would bring her safely back, or perish in the
attempt; and after having said so, he had given the word to his men and
scoured off at the head of them in a southern direction.
The miserable father was more than ever perplexed by this information.
From the preparations Sir John had so effectually though hastily made,
it was evident that the scene of the enterprise he went on was distant;
and that it was not without doubt or danger, appeared from the few
words he had let fall. Could Sir Patrick have had any guess whither to
go, he would have instantly armed himself, and such men as he could
have got together, to follow and aid Sir John Assueton; but such a
chase was evidently more wild and hopeless than the fruitless search he
had just returned from; and the pitchy darkness which by this time
prevailed was in itself an insurmountable obstacle to his discovering
the route that Sir John had taken. He was compelled, therefore, most
unwillingly and most sorrowfully, to give up all idea of further
exertion for the present; but he resolved to start in the morning long
ere the first lark had arisen from its nest, and, if he should hear
nothing before then that might change his determination, to ride
towards England. He accordingly gave orders to his esquires to have a
body of armed horsemen ready equipped to accompany him, an hour before
the first streak of red should tinge the eastern welkin.
Old Gabriel Lindsay, his dim eyes filled with tears, and altogether
unable to take comfort to himself, came to make the vain attempt to
administer it to his master, and to try to persuade him to take some
rest. But all the efforts of the venerable seneschal were ineffectual,
and the heartbroken father continued to pace the hall with agitated
steps among his people, despatching them off by turns, and often
running down to the gate, or to the ramparts, whenever his ear caught,
or fancied it caught, a sound that might have indicated Assueton’s
return.
CHAPTER XIV.
The Pursuit—Surprising the Camp.
But it is now time to state the circumstances of Assueton’s search, as
well as the cause of his abrupt departure. If Sir Patrick, on first
starting from the Castle, had been so little master of himself as to
lose time by galloping over ground where it was next to impossible his
daughter could be found, it was not at all likely that Sir John and his
people, strangers as they were to the neighbourhood, could make a
better selection. But it not unfrequently happens that chance, or
(which is a much better word for it) Providence, does more than human
prudence in such cases. After making two or three wild and rapid
circles through the woods in the immediate vicinity of the Castle, like
a stone whirled round in a sling, he flew off at a tangent southwards,
and accidentally hit upon a solitary cottage about a couple or more
miles from the Castle, where he learned that a small body of English
spearmen had halted that morning, and that the leader had made a number
of inquiries about the late and future motions of his friend the
younger Sir Patrick Hepborne, and himself. These were well enough
known, for the arrival of their young lord had excited universal joy
among the population of his father’s estate; the coming of the herald,
with Hepborne’s departure, were also matters too interesting to escape
circulation; and the churl of the cottage had told, without
reservation, all the circumstances to the strangers. He also learned
that the party had gone on to reconnoitre the Castle; and that
afterwards, as the rustic was making faggots at some distance from his
dwelling, he had seen them sweeping by towards England. Assueton could
not elicit from the peasant whether it had appeared to him that the
Lady Isabelle was with them, because the man had had but an indistinct
view of them as they rode through the woodlands; but he and his people
were agreed that these must have been the perpetrators of the outrage.
His judgment, now that it had a defined object, began to come into full
play. He saw that his own horse and the horses of his attendants were
too much spent to enable him to pursue on the spur of the moment, and,
had it not been so, that it would be vain to go on such an expedition
so slenderly accoutred and accompanied. He therefore galloped back to
the Castle as hard as the exhausted animal could carry him, followed at
a distance by his straggling men; and there he made those rapid
preparations and that hasty outset which we have already noticed.
The night became extremely dark before Assueton had gone many miles;
but, luckily for him, Robert Lindsay, the head forester, happened to be
one of his company, for without him, or some other guide equally well
acquainted with the country he had to travel over, his expedition must
have been rendered abortive. Even as it was, he found difficulty enough
in threading the mazes of the Lammermoors; and although Lindsay knew
every knoll, stone, bog, flow, and rivulet that diversified their
surface, they made divers deviations from the proper line, and were
much longer in crossing the ridge than they should have been if
favoured by the light of the moon. Towards morning they judged it
prudent to halt on the brow of the hills, ere they began to descend
into the lower and more level country, that they might make
observations by the first light, and determine both as to where they
were and as to their future movements.
As objects below them began to grow somewhat distinct, they found that
they had posted themselves immediately over the hollow mouth of a glen,
opening on the flat country, where a rivulet wound through some green
meadows; and they soon began to descry several tents, pitched together
in a cluster, with a number of horses picquetted around them.
“By’r Lady,” said Assueton, “yonder lie the ravishers. Let’s down upon
them, my brave men, ere they have time to be alarmed and fly.”
He gave his horse the spur, and galloped down the slope at a fearful
pace, followed by his party, and having gained the level, they charged
towards the little encampment with the swiftness of the wind. The
morning’s mist that hung on the side of the hill, and the imperfect
grey light, had prevented the sentinels who were on the watch from
seeing the horsemen approaching until they had descended; but they no
sooner observed them coming on at the pas de charge, than the alarm was
given and a general commotion took place among them. Out they came
pouring from the tents to the number of forty or fifty; and there was
such a hasty putting on of morrions and skull-caps, and seizing of
weapons, and loosing of halters, and mounting of the few that had time
to get on horseback, and such a clamouring and shouting, and so much
confusion, as assured Assueton an easy victory, though their numbers
were so much greater than his. He came on them at the head of his small
body like a whirlwind, and before half of them had time to turn out, he
was already within a hundred yards of their position. A few of them,
armed with spears, had formed in line before the tents, apparently with
the resolution of standing his charge, and at the head of these was an
old man, hastily armed in a cuirass. He stood boldly planted with a
lance in his hand, though his head was bare, and his white hairs hung
loosely about his determined countenance. Sir John Assueton was on the
very eve of bearing him and his little phalanx down before the
irresistible fury of his onset, when he suddenly pulled up his reins,
and halted his men.
“Sir Walter de Selby!” exclaimed he with astonishment, and raising his
visor, that he might the better behold him.
“Sir John Assueton!” cried Sir Walter, “I crave truce and parley.”
“Thou hast it, Sir Walter,” said Assueton, “but only on one condition,
that I see not any one attempt to escape hence, or stir from the
position he is now in, until all matters be explained betwixt us.
Pledge me thine honour that this shall be so, and I shall parley with
thee in friendship, till I shall see just cause for other acting. But,
by the Rood of St. Andrew, if a single knave shall seek to steal him
away, or to quit the spot of earth that now bears him, I will put every
man to death, saving thee only, whose white hairs and recent
hospitality are pledges for thy security. Advance, Sir Walter; I swear
by my knighthood that thy person shall take no hurt from my hands, or
from the hands of any of my people.”
“Thou comest, doubtless,” said Sir Walter, “to seek after the Lady
Isabelle Hepborne, the fair sister of thy friend Sir Patrick Hepborne.”
“I do,” said Sir John Assueton, eagerly; “and, by the blessed Virgin,
an she be not immediately delivered up scathless into my custody, I
will put every man but thyself to instant death. Shame, foul shame on
thee, Sir Walter, to be the leader in a foray so disgraceful as this.
Is this thy requital to Sir Patrick Hepborne for——? But, hold—I will
not in my friend’s name cast in thy teeth what he himself would scorn
to throw at thee.”
“Nay, Sir John Assueton, judge not so hastily, I entreat thee. What
didst thou see in my behaviour at Norham that should lead thee to
suspect me of the foul deed thou art now so ready to charge me withal?
Were I capable of any such, perdie, thou mightest well pour out all
this wrath and wrekery on this old head of mine. Listen to me, I
beseech thee, with temper, and thou shalt soon know that I have had no
hand in this unknightly outrage, the which nobody can more deplore than
I do. It was Sir Miers de Willoughby who carried off the lady—God pity
me for being related to one who could so disgrace me! But on him be the
sin and the shame of the act.”
“Nay, Sir Knight,” cried Assueton, hastily, “seeing that he did it in
thy company, thou canst not, methinks, shake thyself free of a share of
both. But where is the recreant, that I may forthwith chastise him? And
where is the lady? By all the saints in the kalendar, if she is not
instantly produced, I will make every man in thy troop breakfast upon
cold steel.”
“As God is my judge, Sir Knight,” said Sir Walter, “as God is my judge,
mine own afflictions weigh not more heavily on my old heart at this
moment than does the thought that I have been in some sort, though
innocently, the occasion of this outrage having been done against the
sister of the very knight for whom, of all others, gratitude would make
me think it matter of joy to sacrifice this hoary head to do him
service. There are some honourable gentlemen here present who can vouch
for me that, forgetful of mine own bereavement, and the direful
consequences that may follow it, I had resolved to abandon my own
quest, and to go forward this morning to Hailes Castle to inform Sir
Patrick Hepborne in person of all I know of this ill-starred and wicked
transaction; and if thou wilt but listen to me, I shall tell it thee in
as few words as may be.”
“But the lady, Sir Knight, the lady?” cried Assueton, in a frenzy;
“produce the lady instantly, else the parley holds not longer.”
“By mine honour as a knight,” cried the old man, “she is not here.”
“Not here!” exclaimed Sir John Assueton, “not here! What, hast thou
sent her forward to Norham? By the blessed bones of my ancestors,” said
he, digging his spurs through mere rage into his horse’s sides, and
checking him again, till he sprang into the air with the pain, “I shall
not leave a stone of it together. Its blaze shall serve to light up the
Border to-night in such fashion that every crone on Tweedside shall see
to go to bed by it.”
“She is not at Norham, Sir Knight,” said Sir Walter, calmly; “she is
not in my keeping, I most solemnly protest unto thee.”
“Where is she then, in the name of St. Giles?” cried Assueton. “Tell me
instantly, that I may fly to her rescue. Trifle no more with me, old
man; thou dost wear out the precious minutes. Depardieux, my patience
is none of the strongest e’en now; it won’t hold out much longer, I
tell thee, for I am mad, stark mad; so tell me at once where she is, or
my rage may overcome my better feelings.”
“Nay, Sir John Assueton,” said Sir Walter de Selby, with a forbearance
and temper that, old as he was, he could never have exercised had it
not been for the feeling of what he owed to Sir Patrick Hepborne and
the consciousness that present appearances warranted the suspicion of
his having been accessory to the outrage committed against the Lady
Isabelle; “I beseech thee, Sir John Assueton, command thyself so far as
to listen to me for but a very few minutes; hadst thou done so earlier,
thou hadst ere this known everything. Interrupt me not, then, I implore
thee, and thou shalt be the sooner satisfied. This is now the third
morning since—unfortunate father that I am—I discovered the sad malure
which hath befallen me, and that I was bereft of my daughter, the Lady
Eleanore, who had been mysteriously carried off during the night.
Certain circumstances———”
“Nay, but, Sir Knight,” said Assueton, interrupting him, “what is thy
daughter to me? What is she to the Lady Isabelle Hepborne? Ay, indeed,
wretch that I am, what is she in any way to the point?”
Sir Walter de Selby went on without noticing this fresh interruption.
“Certain circumstances led some of the people about me to believe that
thy friend, Sir Patrick, had had some hand in the rapt, and that he, or
some of his people, had returned at night, and, by some unexampled
tapinage, found means unaccountable to withdraw my daughter from the
Castle. In the frenzy I was thrown into by mine affliction, I was
easily induced to believe anything that was suggested to me; and,
getting together my people in a haste, I———”
“So,” cried Assueton, “I see how it is; a vile thrust of vengeance led
thee to make captive of the Lady Isabelle. Oh, base and unworthy
knight!”
“Nay, indeed, not so,” said Sir Walter, eager to exculpate himself; “I
have already vowed I had no hand in anything so base. ’Tis true, I set
out with the mad intent of besieging Hailes Castle, and demanding the
restoration of my daughter. To this I was much encouraged by Sir Miers
de Willoughby, who happened to be at Norham at the time, and who
offered to accompany me. I got no farther than this place that night;
and having had time to reflect by the way on the nature of the
enterprise I was boune on, as well as on the great improbability of so
foul suspicion being verified against a knight of thy friend Sir
Patrick’s breeding and courtesy, I resolved to proceed with the utmost
caution, lest I should even give cause of offence where no offence had
been rendered. As the most prudent measure I could adopt, and as that
least likely to excite alarm, I resolved to pitch my little camp in
this retired spot, and to send forward Sir Miers de Willoughby, who
readily volunteered the duty, towards Hailes Castle, to make such
inquiry of the peasants as might satisfy me of the truth or falsehood
of my suspicions; and this, thou must grant me, Sir John Assueton, was
as much delicacy as could be observed by me, in the anguished and
bleeding state of my heart for the loss of my only child, and the
impatience which I did naturally feel to gain tidings of her.” Here the
old man’s voice was for some moments choked by his tears; and Sir John
Assueton was so much moved by them that he spake not a word. Sir Walter
proceeded—
“De Willoughby returned here last night about sunset. He came to my
tent alone, and he did tell me that, from all he could learn, he
believed that my daughter had not been carried thither, either by Sir
Patrick or any other person. ‘But,’ added he, ‘be Sir Patrick Hepborne
guilty or innocent of this outrage against thee, I have made a capture
that will be either paying off an old score, or scoring the first item
of a new account against these Scots, for I have carried off the Lady
Isabelle Hepborne.’ Struck with horror, and burning with rage to hear
him tell this, I insisted on her being instantly brought to my tent,
that I might forthwith calm her mind, and take immediate steps to
return her in safety, with honourable escort, to her father. ‘Give
thyself no trouble about her,’ said the libertine, treating all I said
with contempt, ‘for ere this she bounes her over the Border, on a
palfrey led by my people.’ I was thunderstruck,” continued the old man;
“and ere I had time to recover myself so far as to be able to speak or
act, de Willoughby sprang to the door of the tent, and I heard the
clatter of his horse’s heels as he galloped off. I was infuriated; I
felt that he had basely made me the scape-goat to his own caitiff
plans, which I now began to suspect were not of recent hatching. I
despatched parties in every direction after him, but all of them
returned, one by one, without having gained even the least intelligence
of him. And all this is true, on the word of an old knight. God wot how
well I do know to feel for the father of the damosel, sith I do suffer
the same affliction myself.”
The old knight was overpowered by his emotions; and Assueton, who had
been at length prevailed on to hear his tale to an end, gave way at the
conclusion of it to a paroxysm of rage and grief, which might have well
warranted the bystanders in believing he was really bereft of reason.
He threw himself from his horse to the ground, in despair. Roger
Riddel, his esquire, a quiet, temperate, and, generally, a very silent
man, did all he could to soothe his master; and even old Sir Walter de
Selby, sorrowful as he himself was, seemed to forget his wretchedness
in endeavouring to assuage that which so unmanned the Scottish knight.
After giving way for some time to ineffectual ravings, the offspring of
intense feeling, and having then vented his rage in threats against Sir
Miers de Willoughby, Assueton began by degrees to become more calm, and
seeing the necessity of exerting his cool judgment, that he might
determine how to act, he was at length persuaded by Sir Walter de Selby
to go into his tent for a short time, till the horses and men could be
refreshed. Sir Walter had no disposition to screen his unworthy
relative from the wrath with which Assueton threatened him; or, if he
had, he conceived himself bound to make it give way to a sense of
justice. He therefore readily answered the Scottish knight’s hasty
questions, and told him that it was more than likely that the lady had
been carried to a certain castle belonging to de Willoughby, situated
about the Cheviot hills.
Assueton’s impatience brooked no longer delay. Accordingly, with a soul
agonized by the passions of love, grief, rage, and revenge, he summoned
his party to horse, and set off at a furious pace on his anxious and
uncertain quest.
CHAPTER XV.
Norham Castle again—The Ancient’s Divination—Sir Walter
Bewitched—The Franciscan Friar to the Rescue.
Sir Walter de Selby, who was enduring all the bitterness of grief that
a father could suffer, whose only child, a daughter too, on whose
disposal hung a whole legion of superstitious hopes and fears, had been
rent from him in a manner so mysterious, broke up his little camp with
as much impatience as Assueton had exhibited. But age did not admit of
his motions being so rapid as those of the younger knight. He moved,
however, with all the celerity he could exert, for he remembered the
warning flame which had appeared on the fatal shield; and the very
thought of his daughter’s disappearance, with the frightful
consequences which might result from her being thus beyond his control,
filled his heart with horror and dismay. He was also exceedingly
perplexed how the wizard, Master Ancient Haggerstone Fenwick, could
have so erred in his divination as to occasion him the fruitless and
mortifying expedition into Scotland; for Sir Walter, in the first fever
of distraction he was thrown into by the discovery of his daughter’s
disappearance, had immediately made his way to the aerial den of the
Ancient. The cunning diviner instantly recollected that he had seen Sir
Patrick Hepborne going towards the rampart, where he had reason to know
the Lady Eleanore de Selby had been walking, from which he was led to
suspect an appointment between them. He was too artful to make Sir
Walter aware of this circumstance, but, proceeding upon it, he enacted
some hasty farce of conjuration, and then with all due solemnity boldly
and confidently pronounced that Sir Patrick Hepborne had secretly
returned, and, obtaining possession of the person of the Lady Eleanore,
had carried her over the Border.
Some time after Sir Walter de Selby had gone into Scotland, however, a
discovery was accidentally made that seemed to throw light on the
disappearance of his daughter. The mantle she usually wore had been
found by a patrole, at several miles’ distance to the south of Norham,
lying by the way-side leading towards Alnwick—a circumstance which left
no doubt remaining that she had been carried off in that direction. But
ere this could be communicated to Sir Walter on his return, his
impatience for an interview with his oracle was so great that, putting
aside all obstructions, he hastened to climb to the den of the monster
on the top of the keep.
“What sayest thou, Master Ancient Fenwick?” said the old man, as he
entered the cap-house door, his breath gone with the steepness of the
ascent and the anxiety of his mind; “for once thy skill seemeth to have
failed thee.”
The Ancient was seated in his usual corner, immersed in his favourite
study: a large circle was delineated on the floor, and in the centre of
it lay the Lady Eleanore’s mantle.
“Blame, then, thine own impatience and haste,” said the Ancient. “The
signs were drawn awry, and no wonder that the calculations were
erroneous; but thou wert not gone half-a-day until I discovered the
error; and now thou shalt thyself behold it remedied. Dost see there
thy daughter’s mantle?”
The old man instantly recognized it; and, looking at it in silence for
some moments, the feelings of a sorrowing and bereft parent came upon
him with all the strength of nature; his heart and his eyes filled, and
burst into a flood of tears. He stepped forward to lift it up and
imprint kisses upon it; but the stern and unfeeling Ancient called out,
in a harsh voice,—
“Touch it not, on thy life, else all my mystic labours have been in
vain. Stand aloof there, and, if thou wilt, be a witness of the power I
possess in diving into secrets that are hid from other men.”
Sir Walter obeyed. The Ancient arose and struck a light; and having
darkened the loophole window, he lighted his lamp and put it into a
corner. He then approached the circle, and squatting down, he with much
labour and difficulty drew his unwieldy limbs within its compass, and,
kneeling over the mantle, he proceeded to mutter to himself, from a
book of necromancy which he held in his hand, turning the pages over
with great rapidity, and making from time to time divers signs with his
forefinger on his face and on the floor. After this he laid his head
down on the pavement, covered it with the mantle, and continued to
mutter uncouthly, and to writhe his body until he seemed to fall into a
swoon. He lay motionless for a considerable time; but at length he
appeared to recover gradually, the writhing and the muttering
recommenced, and raising up his body with the mantle hanging over his
head and shoulders, he exposed his horrid features to view. To the
inexpressible terror of Sir Walter, the forehead blazed with the same
appalling flame which he had seen it bear on the night of his long
interview with the wizard.
“Seek thy daughter in the South,” said the Ancient, in a hollow voice;
“seek her from Sir Rafe Piersie. Remember thy destinies. The balance
now wavers—now it turns against thee and thy destinies. If but an atom
of time be lost, they are sealed, irrecoverably sealed.”
Quick as the lightning of heaven did the ideas shoot through the old
man’s mind, as the Ancient was solemnly pronouncing this terrific
response. He remembered that Sir Rafe Piersie had left Norham, in a
litter, the very day preceding the night his daughter had disappeared;
and it flashed upon him that some of the grooms had remained behind
their master, under pretence of one of his favourite horses having been
taken ill, and had afterwards followed him during the night. That they
must have found means to carry the Lady Eleanore off with them, was, he
thought, but too manifest. The very name of Piersie, when uttered by
the Ancient, had made Sir Walter’s blood run cold, from his
superstitious belief of the impending fate that was connected with it;
and the weight of his feelings operating on a body oppressed with
fatigue and want of sleep, and on a mind worn out with the agitation
and affliction it had undergone, became too much for nature to bear. He
grew deadly pale. He made an effort to speak, but his tongue became dry
and cleaved to the roof of his mouth, and his lips refused their
office; an indistinct, mumbling, moaning sound was all that they could
utter—his cheeks became rapidly convulsed—one corner of his mouth was
drawn up to his ear, and he fell backwards on the floor in a state of
perfect insensibility.
Fenwick became alarmed. He started up with the ghastly look of a
newly-convicted felon, and the fear of being accused of the murder of
Sir Walter came upon him. He crept towards the knight, and raising him
up, made use of what means he could to endeavour to restore him to
life; but all his efforts were unsuccessful. Trembling from the panic
he was in, he then lifted the old knight in his arms, and with great
difficulty conveyed him down the narrow stair to his own apartment.
Horror was depicted in the faces of the domestics when they beheld the
hated but dreaded monster bearing the bulky and apparently lifeless
body of their beloved master. A wild cry of grief and apprehension
burst from them. The Ancient laid Sir Walter on the bed, and, as the
attendants stood aloof and aghast, he took up a small knife that lay
near and pierced the veins of both temples with the point of it. The
blood spouted forth, and the knight began to show faint symptoms of
life. Never negligent of any circumstance that might raise his
reputation for supernatural power, the Ancient now began to employ a
number of strange necromantic signs, and to utter a jargon of
unintelligible words in a low muttering tone, laying his hand at one
time on the face, and at another on the breast, of the semi-animate
body, that he might impress the bystanders with the idea of his magic
having restored Sir Walter to life; for, seeing the blood flow so
freely, he anticipated the immediate and perfect recovery of the
patient. But he was mistaken in the extent of his hopes. Sir Walter
opened his eyes, stared wildly about him, and moved his lips as if
endeavouring to speak; but he continued to lie on his back, altogether
motionless, and quite incapable of uttering a word.
The dismayed Ancient shuffled out of the apartment, and hastily retired
to his lofty citadel. A murmur of disapprobation broke out among the
domestics the moment he was supposed to be beyond hearing. They crowded
about their master’s bedside, every one eager to do something. All
manner of restoratives were tried with him, but in vain. He seemed to
be perfectly unconscious of what they did, and he lay sunk in a
lethargy, from which nothing could rouse him.
Sir Walter was the idol of his people and garrison. By degrees the
melancholy news spread through the keep of the Castle, and thence into
its courts, barracks, stables, guardhouses, and along its very
ramparts, until every soldier and sentinel in the place became aware of
the miserable condition of their beloved Governor, as well as of the
immediate share which Master Ancient Haggerstone Fenwick, the sorcerer,
had had in producing it. General lamentations arose.
“Our good Governor is bewitched!”—“The monster Ancient hath bewitched
him!”—“The villain Fenwick drew his very blood from him to help his
sorcery!”—“What can be done?”—“What shall we do?”—“Let us send
forthwith for some holy man.”—“Let us send for the pious clerk of
Tilmouth Chapel; he hath good lore in sike cases.”
The suggestion was approved by all, and accordingly a horseman was
instantly despatched to bring the clerk with all possible haste. The
messenger speedily returned, unaccompanied, however, by the pious
priest of Tilmouth, who chanced to be sick in bed, but who had sent
them a wayfaring Franciscan monk, of whose potent power against magic
he had largely spoken. The holy man was immediately ushered into the
Governor’s apartment. Having previously taken care to inform himself of
all the particulars of the case, from the horseman behind whom he had
been brought, he approached the bed with a solemn air and surveyed Sir
Walter for some time, as if in deep consideration of his state and
appearance, with intent to discover his malady. He looked into his
eyes, felt him carefully all over, and moved his helpless legs and arms
to and fro. Meanwhile the officers of the garrison, the attendants, and
even some of the soldiers, were awaiting anxiously in the room, about
the door, on the stairs, and on the bridge below, all eager to learn
the issue of his examination.
“Sir Walter de Selby is bewitched,” said the Franciscan at length, “and
no human power can now restore him, so long as the wretch, whoever he
may be, who hath done this foul work on him shall be permitted to live.
If he be known, therefore, let him be forthwith seized and dragged to
the flames.”
An indignant murmur of approbation followed this announcement, and soon
spread to those on the stairs, and from them to the soldiers in the
court-yard below. Fortified by the spiritual aid of a holy friar, the
most superstitious of them lost half of their dread of the Ancient’s
supernatural powers.
“Burn the Ancient!” cried one.—“Burn Haggerstone Fenwick!” cried
another.—“Burn the Wizard Fenwick!” cried a third.—“Faggots
there—faggots in the court-yard!”—“Raise a pile as high as the
keep!”—“Faggots!”—“Fire!”—“Burn the Ancient!”—“Burn the Wizard!” flew
from mouth to mouth. All was instant ferment. Some ran this way, and
others that, to bring billets of wood, and to prepare the pile of
expiation; so that, in a short time, it was built up to a height
sufficient to have burnt the Ancient if his altitude had been double
what it really was.
This being completed, the next cry was—“Seize the Ancient—seize him,
and bring him down!” But this was altogether a different matter; for
although every one most readily joined in the cry, no one seemed
disposed to lead the way in carrying the general wish into effect. The
friar assumed an air of command—
“Let no one move,” said he, “until I shall have communed with the
wretch. I shall myself ascend to his den, and endeavour to bend his
wicked heart to undo the evil he hath wrought on the good Sir Walter.
But let some chosen and determined men be within call, for should I
find him hardened and obdurate, he must forthwith be led out to suffer
for his foul sorcery. Meanwhile let all be quiet, let no sound be
uttered, until I shall be heard to pronounce, in a loud voice, this
terrible malison, ‘Body and soul, to the flames I doom thee!’ Then let
them up without delay on him, and he shall be straightway overcome.”
The Franciscan was listened to with the most profound deference, his
commands were implicitly obeyed, and every sound, both within and
without the Castle, was from that moment hushed.
CHAPTER XVI.
Raising the Devil—Delivered to the Flames.
The Ancient Haggerstone Fenwick had been by no means comfortable in his
thoughts after he had retreated to the solitude of his cap-house, and
had in fact anticipated in some degree the effect which would result
from the state of insensibility that Sir Walter had been thrown into.
He was aware that the very mummery he had enacted over him, when he
expected his immediate resuscitation, instead of operating, as in that
event it would have done, to raise his fame as a healing magician,
would now be the means of fixing on him the supposed crime of having
produced his malady, and strengthened it by wicked sorcery. But he by
no means expected that the irritation against him would be so speedy or
so violent in its operation as it really proved, and he perhaps trusted
for his safety from any sudden attack to the dread with which he well
knew his very name inspired every one in the garrison.
He had crept into the farther corner of his den, where, in the present
distracted state of his mind, it did not even occur to him to
extinguish the lamp he had left burning, or to let in the daylight he
had excluded. There he sat, brooding over the unfortunate issue of his
divination, in very uneasy contemplation of the danger that threatened
him in consequence, distant though he then thought it. A coward in his
heart, he began to curse himself for having tried schemes which now
seemed likely to end so fatally for himself. He turned over a variety
of plans for securing his safety, but, after all his cogitation, flight
alone seemed to be the only one that was likely to be really available.
But then Sir Walter might recover; in which case he might still obtain
the credit of his recovery, and his ambitious schemes be yet crowned
with success. Thus the devil again tempted him; and he finally resolved
to wait patiently until night, which was by this time at hand, and then
steal quietly down to ascertain Sir Walter’s state, and act
accordingly. Should he find him worse, or even no better than when he
left him, he resolved to go secretly to the ramparts, there to undo
some of the ropes of the warlike engines that defended the walls, and
to let himself down by means of them at a part where he knew the height
would be least formidable, and so effect his escape.
Occupied as the Ancient was with these thoughts, although he had heard
the clamours and shouts rising from below, yet, buried in the farthest
corner of his den, they came to his ear like the murmurs of a
far-distant storm; and, accustomed to the every-day noise of a crowded
garrison, they did not even strike him as at all extraordinary.
To divert these apprehensions which he could by no means allay, he
opened one of his favourite books, and endeavoured to occupy himself in
his usual study; but his mind wandered in spite of all his exertions to
keep it fixed, and he turned the leaves, and traced the lines with his
eyes without being in the least conscious of the meaning they conveyed.
He roused himself, and began reading aloud, as if he could have talked
himself into quiet by the very sound of his own voice. He went on
without at first perceiving the particular nature of the passage he had
stumbled on; but his attention being now called to it, he was somewhat
horrified to observe that it contained the form of exorcism employed
for raising the devil in person. By some unaccountable fatality, he
went on with it, wishing all the while that he had never begun it, but
yet more strangely afraid to stop; until at length, approaching the
conclusion, he ended with these terrible words—“Sathanas, Sathanas,
Sathanas, Sathanas, Prince of Darkness, appear!”
He stopped, and looked fearfully around him, as soon as they had passed
his lips. The door of the place slowly opened, and the head of the very
Franciscan monk who had formerly visited him, the face deeply shaded by
the projecting cowl, was thrust within the doorway.
“I am here—what wouldst thou with me?” said he, in a deep and hollow
voice.
The Ancient threw himself upon his knees, and drew back his body into
the corner. His teeth chattered in his head, and he was deprived of
speech. He covered his eyes with his hands, as if afraid to look upon
the object of his dread. He now verily believed that he had been
formerly visited by the Devil, and that the Arch-Fiend had again
returned to carry him away. The Franciscan crouched, and glided forward
into the middle of the place.
“What becomes of him, lossel,” said he, in a tremendous voice, “what
becomes of him who takes the Devil’s wages, and doeth not his work?
What becomes of him who vainly tries to deceive the Devil his master?
Fool! didst thou not believe that I was the Prince of Darkness?”
The terrified Ancient had now no doubt that he was indeed the Devil;
still he kept his hands over his eyes, and drew himself yet more up, in
dread that every succeeding moment he should feel himself clutched by
his fiery fangs.
“Hast thou not tried to cheat me, wretch—me, who cannot but know all
things?” continued the Franciscan.
“Oh, spare me, spare me! I confess, I confess. Avaunt thee,
Sathanas!—Spare!—Avaunt!—Spare me, Sathanas!” muttered the miserable
wretch, altogether unconscious of what he uttered.
“Spare thee, thou vile slave!” cried the Franciscan with bitterness, “I
never spared mortal that once roused my vengeance, and thou hast roused
mine to red-hot fury. Answer me, and remember it is vain to attempt
concealment with me. Didst thou not fail of thy promise to rouse Sir
Walter de Selby to my purpose, as it affected Sir Rafe Piersie?”
“Oh, I did, I did—Oh, spare me, spare me, Sathanas!” cried the Ancient.
“Didst thou not rather stir him up to reject and spurn the noble
knight?” demanded the Franciscan.
“Oh, yes, I did—Oh yes—Spare me, spare me!—Avaunt thee, Sathanas!—Spare
me—Oh, spare me!”
“Spare thee!” cried the Franciscan, with a horrid laugh of contempt;
“spare thee! What mercy canst thou hope from me? No, thou art given to
my power, not to be spared, but to be punished. Thine acts of sorcery,
which have murdered Sir Walter de Selby, have put thee beyond the pale
of mercy, nor canst thou now look elsewhere for aid. Thou art fitting
food for hell,” continued he, with a fiend-like grin of satisfaction;
and retreating slowly out of the doorway, and raising his voice into a
shriek, that re-echoed from every projection and turret of the
building, he pronounced the last fatal words, “Body and soul, to the
flames I doom thee!”
An instantaneous shout arose from the court-yard below, and a clamour
of many voices came rapidly up the stairs in the interior of the keep.
It quickly swelled upon the ear, and the clattering noise of many feet
was heard approaching. Out they came on the platform of the keep, one
by one, as they could scramble forth; and as the stoutest spirits
naturally mounted first, the Franciscan was instantly surrounded by a
body of the most determined hearts in the garrison.
“In on the servant of Sathanas,” cried he; “in on the cruel sorcerer,
who hath bewitched thine unhappy Governor, and who refuseth to sayne
again; in on the monster, tear him from his den, and drag him to the
flames. Fear him not; his supernatural powers are quenched. Behold!”
and pulling a wooden crosslet from his bosom, he held it up to their
view—“In on him, I say, and seize him.”
The door was instantly forced open, and one or two of the boldest
entered first; then two or three more followed, to the number of half a
dozen in all, for the place could hardly contain more. The Ancient had
now become frantic from terror, and his reason so far forsook him that
he saw not or knew not the faces of those who came in on him to attack
him, though many of them were familiar to him; he was fully possessed
with the idea that a legion of devils were about to assail him, to drag
him down to eternal punishment. They sprang upon him at once by general
concert. The Ancient was an arrant coward; but a coward so
circumstanced will fight to the last, even against an infernal host;
and so he did, with the desperation of a maniac. In the interior of the
place, the scuffle was tremendous; the very walls and roof of it seemed
to heave and labour with its tumultuous contents. The keep itself shook
to its foundation, and the shrieks, groans, and curses that came from
within appalled the bystanders.
“Pick-axes, crows, and hatchets!” cried the friar; and the implements
were brought with the utmost expedition at his command.
“Unroof his den,” cried he again; and two or three of the stoutest
mounted forthwith on the flags of the roof, and by means of the crows
and pick-axes began to tear them up with so much expedition, that they
very soon laid the wood bare, and following up their work of
devastation with the same energy, speedily and entirely demolished the
roof, letting in the little light that yet remained of day upon the
combatants.
The ancient Fenwick was now discovered lying on his back, his jaws wide
open, his huge tusks displayed, and his mouth covered with foam, while
his opponents were clustered over him like ants employed in
overpowering a huge beetle. All their efforts to drag him out at the
door had been quite unavailing. Though there were no weapons of edge or
point among the combatants, many severe wounds and blows had been given
and received, and blood flowed on the pavement in abundance. The
Ancient’s teeth seemed to have done him good service after his arms had
been mastered and rendered ineffectual to him, for many of his
assailants bore deep and lasting impressions of his jaws on their hands
and faces.
“In on the savage wizard now, overwhelm and bind him,” cried the
Franciscan, with a devilish laugh of triumph.
At his word they scaled the roofless walls, and jumped down on the
miserable wretch in such numbers that the place was literally packed.
But the more that came on him the more furiously the Ancient defended
himself, kicking, and heaving, and tossing some of them, till one of
their number, laying his hand on a huge folio, made use of his code of
necromancy against himself, and gave him a knock on the head that
stunned him, and rendered him for some time insensible. Taking
advantage of this circumstance, cords were hastily employed to bind his
arms behind him; and a set of ropes being passed under him, he was with
great difficulty hoisted from his den, and laid out at length upon the
platform of the keep. There he lay, breathing, to be sure, but in a
temporary state of perfect insensibility.
Availing themselves of the swoon into which he had fallen, the
assailants began to hold counsel how they were to get his unwieldy and
unmanageable carcase down to the court-yard. To have attempted to carry
it by the stairs would have been hopeless; a week would have hardly
sufficed to have manœuvred it through their narrow intricacies. The
only possible mode, therefore, was to let him down by means of ropes,
over the outside walls of the keep. Accordingly strong loops were
passed around his legs and under his arm-pits; and by the united
exertions of some dozen of men, he was lifted up and projected over the
battlements.
As they were lowering him down slowly and with great care, the wretched
Ancient, recovering from his swoon, found himself dreadfully suspended
between sky and earth; and looking upwards, and beholding the grim
faces of the men who managed the ropes scowling over the battlements,
strongly illuminated by the light of the torches they held, he was more
than ever convinced that they were demons, nor did he doubt that he was
already in the very commencement of those torments of the nether world
which he had been condemned to undergo for his iniquity. He shrieked
and kicked, and made such exertions, that the very ropes cracked, so
that he ran imminent risk of breaking them, and of tumbling headlong to
the bottom. Afraid of this, the people above began to lower him away
more quickly, and the darkness below not permitting them to see the
ground, so as to know when he had nearly reached it, his head came so
rudely in contact with it that he was again thrown into a state of
insensibility.
The whole men of the garrison, both within and without the keep, having
now assembled around him, a white sheet was brought out by order of the
Franciscan, and he was clothed in it as with a loose robe. A black
cross was then painted on the breast, and another on the back of it,
from the charitable motive of saving his soul from the hands of the
Devil, after it should be purified from its sins by the fire his body
was destined to undergo. A parchment cap of considerable altitude, and
also ornamented with crosses, was next tied upon his head; and two long
flambeaux were bound firmly, one on each side, above his ears. He was
then carried to the pile of wood, and extended at length upon the top
of it. The torches attached to his head were lighted, and the
Franciscan, approaching the pile with a variety of ceremonies, set fire
to it with much solemnity—a grim smile of inward satisfaction lighting
up his dark and stern features as he did so.
“Thus,” said he, “let all wizards and sorcerers perish, and thus let
their cruel enchantments end with them.”
The anticipation of the horrific scene which was to ensue operated so
powerfully on the vulgar crowd around, that a dead silence prevailed;
and even those who, a few minutes before had shouted loudest and fought
most furiously against the Ancient, now that they beheld the wretched
victim laid upon the pile, and the fire slowly gaining strength, and
rising more and more towards him—already hearing in fancy the piercing
agony of his screams, and beholding in idea the horrible spectacle of
his half-consumed limbs writhing with the torture of the flames—stood
aloof, and, folding their sinewy arms and knitting their brows, half
averted their eyes from the painful spectacle.
Up rose the curling smoke, until the whole summit of the broad and
lofty keep was enveloped in its murky folds; while the flames, shooting
in all directions through the crackling wood, began already to produce
an intolerable heat under the wretched and devoted man, though they had
not yet mounted so high as to catch the sheet he was wrapt in. Life
began again to return to him. He stretched himself, and turned his head
round first to the right, and then to the left; and, beholding the
dense group of soldiers on all sides of him, their eyes glaring red on
him, from the reflection of the flame that was bursting from beneath
him, and being now sensible of the intolerable heat, and half
suffocated with the gusts of smoke that blew about him, his belief that
he was in the hands of demons, and that his eternal fiery punishment
was begun, was more than ever confirmed. He bellowed, writhed, and
struggled; and his bodily strength, which was at all times enormous,
being now increased tenfold by the horrors that beset him, he made one
furious exertion, and, snapping the cords which bound his arms behind,
and which, fortunately for him, had been weaker than they otherwise
would have been, had those who tied them not believed that he was
already nearly exanimate, he sprang to his feet and rent open the front
of the white robe they had put round him. Down came the immense and
loosely-constructed pile of faggots, by the sheer force of his weight
alone, and onward he rushed, with the force and fury of an enraged
elephant, overturning all who ventured to oppose him, or who could not
get out of his way, the flambeaux blazing at his head, and his long
white robe streaming behind him, and exposing the close black frieze
dress he usually wore. The guards and sentinels at the first gate,
aware of what was going on, and conceiving it impossible for human
power to escape, after the precautions which had been taken, when they
saw the terrible figure advancing towards them, with what appeared to
them to be a couple of fiery horns on his head, abandoned their posts
and fled in terror. Those at the outer gate were no less frightened,
and retreated with equal expedition. But the drawbridge was up. Luckily
for the Ancient, however, he, like many other fortunate men, was on the
right side for his own interest on this occasion. Without hesitation he
put the enormous sole of one foot against it—down it rattled in an
instant, chains and all, and he thundered along it.
By this time the panic-stricken soldiers of the garrison had recovered
from their alarm, and started with shouts after the fugitive, being now
again as eager to take him, and much more ready to sacrifice him when
taken, than they had even been before. On they hurried after him,
yelling like a pack of hounds, and cheered to the chase by the
revengeful and bloodthirsty Franciscan, their pursuit being directed by
the flaming torches at his head; and forward he strode down the hollow
way to the mead of Norham, and, dreading capture worse than death
itself, be darted across the flat ground, flaming like a meteor, and,
dashing at once into the foaming stream of the Tweed, began wading
across through a depth of water enough to have drowned any ordinary
man; until at length, partly by swashing and partly by swimming, during
which last operation the lights he bore on his head were extinguished,
he made his way fairly into Scotland.
His pursuers halted in amazement. The whole time occupied in his escape
seemed to have been but as a few minutes. Fear once more fell upon
them, and they talked to one another in broken sentences and
half-smothered voices.
“Surely,” said one, “the Devil, whose servant he was, must have aided
him.”
“Ay, ay, that’s clear enow,” said another.
“He was stone-dead, and came miraculously alive again,” said a third.
“Nay,” said a fourth, “he came not alive again; ’twas but the Devil
that took possession of his dead body.”
“In good troth thou hast hit it, Gregory,” said a fifth, with an
expression of horror; “for no one but the Devil himself could have
broken the cords that tied his hands, or kicked down the drawbridge
after such a fashion.”
“Didst see how he walked on the water?” cried a sixth.
“Ay,” said a seventh, “and how he vanished in the middle o’ Tweed in a
flash o’ fire that made the very water brenn again?”
Having thus wrought themselves into a belief that the spectre they had
been following was no other than the Devil flying off with the already
exanimate body of Ancient Fenwick, they trembled at the very idea of
having pursued him; and they crept silently back to the garrison, the
blood in their veins freezing with terror, and crossing themselves from
time to time as they went.
As for the Franciscan, he disappeared, no one knew how.
CHAPTER XVII.
Sir John’s Pursuit in Quest of the Missing Lady—The Forester’s
Hunting Camp—Sir Miers de Willoughby’s Border Keep.
Sir John Assueton’s fury and distraction carried him on with great
rapidity, until he reached the banks of the Tweed, and his own horse,
as well as the horses of his small troop of spearmen, were right glad
to lave their smoking sides in its cool current, as he boldly swam them
to the English shore. He tarried but short time by the way, to refresh
either them or his men; and towards nightfall, found himself winding
into a green glen, thickly wooded in some parts, opening in smooth
pasture in others, and watered by one of those brisk streams that
descend into Northumberland from the Cheviot hills.
The sight of those lofty elevations, now so near him, brought the
object of his hasty march more freshly to his mind, too much agitated
hitherto by the violence of the various passions that possessed it, to
permit him to act or think coolly. But he began now to reflect that,
although he had learned that the Castle of Burnstower, to which Sir
Miers de Willoughby was supposed to have carried off the Lady Isabelle,
lay somewhere among the intricacies of these hills, his rage and
impatience had never allowed him to inquire farther, or to advert to
the very obvious circumstance that the extent of the hilly range was so
great that he might search for many days before he could discover the
spot where it was situated. It was therefore absolutely necessary that
he should avail himself of the very first opportunity which might occur
of procuring information, both as to the Castle he was in search of,
and the owner of it, of whom he had in reality as yet learned nothing.
He rode slowly up the glen, therefore, in expectation of seeing some
cottage, where he might halt for a short time to gain intelligence, or
of meeting some peasant, from whom he might adroitly gather the
information he wanted, without exciting suspicion as to the nature of
his errand.
Fortune seemed to be so far favourable to him, that he had not ridden
any great distance ere he descried a forester, standing under a
wide-spreading oak, by the side of a glade, where the glen was
narrowest. He had a cross-bow in his hand, and appeared to be on the
watch for deer.
“Ho, forester,” cried Assueton to him, “methinks thou hast chosen a
likely pass here for the game; hast thou sped to-day?”
“Not so far amiss as to that,” said the forester, carelessly leaving
his stand, and lounging towards the party, as if to reconnoitre them.
“Dost thou hunt alone, my good fellow,” said the knight.
“N—nay,” said the forester, with hesitation; “there be more of us in
company a short way off.”
“Hast thou any cottage or place of shelter hereabouts, where hungry
travellers might have a mouthful of food, with provender, and an hour’s
rest for our weary beasts?” demanded Assueton. “Here’s money for thee.”
“As to a cottage like,” replied the forester, “I trow there be not many
of them in these wilds; but an thou wilt yede thee wi’ me, thou shalt
share the supper my comrades must be cooking ere this time; and as for
thy beasts, they canna be muckle to dole for, where the grass grows
aneath their feet. Thy money we care not for.”
“Thine offer is fair and kind, good forester,” said Assueton; “we shall
on with thee right gladly, and give thee good thanks for thy sylvan
hospitality, such as it may be. Lead on then.”
The forester, without more words, walked cleverly on before Sir John
Assueton, who followed him at the head of his party. As they advanced a
little way, the wooding of the glen became much more dense, and rocks
projecting themselves from the base of the hills on either side,
rendered the passage in the bottom between them and the stream
excessively narrow, so that the men of the party could only move on
singly, and were more than once obliged to dismount and lead their
horses. The way seemed to be very long, and night came on to increase
its difficulties. Assueton’s impatience more than once tempted him to
complain of it; but he restrained himself, lest his eagerness might
excite suspicion that he had some secret and important hostile object
in view, and that he might thus lose all chance of gaining the
information he so much wanted. He kept as close as he possibly could to
his guide, however, for he began to have strange doubts that he might
be leading him into some ambush; and he had resolved within his own
mind to seize and sacrifice him the instant he had reason to be
convinced he had betrayed them.
After forcing their way through a very wild pass, where the rocks on
both sides towered up their bold and lofty fronts, the glen widened,
and the party entered a little gently-sloping glade or holme, bounded
by the high and thickly-wooded banks, which here retired from the side
of the stream, and swept irregularly around it. A blazing fire appeared
among the trees.
“Ay,” said the forester, “these are my comrades: I reckon we come in
good time, for yonder be the supper a-cooking.”
The party now crossed through the luxuriant pasture, that, moistened
with the evening dew, was giving out a thousand mingled perfumes from
the wild flowers that grew in it, and speedily came within view of
about a dozen men, clad in the same woodland garb worn by their guide.
Some of them were sitting about the fire, engaged in roasting and
broiling fragments of venison; while others were loitering among the
trees, or sitting under their shade. A number of cross-bows and
long-bows hung from the branches, several spears rested against their
stems; and these, with swords, daggers, and anelaces, seemed to compose
the arms of this party of hunters. They appeared to have had good
success, for six or eight fat bucks were hanging by the horns from the
boughs overhead.
“Here is a gallant knight and his party,” said their guide to a man who
seemed to be a leader among them, “who would be glad of a share of our
supper.”
The person he addressed, and who came forward to receive Assueton, was
a tall and uncommonly handsome man; and although his dress differed in
no respect from that of the others, except that he wore a more gaudy
plume in his hat, and that his baldrick, the sword suspended from it,
his belt and dagger, and the bugle that hung from his shoulder, were
all of more costly materials and rarer workmanship. But there was
something in his appearance and mien that might have graced knighthood
itself. He bowed courteously to Assueton.
“Sir Knight,” said he, “wilt thou deign to dismount from thy steed, and
partake with us in our woodland cheer? Here,” said he, turning to the
people around him, “let more carcases be cut up; there is no lack of
provisions. Will it please thee to rest, Sir Knight?”
“I thank thee, good forester, for thy willing hospitality,” said
Assueton, alighting, and giving his horse to his squire; “I will rest
me on that green bank under the holly busket there, and talk with thee
to wile away time and beguile my hunger. This is a merry occupation of
thine,” added he, after they had sat down together.
“Ay,” replied the forester, “right merry in good sooth, were we left at
freedom to enjoy it. But, by the mass, that is not our case here, for
there wons in this vicinage a certain discourteous knight, who letteth
no one kill a deer on his ground that he may know of; so we be forced
to steal hither, at times when we may ween that he is absent, or least
on the watch. The red and roe deer do much abound in these glens; and,
by the Rood, ’tis hard, methinks, that the four-footed game should be
given by nature for man’s food, and that he should be reft of his right
to take it.”
“And who may this discourteous knight be?” said Assueton, wishing to
feel his way with the stranger.
“His name,” said the forester, “is Sir Miers de Willoughby, of a truth
a most cruel and lawless malfaitor, and as bold a Borderer as ever rode
through a moss. He rules everything here, and gives honest folks the
bit to champ, I promise thee. Would that some such gallant knight as
your worship might meet with him and humble him, for verily he is a
scourge to the country.”
Sir John Assueton inwardly congratulated himself upon his good luck in
having thus so fortunately stumbled on a man, who, having himself
suffered from de Willoughby’s oppression, was manifestly so inimical to
him: he felt much inclined to speak out at once, but he checked
himself, and thought it wiser to proceed with caution.
“Is he so very wicked, then, this Sir Miers de Willoughby of whom thou
speakest?” said he to the forester.
“By the mass is he, Sir Knight,” replied the forester. “He will soar ye
from his Border-keep like a falcon, and pounce on any prey that may
come within his ken; and als he be so stark as to others using his
lands for their honest and harmless occupation of hunting, by’r Lady,
he minds not on what earth he stoops, if so be that there be anything
to cluth from off its surface. ’Twas but some three days ago that he
yode hence on some wicked emprise, for ’twas his absence that led us
hither; and this morning, as we lay concealed in these wood shaws, we
saw him and his men ride by this very spot, bearing home with him some
worthy man’s gentle cosset he had stowne away.”
Assueton perfectly understood the forester to have used the word
cosset—a pet lamb—in a metaphorical sense; but, to draw him on, he
pretended to have taken him up literally.
“A cosset!” cried he, with feigned surprise. “A poor pet lamb was but a
wretched prey indeed for so rapacious a lorrel as thou wouldst make
this same Sir Miers to be, good forester.”
“Nay, nay, Sir Knight,” replied the forester, “I meant not in very
simplicity a pet lamb, but a fair damosel, who looked, meseemed, as if
she had been the gentle cosset of some fond father. ’Twas a damosel,
Sir Knight, a right fair and beauteous damosel; and she shrieked from
time to time in such piteous fashion, that, by the Rood, it was clear
she went not with him willingly.”
Assueton’s blood boiled, so that it was with difficulty he could longer
restrain his fury. He, however, kept it within such bounds as it might
well enough pass for the indignation natural to a virtuous knight upon
hearing of such foul outrage done to any damsel.
“Unworthy limb of knighthood,” said he, “thus to play the caitiff part
of a vile lossel? Show me the way to his boure, and by the blessed
bones of the holy St. Cuthbert, he shall dearly rue his traiterie.”
“Marry, ’tis no wonder to see a virtuous knight so enchafed at such
actings,” said the forester; “yet can the damosel be little to thee;
and ’twere scarce, methinks, worth thy while to step so far from thy
path. Had she been thine own lady, indeed———”
“Nay,” said Assueton, hastily, but endeavouring to conceal his emotion,
“thou knowest, good forester, that ’tis but my duty as a true knight to
redress this foul wrong; and whosoever this lady may be, and
wheresoever I may be bound, I must not scruple to step a little out of
my way to punish so wicked a coulpe.”
“Right glad am I, Sir Knight,” said the forester, “to see thee so ready
to do battle against this caitiff, Sir Miers, and full willing should I
be to conduct thee to the sacking of his tower; but, in good verity,
’twere vain to go accoutred and attended as thou art. He keeps special
good watch and ward, I promise thee, and he is too much wont to have
his quarters beat up, not to be for ever on the alert. He hath scouts
stationed all around him, in such a manner that no one may approach his
stronghold of Burnstower by day or by night withouten ken, and he is
straightway put on the alert long ere he can be reached. If those who
come against him be strong and well armed, more than his force than
overcome, then he hies him away to the fastnesses of his mosses and
hills, where no one but the eagle may follow him, and leaves only his
barren walls to the fury of the besiegers. But if the party be small,
and such as his wiles may master, he is sure to lead them into some
ambush, and to put every man of them to the sword. Trust me, were thou
to go clad in steel, and with such a party of spearmen at thy back, he
would take the alarm, and thou wouldst either have thy journey and thy
trouble for thy guerdon, or thou and thy people might fall by cruel
traiterie.”
“Then what, after all, may be the best means of coming at him?” said
Assueton; “for thou hast but the more inflamed my desire to essay the
adventure.”
The forester seemed to consider for a time—“In truth,” said he at
length, “I see no other way than one, the which thou wouldst spurn, Sir
Knight.”
“Name it,” said Assueton; “depend on’t, I shall not be over nice in
this affair.”
“Wert thou,” said the forester, “and, it might be, no more than two of
thy people, to venture thither in disguise, with one or two of us to
guide thee, thou mightest peradventure pass thither without begetting
alarm, and be received into the Castle as lated and miswent travellers,
lacking covert for the night. But then all that would be but of small
avail, for what couldst thou do with thy single arm, and so small a
force to aid it?”
“Nay, good forester,” said Assueton, “be it mine to see to that, and be
it thine to bring me thither. Knights are but born to conquer
difficulties, and, perdie, I have never yet seen that which did not,
with me, give greater zest to the adventure I went upon. By the blessed
Rood, I shall go with thee. Let us forthwith have our disguises, then,
and these two men of my company,” pointing to Riddel and Lindsay,
“shall share the glory of mine emprise. So let us, I pr’ythee, snatch a
hasty meal, and set forward without delay.”
“By the mass, but thou art a brave knight,” said the forester; “yet it
doth grieve me to see thee go on so hopeless an errand. Nathless, I
shall not baulk thee nor back of thy word; verily I shall wend with
thee, to show thee the way thither. But I would fain persuade thee even
yet to leave this undertaking untried.”
“Nay,” said Assueton, “I have said it, and by God’s aid I will do it,
let the peril be what it may; so let us use despatch if it so please
thee.”
Seeing that the bold and dauntless knight was resolved, the forester
ordered some of the venison, that was by this time cooked, to be set
before Assueton, and some also to be served to those who were to
accompany him; and after all had satisfied their hunger, Assueton
doffed his armour, clad himself in a suit of plain Lincoln green, such
as the foresters wore, and, unperceived by any one, slipped his dagger
into his bosom. He then openly girt his trusty sword by his side, and
leaving orders with his party to remain with the friendly foresters
until they should see him, or hear from him, he and his two people, who
were also disguised, mounted their horses, and set off under the
guidance of the leader of the hunting party and two of his men, whom he
took with them, as he said, to bear him company on his return.
CHAPTER XVIII.
The Horrors of the Dungeon.
Their route lay up the glen, and the darkness of the night, with the
roughness of the way, very much impeded their progress. At one time
they were led along the very margin of the stream, and, at another,
they climbed diagonally up the steep sides of the hills that bounded
it, and wound over far above, to avoid some impediment which blocked
all passage below. Now they penetrated extensive thickets of brushwood,
and again wound up among the tall stems of luxuriant oaks, or passed,
with greater ease to themselves and their weary horses, over small open
glades among the woods. At length they began to rise over the sides of
the hills, to a height so much beyond any that they had hitherto
mounted, that Assueton thought the deviation strange and unaccountable,
and was tempted to put some question to his guide.
“Whither dost thou lead us now, good forester?” said he; “thou seemest
to have abandoned the glen altogether, and methinks thou art now
resolved to soar to the very clouds. I much question whether garron of
mosstrooper ever climbed such a house-wall as this.”
“Sir Knight,” replied the forester, “I but intend to lead thee over the
ridge of a hill here, by a curter cast. The glen maketh a wicked wide
courbe below, and goeth miles about. This gate will save us leagues
twayne, at the very shortest reckoning. Trust me I am well up to all
the hills and glens of these parts, by night as well as by day.”
“Nay, good forester,” said Assueton, “I doubt thee not; but, by our
Lady, this seemeth to me to be a marvellous uncouth path.”
“T’other, indeed, is better, Sir Knight,” said the forester; “but bad
as this may be, ’twill haine us a good hour’s time of travel.”
Assueton was satisfied with this explanation, and the ground getting
more level as they advanced, he soon discovered that they were crossing
a wild ridge of moorland, and hoped that the impediments to a speedier
progress would be fewer. But the way seemed, if possible, to be even
more puzzling and difficult than ever. They wound round in one
direction, and then went zig-zag to the opposite point of the compass;
then they wormed their way through bogs and mosses—then stretched away
Heaven knew whither, and then, making a little detour, they (as it
seemed to Assueton) returned again in a line nearly parallel to that
which they had just pursued. Hours appeared to glide away in this
wearisome and endless maze, and Assueton’s impatience became excessive.
“Good forester,” said he, “methinks we are never to get out of this
enchanted labyrinth.”
“Nay, Sir Knight,” replied the forester, “’tis an enchanted labyrinth
in good soberness; for, verily, full many a goodly steed hath been
ygraven in the flows that surround us. There be quaking bogs here that
would swallow a good-sized tower. Nay, halt thee, Sir Knight, thou must
of needscost turn thee this gate again.”
“By St. Cuthbert,” said Assueton, “meseems it a miracle that thou
shouldst have memory to help thee to thread the intricacies of so
puzzling a path, maugre the darkness that yet prevails.”
“’Tis indeed mirk as a coal mine,” said the forester, “but I look for
the moon anon.”
After better than half-an-hour more of such travelling as we have
described, they at length wound down a very precipitous hill, where
their necks were in considerable peril, and found themselves again in
the glen, and by the side of its stream. As well as Assueton could
guess, they had now travelled fully three or four hours, the greater
part of which time they had spent on the high ground. The state of
their horses, too, bore out his calculation, for they showed symptoms
of great exhaustion, from this so large addition to the previous severe
journey. They pushed them on, however, as fast as the nature of the
ground would admit, the glen presenting the same variety of woods,
glades, and thickets, as it had formerly done.
At length they came to a place where the hills approached on each side,
and the glen narrowed to a wild gorge, where all passage was denied
below, except for the stream, and they were consequently again
compelled to ascend the abrupt banks by a diagonal path. But they had
no sooner gained the summit than the moon arose, and threw its silver
light full over the scene into which they were about to advance. Above
the gorge, the valley was split into two distinct glens, or rather deep
ravines, each pouring out its stream, and these, uniting together,
formed that which they had so long traced upwards. Above the point of
their union arose a green-headed eminence, swelling from among the rich
woods that everywhere clothed it, and all the other lower parts of the
space within their view. The round top of the eminence was crowned with
a rude Border Tower; and the whole was backed, a good way behind, by a
semi-circular range of hilly ridges. The moonlight shone powerfully on
the building, the keep of which seemed to be of no great size, but very
strong in itself; and the outworks, consisting of massive walls
defended here and there by round towers, showed that it was a
stronghold where determined men might make a powerful resistance.
“Yonder is the peel of Burnstower,” said the forester, pointing to it;
“thou must ford the stream there below, under the hill whereon it
stands, and so make thy way up through the woods by a narrow path, that
will lead thee to the yett. I shall yet go with thee as far as the
ford, to show thee the right gate through the water; but I must then
bid thee farewell, nor canst thou lack mine aid any longer.”
“Good forester,” said Assueton, “certes thou hast merited the guerdon
of my best thanks for thine obliging and toilsome convoy. When I join
thee again, trust me they shall be cheerfully paid thee, together with
what more solid warison thou mayest see fit to accept, in token of my
gratitude. Meanwhile, I beseech thee to take good charge of my brave
men.”
“Nay, fear me not in that, Sir Knight,” said the forester; “they shall
be well looked after, I promise thee. My men have doubtless already
taken good care of them, and of their steeds too.”
Having descended the hill, they pushed their way through the opposing
brushwood, and reached the bank of one of the streams, immediately
above the spot where it united itself to the other. The forester
indicated the ford to Assueton, and then took an abrupt leave, diving
into the thicket with his two followers.
Assueton stood for a moment on the brink of the stream before he
entered, and took that opportunity of telling his two attendants to be
particularly on their guard, to watch his eye, attend to his signals,
and be ready to act as these might appear to suggest to them. They were
also to bear in mind that for the present they were to pass as equals.
He then cautiously entered the ford, and, followed by Riddel and
Lindsay, soon reached the farther bank.
They now found themselves on a low grassy tongue of land, which shot
out between the two streams from the woods at the base of the eminence
the Castle stood on, and which, though of considerable length, was
nowhere more than a few yards wide. Along this they pushed their
horses, as fast as the weary animals could advance. A few trees
struggled down over it at the farther extremity, where it united itself
to the base of the hill; and just as they had entered among these, all
their horses were at one and the same moment tumbled headlong on the
ground. An instant shout arose from the thickets on either side, and
about a dozen men sprang from them on the prostrate riders; and, after
a short and ineffectual struggle on their part, Assueton and his two
attendants were bound hand and foot, and blindfolded. All this time not
a word was spoken; and excepting the shouts that were the signal of the
onset, not a sound was heard. But the prey was no sooner fairly
mastered, than a loud bugle blast was blown from the thickets near
them, and it was immediately answered by another, that rang through the
woods at some distance. The horses were then extricated from the toils
of ropes which had been so treacherously though ingeniously employed to
ensure their prostration, and on regaining their legs, their late
riders were lifted up and laid across them like sacks, and they were
led by the villains who had captured them up the steep and devious
ascent, through the thick wood to the Castle. The party then entered
the gateway, as Assueton judged from the noise made in raising the
portcullis, and the prisoners being lifted from their horses, were
carried each by two men into the main tower.
Whither they took his two attendants, Assueton had no means of
guessing; but he was borne up a long and winding stair, as he supposed
to the top of the building, and then through several passages. There he
heard the withdrawing of rusty bolts, and the heavy creaking of hinges;
and, being set down on the floor of his prison, his arms and legs were
unbound, his eyes uncovered, and he was left in utter darkness and
amazement.
After sitting for some moments to recover from the surprise occasioned
by this sudden and unlooked for annihilation of all his plans and of
all the hopes he had cherished from them, he arose, and, before
yielding to despair, groped his way to the walls, and felt them
anxiously all round. Not a crevice or aperture could he discover but
the doorway, and that was blocked by an impregnable door, crossed and
recrossed by powerful bars of iron, so that he saw no hope of its being
moved by any strength of human arm, unassisted by levers or other such
instruments. The walls and floor were of the most solid masonry in
every part; yet he felt the balmy air of a soft night blow upon his
face, and, on looking upwards, he could just descry a faint glimmer of
light, that broke with difficulty through the enormous thickness of the
building, by a narrow window immediately over where he then stood. This
opening, however, was quite beyond his reach, being at least a dozen
feet above him.
As he moved backwards to get from under the wall where the window was,
that he might obtain a better view of it, his head came in contact with
something hanging behind him. He turned round, but his eyes were not
yet sufficiently accustomed to the obscurity, to enable him to discover
anything more than that there was some dark object suspended from
above. He put up his hands to ascertain what it was, and, to his
inexpressible horror, felt the stiffened legs of a corpse, which swung
backwards and forwards at his touch. Bold and firm as he was, Assueton
started involuntarily back, and his heart revolted at the thought that
he was to be so mated for the night. He retired to a corner, where he
had discovered a heap of straw with a coarse blanket, and he sat him
down on it; but it immediately occurred to him that this had probably
been the bed of the unfortunate man who now dangled lifeless from the
centre of the vault, and he could sit on it no longer. That the poor
wretch had been put to death in the very chamber which had been his
prison, seemed to argue a degree of hardened cruelty and summary
vengeance in those in whose power he had now himself the misfortune to
be, that left him little room to hope for much mercy at their hands.
Having moved to an opposite corner, nearly under the little window, he
seated himself on the floor, and gave up his mind to the full
bitterness of its thoughts. The first recollection that presented
itself was that of the Lady Isabelle, torn from her home, her father,
and himself, by an unprincipled and abandoned villain. His reflections
on this painful theme banished every thought of his own captivity, as
well as every speculation as to what its result might be, excepting,
indeed, in so far as it might affect the fate of her who was now the
idol of his heart. He ran over his past conduct, and seeing that he
could now have no hope of being the instrument of her rescue, he blamed
himself in a thousand ways. He accused himself bitterly for not having
sent back a messenger from the place where he had met Sir Walter de
Selby, to inform Sir Patrick Hepborne the elder of the intelligence he
had obtained from the Captain of Norham; then unavailing regrets and
self-accusations arose within him for having neglected to obtain more
full information from Sir Walter, when he had it in his power to do so;
but, above all, he cursed his folly for having abandoned his
stout-hearted spearmen, who would have backed him against any foes to
the last drop of their blood. He turned over the circumstances of his
rencontre with the foresters, and, recalling the whole conduct of their
leader, he now began to be more than half suspicious that they had
played him false. This last reflection made him tremble for the fate of
his people whom he had left with them; and remembering his guide’s
parting assurance, “that they should be well looked after,” he felt
disposed to interpret it in a very opposite sense to that he had put
upon it the moment it was uttered.
He then again recurred to the Lady Isabelle. Why had he gone a-hunting
on the day she was carried off, when he had been repeatedly warned, by
something within his own breast, that he ought to stay at home with
her? Alas! where was she now? The question was agony to him. Could she
be within these walls? To know that she, indeed, really was so, would
have been cheering to him even in his present state of desponding
uncertainty, as it might have given him some frail hope of yet being of
use to her. He listened for distant sounds. Faint female shrieks came
from some part of the building far below. Again he heard them yet more
distinctly; and, full of the maddening idea that they came from the
Lady Isabelle, he started up, unconscious of what he was doing, flew
like a madman to the door, and began beating it with his fists,
screaming out, “Villains! murderers!” But his voice, and the noise of
his furious knocking, returned on his ear with a deadened sound, and
speedily convinced him that nothing could be heard from the lofty,
solitary, and massive-walled prison in which he was immured.
With a heart torn and distracted, and almost bereft of reason, he paced
the floor violently backwards and forwards. His ear then caught, from
time to time, the distant and subdued shouts of merriment and laughter.
These again stung him to fury.
“What!” cried he aloud, “do they make sport of her purity and her
misery? Villains! demons! hell-hounds!” And he again raved about his
prison with yet greater fury than before, a thousand horrible ideas
arising to his heated and prolific imagination.
At length he flung himself on the floor, utterly exhausted both in body
and mind by the intensity of his sufferings, and lay for some moments
in a state of quiet, from absolute inability to give further way to the
extravagance of action excited by his feelings. He had not been long in
this state, however, when the distant and faint chanting of a female
voice fell upon his ear. He started, and raising himself upon his
elbow, listened anxiously that he might drink in the minutest portion
of the sound which reached him. Though evidently coming from some
far-off chamber below, he distinctly caught the notes, which he
recognized to be those of a hymn to the Virgin, from the vesper
service. The melody was sweet and soothing to his lacerated soul. Again
it stole on him.
“The voice,” said he to himself, “that can so employ itself must come
from one who may be unhappy, but who cannot suppose herself to be in
any very immediate peril; nor, if her mind had been so lately suffering
urgent alarm, could she have by this time composed it so far as to be
able to lift it to Heaven in strains so gentle and placid.”
Though immediately afterwards convinced of the folly of such an idea,
he, for a moment, almost persuaded himself that he recognized the voice
of the Lady Isabelle Hepborne in that of the pious chantress. He threw
himself upon his knees, and offered up his fervent orisons for help in
his affliction. The voice came again upon him—and again he fancied he
knew it to be that of her he loved; but although he found himself, in
sound reason, obliged to discard all idea of the possibility of such a
recognition, yet it clung to his broken spirit, and was as a healing
balm to it, in despite of reason.
It produced one happy effect, however, by causing his agonizing
thoughts to give way, at last, to the immense bodily and mental fatigue
he had undergone. He dropped asleep on the bare pavement,
notwithstanding the horrors that hung over him, the uncertain fate that
awaited him, and the complication of misery by which he was oppressed.
CHAPTER XIX.
Dawn in the Dungeon—An Appalling Sight—Rough Visitors.
Sir John Assueton’s sleep was deep and uninterrupted until the first
dawn of morning, when he awoke and rubbed his eyelids, having, for a
moment, forgotten where he was, and all that had befallen him. The
first object that presented itself when he looked upwards was the
figure and countenance of the dead man, hanging almost immediately over
the spot where he lay. The features were horribly distorted and
discoloured, by the last agonies of the violent death he had died; the
tongue was thrust out, and the projected eyeballs were staring
fearfully from their sockets. The sight was appalling and
heart-sickening.
He could now observe that the dress of the unfortunate man was that of
a forester. The arms were rudely tied behind the back, and the body was
suspended from a huge iron ring, that hung loose in an enormous bolt of
the same metal, strongly built in vertically between the keystones of
the vault, the height of which was very considerable. It seemed as if
the wretched man had been dragged from his couch of straw to instant
punishment, or rather perhaps murder; for portions of the straw yet
littered the floor as if dragged along with him in his ineffectual
struggles, and some fragments of it still adhered between his ankles,
to the rough woollen hose he wore, as if retained there by the last
dying convulsion that had pressed and twisted the limbs unnaturally
together. Then the fatal rope was not like one intended for such a use.
It was thicker than seemed necessary, and looked as if it had been
hastily taken, as the readiest instrument for the murderous deed. After
passing through the ring, where it was fastened by two or three turns,
it stretched down diagonally to one corner of the place, where it lost
itself in an immense coil. It had manifestly been hastily brought
there, to effect the destruction of the unfortunate wretch, and
afterwards left on the floor uncut, that it might not be rendered unfit
for the purpose to which it had been originally dedicated.
It may seem strange that Assueton should have derived anything like
pleasure from a spectacle so truly appalling; but it is nevertheless
true, that a faint gleam of hope broke upon the miserable despair that
had possessed him. He saw that the coil of rope was of sufficient
extent to give him good reason to believe that, when untwisted, it
might reach to the base of the tower, at the top of which he was now
confined, if he could only detach it from what went upwards, and
conceal it until night. But how was he to sever it? He remembered that
he had concealed his dagger in his bosom at the time he put on his
disguise. Those who seized and bound him had immediately deprived him
of his sword, but they had not suspected his being possessed of any
other weapon, and his dagger, therefore, had escaped their notice. He
drew it joyfully forth; but just as he was about to divide the rope, he
paused, and observing that there were at least fourteen or sixteen feet
stretching diagonally between the coil and the ring, he hesitated to
cut it. To throw away so considerable a portion of it, when perhaps
that very piece might be essential to the preservation of his life,
would have been the height of imprudence; yet, to get at that portion,
there was but one way, and this was so disgusting, and so repugnant to
his feelings, that the very idea of it made him shudder.
But liberty, and perhaps life depended on it; and what will not the
desire of liberty and life compel human nature to attempt? To him both
were now more precious than ever, since they might yet be the means of
saving her without whom he could value neither. He hesitated not a
moment longer, but screwing up his resolution to the revolting
alternative, he laid hold of the legs of the dead man, swung himself up
from the ground, and, catching at his clothes, at last got the rope
within his gripe, and thus continued to climb, hand over hand, until he
reached the fatal ring. Holding by one sinewy arm, he drew forth his
dagger, and was again on the eve of cutting the rope close to the ring
when prudence once more stopped him. He had been from the first aware
that it was absolutely necessary to leave the dead body hanging, lest,
when his jailors should visit him, they might have their suspicions
awakened by its removal. What made him hesitate then, whilst hanging by
one arm to the ring and bolt to the arch in the vault, was the idea,
that by loosening the turns that were made in it, he might be enabled
to hoist up the body a few feet higher, then to fasten the turns of the
rope again, and thus gain so many more feet of rope. All this, with
immense fatigue of arm, he effected, and then dividing the rope with
his dagger, and descending to the floor, he lifted up the large coil,
and removing the straw of the bed, he hid it underneath, covering it up
with the greatest care. He was fully aware of the possibility of its
being missed from its place, sought for, and removed from the
concealment he had put it into; but it was also possible that the
wretches who had done the deed might not be among those who should come
to visit him, in which case its absence could never attract their
observation.
He now sat down to consider and arrange his plans. He at once saw that
it would be useless to attempt his descent while daylight remained, or,
indeed, while the people in the Castle might be supposed to be still
stirring, as, if he did try it then, he must do so with hardly a chance
of escaping detection. To lessen the risk of being observed and seized,
therefore, it was absolutely essential that he should postpone his
enterprise until night. But then the risk of his rope being discovered
before night crossed his mind: his judgment wavered, and he was filled
with the most cruel and perplexing doubts. He remembered that the state
of the moon, which left the earlier part of the night excessively dark,
made that by far the most favourable time to risk his fate; and he at
length determined that, a descent in day-light being perfectly
hopeless, he must be content to take his chance of the other
alternative. But what was he to do if the rope should be missed, sought
for, and detected? After some consideration, he resolved that in that
event he would draw his dagger, spring unawares on those who might
visit him, and so make a desperate endeavour to effect his escape, by
striking down all that might oppose him.
But another and a different thought now occurred to him. What if the
very first visit that might be paid him should be for the purpose of
taking down the murdered body from the ring, only to hang him up in its
place? Brave as he was he shuddered at the contemplation of such a
fate. He had already often faced death in bloody field, led on by glory
and the laudable thirst of fame; but to be hung up like a dog by the
hands of murderous ruffians in this lone chamber, far from every human
ear or eye but those of his clownish and unfeeling executioners, who
would take so small account of him, after witnessing his passing
agonies, as perhaps to leave him, as they had done the wretch who had
gone before him, till his place was wanted for a successor, and then
throw his half consumed body into some unholy spot, over which his
perturbed ghost might hover, seeking in vain for repose, this was to
strip death of the fascinating drapery which men have contrived to
throw over him, and to unveil all his terrors, But he steeled himself
for the worst, and, resolving to wait firmly, and to act as
circumstances might suggest, he determined that, happen what might, he
would sell his life dearly, should he be reduced to the unhappy
alternative of doing so.
With his mind thus wound up, he sat him down on the couch of straw,
that he might appear unconcerned to any one who might enter; and there
he remained, waiting patiently for the issue. He had been seated in
this way about a couple of hours, when he heard the heavy tread of feet
approaching along the passages. The key was inserted in the lock of the
door, and considerable force exerted before it could be turned.
“Be quick with you, old churl,” cried an impatient voice; “thou wilt be
all day working at it.”
The door half opened, and two or three heads were thrust in at once.
Seeing their prisoner calmly seated on the straw at the farther wall,
four men entered. One of these, a thick, squat, large-headed old man,
with a rough, cloddish, unfeeling countenance, and long, thick,
grizzled hair hanging about it, was clad in a close woollen jerkin and
hauselines, appeared to be the jailor, for several enormous keys hung
from divers straps attached to his leathern belt. He stationed himself
with his back at the door. The other three men were younger, but the
expression of their features betrayed such depraved and lawless
spirits, as might make them ready instruments to perpetrate any cruelty
or crime at the mere nod of a master. Their dress was similar to that
in which the murdered body was clothed. Two of them, armed with short
swords in their hands, placed themselves at the door, in front of the
old jailor, while the third, with a pewter-covered dish under his left
arm, an earthen jug of ale in his left hand, and his naked sword in his
right, advanced a little way, and deposited the provisions on the
pavement. Turning his eyes round, he beheld the dead body hanging.
“Heyday, Daniel Throckle,” said he, with a careless laugh, to the
jailor, “how camest thou to leave our comrade Tim Ord here, to keep
watch over this young man all night? By the mass, methinks he was but a
triste companion for him.”
“’Twas none o’ my doing, Master Ralpho Proudfoot; ’twas Wat Withe that
did the deed himsell. He got the key from me, and thou knowest he doth
not ever care overmuch, so he gets his job done, whether the workshop
be cleaned out or no. He thinks that be none o’ his business.”
“Nay, but, fine fellow as he thinks himself, he may come and take down
his own rubbish for me,” said Ralpho Proudfoot; “I clean out after no
sike cattle, I promise thee. An thou likest to do his dirty work thou
mayest, seeing thou art custodier of the place.” Then, turning to
Assueton, who had sat quite still all this time, “Here, sir,” said he,
“is thy morning’s meal—better eat it whiles it be hot—thou mayest not
have a many deal of sike like;” and as he said so, he threw his eye
sideways up towards the dead man. “Thou seest we be sometimes rather
more curt than courteous; thou canst not tell when it may be thy turn.”
“Young man,” said Assueton, composedly, and still without rising from
his sitting posture, “canst thou tell me why I have been so
traitorously seized and conveyed hither, and why I am thus immured, and
treated like a foul felon?”
“Nay, as to being treated like a felon, young man,” replied Ralpho
Proudfoot, evading his question, and laying particular emphasis on the
words in italics, “meseems ’tis but ungrateful of thee to say so,
seeing I have brought thee a dish of hot steaks, cut from the rump of a
good Scottish ront; and then for ale, never was better brewed about the
roots of the Cheviots, as well thou knowest, honest Daniel Throckle.”
The jailor replied by a significant chuckle, indicating his perfect
acknowledgment of Proudfoot’s assertion.
“Well,” continued Proudfoot, “we may e’en leave thee, young man, to the
full enjoyment of this pleasing sunshiny day, such as thou mayest have
on’t through yonder window on high, for thou mayest see even less on’t
to-morrow.” And, wheeling round, he was on the eve of departure, when
he suddenly stopped—“But hold,” said he, “had we not better ripe him,
to see that he hath nothing of weapon sort about him? Come forward,
young man; and do thou, old Daniel, approach, and feel his hide all
over, as thou wouldst do a fat sheep fed for the slaughter. And who
knows how soon it may be his lot? Approach, I say: we shall stand by
here, and see that he doeth thee no harm.”
Assueton perceived that resistance would be vain, and he also knew that
it was unnecessary. Before they entered, he had taken the precaution to
remove his dagger from his bosom, and conceal it among the straw near
where he sat, yet in such a manner as he could have easily seized it
had he seen any necessity for using it. He arose indignantly, and then,
with assumed carelessness, submitted to be searched; not, however,
without considerable inward alarm that they might not be contented with
the mere examination of his person, but proceed to rummage the straw
also. Should they do so, all his hopes were gone; but his heart kept
firm, and he stood with so easy and indifferent an air, that the
villains were soon satisfied.
“No, no,” cried Proudfoot, “I see all is sicker. So a jolly morning to
thee, young man. Come, lads, let us be trooping. We have work before
us, as ye well know.”
“Had I not better shake up his straw for him?” said one of the others;
“he may not be used to make his own bed.”
“Nay, nay,” said Proudfoot, “he may learn to make it, then; he can
never learn younger, I ween. Besides, hath he not Tim Ord there to help
him?—ha! ha! ha! By St. Roque, but they will have pleasant chat
together.”
“Nay, Daniel Throckle,” said the other man, “but thee shouldst come
back ere long, and remove this grim mate from his dorture.”
“Umph,” said Throckle, as if in doubt; “it’s a plaguey long stair to
climb, and I may not get hands to help me. But, nathless, I’ll see what
may be done. Wat Withe may peraunter——”
“Come, come,” cried Proudfoot, impatiently, “we are wanted ere this.
Off, I say—off;” and with these words they all four left the prison;
the door was bolted and barred with the utmost precaution, and their
heavy lumbering steps were heard retreating along the passages.
It was strange perhaps, but it was most true, that the shutting of the
rusty bolts sounded almost as sweetly in Assueton’s ear as if they had
been opened to give him liberty. The relief he felt at the retreat of
the four men was so great, that, like a pious knight, he knelt down and
offered up his heartfelt gratitude, in fervent thanksgivings to Heaven,
that his plans were as yet unfrustrated. He took up the food that had
been left with him, and made a hearty and cheerful meal. He then began
turning in his mind the circumstances that were likely to occur to him
before night, and again some cruel anticipations obtruded themselves.
Were Throckle to return to remove the body, perhaps it might be of
little consequence; but if, as he seemed to hint at when he was
interrupted—if he should call in the aid of Wat Withe, as they had
nicknamed the executioner, then all his schemes for escape must be
ruined. Nay, what if the coil of rope, the villain had so hastily
taken, should happen to be wanted before night for the purpose it had
been originally intended for? The thought was most alarming. Assueton
immediately removed the straw from it, that he might examine it
narrowly, and his mind was very much relieved when he discovered that
it was everywhere quite rough and new, as if it had never been used.
But still nothing presented itself to him, to rid him of the
apprehension of the return of Wat Withe, who could not fail to mark the
disappearance of the coil. A thousand times during the day he fancied
he heard steps approaching, and more than once he grasped his dagger to
prepare for bloody work. But it was all fancy. The only sound he heard
was that of the trampling of horses, the jingling of bridles, and the
clattering of weapons, mingled with the voices of men, as if some party
was riding forth.
CHAPTER XX.
A Dreadful Situation—Daniel Throckle the old Jailor.
The time passed slowly and heavily until within about an hour of
nightfall, when steps were again distinctly heard approaching
Assueton’s prison. Much to his relief, however, they seemed to be those
of a single person; something was put down on the pavement on the
outside; the bolts were tardily withdrawn, and the great head of Daniel
Throckle alone appeared through the partially opened door, as if to
ascertain in what part of the chamber his prisoner was, ere he should
venture farther. Seeing Assueton seated as formerly, on the straw, he
hastily pushed within the door-way vessels containing food and drink,
as before, and instantly retreating, turned the bolts behind him, and
departed without uttering a word.
Now Assueton’s hopes beat high, and again on his knees he returned his
fervent thanks to Heaven. He then determined to avail himself of the
small portion of day-light which yet remained, to make everything ready
for his escape.
Disgusting and revolting as it had been to him, on the first discovery
of the murdered body, that it should have been left as his nightly and
daily companion, he had now good reason to be glad that it had been so;
for even if its removal had not occasioned the discovery of his
appropriation of the coil of rope, without it he could have had no
means of reaching the ring in the centre of the vault, the only thing
within it to which he could have attached the end of his rope, and it
would have been there only to have mocked his hopes.
After he had succeeded in making it fast, he had still an appalling
difficulty before him; for the window was so high above the floor of
the vault that it was quite beyond all reach. There was, to be sure, a
small fragment of rusty iron, that projected an inch or two from the
centre of the sole of it, like the decayed remains of a stanchion, that
had once divided the space vertically within; but it was little better
than a knob. It yet remained to be proved, therefore, whether he should
succeed in throwing a part of his rope over this frail pin of iron, so
as to furnish him with the means of pulling himself up to the window;
and he lost no time in making the experiment. But this, so absolutely
essential part of his operations, he found most difficult to effect. He
threw, cast, and jerked the rope, trying every possible way he could
think of; but the piece of iron was so short that, although he often
succeeded in throwing the rope over it, he could never manage to make
it hold. The day-light ebbed away fast, and still he laboured, but
without success. At length he grew desperate, and threw the rope up
time after time with mad and senseless rapidity. It became darker and
darker till pitchy night closed in, yet still he persevered in throwing
furiously and at random; but it was the perseverance of despair, all
attempt at skill being utterly abandoned. At length, when he had almost
become frantic, it caught as he pulled back after an accidental throw;
he felt it hold against him, and keeping it down to the floor tight
with one foot, to prevent it from slipping, he laid the whole weight of
the coil upon it, and then, dropping on his knees, returned thanks to
Heaven for his success. It was but a small matter throwing a coil of
rope over a projecting fragment of iron; yet on that trifle depended
all his hopes, for by means of that small piece of iron alone could he
escape.
He now sat him down on the coil to wait patiently for the hour when he
might think it safe to make his bold attempt.
Judging at length that the night was sufficiently far advanced for his
purpose, he offered up a prayer for divine aid and protection, and
tying the blanket of the bed around him in case of need, laid hold of
the rope and hoisted himself up by his arms, until he had reached the
window. Having lodged himself fairly in its aperture, he discovered
that the wall was at least six or eight feet thick. He now laid himself
on his side, with his feet hanging inwards, and by slow degrees pulled
up the rope, until he got the whole coil deposited safely within the
small area of the window. The space was barely sufficient to admit of
his creeping easily through. Altering his position, therefore, and
advancing his feet, he wormed himself forward, when, just as he
expected to thrust them into the open air, he felt them suddenly
arrested by a vertical bar of iron. His heart was chilled by its touch.
He tried the width of the vacancies on either side of it, but neither
afforded space enough to admit of the passage of his body.
Much disheartened by this unexpected obstruction, he withdrew himself,
and with great difficulty again changed his position, and advanced head
foremost until he brought his hands near enough the bar to feel it all
over. It was much decayed by rust, but yet by far too strong to be
broken by the mere force of his arm. After a little consideration, he
drew his dagger, and making use of its point, worked away the lead and
the stone where the lower end of the stanchion was inserted; and after
labouring unceasingly for a considerable time, he found he had weakened
the stone and removed the lead so much that he had some hopes of
assailing it successfully with his feet. He was now, therefore, obliged
to retreat again and change his position, so that he again projected
his feet till they came in contact with the bar. Having fixed himself
firmly in the place by means of his arms, that he might bring all his
force to bear against it, he was about to strike violently at it with
the soles of his feet when he remembered that the sound might be heard
below. His situation made him fertile in expedients. He slipped forward
a part of the blanket, and, adjusting two or three folds of it over the
bar, he began to drive his feet furiously against it. It gradually gave
way before them, and then it suddenly yielded entirely. He ceased
working for an instant, and, to his no small alarm, heard a piece of
the stone he had driven off fall in the court-yard below. He listened
anxiously for a time, but no alarm seemed to have been excited. He
again felt at the bar with his feet, and recommencing his attack upon
it, after a succession of hard blows, he bent it so far outwards as to
leave no doubt that he could pass himself through the aperture.
Commending himself to God, then, he slipped himself forward, and,
committing his weight gently to the rope, he began his descent by
shifting his hands alternately and slowly one below the other, always
pulling out more and more of the coil of rope as he wanted it, until,
the end of it being unwound, it fell perpendicularly below him. Still
he went on descending till, to his no small dismay, he found that he
had reached the last foot of his length. For an instant he hung in
awful doubt. He cast his eyes below, but the night was so dark that the
ground beneath was invisible, and he could not possibly calculate the
height that yet remained. He thought for a few moments; and finally,
resigning himself to the care of Providence, he loosened his grasp of
the rope and fell. His fall was dreadful, and his death would have been
certain had not his descent been interrupted by a fortunate
circumstance. The blanket he had wrapped round him caught in the
branches of a yew tree growing close to the wall, and although it did
not keep its hold, yet the force of the fall was so much broken that he
escaped comparatively uninjured.
He lay stunned for some moments under the tree; and then, recovering
himself, he was about to rise, when, reflecting that he must proceed
with caution, he crept silently forth from his covert, and listened to
hear if there was any one stirring. All was quiet. He then moved
forward, and dark as the night was, he could yet perceive the outer
walls and towers of the building rising against the pale glimmer of the
sky. His first step was to steal around the base of the keep, that he
might reconnoitre it in all directions; and, as he did so, he passed by
its entrance, which he found open. Wishing to examine farther, he went
on listening, but all was silent around. At length, as he moved onwards
to another side of the building, he descried a light breaking from a
loop-hole window near the foundation of the keep, and heard the sound
of human voices, with now and then a peal of boisterous laughter. He
approached with extreme caution and silence, until he was near enough
to see and hear all that passed within.
The place he looked down into appeared to be a sort of cellar, being
surrounded with huge barrels placed against the walls, near one of
which, on an inverted tub, sat the old jailor, Daniel Throckle, with a
great wooden stoup of ale on his knee, and with no small quantity of
the fumes of the same fluid in his brain, as was evident from the
manner in which his eyes ogled in his head. Almost close by him stood a
good-looking wench in conversation with him; and the group was lighted
by a clumsy iron lamp placed on the top of one of the largest of the
tuns.
“Coum, coum, Daeniel Throckle,” said the girl, “thee hast had enow o’
that strong stuff; that stoup but accloyeth thee. Blessed Mary! but
thine eyes do look most fearsome askaunce already.”
“Nay, nay, my bellebone,” replied Throckle, “I mun ha’ a wee drop more
yet. Coum, now, do sit thee down, and be buxom a bit—a—a—. Thee
knawest—a—that I loves thee dearly—he! he! he! Sit thee down, I
say—a—a; sit thee down, my soft, my soote virginal!—By St. Cuthbert,
there be not a he that yalt the gate through sun and
weet—a—a—that—a—a—he! he! he!—that loveth thee more than I do.—Sit thee
down, I say—a—a—and troll a roundel with me. Here ye, now, do
but—a—a—do but join thy sweet voice with mine.—Nay then, an thou wont,
I mun e’en—a—a—sing by mysell—a—a—
O I am the man
That can empty a can,
And fill it again and again, ah!
A—a—And empty and fill,
And the barley-juice swill,
Till a tun of the liquor I drain, ah!
A—a—Then it lightens mine eye,
And my liard jokes fly,
And warms my old blood into pleasure,
A—a—Then out comes my song,
Trolling glibly a—along,
And merrily clinks in the measure.
Oh—a—a—a—And then should I see
A sweet pusell like thee,
She catches mine eye, as I cock it;
And then at her, gadzooks!
I throw such winning looks,
As soon turn both of hers in the socket.
A murrain on’t! how should I forget the rest on’t!
So then I—a—a—then—a
The red fiend catch, it, for I can’t!—So, my bonnie mistress, Betty
Burrel, do thee—a—do thee sit thee down here, whiles I but drink this
single can of double ale; and, sin’ we canna sing the rest o’ the
stave—a—a—sit thee down, and let me kiss thee.”
“Na, na, Daeniel Throckle,” said the girl; “thee knawest thou’rt ower
auld for me—thou’rt ower auld to be mate o’ mine”———
“Ower auld!—a—a—thou scoffing—thou scoffing giglet thou!” cried
Throckle; “thou’ll find me—a—kinder—a—thou’lt find me kinder at least
than that cross-grained, haughty knave, Ralpho Proudfoot. A pestilent
rascal!—Thou knawest—a—a—a—thou knawest, I say, how ill he used
thee—a—but last night—no farther gone. Did he not beat
thee—a—yestreen—a—till he made thee rout out like any Laverdale cow,
when—a—she hath been driven—a—across the Border—a—and hath left her
calf behind her?”
“In troth, Daeniel Throckle,” said the wench, “he did use me hard enow,
that’s certain, now when a’s done. But rise thee up, Daeniel. Bethink
thee, thou’rt a’ that be left to guard the Castle, and it be na mysel,
and auld Harry Haddon standing sentry at the yett. Ise warrant he’s
asleep or this time:—And what ’ud coum o’ us an the prisoners were to
break out?”
“Phoo!” said Daniel, sticking one arm akimbo, and assuming the most
ridiculous air of importance—“Phoo! I would not care that—a—a—snap of
my finger, look you now, for—a—a—for the whole bunch of ’em. A stout,
able-bodied—a—courageous—a—warlikesome—a—Southron like me—well
fortified and charged with potent double ale—against three lousy
Scottish louns! Phoo! I’d put ’em all down with my thumb. But—a—a—but
look ye here, my bonnie Betty Burrel; here they are—a—a—all safe at my
girdle. This mockel knave here,” continued he, laying hold of the keys
that hung from his belt, “this mockel knave—a—I call Goliath; he—a—a—he
locks me up and maketh me sicker—a—the tall dark wight—a—that hath been
put in durance in the hanging vault at the top o’ the keep: he’s—a—he’s
fast enow, I warrant thee, and, ha! ha! ha! hath got jolly company with
him, I wot. Poor Tim Ord, thou knawest—a—was strung up for traiterie;
and ha! ha! ha!—sure I canna help loffen to but think on’t; ha! ha! ha!
ha! he hangs yonder aside the poor Scottish Knight they took yestreen—a
bonnie jolly comrade for him to spend the night wi’, I trow.”
“Poor Tim Ord!” said the girl, “thou gar’st mine heart creep to think
hoo hasty they waur wi’ ’im.”
“Hasty,” cried Throckle, “ay, I trow, he lay not among his straw an
hour—a—till Wat Withe and his mates broke his dreams, to send him to a
sounder sleep, ha! ha! ha! But—a—a—’tis the gate, wench—a—’tis the gate
that a’ sike traitorous faitours should yede them.”
“But what key is that other wi’ the queer courbed handle?” inquired the
curious Betty Burrel.
“Wilt thou—a—a—wilt thou gie me a buss, then, and I’ll tell thee?” said
Throckle.
Betty Burrel advanced her head within his reach. Old Throckle kissed
her, and endeavoured to detain her, but, after some little romping, she
escaped.
“Tell me now,” said she, “sin I gied thee the kiss.”
“That courbe—hafted key,” said Throckle, lifting it up; “that—a—a—I
call—a—a—a—I call Crooked-hold-him-fast: he locks the donjon vault at
the end of the passage—a—the passage aneath the stair. There—a—there
lies the tway rogues wha were cotched i’ the same trap wi’ the wight in
the hanging vault. This third key—a—this here is called
Nicholas-nimble-touch: he—a—he openeth the range of vaults on the north
side. They are tenantless; but an the Knight and his bandon have good
luck, they may be filled ere the morn’s night. This—a—this other
key—a—I call Will-whirl-i’-the-wards—a: he opens—a—opens the dark vault
i’ the middle, in which—a—in which is the mouth o’ the donjon pit.”
“An’ what be that sma’ tiny key?” said Betty Burrel.
“That,” said Trockle, “that—a—a—that is merry Mrs.
Margery-of-the-mousetrap, though—a—a—that is but an ill-bestowed name,
seeing that—a—a—it be’s more of a bird-cage, I wot. But—a—a—Mrs.
Margery keeps—she—a—she keeps the door—a—the door of the ladies’
room—the ladies’ room off the passage—a—the passage leading to the
hall, them knawest—a—thou knawest there be’s a linnet bird there
encaged. The Knight—a—the Knight can’t at no rate make her
warble—a—warble as he would ha’ her. But she’s but new caught—a—and she
may sing another measure—a—ay, ay, and dance too, when he comes back
again. Nay, but now I ha’ told thee all—a—sweet Mistress Betty
Burrel—a—sweet Betty, sit thee down—a—a—a—and sing—a—a—sing one
roundel. Coum! here’s to thy health, my—a—a—my bonny blossom.”
He put the wooden stoup to his head, and drained it to the bottom.
“A—a—” said he then, attempting to rise and lay hold of Betty;
“a—a—coum—a—a—sit thee—a—a—a—sit thee down—sit thee down—a—one
roundel—one kiss—a—a—.”
“Nay, nay,” cried Betty Burrel, moving off; “I maun to my bed i’ the
kitchen, Master Throckle; I be wearisome tired and sleepy.”
“Now, see,” cried Throckle, standing up, “now see—a—see what it
is—a—see what it is to be between liquor and love—a. Wise as thou art,
Master Daniel Throckle, thou be’st but as the ass i’ the fable between
the tway haycocks—a.—Shalt thou after the Rownsyvall jade now?—or shalt
thou—a—shalt thou have one stoup more—ay—one stoup more?—Daniel, one
stoup more will make thee—a—will make thee—a—one stoup the stouter.
Coum, then—a.”
He opened the spigot, and, holding the stoup with both hands, tried to
catch the ale as it spouted forth, gallons of it spilling on the floor
for the drops that entered the mouth of the vessel.
“A murrain—a—a—a murrain on it, I say—a. May I die—a—die of thirst—a—if
the barrel be not dronkelew—a. It canna—a—a—it canna stand
fast—a—a—stand fast only till I—a—a—till I fill mine stoup—a—a. But
hold!—a—a—hold, I say—it runs over now—a—a—over now like a fountain.
Oh! I am the man—a—a—to empty a can—a—a—and fill it—a—a—(hiccup)—fill
it again and again—ah!—a—a—so here goes.”
And, leaving the spigot to run as it might, he put the stoup to his
head, and drinking it out, staggered forward a step or two towards the
door, and, losing his feet and his balance at the same moment, fell
backwards with a tremendous crash on the pavement, where he lay
senseless in a sea of ale that deluged the floor.
CHAPTER XXI.
Crooked-hold-him-fast—Making a Lantern of Burnstower Castle.
Assueton had no sooner witnessed the prostration of Master Daniel
Throckle than he hastened round to the door of the keep; and, having
noted the part of the building where the cellar lay, he slipped down a
stair, and, groping along a passage, was soon led to it by the light of
the lamp. He entered hastily, and, unbinding the belt from the drunken
beast’s body, made himself master of the keys. He then seized the lamp,
stole silently out by the door, and, taking the directions Throckle had
so gratuitously given him, explored a passage at the end of which he
found a stair leading upwards. Beneath it was the strongly-barred door
of a vault. Having singled out the key called Crooked-hold-him-fast, he
applied it to the door, and found it answer perfectly to the lock. He
turned the bolt, and, to his no small delight his lamp showed him his
esquire Roger Riddel and Robert Lindsay, both sound asleep on separate
heaps of straw. He gently waked first one, and then the other; and,
laying his finger on his lips, he cautioned them to be perfectly
silent. The poor fellows were so confounded by their unexpected
deliverance, that they rubbed their eyes, and could hardly believe that
they were really awake.
“Bestir thee, but not a word,” said the knight to them; “the Castle is
all our own. There are but two men within the walls. One I have left in
a cellar, senseless as a hog, rucking and wallowing in his ale; from
him we have nothing to fear, but the other yet standeth sentinel at the
outward gate. So we must approach him cautiously; and, when I whistle,
pounce on him like falcons. But there is yet a woman in the place, whom
we must first secure, to prevent all chance of alarm.”
“Yea,” said Roger Riddel gravely, “woman’s tongue be’s a wicked
weapon.”
The knight and his followers hastened to find out the kitchen, and,
having peeped in, they descried Betty Burrel either asleep or
pretending to be so; and, remarking that the windows were strongly
barred, so that she could not escape that way, they gently shut the
door, and turned the key in the lock.
They now ascended the stair, and having set down the lamp, Assueton, to
guard against all possibility of accident, took the large key from the
door of the keep, as they passed out. They then stole towards the
gateway, where, after prying about for some time, they discovered the
watchful warder of the garrison, lying within a doorway, sound asleep,
on the steps of the stair leading up to a barbican that overlooked the
gate. Assueton immediately sprang on him, and threw the blanket over
his head; and, having taken the keys of the gate from him, they muffled
him so completely up as to stop his utterance, and, crossing his arms
behind his back, bound all tightly together with Master Throckle’s
leathern belt. They then hoisted the knave on the broad back of Roger
Riddel, who marched merrily away with his burden, and deposited him in
the vault, on the very straw from which he had himself so lately risen.
Proceeding next to the cellar, they lifted up the drunken jailor, who,
being perfectly senseless, had run no small risk of being drowned
externally, as well as internally, by a flood of ale; and, having
carried him also to the vault, and put him among the straw that had
been Robert Lindsay’s bed, they turned Crooked-hold-him fast upon both
of them.
Lighting another lamp, which they had found extinguished, the two
squires then went to the stables to look for horses. Meanwhile Assueton
ascended the stairs alone, to discover the ladies’ chamber of which
Throckle had spoken, and by attending to the description the jailor had
given, soon discovered it. He tapped gently at the door;—a deep sigh
came from within;—he tapped again.
“Who knocks there at this hour?” said a female voice.
The voice made Assueton’s heart bound with joy, for it was the voice of
the Lady Isabelle Hepborne.
“Who knocks there?—who comes thus to break the hour of rest, the only
one I have been blest with since I entered these wicked and impure
walls? If it be thou, false and traitorous knight, know thou mayest
kill, but thou canst never subdue me.”
“Lady Isabelle,” cried Assueton, in transport, “it is no traitor; it is
I, who will dare to call myself thy true and humble slave, thine own
humble slave, thine own faithful knight, who, by God’s blessing, has
come to undo the bars of thy prison and to set thee free.
“Sir John Assueton,” cried the fair Isabelle, overpowered by amazement
and joy—“Sir John Assueton!—Blessed Virgin!—and how camest thou
here?—But thou art in dreadful danger. For mercy’s sake—for my sake—I
entreat thee not to speak so loud,” continued she, tripping lightly
towards the door, and whispering softly through the keyhole; “speak not
so loud, lest thou shouldst be overheard and surprised by some of the
caitiff knight’s cruel followers. I will brave all danger to fly with
thee.”
“Nay, fairest lady,” said Assueton, “thou hast now but little cause of
dread. The Castle, and everything in it, is in my power; but I am
rather meagrely attended, and ’twere better we should lose as little
time as may be. I shall unlock thy door, and keep watch for thee in the
hall hard by, until thou art ready to wend with me.”
The knight accordingly passed into the hall, where he found a long
board, covered with the wrecks of feast and wassail, everything in the
apartment betokening the riotous and reckless life that was led by the
libertine owner of the place. The walls were hung round with arms of
various kinds, and, to his great surprise, he perceived the very armour
he had worn, and which he had left with his people when he changed his
dress, together with his shield, lance, and trusty sword, all forming a
grand trophy, at one end. He soon removed them from their place, and
speedily equipped himself like a knight as he was; and he had hardly
done so, when his eye caught the very baldrick and bugle worn by the
leader of the foresters who had acted as his guide. He took them also
down, and hung them from his own neck, in memorial of the treachery he
had suffered. He then stood anxiously listening, nor did he wait long
until he heard the light step of the Lady Isabelle dancing merrily
along the passage. He flew to meet her, and the joy of both was too
great to be controlled. Yet they trifled not long to give way to their
feelings. Assueton gave his arm to the fair prisoner, and they
descended the stair together. On reaching the courtyard, he found
Riddel and Lindsay busy in the stable. His squire was employed in
putting the furniture and harness on the very steed the knight had
ridden from Hailes; but what gave rise to most unpleasant speculation
in the mind of Assueton, was the discovery that the horses and
equipments of his whole party were there. As he looked at the steeds
and trappings of his brave spearmen, his heart sank within him at the
thought of the cruel death that treachery had probably wrought on the
gallant fellows who had used them. A palfrey was soon selected and
prepared for the Lady Isabelle; and the other three horses being ready,
Assueton ordered them to be led out. Before they mounted, however,
Roger Riddel, who never gave himself the trouble of speaking except
when he had something of importance that compelled him to use his
tongue, addressed his master.
“Methinks, your worship,” said he, “we should be the better of a
lantern to light us on our way till the moon rises.”
“Go seek one then,” said Assueton; “but do not lose time, for it is but
a chance thou shalt find one.”
“Fasten the horses to that hook, then, Bob,” said Riddel to Lindsay; “I
shall want thee to help me to light it.”
The two men went into the keep-tower together, where they remained some
time, and at length they came out, each bearing a burden on his back.
“What, in the name of St. Andrew, bearest thou there?” demanded
Assueton.
“’Tis but the dronkelew jailor and the watchful warden,” said Riddel;
“methinks they will lie better in the stable.”
“Tut!” said Assueton peevishly, “why waste our time with them?”
But Roger and his comrade deposited their burdens quietly in the
stable, and then returned again into the keep-tower, where they
remained so very long that Assueton lost all patience. By and by female
shrieks were heard from within. They became louder, and seemed to
approach the door of the keep, when out stalked Roger Riddel with much
composure, carrying Betty Burrel like any infant in his arms. The
damsel, who was in her night attire, was wrapped in a blanket, and was
screaming, kicking, and tearing the squire’s face with her nails, like
any wild cat. But the sedate Roger minded her not, nor did her
scratching in the least derange the gravity of his walk.
“This is too much, Riddel,” said Assueton, losing temper: “What absurd
whim is this? Is the Lady Isabelle Hepborne to be kept standing here
all night, till thou shalt find a new bed for Betty Burrel?”
Roger turned gravely about, with the kicking and scratching Betty
Burrel still in his arms———
“Surely,” said he, “Sir Knight, thou hast too much Christian charity in
thee to see the poor pusell burnt alive?”
“Burnt!” cried Assueton with astonishment; “what mean ye?”
But now came the explanation of all Roger had said and done; for
volumes of smoke began to burst from the different open loop-holes of
the keep, and to roll out at the door, sufficiently explaining what
Roger Riddel had meant by a lantern. The squire hastily deposited the
kicking and screaming Betty Burrel in the stable, to which there was no
risk of the fire communicating, and locking the door, put the key
quietly into his pocket. The Lady Isabelle and Assueton mounted, while
the squire and Lindsay went before them, to raise the portcullis and
open the gates; and the whole party sallied forth from the walls, right
glad to bid adieu to Burnstower. Their two attendants went before them,
leading their own horses down the hill, and along the narrow tongue of
land, towards the ford, lest there might have been any such trap in
their way as they formerly fell into. But all was clear, and they got
through the ford with perfect safety.
From the summit of the rising ground above the ford, that is, from the
same spot where the moon had given Assueton the first and only view of
Burnstower, on the night of his approach, they now looked back, and
beheld the keep involved in flames, that broke forth from every opening
in its sides, and forced their way through various parts of its roof.
The reader is already aware of the grandeur of the surrounding scene,
closely shut in all around by high backing hills, and the two deep
glens with their streams uniting under the green-headed eminence, that
arose from the luxuriant forest, which everywhere covered the lower
grounds: let him conceive all this, then, lighted up as it was by Roger
Riddel’s glorious lantern, which, as they continued to look, began to
shoot up jets of flame from its summit, so high into the air that it
seemed as if the welkin itself was in some danger from its contact, and
he will have in his imagination one of the most sublime spectacles that
human eye could well behold.
The party, however, stopped not long to look at it, but urged onwards
through the thickets and sideling paths of the glen, now losing all
sight of the burning tower, and now recovering a view of it, as they
occasionally climbed upwards to avoid some impassable obstruction
below. At length a turn of the glen shut it altogether from their
sight, and the place where it lay was only indicated by the fiery-red
field of sky immediately over it.
Assueton resolved to follow the course of the glen, and in doing so he
found that the forester had completely deceived him in regard to the
path, that below having occupied about one-tenth part of the time which
was consumed the former night in unravelling the mazes of the hill
road. The moon now arose to light them cheerily on their way; objects
became more distinct; and, as they were crossing a little glade, they
observed a man running, as if to take shelter under the trees.
“After him, Riddel,” cried Assueton; “we must know who and what he is.”
The squire and Lindsay charged furiously after the fugitive, and ere he
could gain the thicket, one rode up on each side of him, and caught
him. The knight and Lady Isabelle immediately came up, when, to their
no small delight, they discovered that it was a trooper of Assueton’s
party, and, on interrogating him, they learnt that all the others were
lodged safely among the brushwood at no great distance. The man was
instantly despatched for them, and, when they appeared, the whole
villainy of the pretended foresters was explained. The knight and his
two attendants had no sooner left them than they were largely feasted
with broiled venison, after which liberal libations of potent ale had
been administered to them; and they now firmly believed that the liquor
had been drugged with an opiate; for, though the excessive fatigue they
had undergone might have accounted for their being immediately overcome
with drowsiness, yet it could have furnished no adequate explanation of
their sleeping for the greater part of next day, as they had all done
to a man, without once awakening. When at length they did arise from
their mossy pillows, their horses and accoutrements, as well as the
knight’s armour, had vanished with the foresters, and nothing remained
but part of the carcase of a deer, left, as it appeared, to prevent
them from starving. In this helpless state the men were quite at a loss
what to do. To advance with the hope of meeting their leader, even if
he were not already the victim of a worse treachery than they had
experienced, would have been vain; yet, unarmed as they were, the brave
fellows could not entirely abandon him, and after much hesitation, they
had at last resolved, towards evening, to wander up the glen to see
what discoveries they could make. They had got thus far, when the
darkness of the night compelled them to halt until the moon rose; and
the man whom Assueton first descried had been sent out by the rest as a
scout, to ascertain whether they were yet safe in proceeding.
Assueton’s mind being now relieved as to the safety of the party, he
resolved to send back Lindsay to guide the spearmen to Burnstower, that
they might horse and arm themselves in the stables. Meanwhile, he
proposed that he, the Lady Isabelle, and the squire, should halt in the
thickets, near the spot where they then were, and wait patiently for
their return.
“Stay,” said Roger Riddel to one of the men, as soon as he had heard
his master’s arrangement, “stay, here is the key, and be sure thou
shuttest the stable door after thee. Thou canst not mistake the way,
even hadst thou no guide, for there is a lantern burning in the Castle
of Burnstower that enlighteneth the whole valley.”
CHAPTER XXII.
Waiting for the Spearmen—The Lady Isabelle’s Tale—The Fight.
The party led by Robert Lindsay marched off, and Roger Riddel proceeded
to seek out a retired spot where the Lady Isabelle might enjoy a little
rest. A mossy bank within the shelter of the wood was soon discovered,
and the knight and his fair companion seated themselves, whilst the
squire secured their horses at no great distance. Assueton was
extremely desirous to learn the history of the lady’s capture, and she
proceeded to satisfy him.
As she was passing through the woodlands, on her return towards Hailes
Castle, after parting from her brother, she was suddenly surrounded by
Sir Miers de Willoughby’s party, seized, put on horseback, and carried
rapidly off. She was compelled to travel all that day and next night,
halting only once or twice for a very short time, to obtain necessary
refreshment for the horses and the people; and early next morning they
arrived with her at the Castle of Burnstower, where, although every
comfort was provided for her, she was subjected to confinement as a
prisoner. Sir Miers de Willoughby had taken every opportunity that so
rapid a journey afforded, to tease her with offers of love and
adoration; and after they reached Burnstower he had spent several hours
in making his offensive addresses to her. The lady had repulsed him
with a spirit and dignity worthy the daughter of Sir Patrick Hepborne,
called upon him boldly to release her at his peril, and made a solemn
appeal to Heaven against his treachery and baseness. At length she was
relieved of his presence by his being called on some expedition, from
which, fortunately for her peace, he did not return till a very late
hour, and she saw no more of him that night. But next morning he came
again to her apartment, where he compelled her to listen for some hours
to addresses which she treated with scorn and indignation. He became
enraged, and, in his fury, talked of humbling her pride by other means
than fair speeches if he did not find her more compliant on his return
from an expedition he was about to proceed upon. She trembled to hear
him; but fortunately his immediate absence saved her from further
vexation, until she was finally rescued from the villain’s hands by Sir
John Assueton.
Having completed her narrative, the Lady Isabelle anxiously demanded a
similar satisfaction from Assueton, who gave her all the particulars of
his adventures, the recital being characterized by the modesty which
was natural to him. The lady shuddered and trembled alternately at the
perils to which he had been exposed on her account, and her eyes gave
forth a plenteous shower of gladness and of gratitude when he had
finished. He seized the happy moment for making a full declaration of
his passion, and he was repaid for all his miseries, fatigues, dangers,
and anxieties, by the soft confession he received from her.
After their mutual transports had in some degree subsided, Assueton
called Roger Riddel from the spot where, with proper attention to
decorum, he had seated himself beyond earshot of their conversation,
and interrogated him as to what had occurred to him and Lindsay. Their
story was short, and Roger, who was always chary of his words, did not
add to its length by circumlocution.
“Why, Sir Knight,” said he, “they carried us like bundles of straw to a
drearisome vault, and locked us up in the dark. Next day came one
Ralpho Proudfoot, with divers rogues—caitiff lossel had some old pique
at good Rob Lindsay—swore he would now be ywreken on him—threatened him
with hanging—and would have done it with his own hands then, but they
would not let him till he got his master’s warrant—swore that he would
get the warrant and do execution on Rob to-morrow. So we got beef and
ale to breakfast and supper, and slept till your honour wakened us to
wend with thee.”
Sir John now prevailed upon the Lady Isabelle to take a short repose,
whilst he and Riddel watched over her safety. In a little time
afterwards, Robert Lindsay returned at the head of his remounted
cavalry. Assueton was now himself again, and, with spirits light as
air, he and the lady got into their saddles, and proceeded slowly down
the glen. To prevent all chance of surprise, Robert Lindsay preceded
them with half the party as an advance guard, whilst Roger Riddel
brought up the rear with the remainder.
The night was so far spent that day dawned ere they had threaded the
pass that formed the entrance into the territory of Sir Miers de
Willoughby. The sun rose high in all its glory, and threw a flood of
golden light over the romantic scenery they were passing through. All
nature rejoiced under the benignant influence of his cheering rays; a
thousand birds raised their happy wings and melodious voices to heaven;
nay, all vegetable as well as animal life seemed to unite in one
general choir to pour out their grateful orisons. Nor did the souls of
the lovers refuse to join the universal feeling. They each experienced
inwardly a joy and a gratitude that surpassed all the power of
expression, but which was, perhaps, best uttered in that silent, but
not less fervent language used by the devout spirit, when, impressed
with a deep sense of the blessings it has received, it rises in secret
thanksgivings to its Creator. Each being thus separately occupied in
thought, they rode gently on until they had cleared the defiles, and
were entering the wider pastures, where the space in the bottom was
more extended, and the trees that clothed the sides of the hills, or
dropped down occasionally on the more level ground, grew thinner and
more scattered.
As they were entering one of those little plains through which the
stream they had followed meandered, they were surprised by the
appearance of a party of armed horsemen approaching from the other
extremity of it. Assueton immediately called forward his esquire.
“Riddel,” said he, “we know not as yet whether those who come towards
us may prove friends or foes; but be they whom they list, to thy
faithful charge do I consign the care and protection of the Lady
Isabelle; leave not her bridle-rein, whatever may betide. Take three of
the spearmen, and let her be always kept in the midst. Should that
bandon yonder, that cometh so fast, prove to be hostile, remember thou
art in no wise to act offensively unless the lady be attacked; but be
it thy duty, and that of those I leave with thee, to think only of
defending her to the last extremity. I shall myself ride forward with
the rest, to see who these may be.”
The Lady Isabelle grew pale with alarm, partly because her lover was
probably about to incur danger, but even yet more, if possible,
because, in the knight who was approaching at the head of the troop,
she already recognized the figure and arms of him from whose power she
had so lately escaped.
“Blessed Virgin protect us,” cried she, “’tis the caitiff knight de
Willoughby who advanceth!”
“Is it so?” cried Assueton, his blood boiling at the intelligence;
“then, by the Rood of St. Andrew, he shall not hence until I shall have
questioned him for his villainy.”
He stayed not to say more, but, galloping forward, he reined up his
steed in the middle of the way, and instantly addressed the opposite
leader.
“Halt!” cried he, in a voice of thunder; “halt, Sir Knight, if yet thou
mayest deserve a title so honourable; for, of a truth, thou dost not,
if thou art he whom I take thee to be. Say, art thou, or art thou not,
that malfaitour Sir Miers de Willoughby?”
“Though I see no cause why I should respond to a rude question rudely
put, yet will I never deny my name,” replied the other, “I am so hight.
And now, what hast thou to say to Sir Miers de Willoughby?”
“That he no longer deserves to be called a knight, but rather a caitiff
robber,” replied Assueton.
“Robber!” retorted the other; “dost thou call me robber, that dost wear
my baldrick and bugle hanging from thy shoulder?”
“Thine!” replied Assueton; “if they be thine, ’tis well thou hast noted
them so; I wear them as the gage of my revenge; and I have sworn to
wear them until thou payest dearly for the wrong thou hast done to the
virtuous Lady Isabelle Hepborne, for I speak not of the base treachery
thou didst use towards myself.”
“Nay, then,” replied de Willoughby, “it seems thou art determined that
we shall do instant battle. Come on, then.”
And so saying, he put his lance in the rest and ran his course at
Assueton. The Scottish Knight couched his, and, exclaiming aloud, “May
God and St. Andrew defend the right,” he put spurs to his horse and
rushed at his opponent. They met nearly midway. Sir Miers de
Willoughby’s lance glanced aside from Assueton’s cuirass, without doing
the firmly-seated knight the smallest injury; but Assueton’s point
entering on one side, between the joinings of Sir Miers’ helmet and
neck-piece, bore him headlong from his saddle, and stretched him,
grievously wounded, on the plain. Meanwhile, before Assueton had time
to recollect himself, on came the party of de Willoughby, and, with the
natural impression that he would dismount to put their leader to death,
charged him en masse. His own spearmen rushed to his rescue, but,
before they came, he had so well bestirred himself that he had
prostrated three or four of the enemy. The battle now became general;
but though the numbers were on the other side, yet the victory was very
soon achieved by the prowess of Assueton and his people, who left not a
man before them; all, save one only, being either thrown to the ground
or forced to seek safety in flight.
That one, however, was Ralpho Proudfoot, who at the first onset had
singled out Robert Lindsay, with a bloody thirst of long-cherished
hatred. Their spears having been splintered in the shock, he had
grappled Lindsay by the neck, and the latter seizing his antagonist in
his turn, they were both at once dragged from their horses. Rising
eagerly at the same moment, however, they drew their swords and
attacked each other. Some of Lindsay’s comrades having now no
antagonist of their own to oppose, were about to assist him.
“Keep off,” cried he immediately, “keep off, my friends, if ye love me;
one man is enow, in all conscience, upon one man; so let him kill me if
he can, but interfere not between us.”
They rained down their blows upon each other with tremendous force, and
the combat hung doubtful for a considerable time. Proudfoot’s
expression of countenance was savage and devilish. He tried various
manœuvres to break through Lindsay’s cool determined guards, but
without effect; and, being more desirous of wounding his adversary than
of saving himself, he received some severe thrusts. At length, as he
attempted to throw his point in on Lindsay’s body, he received a cut
from him that laid his arm open from the shoulder to the wrist, and at
once rendered it useless. The sword dropped from his hand, and,
fainting from the loss of blood that poured from his other wounds, he
staggered back a few paces, and fell senseless on the ground. The
generous Lindsay, forgetting the brutal threats Proudfoot had uttered
against him, ran up to his assistance.
“He was my companion when we were boys,” cried he; “oh, let me save him
if I can.”
And so saying, he ran to the stream, filled his morion with water, and
poured it on Proudfoot’s face. He then bathed his wounds, and bound up
his arm, and tried to staunch the bleeding from the thrusts he had
given him. Nor were his pious and merciful exertions unattended with
success. Proudfoot opened his eyes, and, his senses returning to him,
he gazed with silent wonder in the face of the man who had, a moment
before, fought so manfully against him, and who was now so humanely
employed in endeavouring to save his life, and assuage the acuteness of
his pains. His own villainous and cruel determinations against Lindsay,
which he had been contemplating, the having it in his power to carry
into execution that very night, now rushed upon his mind. His
conscience, long hardened by guilt and atrocity, was at once melted by
that single, but bright ray of goodness, which darted on it from the
anxious eye of Lindsay; and days long since past recurring to his
memory, he remembered what he had been, and burst into an agony of
tears.
Assueton had no sooner rid himself of his enemies than he went to
assist the wounded and discomfited Sir Miers de Willoughby; and on
unlacing his helmet, discovered, to his no small surprise, the features
of the very forester who guided him to Burnstower.
The evidence of Sir Miers de Willoughby’s villainy was now complete;
yet was not the gallant Assueton’s compassion for his hapless state one
atom diminished by the discovery. The wound in his neck, though not
mortal, bled most profusely, and he lay in a swoon from the quantity of
blood he had already lost. The Lady Isabelle and the esquire now coming
up, every means were used to stop the effusion, and, happily, with
success, but he still remained insensible. Assueton therefore ordered
his people to catch some of the horses of those who had fallen; and
having placed de Willoughby, Proudfoot, and one or two others of whose
recovery there seemed to be good hope, across their saddles, they
proceeded charily onwards, and after some hours’ slow travel, brought
them safely to Carham, and lodged them under the care of the Black
Canons of its Abbey.
Having rested and refreshed themselves and their horses there, they
crossed the Tweed, and being impatient to return to Hailes, that they
might relieve the anxious mind of the elder Sir Patrick Hepborne, they
arrived there by a forced march.
The joy of Sir Patrick at the unexpected return of his daughter may be
conceived. He had, as he resolved, gone in pursuit of Assueton, and had
used every means in his power to discover the direction in which the
Lady Isabelle had been carried; but all his efforts had been fruitless,
and they found him in the deepest despair. It is easy to guess what
happiness smiled upon that night’s banquet.
CHAPTER XXIII.
Sir Patrick Hepborne’s Journey North—Passes through Edinburgh—King
Robert II.—The Wilds of the Highlands—The Celtic Host.
Our history now returns to the younger Sir Patrick Hepborne, whom we
left about to commence his journey towards the North. He had no sooner
parted from his sister, the Lady Isabelle, and joined his esquire and
cortege, under the trees by the side of the Tyne, than he espied a
handsome youth, clad in the attire of a page, who came riding through
the grove towards a ford of the river. He was mounted on a sorry
hackney, carrying his valise behind him, and was guided by a clown, who
walked by his bridle. The boy showed symptoms of much amazement and
dismay on finding himself thus so unexpectedly surrounded by a body of
armed men; and he would have dropped from his horse, from sheer
apprehension, had not Sir Patrick’s kind and courteous salutation
gradually banished his alarm.
“Who art thou, and whither goest thou, young man?” demanded the knight,
in a gentle tone and manner.
“I am a truant boy, Sir Knight,” replied the youth, in a trembling
voice; “I have fled from home that I might see somewhat of the world.”
“And where may be thy home?” demanded Sir Patrick.
“On the English bank of the Tweed,” replied the boy.
“Ha!” exclaimed Sir Patrick, “and why hast thou chosen to travel into
Scotland, rather than to explore the Southern parts of thine own
country?”
“Verily, because I judged that there was less chance of my being looked
for on this side the Border,” replied the boy. “Moreover, the peace
that now prevails hath made either side safe enow, I hope, for travel.”
“Nay, that as it may happen,” said the knight. “But why didst thou run
away from thy friends, young man? Was it that thou wert evil-treated.”
“Nay, rather, Sir Knight, that I was over charily cockered and cared
for,” replied the boy; “more especially by my mother, at home, who, for
dread of hurt befalling me, would give me no license to disport myself
at liberty with other youths. I was, as it were, but a page of dames.
But, sooth to say, I have been long tired of dames and damosels, and
knitting, and broidery, and all the little silly services of women.”
“Nay, in truth, thou art of an age for something more stirring,”
replied Sir Patrick; “a youth of thine years should have to do with gay
steeds, and armour, and ’tendance upon knights.”
“Such are, indeed, the toys that my heart doth most pant for,” replied
the boy; “and such is mine excuse for quitting home. I sigh for the gay
sight of glittering tourneys, and pageants of arms, and would fain
learn the noble trade of chivalry.”
“If thou hast no scruple to serve a Scottish Knight,” replied Sir
Patrick, “that is, so long as until the outbreak of war may call on
thee to appear beneath the standard of thy native England, I shall
willingly give thee a place among my followers; and, by St. Genevieve,
thou dost come to me in a good time, too, as to feats of arms, being
that I am now on my way to the grand tournament to be held on the Mead
of St. John’s. So, wilt thou yede with me thither, my young Courfine?”
The boy made no reply, but hung his head, and looked abashed for some
moments. “Ha! what sayest thou?” continued the knight; “wilt thou wend
with me, or no? Thine answer speedily, yea or nay, young man, for I
must be gone.”
“Yea, most joyfully will I be of thy company, Sir Knight,” replied the
boy, his eyes glistening with delight; “and while peace may endure
between our countries, I will be thy true and faithful page, were it
unto the death.”
“’Tis well, youth,” replied Sir Patrick; “but thou hast, as yet,
forgotten to possess me of thy name and parentage.”
“My name, Sir Knight,” replied the boy, with some confusion and
hesitation—“my name is Maurice de Grey—my father, Sir Hargrave de Grey,
is Captain of the Border Castle of Werk—and the gallant old Sir Walter
de Selby, Captain of the other Border strength of Norham, is mine
uncle.”
“Ha! is it so?” exclaimed Hepborne, with great surprise and
considerable agitation—“Then thou art cousin to the La——? then thou art
nevoy to Sir Walter de Selby, art thou? Nay, now I do look at thee
again, thou hast, methinks, a certain cast of the features of his
family. Perdie, he is a most honourable sib to thee. Of a truth thou
art come of a good kindred, and if thou wilt be advised by me, sweet
youth, thou wilt straightway hie thee back again to thine afflicted
mother, doubtless ere this grievously bywoxen with sorrow for loss of
thee.”
“Nay, good Sir Knight, I dare not now adventure to return,” replied the
boy; “and sith thou hast told me of that tourney, verily thou hast so
much enhanced my desire to go with thee, that nothing but thy refusal
of what thou hast vouchsafed to promise me shall now hinder me.”
“Had I earlier known of whom thou art come, youth,” replied Sir Patrick
gravely, “I had been less rash in persuading thee with me, or in
’gaging my promise to take thee; but sith that my word hath already
passed, it shall assuredly be kept; nor shall thy father or mother have
cause to regret that thou hast thus chanced to fall into my hands.
Come, then, let us have no more words, but do thou dismiss thy rustic
guide, and follow me without more ado.”
The youth bowed obedience, and taking the peasant aside, gave him the
reward which his services had merited, and, after talking with him for
some little time, sent him away, and prepared to follow his new master.
Meanwhile, Sir Patrick called Mortimer Sang, and gave him strict
charges to care for the boy.
“Be it thy duty,” said he to him, “to see that the young falcon be well
bestowed by the way. Meseems him but a tender brauncher as yet; he must
not be killed in the reclaiming. Let him be gently entreated, and
kindly dealt with, until he do come readily to the hand.”
All being now in readiness, the troop moved forward; and Sir Patrick
Hepborne, who wished to know something more of his newly-acquired page,
made the boy ride beside him, that they might talk together by the way.
Maurice displayed all the bashfulness of a stripling when he first
mixes among men. He hung his head much; and although the knight’s eye
could often detect his in the act of gazing at him, when he thought he
was himself unobserved, yet he could never stand his master’s look in
return, but dropped his head on his bosom. The knight, however, found
him a lad of intelligence and good sense much beyond his years, and ere
they had reached Edinburgh, the boy had perfectly succeeded in winning
Sir Patrick’s good affections towards him.
On their arrival in the capital, Sir Patrick bestowed on the page a
beautiful milk-white palfrey, of the most perfect symmetry of form and
docility of temper, and added rich furniture of velvet and gold to
complete the gift. He accoutred him also with a baldrick, and sword and
dagger, of rare and curious workmanship—presents which seemed to have
the usual effect of such warlike toys on young minds, when the boy is
naturally proud of assuming the symbols of virility. He fervently
kissed the generous hand that gave them, and blushed as he did so; then
mounting his palfrey, he rode with the knight up the high Mercat
Street, to the admiration of all those who beheld him. The very
populace cheered them as they passed along, and all agreed that a
handsomer knight or a more beautiful page had never graced the crown of
their causeway.
Yet though the boy seemed to yield to the joy inspired by the
possession of these new and precious treasures, his general aspect was
rather melancholy than otherwise, and Hepborne that very evening caught
him in tears. He dried his eyes in haste, however, as soon as he saw
that he was observed, and lifting his long dark eye-lashes, beamed a
smile of sunshine into the anxiously inquiring face of his master.
“What ails thee, Maurice?” said Hepborne, kindly taking his hand—“what
ails thee, my boy? Thy hand trembles, and thy cheeks flush—nay, the
very alabaster of thine unsullied forehead partake of the crimson that
overrunneth thy countenance. ’Tis the fever of home-leaving that hath
seized thee, and thou weepest for thy mother, whom thou hast left
behind thee; silly youth,” said he, chuckling him gently under the
chin, “’tis the penalty thou must pay for thy naughtiness in leaving
them. Doubtless, thou hast made them weep too. But say if thou wouldst
yet return? for if thou wouldst, one of mine attendants shall wend with
thee, and see thee safe to Werk; and——”
“Nay, good Sir Knight,” cried the boy, interrupting him, “though I weep
for them, yet would I not return to Werk, but forward fare with thee.”
“Nay,” said Hepborne, “unless thou shouldst repent thee of thy folly,
sweet youth, I shall leave thy disease to run its own course, and to
find its own cure. And of a truth, I must confess, I should part with
thee with sorrow.”
“Then am I happy,” cried the boy, with a sudden expression of delight:
“Would that we might never part!”
“We shall never part whilst thou mayest fancy my company,” said
Hepborne, kissing his cheek kindly, and infinitely pleased with the
unfeigned attachment the boy already showed him. “But youth is fickle,
and I should not choose to bind thy volatile heart longer than it may
be willing; for it may change anon.”
The boy looked suddenly to heaven, crossed his hands over his breast,
and said earnestly, “I am not one given to change, Sir Knight; thou
shalt find me ever faithful and true to thee.”
After leaving Edinburgh, Hepborne travelled by St. Johnstoun, and
presented himself before King Robert the Second at Scone, where he then
happened to be holding his court. The venerable monarch received him in
the most gracious and flattering manner.
“Thy renommie hath outrun thy tardy homeward step, Sir Knight,” said
His Majesty, “for we have already heard of thy gallant deeds abroad.
Perdie, we did much envy our faithful ally and brother of France, and
did grudge him the possession of one of the most precious jewels of our
court, and one of the stoutest defences of our throne. We rejoice,
therefore, to have recovered what of so good right belongeth to us, and
we hope thou wilt readily yield to our command that thou shouldst
remain about our royal person. Since old age hath come heavily upon us,
marry, we the more lack such staunch and trusty props.”
“My Most Gracious Liege,” said Hepborne, “I shall not be wanting in my
duty of obedience to your royal and gratifying mandate. At present I go
to attend this tourney of my Lord of Moray’s, and I go the more gladly,
that I may have an opportunity of meeting with my peers of the
baronage, of Scottish chivauncie, whom my absence in France hath
hitherto prevented my knowing. Having your royal leave to follow out
mine intent, I shall straightway render myself in your grace’s
presence, to bow to your royal pleasure.”
“By doing so, Sir Patrick,” said the King, “thou wilt much affect us to
thee. We have of late had less of thy worthy father’s attendance on our
person than we could have wished. Mansuete as he is in manners, sage in
council, and lion-hearted in the field, we should wish to see him
always in our train. But we grieve for the sad cause of his retirement.
Thy virtuous mother’s sudden death hath weighed heavily on him, yet
must he forget his grief. Let a trental of masses be said for her
soul;—he must bestir himself anon, and restore to us and to his country
the use of those talents, of that virtue and bravery with which he hath
been so eminently blessed, and which were given him for our glory and
Scotland’s defence. If thou goest by the most curt and direct way into
Moray Land, thou wilt pass by our son Alexander Earl of Buchan’s Castle
of Lochyndorbe. Him must thou visit, and tell him that we ourselves did
urge thee to claim his hospitality.”
Hepborne readily promised that he would obey His Majesty’s injunctions
in that respect, and took his leave, being charged with a letter for
the Earl, from the King, under his private signet.
His route lay northwards, through the centre of Scotland. As he
journeyed onwards, through deep valleys and endless forests, and over
high, wide, and barren wastes, he compared in his own mind the face of
the country with the fertile regions of France, which he had so lately
left. But still, these were the mountains of his fatherland that rose
before his eye, and that name allied them to his heart by ties
infinitely stronger than the tame surface of cultivation could have
imposed. His soul soared aloft to the summits of the snow-topt
Grampians, where the hardy and untameable spirit of Scotland seemed to
sit enthroned among their mists, and to bid him welcome as a son.
He made each day’s journey so easy, on account of the tender page, that
a week had nearly elapsed ere he found himself in the upper part of the
valley of the Dee. It was about sunset when he reached a
miserable-looking house, which had been described to him as one
accustomed to give entertainment to travellers. It was situated under
some lofty pines on the edge of the forest. The owner of this mansion
was a Celt; a tall, stout, athletic man of middle age, clad in the garb
of the mountaineers. Having served in the wars against the English, he
had acquired enough of the Southron tongue to enable Hepborne to hold
converse with him. The knight and the page (whom, notwithstanding his
injunction to Mortimer Sang, he had yet kept always within his own eye)
were ushered together into a large sod-built apartment, where a
cheerful fire of wood burned in the middle of the floor. The squire and
the rest of the party were bestowed in a long narrow building of the
same materials, attached to one end of it. The night had been chilly on
the high grounds they had crossed, and the fire was agreeable. They sat
them down, therefore, on wooden settles close to it, and the rude
servants of their host hastened to put green boughs across the fire,
and to lay down steaks of the flesh of the red-deer to be cooked on
them.
Meanwhile the host entered with a wooden stoup in his hand, and poured
out for them to drink, into a small two-eared vessel of the same
material. The liquor was a sort of spirit, made partly from certain
roots and partly from grain; and was harsh and potent, but rather
invigorating. Hepborne partook of it, but the page would on no account
taste it.
“Fu?” said Duncan MacErchar, for that was their host’s name, “fu! fat
for will she no drink?”
“He is right,” said Hepborne; “at his age, water should be his only
beverage.”
The host then went with his stoup to offer some of its contents to the
knight’s followers, most of whom he found less scrupulous than the
page. During his conversation with the men, he soon learned who was
their master; but he had no sooner heard the name of Hepborne than he
became half frantic with joy, and hastily returned into the place where
Sir Patrick was sitting.
“Master Duncan MacErchar,” said Hepborne to him as he entered, “thou
must e’en procure me some mountaineer who may guide me into Moray Land.
I be but a stranger in these northern regions, and verily our way among
the mountains hath been longer than it ought, for we have been often
miswent. Moreover, I am altogether ignorant of thy Celtic leden, so
that when we have had the good fortune to meet with people by the way,
we have not been able to profit by the information they could give us.”
“Ugh!” cried MacErchar, with a strong expression of joy, and rubbing
his hands as he spoke; “but she’ll go with her hersel, an naebody else
can be gotten to attend her. Ugh ay, surely she’ll do that and twenty
times more for ony Hepborne, and most of all for the son of the noble,
and brave, and worthy Sir Patrick, and weel her part. Och ay, surely!”
“And how comest thou to be so very friendly to the Hepbornes, and,
above all, to our family?” demanded Sir Patrick.
“Blessings be upon her!” said MacErchar, “she did serve mony a day with
her father, the good and the brave Sir Patrick, against the English,
and mony was the time she did fight at her ain back. She would die
hersel for Sir Patrick, or for ony flesh o’ his.”
Hepborne’s heart immediately warmed to the honest Celt; he shook him
cordially by the hand, and MacErchar’s eyes glistened with pleasure.
“Depend on it, Master MacErchar,” said he, “my father shall know thine
attachment to him.”
“Ou fye,” said MacErchar, “it would be an honour and a pleasure for her
to see Sir Patrick again, to be sure!—ugh ay!” And he stopped, because
he seemed to lack language to express all he felt.
“Thou livest in a wild spot here,” said Hepborne; “but thou art a
soldier, and hast travelled.”
“Ou ay, troth she hath done that,” said Duncan, with a look of
conscious pride; “troth hath she travelled mony a bonny mile in
England, not to talk o’ Ireland, where she did help to take
Carlinyford. Troth she hath seen Newcastle, and all there-abouts, for
she was with the brave Archembald Douglas, the Grim Lord of Galloway.
Och! oich! it was fine sport!—She lived on the fat o’ the land yon
time; and, u-hugh! what spuilzie!—ay, ay, he! he! he!”
“Thou didst march into England, then, with the French auxiliaries who
came over to St. Johnstoun under Jean de Vian, Comte de Valentinois?”
demanded Sir Patrick.
“Ou ay, troth she was with the Frenchmens a long time,” said
MacErchar—“Peut Parley Frenchy, hoot ay can she. Fair befall them, they
helped to beleaguer and to sack two or three bonny castles. Ugh! what
bonny spuilzie! sure, sure!”
He laid his finger with great significancy against his nose, and,
having first shut the door, he lifted a brand from the fire, and went
to one end of the apartment. There he removed a parcel of faggots that
lay carelessly heaped up against the wall, and, lifting a rude frame of
wattle that was beneath them, uncovered an excavation in the earthen
floor, from which he brought out a massive silver flagon, one or two
small silver mazers, and several other pieces of valuable spoil; and
besides these, he produced a plain black bugle-horn, and two or three
coarse swords and daggers.
“Troth she would not show them to everybody,” said he; “but she be’s an
honourable knight, and Sir Patrick’s son;—she hath no fear to show the
bonny things to her. But she has not had them out for mony a day syne.”
Hepborne bestowed due admiration on those well-earned fruits of Master
Duncan MacErchar’s military hardships and dangers. Though of less
actual value to the owner than the wooden vessel from which he had so
liberally dealt out his hospitable cup at meeting, yet there was
something noble in the pride he took in showing them. It was evident
that the glory of the manner of their acquisition gave them their chief
value in his eyes; for it was not those of most intrinsic worth that
were estimated the highest by him.
“See this,” said he, lifting the plain black bugle-horn; “this be the
best prize of them all. She took this hersel off a loon that fought and
tuilzied with her hand to hand; but troth she tumbled him at the
hinder-end of the bicker. Fye, fye, but he was a sorrowful mockel stout
loon.—This swords, an’ this daggers, were all ta’en off the loons she
killed with her nain hand.—But uve, uve! she maunna be tellin’ on her,
though troth she needna fear Sir Patrick Hepborne’s son. But if some of
the folks in these parts heard of these things, uve, uve! they wouldna
be long here.”
Saying this, he hastily restored the articles of spoil to the grave
that had held them, and putting down the wattle over them, he threw
back the billets into a careless heap against the wall.
“Thy treasure is so great, Master MacErchar,” said Hepborne, “that thou
art doubtless satisfied, and wilt never again tempt thy fate in the
field?”
“Hoot toot!” cried MacErchar, “troth she’ll be there again or lang; she
maun see more o’ the Southrons yet or she dies. But uve, uve! what for
is there nothing for her to eat?”
He then burst out in a torrent of eloquence in his own language, which
soon brought his ragged attendants about him, and the best that he
could afford was put on a table before Sir Patrick and the page. Cakes
made of rough ground oatmeal, milk, cheese, butter, steaks of deer’s
flesh, with various other viands, with abundance of ale, appeared in
rapid succession, and both knight and page feasted admirably after
their day’s exercise. Hepborne insisted on their host sitting down and
partaking with them, which he did immediately, with a degree of
independent dignity that impressed Sir Patrick yet more strongly in his
favour.
CHAPTER XXIV.
Savage-looking Visitors—Night in the Highland Hostelry—Wolf-Dogs.
As they sat socially at their meal, they were suddenly interrupted by
the door being burst open, when two gigantic and very savage-looking
men entered, in most uncouth and wild drapery. They were clothed in
woollen plaids of various colours and of enormous amplitude, and these
were wrapt round their bodies and kept tight by a belt of raw leather
with the hair on it, leaving the skirts to hang half-way down their
naked thighs, while the upper part above the belt was thrown loosely
over the shoulder, so as to give their muscular arms and hairy knees
the full freedom of nakedness. Their heads also were bare, except that
they had the copious covering which Nature had provided for them, the
one having strong curly black hair, and the other red of similar
roughness, hanging in matted locks over their features and about their
ears. The forests which Nature had planted on their faces, chins, and
necks too, had been allowed to grow, untamed by shears; their legs were
covered half-way to the knee by strips of raw skin twisted round them,
and their feet were defended by a kind of shoes made of untanned hides.
Each had a dirk in his girdle, and a pouch of skin suspended before,
while across their backs were slung bows and bunches of arrows. In
their hands they brandished long lances, and several recently-taken
wolves’ skins were thrown over their shoulders, but rather for carriage
than covering. Five or six large wiry-haired wolf-dogs entered along
with them.
MacErchar instantly started up when they appeared, and began speaking
loudly and hastily to them in their own tongue, waving them from time
to time to retire, and at length opened the door, and showed them the
way to the other apartment.
“Who may be these two savage-looking men?” demanded Hepborne of his
host as he entered.
“Troth, she no kens them, Sir Patrick,” replied MacErchar, “she never
saw them afore; but they tells her that they be’s hunters from the
north side of this mountains here.”
“Live they in the way that I must needs wend to-morrow towards Moray
Land?” asked Hepborne.
“Uch, ay,” replied MacErchar; “but mind not that, Sir Patrick, for
hersel will go wi’ her the morn.”
“Nay,” said Hepborne, “that may not be, that is, if these men are to
return whence they came, and that their road and mine run nearly in the
same direction. Perdie, I cannot in that case suffer thee to yede so
far with me unnecessarily, when their guidance might suffice. Thou
shalt give them knowledge of the point I wish to reach, together with
all necessary directions touching the places where we may best halt,
and spend the night; and they shall receive a handsome guerdon from me
when they shall have brought me and mine in safety to the Castle of
Lochyndorbe, whither I am first bound.”
“Uch-huch! of a truth she would like to go with her,” said MacErchar;
“but troth, after all, she must confess that she kens but little o’ the
way beyond her ain hills there. Weel would it be her part to wend wi’
her; but if yon loons ken the gate into Moray Land (as doubtless they
have been there mony a time, and she does not mistake them) they will
be better guides, after all. But what an she should ask some questions
at them?”
“Thou hadst better do so,” said Hepborne; “best ask them whence they
come, and what parts of the country they know, before thou dost teach
them the object of thy questions.”
“Troth, and she’s right there,” said Duncan MacErchar; “this salvage
loons are not just to lippen till; weel does she ken them; and, uve,
uve! she maun tak special care to look sharp after them gin she should
yede wi’ them; they are but little chancy, in troth. But she’ll call
them in now, and see what the loons will say.”
The two uncouth-looking men were accordingly brought in. They made no
obeisance, but stood like a couple of huge rocks, immovable, with all
their thickets and woods upon them. They even beetled over the tall and
sturdy form of Duncan MacErchar, who, though above the middle size,
might have passed as a little man when placed beside those gigantic
figures. Duncan put several questions to them in their own language,
which they answered, but always before doing so, they seemed to consult
each other’s countenances, and then both answered in the same breath.
They eyed the knight and his page from time to time, as the inhabitants
of all secluded and wild regions are naturally apt to stare at
strangers. After a good deal of colloquy had passed, MacErchar turned
to Hepborne—
“Sir Patrick,” said he, “these men ken every inch of the country from
here to the Firth of Moray. Shall she now ask them if they be willing
to guide her honour to Lochyndorbe?”
“Do so, I beseech thee,” said Hepborne, “and tell them I will give them
gold when they bring me thither.”
MacErchar again addressed them in their own language. The men seemed to
nod assent to the proposals he made them; and after a few more words
had passed between them—
“Uch, Sir Patrick,” said he, “they be very willing for the job. They’ll
bring her there in two days. They say that she must be off by sunrise
in the morning.”
This Sir Patrick readily undertook; and Duncan MacErchar having wet the
treaty with a draught of the spirits from his stoup, of which he poured
out liberally to each, the men retired. Sir Patrick Hepborne then
signified a wish to go to his repose. Two heather-beds, of inviting
firmness and elasticity, were already prepared at the two extremities
of the chamber where they were; and the knight having occupied the one,
and the page the other, both were very soon sound asleep.
About the middle of the night Sir Patrick was awakened by a noise. He
raised himself suddenly, and, looking towards the door, whence it
seemed to have proceeded, he saw that it was open. One or two of the
great rough wolf-dogs came slowly in, looking over their shoulders, as
if expecting some one to follow them—and, making a turn or two round
the expiring fire, and smelling about them for a little while, walked
out again. Hepborne arose and shut the door, and then threw himself
again within his blankets. He lay for some time awake, to see whether
the wolf-dogs would repeat their unpleasant intrusion; and finding that
there was no appearance of their doing so, he again resigned himself to
the sweets of oblivion.
He had lain some time in this state when he was a second time awakened,
he knew not how, but he heard as if there were footsteps in the place.
The fire had now fallen so low that he could see nothing by its light,
but by a glimmering moonbeam that made its way in he saw that the door
was again open. As he looked towards it, he thought he perceived
something like a dog glide outwards. He started up, as he had done
before, and, going to the door, he again shut it; and, that the
wolf-dogs might no more torment him, he piled up the rustic table he
had supped on, and some of the stools and settles against it. The
precautions he thus took were effectual, for the dogs were no more
troublesome to him all night; and the first interruption his slumbers
experienced was from the overthrow of the whole materials of his
barricado, and the exclamation of “Uve! uve!” that burst from Duncan
MacErchar, who came for the purpose of rousing him to prosecute his
journey. Hepborne explained the cause of his having so fortified the
door.
“Uch ay,” said MacErchar, “they be’s powersome brutes—powersome brutes,
in troth, and plaguy cunning. I’se warrant they smelt the smell of the
rosten deer’s flesh, and that brought them in. But they got little for
their pains, the ragged rascals—not but they are bonny tykes, poor
beasts! and troth, ’tis better to have ane o’ them in the house than
the wolves themselves, that we’re sometimes plagued with.”
The host approached the side of Hepborne’s couch, with his everlasting
stoup in his right hand, and the wooden cup in his left, and poured him
out of the spirits it contained. The knight sipped a little, and then
MacErchar retired to see that his morning’s meal was properly provided.
It was no less copiously and comfortably supplied, according to his
means, than the supper of the previous evening had been.
At length Mortimer Sang came to receive his master’s orders; and when
Hepborne asked him how he and his people had fared, he learned that
they had been treated with every thing the good host could procure for
them. Oats were not to be had for the horses; but, in addition to the
grass that was cut for them, Master MacErchar had himself carried a
large sack of meal to the stables and out-houses of turf, where the
animals had with some difficulty been forced in, and he had most
liberally supplied them with his own hands. He went round all the men
of Hepborne’s party, and gave each his morning’s cup of spirits. In
short, he seemed to think that it was impossible he could do enough
from his small means, for the knight and every person and animal
belonging to him.
When the horses were brought out, Hepborne called MacErchar to him, and
offered him, from his purse, ten times as much money as the value of
his night’s entertainment and lodging would have cost.
“Uve! uve!” said Duncan, sore hurt, and half offended; “uve! uve! Sir
Patrick! Hoot no. What! take money from the son of Sir Patrick
Hepborne, the son o’ the noble brave knight that she has followed mony
a days!—take money from his son for a bit paltry piece and a drink!—Na!
na!—Uve! uve!—Ou fye! ou fye!—na, na!—Troth, she’s no just so poor or
so pitiful as that comes to yet. Uve! uve! Surely!”
Hepborne at once saw the mischief he had done. He would have rather put
his hand in the fire than have hurt feelings that were so honourable to
Duncan MacErchar; and he almost began to wish that his purse had been
there, ere it had been the means of giving pain to so noble a heart. He
did all he could, therefore, to remedy the evil; for, putting his purse
sheepishly into his pocket, he called for the stoup of spirits, and,
filling the cup up to the brim, drank it off, to the health, happiness,
and prosperity of Master Duncan MacErchar; then shaking the mountaineer
heartily by the hand—
“May we meet again, my worthy friend,” said he; “and wherever it may
be, let me not pass by thee unnoticed. Meanwhile, farewell, and may the
blessing of St. Andrew be about thee!”
This courteous and kind behaviour completely salved the wound Hepborne
had so unwittingly inflicted. Duncan was overjoyed with it, and
gratified beyond measure. He tried to express his joy.
“Och, oich! God’s blessing and the Virgin’s blessing be about her. Och,
och! Sir Patrick! uu-uch! God’s blessing and the Virgin’s blessing—and
uch-uch!—and, Sir Patrick—Sure, sure! ou ay—uu—u!”
His English failed him entirely, and he resorted to that language in
which he was most fluent. Hepborne mounted his horse, and, waving him
another farewell, rode on to overtake his guides, who were standing on
a distant eminence waiting for him; and as he receded from the humble
mansion of Master Duncan MacErchar, he for several minutes
distinguished his voice vociferating in pleased but unintelligible
accents.
CHAPTER XXV.
Wild Scottish Bisons—Fight with a Bull—Cold and Fatigue.
Sir Patrick Hepborne and the page, followed by Mortimer Sang and the
rest of the party, rode slowly on after their savage guides, along
sideling paths worn in the steep acclivities of the mountains, by the
deer, wild bisons, and other animals then abounding in the wilderness
of Scotland. The fir forests appeared endless; the trees were of the
most gigantic stature, and might have been of an age coeval with that
second creation that sprang up over the surface of the renovated and
newly-fructified earth, after the subsiding waters had left their
fertilising mud behind them. Long hairy moss hung streaming from their
lateral branches, which, dried by the lack of air and moisture,
occasioned by the increasing growth of the shade above, had died from
the very vigour of the plant they were attached to. As Hepborne beheld
the two mountaineers striding before them in their rough attire,
winding among those enormous scaly trunks, or standing on some rocky
point above, leaning against one of them, to wait for the slow ascent
of himself and party, he could not help comparing them with those
vegetable giants, and indulging his fancy in the whimsical notion that
they were as two of them, animated and endowed with the powers of
locomotion. The ground they travelled was infinitely rough and varied
in surface, hills and hollows, knolls, gullies, rivers, and lakes; but
all was forest, never-ending forest. Sometimes, indeed, they crossed
large tracks of ground, where, to open a space for pasture, or to
banish the wolves, or to admit a more extended view around for purposes
of hunting, or perhaps by some accidental fire, the forest had been
burnt. There the huge trunks of the trees, charred black by the flames,
and standing deprived of everything but a few of their larger limbs,
added to the savage scenery around.
Before entering one of these wastes, in a little plain lying in the
bottom of a valley, where the devastation had been arrested in its
progress by some cause before it had been carried to any great extent,
their guides descried a herd of the wild bisons, which were natives of
Scotland for ages after the period we are now speaking of. The animals
were feeding at no very great distance, and the mountaineers were
instantly all eagerness to get at them. Pointing them out to Hepborne,
they made signs that he and his party should halt. He complied with
their wishes; and they immediately secured their dogs to the trees, to
prevent the risk of giving any premature alarm, and, setting off with
inconceivable speed through the skirting wood that grew on the side of
the mountain, were soon lost to view. Hepborne kept his eye on the
herd. They were of a pure milk-white hue, and, as the sun was reflected
from their glossy hides, they appeared still more brilliant, from
contrast with the blackened ruins of the burnt pines among which they
were pasturing. At their head was a noble bull with a magnificent mane.
As Hepborne and the page were admiring the beauty and symmetry of this
leader of the herd, noting the immense strength indicated by the
thickness and depth of his chest with the lightness and sprightliness
of his head, and his upright and spreading horns, of a white rivalling
that of ivory in lustre, and tipt with points of jet black, they
observed a fat cow near to him suddenly fall to the ground, by an arrow
from the covert of the trees, while another having been lodged in his
flank at the same moment, he started aside, and bounded off in a wide
circuit with great swiftness, and the whole herd, being alarmed, darted
after him. Out rushed the mountaineers from their concealment, and,
making for the wounded cow, soon despatched her with their spears.
They then attempted to creep nearer to the herd, and even succeeded in
lodging more than one arrow in the bull; but as none of them took
effect in a vital part, they only served to madden the animal. He
turned, and, ere they wist, charged them with a fury and speed that
left them hardly time to make their escape. They ran towards the place
where Hepborne and his party were concealed, and, just as the knight
moved forward into the open ground, they succeeded in getting up into
trees. Sir Patrick’s manœuvre had the desired effect in checking the
attack of the bisons, for they stopped short in the middle of their
career, gazed at the party, and then, led by the bull at their head,
again galloped off in a wide circle, sweeping round a second time
towards the knight, and coming to a sudden stand beyond bow-shot. After
remaining at rest for some minutes, with their heads all turned towards
the party, the bull began pawing the ground and bellowing aloud, after
which he charged forward the half of the distance, and then halted.
Hepborne, seeing him thus detached from his followers, put his lance in
the rest, and was preparing to attack him; but just as he was rising in
his stirrup, and was about to give his horse the spur, the page, with a
countenance pale as death, and a hand trembling with apprehension,
seized his bridle-rein, and looking anxiously in his face—
“Do not peril thy life, Sir Knight,” said he—“do not, I beseech thee,
peril thy life against a vulgar beast, where thou canst gain no honour;
do not, for the sake of the blessed Virgin—do not essay so dangerous
and unprofitable an adventure.”
“Pshaw,” said Hepborne, vexed with the notion that the boy was
betraying pusillanimity; “is that the face, are those the looks, and is
that the pallid hue of fear thou dost mean to put on as the proofs of
thy fitness for deeds of manhood and warlike encounter?”
The page dropped his head, ashamed and hurt by his master’s chiding;
but still he did not let go the rein—
“Nay, Sir Knight,” said he calmly, “I did but argue that thy prowess,
shown upon a vile brute, were but lost. Rather let me attempt to attack
yonder salvage; he better befits mine unpractised arm than thine
honoured lance, which hath overthrown puissant knights.”
“Tush, boy,” said Sir Patrick, somewhat better pleased to see the
spirit that lurked in the youth, “thou art much too young, and thine
arm is as yet too feeble to fit thee for encounter with yonder huge
mass of thews and muscles. Stand by, my dear boy, and let me pass.”
He gave the palfrey the spur, and sprang forward against the bull. The
page couched his slender lance, to which a pennon was attached, and
bravely followed the knight in the charge, as fast as his palfrey could
gallop. The bull, seeing Hepborne coming on him, bellowed aloud, and,
putting down his nose to the ground, he shut his eyes, and darted
forward against his assailant. Hepborne wheeled his horse suddenly out
of his way, and, with great adroitness, ran his lance through him as he
passed him. But his manœuvre, though manifesting excellent judgment,
and admirable skill and horsemanship, had nearly proved fatal to the
page, whose palfrey, coming up in a straight line behind that of the
knight, and seeing the bull coming directly upon him, sprang to the
side, and by that means unhorsing the boy, left him lying on the
ground, in the very path of the infuriated beast. In agony from his
wound, the creature immediately proceeded to attack the youth with his
horns. But the page having kept hold of his spear, with great presence
of mind, ran its point, with the flapping pennon attached to it, right
into the animal’s eyes. The creature instantly retreated a few steps,
and before he could renew his attack he was overpowered by the knight
and his party, who immediately surrounded him, and was killed by at
least a dozen spear-thrusts at once. A general charge was now made
against the rest that still stood at a distance, crowded together in a
knot; when the whole of them, wheeling suddenly round, galloped off
with the utmost swiftness, and were lost in the depths of the forest.
Hepborne leaped from his horse and ran anxiously to assist Maurice de
Grey, who still lay on the ground, apparently faint from the fall he
had had, and perhaps, too, partly from the alarm he had been in. He
raised him up, upon which the boy burst into tears.
“Art thou hurt, Maurice?” demanded Hepborne, with alarm.
“Nay,” said the boy, “I am not hurt.”
“Fye on thee, then,” said Hepborne; “let not tears sully the glory thou
has but now earned by thy manly attempt in so boldly riding to my
rescue. Verily thou wilt be a brave lad anon. Be assured, my beloved
boy,” continued he, as he warmly embraced him, “I feel as grateful for
thine affectionate exertions in my behalf as if I now owed my life to
them. But dry up thy tears, and let them not henceforth well out so
frequently, lest thy manhood and courage may be questioned.”
“Nay, Sir Knight,” said the boy, “these are not the tears of cowardice;
they are the tears of gratitude to heaven for thy safety; and methinks
they are less dishonourable to me,” continued he, with an arch smile of
satisfaction, “since I see that thine own manly cheek is somewhat
moistened.”
Hepborne said no more, but turned away hastily, for he felt that what
the boy said was true. He had experienced very great alarm for
Maurice’s life, and the relief he received by seeing him in safety,
operating in conjunction with the thought that the danger the page had
thrown himself into had been occasioned by a mistaken zeal to defend
him from the bull, grappled his generous heart, and filled his eyes
with a moisture he could not restrain.
The two mountaineers proceeded to skin the animals, a work which they
performed with great expertness; then cutting off the finer parts of
the flesh, and carefully extracting the tallow, they rolled them up in
the hides; and each lifting one of them on his brawny shoulders,
proceeded on their journey, after allowing their hungry dogs to gorge
themselves on the remainder.
The knight and his party were now led up some of those wild glens which
bring down tributary streams to the river Dee, and they gradually began
to climb the southern side of that lofty range of mountains separating
its valley from that of the Spey. They soon rose above the region of
forest, and continued to ascend by zigzag paths, where the horses found
a difficult and precarious footing, and where the riders were often
compelled to dismount. The fatigue to both men and animals was so
great, that some of the latter frequently slipped down, and were with
great labour recovered from the hazard they were thrown into. At
length, after unremitting and toilsome exertions, they found themselves
on the very ridge of the mountain group, from which they enjoyed a view
backwards over many leagues of the wild but romantic country they had
travelled through during the previous day.
They now crossed an extensive plain, the greatest part of which was
covered with a hardened glacier, while two high tops reared themselves,
one on either side, covered with glazed snow, that reflected the
sunbeams with dazzling brightness. The passage across this stretch of
table-land was difficult, the horses frequently slipping and often
falling, till, at length, they came suddenly on the edge of a
precipice, whence they looked down into one of the most sublime scenes
that nature can well present.
The long and narrow trough of the glen, bounded on both sides by
tremendously precipitous rocks, rising from a depth that made the head
giddy to overlook it, stretched from under them in nearly a straight
line, for perhaps six or seven miles, being cooped in between the two
highest points of the Grampians. The bottom of the nearer and more
savage part of this singular hollow among the mountains was so
completely filled with the waters of the wild Loch Avon, as to leave
but little shore on either side, and that little was in most places
inclined in a steep slope, and covered with mountainous fragments, that
had fallen during a succession of ages from the overhanging cliffs. A
detachment of pines, from the lower forests, came straggling up the
more distant part of the glen, and some of them had even established
themselves here and there in scattered groups, and uncouthly-shaped
single trees, along the sides of the lake, or among the rocks arising
from it. The long sheet of water lay unruffled amidst the uninterrupted
quiet that prevailed, and, receiving no other image than that of the
sky above, assumed a tinge of the deepest and darkest hue. The glacier
they stood on, and which hung over the brow of the cliff, gave rise to
two very considerable streams, which threw themselves roaring over the
rocks, dashing and breaking into an infinite variety of forms, and
shooting headlong into the lake below.
The sun was now sinking rapidly in the west, and night was fast
approaching. The great elevation they had gained, and the solitary
wilderness of alpine country that surrounded them, almost excluded the
possibility of any human habitation being within their reach. Hepborne
became anxiously solicitous for the page Maurice de Grey, who had for a
considerable time been manifesting excessive fatigue. Their dumb guides
seemed to stand as if uncertain how to proceed, and Hepborne’s anxiety
increased. He endeavoured to question them by signs, as to where they
intended the party to halt for the night. With some difficulty he
succeeded in making them understand him, and they then pointed out a
piece of green ground, looped in by a sweep of the river, that escaped
from the farther end of the lake. The spot seemed to be sheltered by
surrounding pine trees, and wore in every respect a most inviting
aspect. But if they had been endowed with wings and could have taken
the flight of eagles from the region of the clouds where they then
were, the distance must have been five or six miles. Taking into
calculation, therefore, the immense circuit they must make with the
horses in order to gain the bottom of the glen beyond the lake, which
must necessarily quadruple the direct distance, together with the
toilsome nature of the way, Sir Patrick saw that Maurice de Grey must
sink under the pressure of fatigue before one-twentieth part of it
could be performed. He was therefore thrown into a state of the utmost
perplexity, for the cold was so great where they then were, that it was
absolutely impossible they could remain there during the night, without
the risk of being frozen to death.
One of the guides, observing Hepborne’s uneasiness and doubt,
approached him, and pointed almost perpendicularly downwards to a place
near the upper end of the lake, where the masses of rock lay thickest
and hugest. The knight could not comprehend him at first, but the man,
taking up two or three rough angular stones, placed them on the ground
close to each other in the form of an irregular circle, everywhere
entire except in one point, where the space of about the width of one
of them was left vacant; and then, lifting up a stone of a cubical
shape, and of much greater size, he placed the flat base of it on the
top of the others, so as entirely to cover them and the little area
they enclosed. Having made Hepborne observe that he could thrust his
hand in at the point where the circle had been left incomplete, and
that he could move it in the cavity under the flat base of the stone,
he again pointed downwards to the same spot he had indicated near the
upper end of the lake, and at last succeeded in calling Hepborne’s
attention to one of the fallen crags, much larger than the rest, but
which, from the immensity of the height they were above it, looked
liked a mere handful. The guide no sooner saw that the knight’s eye had
distinguished the object he wished him to notice, than he turned and
pointed to the mimic erection he had formed on the ground, and at
length made him comprehend that the fallen crag below was similarly
poised, and afforded a like cavernous shelter beneath it. At the same
time he indicated a zigzag path that led precipitously down the cliffs,
like a stair among the rocks, between the two foaming cataracts. This
was altogether impracticable for the horses, it is true, but it was
sufficiently feasible, though hazardous enough, for active pedestrians.
The guide separated Hepborne and Maurice de Grey from the rest of the
party, and then, pointing to the men and horses, swept his extended
finger round from them to the distant green spot beyond the end of the
lake; and this he did in such a manner as to make the knight at once
understand he meant to propose that the party should proceed thither by
a circuitous route, under the guidance of his companion, whilst he
should himself conduct Hepborne and his already over-fatigued page
directly down to the Sheltering Stone below, where they might have
comfortable lodging for the night. He further signified to Hepborne
that the horses might be brought for a considerable way up the lake to
meet him in the morning.
CHAPTER XXVI.
The Evening Encampment—Treachery.
So much time had been lost in this mute kind of conversation, that the
night was fast approaching, and Sir Patrick saw that he must now come
to a speedy decision. The plan suggested by the guide seemed to be the
best that could be followed, under all the circumstances, and he at
once determined to adopt it. At the same time, he by no means relished
this division of his forces, and, remembering the caution he had
received from Duncan MacErchar, he called Mortimer Sang aside, and gave
him very particular injunctions to be on the alert, and to take care
that his people kept a sharp watch over the mountaineer who was to
guide them, and to be sure to environ him in such a manner as to make
it impossible for him to dart off on a sudden, and leave them in the
dark, in the midst of these unknown deserts. Had they once safely
arrived at the green spot, where there was a temporary, though
uninhabited, hunting-hut, and plenty of grass for the horses, he had no
fear of his being able to join them with the page next morning; for the
trough of the glen was so direct between the two points where they were
separately to spend the night, that it was impossible to mistake the
way from the one to the other. Mortimer Sang engaged to prevent all
chance of the savage mountaineer escaping. He produced from one of the
baggage-horses a large wallet, containing provisions enough for the
whole party, which the good and mindful Master Duncan MacErchar had
provided for them, altogether unknown to Hepborne. From it he took some
cakes, cheese, butter, and other eatables, with a small flask filled
from the host’s stoup of spirits; these were added to their guide’s
burden of the flesh of the wild bisons they had slain; and, bidding one
another God speed, the party, under Sang, with one of the Celts, and
all the dogs, departed to pursue their long and weary way.
Maurice de Grey had sat all this while on the ground, very much
exhausted; and when he arose to proceed he had become so stiff that
Hepborne began to be alarmed for him. The poor boy, however, no sooner
remarked the unhappy countenance of his master than he made an attempt
to rouse himself to exertion, and, approaching the edge of the
precipice, he commenced his descent after the guide, with tottering and
timid steps, dropping from one pointed rock to another, and steadying
himself from time to time as well as he could by means of his lance, as
he quivered on the precarious footing the rough sides of the cliffs
afforded. The height was sufficiently terrific when contemplated from
above; but, as they descended, the depth beneath them seemed to be
increased, rather than diminished, by the very progress they had made.
It grew upon them, and became more and more awful at every step. The
crags, too, hung over their heads, as if threatening to part from their
native mountains, as myriads had done before, and to crush the
exhausted travellers into nothing beneath their ruins. They went down
and down, but the lake and the bottom of the valley appeared still to
recede from them. The way became more hazardous. To have looked up or
down would have required the eye and the head of a chamois. A
projecting ledge increased the peril of the path, and the page, tired
to death, and giddy from the terrific situation he saw himself fixed
in, clung to a point of the rock, and looked in Hepborne’s face,
perfectly unable to proceed or to utter a word. There he remained,
panting as if he would have expired. The knight was filled with
apprehension lest the boy should faint and fall headlong down, and the
guide was so much in advance as to be beyond lending his assistance, so
that he alone could give aid to the page. Yet how was he to pass the
boy, so as to put himself in a position where he could assist him? He
saw the path re-appearing from under the projecting ledge, a little to
one side of the place where the page hung in awful suspense, and,
taking one instantaneous glance at it, he leaped boldly downwards. He
vibrated for a moment on the brink; and his feet having dislodged a
great loose fragment of the rock, it went thundering downwards,
awakening all the dormant echoes of the glen. He caught at a bunch of
heath with both his hands; and he had hardly recovered his equilibrium,
when Maurice de Grey, believing, in his trepidation, that the noise he
had heard announced the fall and destruction of his master, uttered a
faint scream, and dropped senseless from the point of rock he had held
by. Hepborne sprang forward, and caught him in his arms. Afraid lest
the boy might die before he could reach the Sheltering Stone, he
shouted to the guide, and, waving him back, took from him the bottle,
and put it to the page’s lips. The spirits revived him, and he opened
his eyes in terror, but immediately smiled when he saw that Hepborne
was safe.
Sir Patrick now put his left arm around the page’s body, and, swinging
him upwards, seated him on his left shoulder, keeping him firmly there,
whilst, with his right hand, he employed his lance to support and
steady his ticklish steps. The timorous page clasped the neck of his
master with all his energy, and in this way the knight descended with
his burden. Many were the difficulties he had to encounter. In one
place he was compelled to leap desperately over one of the cataracts,
where the smallest slip, or miscalculation of distance, must have
proved the destruction of both. At length he reached the bottom in
safety, and there the page, having recovered from his terror, found
breath to pour forth his gratitude to his master. He now regained his
spirit and strength so much, that he declared himself perfectly able to
proceed over the rough ground that lay between them and the Sheltering
Stone; but Hepborne bore him onwards, until he had deposited him on the
spot where they were destined to halt for the night. The grateful
Maurice threw himself on his knees before the knight, as he was wiping
his manly brow, and embraced his athletic limbs from a feeling of
fervent gratitude for his safety.
Sir Patrick now proceeded to examine the curious natural habitation
they were to be housed in. The fallen crag, which had appeared so
trifling from the lofty elevation whence they had first viewed it, now
rose before them in magnitude so enormous, as almost to appear capable
of bearing a castle upon its shoulders. The mimic copy of it
constructed by the guide furnished an accurate representation of the
mode in which it was poised on the lesser blocks it had fallen upon.
These served as walls to support it, as well as to close in the chamber
beneath; and they were surrounded so thickly with smaller fragments of
debris, that no air or light could penetrate between them, except in
one or two places. On one side there was a narrow passage, of two or
three yards in length, leading inwards between the stones and other
rubbish, and of height sufficient to permit a man to enter without
stooping very much. The space within, dry and warm, was capable of
containing a dozen or twenty people with great ease. It was partially
lighted by one or two small apertures between the stones, and the roof,
formed of the under surface of the great mass of rock, was perfectly
even and horizontal. It presented a most inviting place of shelter, and
it seemed to have been not unfrequently used as such, for in one corner
there was a heap of dried bog-fir, and in another the remains of a
heather-bed.
The mountaineer carefully deposited his burdens within the entrance,
and then set about collecting dry heather and portions of drift-wood,
which he found about the edges of the lake; and he soon brought
together as much fuel as might have kept up a good fire for two or
three days. Having piled up some of it in a heap, he interspersed it
with pieces of the dry bog-fir, and then, groping in his pouch,
produced a flint and steel, with which he struck a light, and soon
kindled up a cheerful blaze. He then began to cut steaks of the flesh
of the wild bison, and when the wood had been sufficiently reduced to
the state of live charcoal, he proceeded to broil them over the embers,
on pieces of green heather plucked and prepared for the purpose.
Meanwhile the knight and the page seated themselves near the fire.
“How fares it with thee now, Maurice?” demanded Sir Patrick kindly, as
he watched the cloud that was stealing over the boy’s fair brow, and
the moisture that was gathering under his long eyelashes, as he sat
with his eyes fixed in a fit of absence upon the ground—“What ails
thee, my boy? Say, dost thou repent thee of thy rashness in having
exchanged the softer duties and lighter labours of a page of dames, for
the toils, dangers and hardships befalling him who followeth the noble
profession of arms? Trust me, thy path hath been flowery as yet,
compared to what thou must expect to meet with. Methinks thou lookest
as if thy spirit had flown homewards, and that it were hovering over
the gay apartment where thy mother and her maidens may be employed in
plying the nimble needle, charged with aureate thread, or sowing pales
upon their gorgeous paraments.”
“Nay, Sir Knight,” said Maurice de Grey, “my thoughts were but partly
of those at home. Doubtless they have ere this ceased to think of their
truant boy!” He sighed heavily, and tears rolled down his cheeks.
“But why dost thou sigh so?” demanded Sir Patrick, “and what maketh thy
brow to wear clouds upon it, like yonder high and snow-white summit?
and why weepest thou like yonder mountain side, that poureth down its
double stream into the glen? Perdie! surely thou canst not be in love
at so unripe an age? Yet, of a truth, those mysterious symptoms of
abstraction and sorrow thou dost so often display, when thou art left
alone to thine own thoughts, would all persuade me that thou art.”
The page held down his head, blushed, and sighed deeply, but said
nothing.
“Is silence, then, confession with thee, Maurice?” demanded Hepborne.
The page wiped his streaming eyes, and raised them with a soft and
melancholy smile, till they met those of his master, when he again
sighed, and, dropping them with renewed blushes to the ground, “I am
indeed in love,” said the boy, “most unhappily in love, since I burn
with unrequited passion. I did indeed believe, vainly believe, that I
was beloved; but, alas! how cruelly was I deceived! I found that what I
had mistaken for the pure flame was but the wanton flashing of a light
and careless heart, that made no account of the pangs it inflicted on
mine that was sincere.”
The page’s eyes filled again, and he sighed as if his heart would have
burst. Sir Patrick Hepborne sighed too; for Maurice, whilst telling of
his unhappy love, had touched his own case most nearly.
“Poor boy,” said he kindly, and full of sympathy for the youth; “poor
boy, I pity thee. I do indeed most sincerely feel for thee, that thou
shouldst have already begun, at so early an age, to rue the smart of
unrequited or unhappy love. Trust me,” continued the knight sighing
deeply, “trust me, I know its bitterness too well not to feel for
thee.” And again he sighed heavily.
“Then thou too hast loved unhappily, Sir Knight?” inquired the page
earnestly.
“Ay, boy,” said Hepborne sadly, “loved!—nay, what do I say?—loved!—I
still love—love without hope. ’Tis a cruel destiny.”
“And hast thou never prospered in love?” asked Maurice; “hast thou
never fancied that thou hadst awakened the warm flame of love, and that
thou wert thyself an object adored?”
“Nay, boy,” said Hepborne, “thou inquirest too curiously. Yet will I
confess that I have had vanity enough to believe that I had excited
love, or something wearing its semblance; but then she that did shew it
was altogether heartless, and I valued the cold and deceitful beam but
as the glimmering march-fire.”
Maurice de Grey made no reply, but hung down his head in silence upon
his breast, and again relapsed into the dream he had been indulging
when Hepborne first roused him. The knight, too, ceased to have any
desire to prolong the conversation. His mind had laid hold of the end
of a chain of association, that gradually unfolded itself in a
succession of tender remembrances. He indulged himself by giving way to
them, and consequently he also dropped into a musing fit. Both were
disturbed by their savage guide, who, having finished his
unsophisticated cookery, now made signs to them to approach and eat.
Love, however fervent, cannot starve, but must give way to the vulgar
but irresistible claims of hunger. The day’s fatigue had been long,
they were faint for want, and the odour of the smoking hot steaks was
most inviting. They speedily obeyed the summons, therefore, and made a
very satisfactory meal. Maurice de Grey had no sooner satisfied the
cravings of nature, than, worn out by his exertions and overpowered by
sleep, he wrapped himself up in his mantle, and throwing himself on the
heather, under the projecting side of the huge rock, his senses were
instantly steeped in sweet oblivion.
Sir Patrick Hepborne regarded the youth with envy. His own thoughts did
not as yet admit of his yielding to the gentle influence of sleep. He
tried to divert them by watching the decline of the day, and following
the slow ascent of the shadows as they crept up the rugged faces of the
eastern precipices, eating away the light before them. A bright
rose-coloured glow rested for a time on the summits, tinging even their
glazed snows with its warm tint; but in a few minutes it also departed,
like the animating soul from the fair face of dying beauty, leaving
everything cold, and pale, and cheerless; and darkness came thickly
down upon the deep and gloomy glen. In the meantime the mountaineer had
been busying himself in gathering dry heath, and in carrying it under
the Shelter Stone, for the purpose of making beds for the knight and
the page.
While the guide was thus employed, Hepborne sat musing at the fire,
listlessly and almost unconsciously supplying it with fuel from time to
time, and gazing at the fragments of wood as they were gradually
consumed. His back was towards the entrance-passage of the place where
the mountaineer was occupied, and the page lay to his right hand, under
the shadow of the rock.
As Sir Patrick sat thus absorbed in thought, he suddenly received a
tremendous blow on his head, that partly stunned him, and almost
knocked him forwards into the flames. The weight and force of it was
such that, had he not had his steel cap on it, his brains must have
been knocked out. Before he could rise to defend himself, the blow was
repeated with a dreadful clang upon the metal, and he was brought down
upon his knees; but ere it fell a third time on him, a piercing shriek
arose, and a struggle ensued behind him. Having by this time gathered
his strength and senses sufficiently to turn round, he beheld the
horrible countenance of their savage guide glaring over him, his
eyeballs red from the reflection of the fire, his lips expanded, his
teeth set together, and a ponderous stone lifted in both hands, with
which he was essaying to fell him to the earth by a third blow. But his
arms were pinioned behind, and it was the feeble page who held them.
Hepborne scrambled to get to his feet, but, weakened by the blows he
had already received, his efforts to rise were vain. The murderous
ruffian, furious with disappointment, struggled hard, and at length,
seeing that he could not rid himself of the faithful Maurice whilst he
continued to hold the stone, he quickly dropped it, and, turning
fiercely round on the boy, groped for his dirk. Already was it half
unsheathed, when the gleam of a bright spear-head came flashing forth
from the obscurity on one side, and with the quickness of thought it
drank the life’s blood from the savage heart of the assassin. Down
rolled the monster upon the ground, his ferocious countenance illumined
by the light from the blazing wood. In the agony of death his teeth
ground against each other; his right hand, that still clenched the
handle of the dirk, drew it forth with convulsive grasp, and, raising
it as if for a last effort of destruction, brought it down with a force
that buried the whole length of its blade in the harmless earth.
Hepborne looked up to see from what friendly hand his preservation and
that of the courageous boy had so miraculously come, when to his
astonishment he beheld Duncan MacErchar standing before him.
“Och, oich!” cried the worthy Highlander. “Och, oich! what a
Providence!—what a mercy!—what a good lucks it was that she was brought
here!”
“A Providence indeed!” cried Hepborne, crossing himself, and offering
up a short but fervent ejaculation of gratitude to God; “it seems
indeed to have been a most marked interposition of Providence in our
favour. Yet am I not the less grateful to thee for being the blessed
instrument, in the hands of the Almighty, in saving not only my life,
but that of the generous noble boy yonder, who had so nearly sacrificed
his own in my defence. Maurice de Grey, come to mine arms; take the
poor thanks of thy grateful master for his safety, for to thy courage,
in the first place, his thanks are due. Trust me, boy, thou wilt one
day be a brave knight; and to make thee all that chivalry may require
of thee shall be mine earnest care.”
Whether it was that the boy’s stock of resolution had been expended in
his effort, or that he was deeply affected by his master’s
commendation, it is not easy to determine; but he shrank from the
knight’s embrace, and, bursting into tears, hurried within the Shelter
Stone.
CHAPTER XXVII.
Another Night Attack—A Desperate Encounter.
“By what miracle, good mine host,” said Sir Patrick Hepborne to Master
Duncan MacErchar—“by what miracle do I see thee in this wilderness, so
far from thine own dwelling?”
“Uch! uch! miracle truly, miracle truly, that she’s brought here; for
who could have thought that the false faitours and traitrous loons
would have led her honour this round-about gate, that they might knock
out her brains at the Shelter Stone of Loch Avon? An it had not been
for Donald and Angus, her two cushins, that hunts the hills, and kens
all the roads of these scoundrels, she would never have thought of
coming round about over the very shoulders of the mountains to seek
after them. But—uve! uve!—where’s the t’other rascals? and where’s her
honour’s men and beasts?”
Hepborne explained the cause and circumstances of their separation.
“Uch! uch!” cried MacErchar; “uve! uve!—then, Holy St. Barnabas, I wish
that the t’others scoundrels may not have them after all; so she shall
have more miles to travel, and another villains to stickit yet! uve!
uve!”
And then changing his tongue, he began with great volubility to
address, in his own language, his cousins, who now appeared. They
replied to him in the same dialect, and then he seemed to tell them the
particulars of the late adventure, for he pointed to the dead body of
the ruffian on the ground, while his actions corresponded with the tale
he was telling, and seemed to be explanatory of it. The two men held up
their hands, and listened with open mouths to his narration. He then
took up a flaming brand from the fire, and, followed by his two
cousins, proceeded to explore the passage leading into the chamber of
the Shelter Stone, whence they soon returned with the burden of
wolf-skins which the ruffian guide had carried. Duncan MacErchar threw
it down on the ground near the fire, and as it fell—
“Troth,” said he, with a joyful expression of countenance—“troth but
she jingles; she’ll swarrants there be’s something in her. Sure! sure!”
With this he went on his knees, and began eagerly to undo the numerous
fastenings of hide-thongs which tied the wolf-skins together, and
which, as Hepborne himself had noticed, had been closely bound up ever
since they started in the morning, though the other guide carried his
hanging loose, as both had done the night before. The knots were
reticulated and decussated in such a manner as to afford no bad idea of
that of Gordius.
“Hoof!” said Master MacErchar impatiently, after working at them with
his nails for some minutes without the least effect; “sorrow be in
their fingers that tied her; though troth she needs not say that now,”
added he in parenthesis. “Poof! that will not do neither; but sorrow be
in her an she’ll not settle her; she’ll do for her, or she’ll wonders
at her.” And, unsheathing his dirk, he ripped up the fastenings,
wolf-skins and all, and, to the astonishment of Hepborne, rolled out
from their pregnant womb the whole of the glittering valuables, the
fruit of his English campaigns.
“Och, oich!” cried MacErchar with a joyful countenance, forgetting
everything in the delight he felt at recovering his treasure—“och, ay!
blessings on her braw siller stoup, and blessings on her bony mazers;
she be’s all here. Ay, ay!—och, oich!—ou ay, every one.”
The mystery of Master Duncan MacErchar’s hasty journey and unlooked-for
appearance at Loch Avon was now explained. His sharp-eared cousin,
Angus MacErchar, had been loitering about the door at the time of the
departure of the knight and his attendants in the morning, and had
heard something clinking in the Celt’s bundle of wolf-skins as he
passed, but seeing no cause to suspect anything wrong, as regarded his
kinsman’s goods, he neglected to notice the circumstance until some
time after they were gone, when he happened to mention, rather
accidentally than otherwise, that he thought the rogues had been
thieving somewhere, for he had heard the noise of metal pots in the
bundle of one of them. Duncan MacErchar took immediate alarm. Without
saying a word, he ran to his secret deposit, and having removed the
heap of billets and the wattle trap-door, discovered with horror and
dismay that his treasures were gone. It was some small comfort to him
that they had not found it convenient to carry away what he most
valued; and he bestowed a friendly kiss upon the black bugle, and the
swords and daggers that were still there; but the whole of the silver
vessels were stolen. What was to be done? He was compelled to tell his
cousins of his afflicting loss, that he might consult them as to what
steps were to be taken. They advised instant pursuit; but well knowing
the men and their habits, they felt persuaded that the thieves would
carefully avoid the most direct path, and guessed that, in order to
mislead their pursuers, they would likely take the circuitous and
fatiguing mountain-route by Loch Avon. Taking the advice and assistance
of his cousins, therefore, Master Duncan MacErchar set off hot foot
after the rogues, and he was soon convinced of the sagacity of his
cousins’ counsels, for they frequently came upon the track of the party
where the ground was soft, or wet enough to receive the prints of the
horses’ feet; and when they came to the ridge of the mountains, they
traced them easily and expeditiously over the hardened snow. It was
dark ere they reached the brink of the precipice overhanging the lake;
but Angus and Donald were now aware of their probable destination, and
the fire they saw burning near the Shelter Stone made them resolve to
visit it in the first place. They lost no time in descending, the two
lads being well acquainted with the dangerous path; and no sooner had
Master Duncan MacErchar set his foot in the glen, than, eager to get at
the thief, he ran on before his companions. And lucky was it, as we
have seen, that he did so; for if he had been but a few minutes later,
both Sir Patrick Hepborne and Maurice de Grey must have been murdered
by the villain whom he slew.
Hepborne now became extremely anxious about the safety of the party
under the guidance of the other ruffian. For the attack of one man
against so many he had nothing to fear; but he dreaded the possibility
of the traitor escaping from them before he had conducted them to their
destined place of halt for the night, and so leaving them helpless on
the wild and pathless mountain to perish of cold. He had nothing for
it, however, but to comfort himself with his knowledge of Sang’s
sagacity and presence of mind.
Master Duncan MacErchar, with his two cousins, now hastened to cut off
a supper for themselves from the bison beef, which they quickly
broiled; and, after their hunger had been appeased, the whole party
began to think of bestowing themselves to enjoy a short repose. Before
doing so, however, Hepborne proposed that they should bury the dead
body. This was accordingly done, and from the debris of the fallen
rocks a cairn was heaped upon it, sufficiently large to prevent the
wolves from attacking it.
The page, wrapped in his mantle, was already sound asleep within the
snug chamber of the Shelter Stone, and Sir Patrick lost no time in
seeking rest in the same comfortable quarters; but the three hardy
Highlanders, preferring the open air, rolled themselves up, each in his
web of plaiding, and then laid themselves in different places, under
the projecting base of the enormous fallen rock, and all were soon
buried in refreshing slumber.
It happened, however, that Duncan MacErchar had by accident chosen the
spot nearest the passage of entrance. The fire had fallen so low as to
leave only the red glow of charcoal; but the night, which was already
far spent, was partially illuminated by the light of the moon, which
had now arisen, though not yet high enough to show its orb to those in
the bottom of the glen. He was suddenly awakened by a footstep near
him, and, looking up, beheld a dark figure approaching. With wonderful
presence of mind, he demanded, in a low whisper, and in his native
language, who went there, and was immediately answered by the voice of
the other guide, who had gone forward with Hepborne’s party, and who,
mistaking MacErchar for his companion in iniquity, held the following
dialogue with him, here translated into English.
“Hast thou done it, Cormack?”
“Nay,” replied Duncan, “it is but now they are gone to sleep, and I
fear they are not yet sound enough. What hast thou done with the party
of men and their horses?”
“I left them all safe at the bothy,” replied the other, “and if we had
this job finished, we might go that way, and carry off two or three of
the best of their horses and trappings while they are asleep, and we
can kill the others, to prevent any of them from having the means of
following us when they awake. But come, why should we delay now?—they
must be asleep ere this; let us in on them—creep towards them on our
knees, and stab them without noise: then all their booty is our own.”
“You foul murderer!” cried Duncan MacErchar, springing at him, his
right hand extended with the intention of making him prisoner. The
astonished ruffian stepped back a pace, as Duncan rushed upon him, and
seizing his outstretched hand, endeavoured to keep him at a distance.
Both drew their dirks, and a furious struggle ensued. Each endeavoured
to keep off the other, with outstretched arm, and powerful exertion,
yet each was desirous to avail himself of the first favourable chance
that might offer, and to bury the lethal weapon he brandished in the
bosom of his antagonist. The ruffian had the decided advantage, for it
was his right hand that was free, while MacErchar held his dirk with
his left. They tugged, and pushed stoutly against each other, and each
alternately made a vain effort to strike his opponent. The brave
MacErchar might have easily called for help, but he scorned to seek aid
against any single man. They still struggled, frequently shifting their
ground by the violence of their exertions, yet neither gaining the
least advantage over the other, when, all at once, MacErchar found
himself attacked behind by a new and very formidable enemy. This was
one of the great rough wolf-dogs, which, having come up at that moment,
and observed his master struggling with Duncan, sprang upon his back,
and seized him by the right shoulder. The ruffian, seeing himself
supported, and thinking that the victory was now entirely in his hands,
bent his elbow so as to permit him to close upon his adversary, and
made an attempt to stab MacErchar in the breast; but the sturdy and
undaunted hero, in defiance of the pain he experienced from the bites
of the dog, raised his left arm, and after receiving the stab in the
fleshy part of it, instantly returned it into the very heart of his
enemy, who, uttering a single groan, fell dead upon the spot. But the
dog still kept his hold, until MacErchar, putting his hand backwards,
drove the dirk two or three times into his body, and shook him off dead
upon the lifeless corpse of his master.
“Heich!” cried he, very much toil-spent—“Foof!—Donald—Angus—Uve,
uve!—Won’t they be hearing her?”
His two cousins, who had been fast asleep at the end of the Shelter
Stone, now came hastily round, making a great noise, which roused Sir
Patrick, who instantly seized his sword, and rushed out to ascertain
what the alarm was.
“Oich, oich!” continued Duncan, much fatigued, “oich! and sure she has
had a hard tuilzie o’t!”
“What, in the name of the blessed Virgin, has happened?” cried
Hepborne, eagerly.
“Fu! nothing after all,” cried Duncan, “nothing—only that t’other
villains came up here from t’others end of the loch, and wanted to
murder Sir Patrick and his page; and so she grabbled at her, and had a
sore tuilzie with her, and sure she hath stickit her dead at last.
But—uve! uve!—she was near worried with her mockell dog; she settled
her too, though, and yonder they are both lying dead together. But
troth she must go and get some sleep now, and she hopes that she’ll
have no more disturbance, wi’ a sorrow to them.”
“But, my good friend,” said the knight, “thine arm bleeds profusely,
better have it tied up; nay, thy shoulder seems to be torn too.”
“Fu, poof!” said MacErchar carelessly, “her arm be’s naething but a
scart; she has had worse before from a thorn bush; and her shoulder is
but a nip, that will be well or the morn.”
So saying, he wrapped his plaid around him, and rolling himself under
the base of the stone where he had lain before, he composed himself to
sleep again, and the others followed his example. The knight also
retired to his singular bed-chamber, and all were very soon quiet.
As MacErchar had hoped, they lay undisturbed until daybreak, when they
arose, shook themselves, and were soon joined by Hepborne from within.
The sun had just appeared above the eastern mountain-tops, and was
pouring a flood of glory down among the savage scenery of the glen.
MacErchar and his two cousins were busily engaged in renovating the
fire; and as Sir Patrick was about to join them, his ears were
attracted by the low moans of a dog, which, beginning at the bottom of
the scale of his voice, gradually ascended through its whole compass,
and ended in a prolonged howl. He cast his eyes towards the spot whence
it proceeded—there lay the dead body of the ruffian murderer with the
dog that died with him in his defence stretched across him stiff; and
by his side sat two more of the dogs, that, having followed some chase
as he came up the glen, had not fallen upon his track again until early
in the morning, and had but just traced it out, when it brought them to
his inanimate corpse. There they sat howling incessantly over him,
alternately licking his face, his hands, and his death-wound. Their
howl was returned from the surrounding rocks, but it was also answered
from no great distance; and on going round the end of the Shelter
Stone, he beheld another dog sitting on the top of the cairn they had
piled over the dead body of the first man who was killed, scraping
earnestly with his feet, and moaning and howling in unison with the two
others. Hepborne went towards him, and did all he could to coax him
away from the spot; but the attached and afflicted creature would not
move. The howling continued, and would have been melancholy enough in
any situation; but in a spot so savage and lonely, and prolonged as it
was by the surrounding echoes, it increased the dismal and dreary
effect of the scenery. Hepborne called the MacErchars, and proposed to
them that they should bury the dead body which lay exposed on the
ground. They readily assented, and approached it for the purpose of
lifting and carrying it to the same spot where they had deposited the
other; but Angus and Donald had no sooner attempted to lay hold of it,
than both the dogs flew at them, and they were glad to relinquish the
attempt, seeing they could carry it into effect by no other means than
that of killing the two faithful animals in the first place, and this
Hepborne would on no account permit.
“Verily he was a foul traitorous murderer,” said the knight; “but he
was their master. His hand was kind and merciful to them, whatever it
might have been to others. Of a truth, a faithful dog is the only
friend who seeth not a fault in him to whom he is attached. Poor
fellows! let them not be injured, I entreat thee.”
Some food was now prepared for breakfast, and Maurice de Grey, who had
made but one sleep during the night, was called to partake of it. They
repeatedly tried to tempt the dogs with the most inviting morsels of
the meat, but none of them would touch it when thrown to them, and,
altogether regardless of it, they still continued to howl piteously.
Hepborne now resolved to proceed to join his party. Duncan MacErchar
had already ordered his cousin Angus, who was perfectly well acquainted
with the way, to go with the knight as his guide, and not to leave him
until he should see him safe into a part of the country where he would
be beyond all difficulty. Sir Patrick was much grieved to be compelled
to part with him who had been so miraculously instrumental in saving
his life. He took off his baldrick and sword, and putting them upon
Duncan—
“Wear this,” said he, “wear this for my sake, mine excellent
friend—wear it as a poor mark of the gratitude I owe thee for having
saved me from foul and traitorous murder. I yet hope to bestow some
more worthy warison.”
“Och, oich!” cried Duncan, “oich, this is too much from her honour—too
much trouble indeed. Fye, but she’s a bonny sword; but what will hersel
do for want of her? Ou, ay—sure, sure!”
“I have others as good among my baggage,” said Hepborne.
“But thou didst save two lives,” said Maurice de Grey, running forward,
and taking Duncan’s hand; “thou didst save mine twice, by saving Sir
Patrick’s. Receive my poor thanks also, most worthy Master MacErchar,
and do thou wear this jewelled brooch for my sake.”
“Och, oich!” said Duncan, “too much trouble for her—too much trouble,
young Sir Pages—too much trouble, surely; but an ever she part with the
sword or the bonny brooch, may she pairt with her life at the same
time.”
They now prepared themselves for taking their different routes, and
Hepborne reminding MacErchar of the injunction he had formerly given
him, to be sure to claim his acquaintance, wherever they should meet,
and giving him a last hearty shake of the hand, they parted, and waving
to each other their “Heaven bless thee!” and “May the blessed Virgin be
with her honour!” set out on their respective journeys.
CHAPTER XXVIII.
Meeting the Wolfe of Badenoch—The Cavalcade.
Hepborne and his page proceeded slowly down the margin of the lake,
preceded by their new guide; and as they looked back, they saw the
bright plaids of Duncan and Donald MacErchar winding up among the
rocks, and appearing on the face of the precipitous mountain like two
tiny red lady-bird beetles on a wall. The way towards the lower end of
the lake was rough and tiresome; but in due time they reached the place
where the party had spent the night, and where they found Mortimer Sang
looking anxiously out for their arrival. He had almost resolved to go
himself in quest of the knight, for he had strongly suspected
treachery, as his guide had more than once manifested symptoms of an
intention to escape from them during the previous night’s march, and
had been only prevented by the unremitting watch kept upon him by the
squire, and two or three of his most active and determined people, to
whom he had given particular instructions. This circumstance, coupled
with the subsequent discovery that the villain had gone off in the
night, the moment he had found an opportunity of doing so, had made
Sang so apprehensive of some villainy, that nothing would have kept him
with the party so long, had it not been for the remembrance of his
master’s strict orders to permit no consideration whatever to detach
him from them.
Poor Maurice de Grey was considerably fatigued, and required to be
indulged with a little rest ere they could set forward. At length the
whole party mounted and got in motion, and, taking their way slowly
down the glen, under their new and intelligent guide, they soon found
themselves buried in the endless pine forests. Game, both fourfooted
and winged, of every description, crossed their path in all directions.
Red deer, and roe deer, and herds of bisons, were frequently seen by
them; now and then the echoes were awakened by the howling of a rout of
gaunt and hungry wolves, sweeping across the glen in pursuit of their
prey; and often the trampling of their horses’ feet disturbed the
capercailzie, as he sat feeding on the tops of the highest firs, while
their palfreys were alarmed in their turn at the powerful flap of his
sounding wings, as they bore him rapidly away.
Leaving the deeper forests for a time, they climbed the mountain sides,
and, crossing some high ridges and elevated valleys where the wood was
thin and scattered, they again descended, and began to penetrate new
wildernesses of thick-set and tall-grown pine timber; until, after a
very long march, they arrived on the banks of the rapid Spey, where
they rested for a time, to refresh themselves and their horses. There
Angus procured a guide of the country for them, on whose fidelity he
could depend, and, having received a handsome remuneration from Sir
Patrick, returned the way he came.
They now crossed the river by a broad ford, and began winding through
the forests that stretched from its northern banks, and continued
gradually rising over its pine-covered hills. The day was approaching
its close as they were winding along the side of a steep hill, that
rose over the head of a deep but narrow glen, surrounded by fantastic
rocks shooting here and there from amongst the oak woods that fringed
its sides. Sir Patrick’s attention was attracted by the sight of some
white tents that were pitched on a small level area of smooth turf in
the bottom, where it was divided by the meanders of a clear rill.
“She be the Wolfe of Badenoch yonder,” said his guide, pointing
downwards with a face of alarm.
“The Wolfe of Badenoch!” cried Sir Patrick eagerly; “what, are those
the tents of the Earl of Buchan?” for he knew that the King’s son,
Alexander Stewart, Earl of Buchan and Lord of Badenoch, whom he was
about to visit, had obtained that nom de guerre from his ferocity.
“Ay, ay,” said the guide, “she’s right; tat’s the Earl of Buchan—tat’s
the Wolfe of Badenoch. Troth she’s at the hunts there. Uve, uve!”
“Then, mine honest fellow,” said Hepborne, “if those be indeed the
tents of the Earl of Buchan, thy trouble with us shall be soon ended.
Do but lead me down thither, and thou shalt be forthwith dismissed,
with thy promised warison.”
The guide paused and hesitated for a time, his countenance betraying
considerable uneasiness and apprehension; but at length he began slowly
to retrace his steps along the side of the hill, and, turning off into
a path that led down through the wood over a gentle declivity, he
finally brought them out into the bottom of the glen, about a quarter
of a mile below the spot where they had seen the tents. As they issued
from the covert of the trees into the narrow glade, the winding of a
bugle-mot came up the glen, and Sir Patrick halted for a few moments,
to listen if it should be repeated. By and by the neighing of steeds,
and a loud laughing and merry talking, announced the approach of a
crowd of people, who very soon appeared, filing round the turning of a
rock.
“Mercy be about her! yon’s ta Wolfe now,” cried the guide, in the
utmost trepidation; and, without waiting for reward or anything else,
he darted into the adjoining thicket and disappeared.
At the head of the numerous party that advanced came a knight, mounted
on a large and powerful black horse. And well was it indeed for the
steed that he was large and powerful, for his rider was as near seven
as six feet in height, while his body and limbs displayed so great a
weight of bone and muscle, that any less potent palfrey must have bent
beneath it. But the noble animal came proudly on, capering as if he
felt not the weight of his rider. The knight wore a broad bonnet,
graced with the royal hern’s plume, and a hunting-dress of
gold-embroidered green cloth, over which hung a richly ornamented
bugle, while his baldrick, girdle-stead, hunting pouch, anelace, and
dirk, were all of the most gorgeous and glittering materials. His boots
were of tawny buckskin, and his heels armed with large spurs of the
most massive gold. The furniture of his horse was equally superb, the
bits in particular being heavily embossed, and the whole thickly
covered over with studs and bosses of the same precious metal. His
saddle and housings were of rich purple velvet, wrought with golden
threads, and the stirrups were of solid silver.
But, accustomed as Sir Patrick Hepborne had been to all the proud pomp
and splendid glitter of chivalry, he minded not these trifling matters
beyond the mere observance of them. It was the head and face of the
person who approached that most particularly rivetted his attention.
Both were on a great scale, and of an oval form. The forehead was high
and retreating, and wore on it an air of princely haughtiness; the nose
was long and hooked; the lips were large, but finely formed; and the
mouth, though more than usually extended, was well shaped, and
contained a set of well-arranged teeth, of uncommon size and unsullied
lustre. The complexion was florid, and the hair, beard, whiskers, and
moustaches, all ample and curling freely, were of a jet black, that was
but slightly broken in upon by the white hairs indicating the
approaching winter of life. But the most characteristic features were
the eyes, which would have been shaded by the enormous eyebrows that
threw their arches over them, had it not been for their extreme
prominence. They were fiery and restless, and although their expression
was sometimes hilarious, yet they generally wore the lofty look of
pride; but it was easy to discern that they were in the habit of being
perpetually moved by an irritable and impatient temper, that was no
sooner excited than their orbs immediately assumed a fearful
inclination inwards, that almost amounted to a squint.
This knight, whom Sir Patrick immediately recognized, by the
description he had often heard of him, to be Alexander Stewart, Earl of
Buchan, the Wolfe of Badenoch, was about the age of fifty, or perhaps a
few years younger. By his side rode a lady, clad in a scarlet mantle,
profusely embroidered with gold, and seated on a piebald palfrey,
covered with trappings even more costly than those of the horse that
carried the Wolfe of Badenoch himself. She seemed to be approaching the
age of forty, and was slightly inclining to embonpoint, fresh in face
and complexion, and very beautiful. Behind them rode five gay and
gallant young knights, the eldest of whom might have been about twenty.
They were all richly apparelled, and accoutred in a taste somewhat
similar to that of the elder knight who rode before them, and were
mounted on magnificent horses, that came neighing and prancing along,
their impatience of restraint adding to the pleasure of their youthful
riders, especially of the younger, who were boys.
A large train of attendants followed, partly on horseback and partly on
foot. These were variously armed with hunting-spears, cross-bows, and
long-bows: and many of the pedestrians, who were coarsely clad, and
some of them even barefooted as well as bareheaded, led a number of
alloundes, raches, and sleuth-hounds, whilst others carried carcases of
red deer and roebucks, suspended on poles borne between two, as also
four-footed and feathered animals of chase, which had fallen victims to
the sport of the day.
All this, which has taken so much time to describe, was seen by Sir
Patrick Hepborne at a single glance, or at least he had sufficient
leisure to make himself master of the particulars ere the cavalcade
came up to him. As the Wolfe of Badenoch drew near, Sir Patrick
dismounted, and, giving his horse to his esquire, advanced towards him,
and paid him the respectful obeisance due to the King’s son.
“Ha!” cried the Wolfe, reigning up his curvetting steed; “who, in the
fiend’s name, may this be?”
“My noble Lord of Buchan,” said Hepborne, “I wait upon your Highness by
the especial desire of His Majesty the King, your royal father. Being
on my way to Moray Land, to be present at the tournament to be held by
the Earl of Moray on the Mead of St. John’s, I passed by Scone, to pay
mine humble duty at his Grace’s Court after my return from France,
where I have been for some of these late years; and knowing mine intent
of visiting these northern parts, your royal father did kindly bid me
seek your well-known hospitality as I should pass into Moray Land.
Moreover, he did honour me so far as to charge me with a letter under
his own signet, addressed for your Highness.—My name is Sir Patrick
Hepborne.”
The Wolfe fidgetted to and fro upon his horse, and displayed very great
impatience until the knight had finished.
“Ha!” said he, the moment he had done speaking—“ha! ’tis well. By my
trusty burly-brand, thou art welcome, Sir Patrick Hepborne. Thy name
hath a sweet savour with it for stark doughtiness in stiff stour, since
thou be’st, as I ween, the son of the bold Sir Patrick Hepborne of
Hailes. By my beard, thou art welcome,” said he again, as he stretched
out his hand to him. “As for the old man’s letter, we shall see that
anon when better place and leisure serve. Know this lady, Sir Patrick,”
continued he, turning towards her who rode with him; “she is the Lady
Mariota Athyn (of whom peraunter thou mayst have heard), and mother to
those five sturdy whelps who ride at my back, and who are wont to call
me father. But get thee to horse, Sir Patrick; the feast waits for us
ere this, and we can talk anon with our wine wassail. If thou hadst
done as much to-day as we have, and been as long from thy trencher, the
red fiend catch me but thou wilt think more of eating than of talking.
Get thee to horse, then, and on with us, I say; we are now but a short
space from the tents. To horse, then, to horse!”
Mortimer Sang brought up his master’s steed, Sir Patrick vaulted into
the saddle, and, being beckoned by the Wolfe to take his place beside
him, immediately obeyed. The Lady Mariota Athyn, who had eyed the
handsome Maurice de Gray, gave him a condescending signal to come to
her right hand, and in this order they rode up the glen, towards the
place where the tents were pitched, the knight’s party mingling as they
went with that of Lord Badenoch, according to the various conditions of
the persons who composed it.
CHAPTER XXIX.
The Wolfe of Badenoch’s Hunting Encampment—Letter from King
Robert—Arrival at the Wolfe’s Stronghold.
The spot chosen for the Wolfe of Badenoch’s hunting encampment was
beautiful. The little rill came welling forth in one great jet, like a
copious fountain, from a crevice in the rocks that, rising like a mimic
castle, terminated the glen at its upper extremity. The bright greens
of the ivy, honeysuckle, and various creeping plants and shrubs that
climbed over its surface, blended with the rich orange, brown, and
yellow tints of the lichens that covered it. On the smooth flat sward,
a little in advance of this, was pitched the pavilion of the Wolfe
himself, with his banner waving before it. It consisted of three
apartments, the largest of which, occupying the whole front, was used
as the banqueting place, whilst the two others behind were devoted to
the private convenience and repose of the Earl and the Lady Mariota.
To the right and left of this central pavilion were the tents of the
five young knights. Of these the eldest, Sir Alexander Stewart,
afterwards Earl of Mar, had all the violence of his father’s temper;
Sir Andrew, the second, was cool, crafty, and designing; and Walter,
James, and Duncan, who were too young to have anything like fixed
characters, had all the tricks and pranks of ill-brought-up and
unrestrained youths, though Duncan, the youngest, had naturally rather
a more amiable disposition than any of the others.
Besides these tents, there were several more on the two flanks,
extending towards the extremity of the horns of the semi-circle,
occupied by squires, and the principal people of the Earl’s retinue.
Within a rocky recess at one side, almost shut out from view by the
embowering trees, a number of temporary huts were erected for culinary
purposes, as well as for lodging the great mass of the lower order of
attendants; and on the opposite side were extensive pickets, to which
the horses were attached in lines.
The night dropped fast down on that low and narrow spot, and, as the
cavalcade arrived, the people were already engaged in lighting a huge
bonfire in the centre of it, quite capable of restoring an artificial
day, and this immense blaze was to be kept up all night, partly for
purposes of illumination, and partly to keep off the wolves. The Earl
no sooner appeared, than all was clamour, and running, and bustle, and
confusion. He halted in front of the tents—the bugles blew, and the
squires and attendants ran to hold his stirrup. But he waited not for
their assistance. Ere they could reach him he sprang to the ground, and
lifting the Lady Mariota from off her palfrey, carried her into the
pavilion.
“Sir Patrick,” said he to Hepborne, as an esquire ushered him in, “thou
must bear with such rustic entertainment as we have to offer thee here
to-night. To-morrow we move to Lochyndorbe, where thou shalt be better
bestowed.”
Sir Patrick bowed; but he saw no lack of provision for good cheer as he
cast his eyes over the ample board, which was covered with a profusion
of silver utensils of all kinds, among which were strangely mingled
pewter, and even wooden trenchers, and where there were not only silver
flagons and mazers, but leathern black-jacks, wooden stoups, and
numerous drinking-horns, the whole being lighted by a silver lamp that
hung over the centre.
“What, in the fiend’s name, makes the feast to tarry?” cried the Wolfe
impatiently: “do the loons opine that we have no stomachs, or that we
are blocks of wood, that we can stand all day i’ the passes, and yet do
at night without feeding? The feast, I say—the feast! Nay, send me that
rascal cook here.”
The cook, sweating from his fiery occupation, was instantly brought
before him, trembling, carrying a stew-pan in one hand, and a long iron
gravy-ladle in the other, with his sleeves tucked up, and clothed in a
white apron and night-cap.
“Villain!” said the Wolfe, in a tremendous voice, “why are not the
viands on the table? By all the fiends of the infernal realms, thou
shalt be forthwith spitted and roasted before thine own fire, an we
have not our meal ere I can turn myself.”
The cook bowed in abject terror, and, as soon as he was beyond the tent
door, ran off, bawling to his assistants; and in a few minutes, a crowd
of lacqueys bearing the smoking-hot dishes came pouring into the
pavilion, heaping the board with them till it groaned again.
“Blow the bugle for the banquet,” cried the impatient Earl, seating
himself at the head of the table. “Sit thee down, Mariota, on my right
hand here; and do thou, Sir Patrick Hepborne, sit here on my left. The
boys and the rest may find places for themselves.”
“But where is thy gentle page, Sir Knight?” said the Lady Mariota to
Hepborne. “I pray thee let him sit down with us. Certes, he doth appear
to be come of no mean blood. Make me to know how the doced youth is
hight, I do beseech thee?”
“Lady,” said Sir Patrick, smiling, “he is called Maurice de Grey, a
truant boy of a good English house. His father is a gallant knight, who
governs the border strength of Werk. Tired of soft service as a page of
dames, he left his indulgent mother to roam into the world, and
chancing to encounter me, I adopted him as my page. In truth, though
young, he is prudent, and perdie, he hath more than once showed a good
mettle, and some spirit, too, though his thewes and muscles have hardly
strength enow, as yet, to bear it out.”
“Oh, fye on thee, Maurice de Grey,” said the lady, smiling graciously
on the page, as he entered among the crowd—“fye on thee, Maurice, I
say. Art thou so naughty as to wish to shun the converse of women at
thine age? Oh, shame to thy youth-hed. Parfay, I shall myself undertake
thy punishment, so sit thee down by me here, that I may school thee for
thy folly and want of gallantry.”
Maurice bowed respectfully, and immediately occupied the proffered
seat, where the lady did all in her power to gratify him by putting the
nicest dainties on his plate, and prattling many a kind and flattering
speech in his ear. Sir Alexander Stewart placed himself next to Sir
Patrick, and, though naturally fierce and haughty in his air, showed
every disposition to exert hospitable and knightly courtesy towards his
father’s guest. Below them, on both sides of the table, sat his
brothers; and the rest of the long board was filled up by the esquires
and other retainers, who each individually occupied the first room he
could find. For some time there was but little conversation, and
nothing interrupted the clinking of knives upon the trenchers but an
occasional pledge called for by the Wolfe, who, as he ate largely and
voraciously, drank long draughts too, to promote the easy descent of
the food into his capacious stomach. He continued to eat long after
every one else at table had ceased.
“Ha!” said he at length, as he laid down his implements of carving;
“quick! clear away those offensive fragments. Hey! what stand ye all
staring at? Remove the assiettes and trenchers, I say—Are ye deaf,
knaves?”
Every servile hand was upon the board in an instant, and the dishes and
plates disappeared as if by magic.
“Wine—Rhenish!—Malvoisie! Wine, I say!” vociferated the Wolfe. “What,
ye rogues, are we to perish for thirst?”
The silver flagons, stoups, and black-jacks were replenished with equal
celerity, and deep draughts went round, and the carouse became every
moment more fierce and frequent. The Lady Mariota Athyn rose to retire
to her own private quarter of the pavilion.
“Young Sir Page,” said she to Maurice de Grey, “wine wassail is not for
thee, I ween; thou shalt along with my boys and me, thou naughty youth;
thou shalt with me, I say. Verily, I condemn thee to do penance with me
and my damsels until the hour of couchee. Come along, Sir
Good-for-Nothing.”
The page arose, and went with the lady and her three younger sons, but
he seemed to go very unwillingly. In truth, he had received her little
attentions rather coldly; so much so, indeed, that Hepborne had felt
somewhat hurt at his seeming indifference.
After much wine had been swallowed, and a great deal of conversation
had passed about hunting and deeds of chivalry—
“And so thou goest to this tourney of my brother-in-law, the Earl of
Moray’s, Sir Patrick?” said the Wolfe.
“Such is the object of my journey, my Lord,” replied Hepborne.
“By St. Hubert! I have a mind to go with thee, were it only to show my
boys the sport,” replied the Wolfe. “But, by the thunder of Heaven! I
am not over well pleased with this same brother-in-law. The old man, my
doting liege-father, hath refused to add Moray Land to my
lieutenantship, which now lacketh but it to give me broad control from
the Spey to the Orcades; and, by my beard, I cannot choose but guess
that Earl John hath had some secret hand in preventing him. My sister
Margery denies this stoutly; but she would deny anything to keep fire
and sword from her lord’s lands. Yet may the hot fiend swallow me if I
ween not that I have hit the true mark in so suspecting.”
“By the red Rood, then, I would straightway tax him with it,” said Sir
Alexander Stewart.
“Nay, nay, meddle thou not, Sandy,” said the Wolfe. “I lack not thine
advice. This matter concerns not thee.”
“Concerns not me!” exclaimed Sir Alexander, hotly—“by the martyrdom of
St. Andrew, but it does though—it concerneth me mightily; yea, it
enchafeth me to see thee, my father, pusillanimously suffer thyself to
be agrutched and hameled in the extent of thy flight, an if thou wert a
coistril hawk, to be mewed by any he of the mark of Adam.”
“I tell thee, boy, thou art a silly fool,” roared out the Wolfe,
gnashing his teeth in a fury.
“If I am a fool, then,” said Sir Alexander, in no less a rage, “I am at
least wise enough to know from whom I have had my folly.”
The ferocious Wolfe could stand this no longer. His eyes flashed fire,
and, catching up a large silver flagon of wine, from which he had been
going to drink, he hurled it at his son’s head with so much celerity
and truth of aim that had not Hepborne raised his left arm and
intercepted it in its flight, though at the expense of a severe
contusion, the hot Sir Alexander would never have uttered a word more.
Heedless of the escape he had made, he rose to return the compliment
against his father; but Hepborne, and some of those nearest to him,
interfered, and with some difficulty the anger of both father and son
was appeased. It was a feature in the Wolfe’s character, and one also
in which his son Alexander probably participated, that, although his
passion was easily and tremendously excited on every trifling occasion,
so as to convert him at once into an ungovernable wild beast, capable
of the most savage and cruel deeds, yet there were times when he was
not unapt to repent him of any atrocious act he might have been guilty
of, particularly where his own family was concerned. He loved his son
Alexander—with the exception of the child Duncan, indeed, he loved him
more than any of the others, perhaps because he more nearly resembled
himself in temper. After the fray had been put an end to he sat for
some moments trembling with agitation; but, as his wrath subsided, and
he became calmer, he began to picture to himself his son stretched dead
at his feet by a blow from his own hand. His countenance became gloomy
and oppressed; he fidgetted upon his seat, and at length starting
hurriedly up—
“Depardieux, I thank thee, Sir Patrick,” said he, taking Hepborne’s
right hand, and squeezing it heartily—“depardieux, I thank thee for
having arrested a blow I should have so much repented—Alexander,”
continued he, going up and embracing his son, “forgive me, my boy; but
provoke not mine ire in the same way again, I beseech thee.”
“Nay, father,” said Sir Alexander, “perhaps I went too far; but, by the
mass, I was irritated by the thought that John Dunbar, Earl of Moray,
should have got between thee and the King with his silky curreidew
tongue.”
“Right, boy,” cried the Wolfe, relieved by finding a new outlet for his
rage, and striking the table furiously with his fist as he resumed his
seat—“right, boy: there it is. If I but find that my suspicions are
true, by the beard of my grandfather his being my sister Margery’s
husband shall not save him from my wrekery. But, Sir Patrick,”
continued he, after a short pause, “so please thee, let me see the old
man’s letter thou wert charged with, Knowest thou aught of its
contents?”
“No, my good lord,” said Hepborne, taking the embroidered silken case
that contained the King’s epistle from his bosom. “His Majesty put it
himself into my hands as I kissed his, to take my duteous leave, and
here it is as he gave it to me.”
The Wolfe glanced at the royal signet, and then, with his wonted
impatience, tore up the silk, and began to read it to himself. His brow
darkened as he went on, his teeth ground against each other, and his
lip curled with a growing tempest. At length he dashed down the King’s
letter on the table, and struck the board with his clenched fist two or
three times successively—
“Ha! see, Sir Knight, what it is thou hast brought me,” cried he, in a
fury so great that he could hardly give utterance to his words. “Read
that, read that, I say. By all the fiends, ’tis well I read it not at
first, ere I knew thee better, Sir Knight, or thou mightest have had
but a strange reception. Read it—read it, I say!”
Hepborne took up the letter, and read as follows:—
“To the High and Noble, our trusty and well-beloved son, Alexander
Stewart. Earl of Buchan, Earl of Ross, Lord of Badenoch, and our
faithful Lieutenant over the northern part of our kingdom, from the
bounds of the county of Moray to the Pentland Frith, these greeting—
“Son Alexander,—We do hope these may find thee well. It hath reached
our ears that thou dost still continue to keep abiding with thee thy
leman, Mariota Athyn. Though she, the said Mariota, be the mother of
thy five boys, yet is the noble Lady Euphame, Countess of Ross, thy
true and lawful wife; with her, therefore, it behoveth thee to consort,
yea, and her it behoveth thee to cherish: yet are we informed, and it
doleth us much that it should be so, that thou dost still leave her to
grieve in loneliness and solitude. Bethink thee that thou yet liest
under the threatened ban of holy Mother Church, and under the penalty
laid on thee by the godly Bishops of Moray and Ross for having cruelly
used her, and that thou dost yet underly, and art bound by their
sentence to live with her in a virtuous and seemly manner. Let not
gratitude permit thee to forget, also, that she did bestow upon thee
rich heritages in land, and that it is through her thou dost hold thy
title of Earl of Ross, which we did graciously confirm to thee. Return,
then, from thy wicked ways, and cleave unto thy lawful wife, to her
cherisaunce, as thou wouldst value our good favour, and as thou wouldst
give jovisaunce to these our few remaining years of eld. And so, as
thou dost obey these our injunctions, may God keep thee and thine in
health, and soften thine heart to mercy and godliness. So prayeth thy
loving father and King,
“Robert Rex.”
Hepborne laid down the King’s letter without venturing a single comment
on it, and it was instantly snatched up by Sir Alexander Stewart.
“What!” cried he with indignation, after glancing it over, “is our
mother, or are we, to be turned adrift from our father’s house like
ragamuffin quistrons, to beg our way through the world, to please a
doting old man?”
“Nay, sooner shall I pluck out every hair of this beard from my face,”
shouted the Wolfe in a fury, and tugging out a handful of it
unconsciously as he said so. “What! am I to be schooled by an old
bigoted prater at my time of life, and to be condemned to live with a
restless intriguing hag, who hath been the cause of so much vexation to
me! The red fiend shall catch me then! Not for all the bishops in
Mother Church, with the Orders four to boot, shall I submit me to such
penance. But, by all the powers of darkness, the split-capped Bishop of
Moray, Alexander Barr, shall suffer for this. He it is who hath been at
the bottom of it all; he it is who hath stirred up the King; and by the
infernal fires, he shall ere long undergo my wrekery. He hath been an
eternal torture to me; but, by my trusty burly-brand, I shall make the
craven, horrow lossel rue that ever he roused the Wolfe of Badenoch.”
He struck the table tremendously with his fist as he concluded. His
calling himself by his nom de guerre was with him like Jupiter swearing
by the river Styx. His people moved on their seats, put on stern brows,
and looked at one another, as if each would have said, “Brother, we
shall have something to do here.” The Earl himself snatched up a flagon
of Rhenish, and took a deep draught to cool his ire; then turning to
Hepborne—
“I bid thee good night, Sir Patrick,” said he; “thou hast no fault in
this matter; good night, I say.” Then turning to the rest—“See that Sir
Patrick Hepborne have the best quarters that may be given him. Good
night. By all the fiends, the white-faced hypocrite shall pay for it.”
And so saying, he disappeared into the inner apartment of the pavilion.
Immediately afterwards, the page and the three younger Stewarts came
forth. Sir Alexander still continued to fret and broil with the fury
which the King’s letter had excited in him; yet he neglected not the
civilities due to their guest. He gave orders that the youngest boy’s
tent should be prepared for Sir Patrick Hepborne, and that his
brothers, Duncan and James, should occupy one tent for the night; and,
leaving Sir Andrew Stewart to see that the stranger Knight was properly
accommodated, he made an exit similar to his father’s.
“’Tis an unfortunate weakness,” said Sir Andrew Stewart, as he
accompanied Hepborne to his tent, “’tis an unhappy weakness that so
cruelly besets my father and my brother Alexander; half the hours of
their lives are spent in temporary frenzy. It would be well for them if
they could bridle their passions.”
Hepborne found it difficult to reply; so changing the subject adroitly,
and thanking Sir Andrew for his courteous attention, he bade him good
night, and was glad to take refuge in the quiet of the tent that had
been prepared for him. Being indisposed for sleep, he called his page,
whose couch was in the outer apartment, and, ere they retired to rest,
their conversation ran as follows:—
“Maurice,” said the knight, “why didst thou show thyself so backward in
receiving the Lady Mariota’s favours? She seemed anxious to show thee
all manner of kind attention, yet thou didst repel her by thy very
looks.”
“Sir Knight,” said the page, “I like not that woman; she is not the
wife of the Earl of Buchan, and meseems it a foul thing to see her sit
in the seat of so honourable and virtuous a lady as the Countess of
Ross, queening it where she hath no claim but the base one that may
spring from her own infamy.”
“Thou art right, boy,” said Hepborne, “thou art right, in good truth;
but ’tis not for us to read moral lessons to our seniors. Where we see
positive harm, or glaring injury, done to any one by another, then it
behoveth a true knight to stay not his hand, but forthwith to redress
the grievance at peril of his life. But though he is not to court the
society of those who sin grossly, yet cannot he always eschew it, and
it falleth not within the province of a knight to read moral lectures
and homilies to every one he meeteth that may offend against God’s
laws; else might he exchange the helmet for the cowl. And, verily, he
should have little to do but to preach, since the wickedness of man is
so great, and so universal, that there is no one who might not call for
his sermons; yea, and while zealously preaching to others, he would
certainly fall into guilt himself. No, Maurice; let us take care to
live irreproachably; then let us suffer no one to do tyranny or
injustice to another; and having secured these important things, let us
leave all else to a righteous God, who will Himself avenge the sins
committed against His moral law. Yet do I much commend that virtuous
indignation in thee; and if thy love should ever haply run smooth, as I
sincerely pray that it may, I trust that thou wilt be a mirror of
virtuous constancy.”
The page clasped his hands on his breast, and, throwing up his eyes to
Heaven, “Grant but that my love may yet prosper,” said he, fervently;
“grant but that, ye blessed Virgin, and the sun shall not be more
constant to the firmament, than I shall be in the attachment to the
object of my affection! But couldst thou be constant, Sir Knight?”
added he, with a sigh.
“’Tis an odd question, boy,” said Hepborne, laughing. “I think I know
so much of myself as to say boldly that I could; and, verily, I would
never mate me where I weened there might be risk of temptation to aught
else. But, of a truth, I have not yet seen the woman of whom I might
think so highly as to risk chaining my virtue to her side.”
The page sat silent for some moments, and at length, turning to
Hepborne, “I have seen knights,” said he, “who did roune sweet speeches
in the ears of foolish maidens, who did swear potent oaths that they
did love them, and yet, when the silly pusels believed them, they would
laugh at their facile credence, and then, leaping into their saddles,
ride away, making mirth of the sad wounds they had caused. Say, Sir
Knight, couldst thou do this?”
“Depardieux, mon bel ami Maurice de Grey,” said the knight, laughing,
“methinks thou hast made thyself my father confessor to-night. What
meanest thou by these questions?”
“In truth, my dear master,” said the boy, “I do but ask, that I may
better myself by the wisdom of thine answers. How should I, an untaught
youth, ever become an honour to knighthood, as I hope one day to be,
save by thy sage precept and bright example?”
“Nay, then, sweet page,” said the knight, kindly, “I shall not deny to
answer thee. In good sooth, I have never yet been so base, nor could I
ever be guilty of so much wickedness.”
The page’s eyes brightened for a moment at the knight’s virtuous
assertion.
“There be women indeed,” continued Sir Patrick, “to whom it is even
dangerous for a courteous knight to address the common parlance of
courtly compliment, without instilling into them the vain belief that
their charms have wrought a conquest. Of such an innocent fault the
folly of many maidens may have made me guilty. Never, save once, did I
seriously love, and then, alas, I discovered that my heart had been
affected by an unworthy object, so that I did forthwith tear myself
from her.”
“Unworthy, didst thou say, Sir Knight?” cried the boy, earnestly; “and
who, I pray thee, could be so unworthy to thee?”
“Nay, my good Maurice,” said Hepborne, “that were truly to ask too
much. Were she as worthy as I did once esteem her, I would proudly
publish her name to the world; but after having said so much to her
dishonour, and now that she cannot be mine, her name shall never more
escape these lips whilst I think of her as I at present do, save when
’tis brought in accidentally by others, or when ’tis murmured in my
secret despair. But what ails thee, boy? Thou weepest. Tell me, I pray
thee, why thou shouldst now be thus drent in dreriment? What hast thou
to do with my love-griefs?”
“I but cry for pity, Sir Knight,” said the boy. “Thy tale, too, doth
somewhat touch mine own, and so doth it, peraunter, affect me the more.
May Heaven in its mercy clear away those cruel clouds that do at
present so darken our souls!”
“Amen!” said the knight fervently. “Then get thee to thy couch,
Maurice, for I will to mine.”
Sir Patrick Hepborne had already slept for a considerable time, when he
was awakened by the clamour of voices. This, perhaps, would have
excited little astonishment, had he not previously remarked the
uncommon degree of quietness that had been preserved in the little
encampment, the probable effect of the stern character and alert
discipline of him who was at the head of it. He sat up, and leaning for
some moments on his elbow to listen, he by and by heard the trampling
of steeds, and the bustle of preparation, as if for a departure. He
then called to the page, who answered him so immediately, that Hepborne
suspected, what was really the case, that he had not as yet slept.
“What noise is that we hear, Maurice?” said he.
“Methinks,” said the page, “it is some party that sets forth. Perhaps
it may be one moiety of the retinue who go before, to prepare those of
the Castle for the Earl’s coming.”
This very natural explanation satisfied Hepborne. He soon heard the
noise increase, and the neighing and prancing of the horses, with the
voices of many men, though their words were not intelligible; then he
heard a loud command to march, and the gallop of the troop died away
upon his ear, and then again all was quiet, and his repose was
uninterrupted until morning.
He was hardly dressed when Sir Andrew Stewart came courteously to offer
the usual morning compliments, and to conduct him to the great
pavilion.
“My father,” said he, “hath been called on urgent business into
Badenoch; he left this yesternight, to ride thither sans delay: my
brothers, Alexander, Walter, and James, also went with him; but he left
me here to do thee what poor hospitality I may until his return.
To-day, with thy good leave, we shall hie us to Lochyndorbe, and
to-morrow I hope he will be there to do the honours of the Castle in
his own person.”
This sudden departure of the Wolfe of Badenoch accounted to Hepborne
for the disturbance he had met with in the night. The Lady Mariota
received him graciously.
“But where is my handsome good-for-nothing page?” eagerly inquired she.
“Ah, there comes the naughty boy, I see. Come hither, Sir Scapegrace; I
trow I did school thee to some purpose yestreen; but parfay, thou shalt
have more on’t anon. Come hither, I say. Verily, the young varlet
hangeth his ears like a whelp that feareth the rod; but i’faith I am
not come to that yet,—though, never trust me,” added she, laughing,
“but thou shalt have it ere long, an’ thou be’st not more docile. Sit
thee down here, I say. And see now how, in hopes of thine amendment, I
have carved for thee the tenderest and whitest part of this black
grouse’s breast; yea, Sir Good-for-Nothing—with mine own fair fingers
have I done it.”
Maurice de Grey appeared more than half inclined to keep aloof from the
lady, notwithstanding all her kind raillery; but he caught his master’s
eye, and seeing that Sir Patrick seemed to wish that he should receive
her notice with a good grace, he put on the semblance of cheerfulness,
and took his seat by her accordingly.
The morning’s meal passed over without anything remarkable, the lady
devoting all her attention and all her trifling to Maurice de Grey, and
Hepborne being engaged in conversation with Sir Andrew Stewart; there
being no one else present but the boy Duncan. Soon afterwards, orders
were issued for the encampment to break up, and the attendants to
prepare themselves and their steeds for their departure. Much time was
lost until all the necessary arrangements were made. The sturdy sullen
loons were aware of the absence of the Wolfe, and revelled in the
enjoyment of the power, so seldom theirs, of doing things leisurely.
Besides, all the most active and intelligent persons of the suite were
gone. At length a string of little batt horses, pressed from the
neighbouring churls, were despatched with the most valuable and more
immediately necessary part of the moveables, and a few more were left
to bring up the tents and heavier articles, when additional aid should
arrive.
Meanwhile, the palfrey of the Lady Mariota was brought out, together
with two others for her maids; and the horses of the rest of the party
also appeared. Hepborne assisted the lady to mount, but though she
thanked him graciously for his courtesy, she was by no means satisfied.
“That white palfrey of thine, Sir Page Maurice,” said she, “seemeth to
have an affection for my pyeball; let them not be separated, I
pr’ythee. Mount thee, and be thou the squire of my body for this day.
Allons.”
Maurice was obliged to comply, and rode off with the lady at the head
of the cavalcade, followed by her son Duncan, and attended by the two
damsels, who seemed, by their nods and winks to each other, to imply
something extremely significant, yet understood by themselves alone.
Sir Patrick Hepborne rode next, with Sir Andrew Stewart. Their train
was meagre compared to that which Hepborne had seen the previous
evening; indeed, his own attendants formed by far the greater part of
the cortege that now accompanied them. Their route was by the same path
that Hepborne had approached the glen, until they reached the steep
side of the hill overhanging the head of it, whence he had first peeped
into it. They then continued onwards through the forest in the same
northern direction in which the guide was conducting the knight, at the
time he was diverted from his way by discovering the Wolfe’s hunting
camp.
They travelled through a great and elevated plain, covered by pine
trees so thickly as almost to exclude the sun, and even the hills that
bounded it were wooded to their very tops. At length they turned
towards an opening that appeared in the hills to their left, and,
winding over some knolls, began to catch occasional glimpses of an
extensive sheet of water, when the dark green fir tufts, now and then
receding from one another, permitted the party to look beyond them. In
a short time they reached the shore of the eastern end of Lochyndorbe,
about four miles in length, and of an oblong form. The hills bounding
it on the north and south arose with gentle slope. A considerable
island appeared near the upper or western extremity of the lake, a
short way from its southern shore, and entirely covered with the
impregnable Castle, of the same name with the sheet of water
surrounding it. In the vista beyond, a sloping plain appeared, with
high hills rising over it. The whole scene was one continued pine
forest, and as solitary and wild as the most gloomy mind could desire.
A group of firs, more ancient and enormous than the rest, occupied a
point of land, and were tenanted by a colony of herons; and the lonely
scream of these birds, and their lagging heavy flight, added to, rather
than enlivened the sombre character of the loch.
As they made their way up the southern shore, the enormous strength of
the Castle became more apparent at every step. It was, in fact, a royal
fortress, constructed for the purpose of sustaining regular and
determined siege. It occupied the whole island to the very margin of
the water, and its outer walls running, in long unbroken lines, from
one point to another, in successive stretches, embraced a space of
something more than two acres within them. On a low, round projection
of land, immediately opposite on the southern shore, and within about
two hundred yards of it, was situated an outwork, or sconce, erected
for the purpose of preserving the communication with the terra firma,
but yet of too little importance to be of any great benefit to an enemy
that might chance to possess himself of it, or to enable him to do much
injury to the Castle, even with the most powerful engines then in
use—particularly as the massive walls opposed to it presented a
straight, continuous, unbroken, and unassailable front. Here they found
several large and small boats in waiting for them; but there appeared
to be a great want of people to serve them.
“Methinks thou hast but a paltry crew for thy navy to-day, Master
Bruce?” said the Lady Mariota to an old grey-headed squire-seneschal,
who came to receive her.
“Madame,” said he, “my lord the Earl sent orders here last night for
the spears, axemen, and bowmen, to meet him early this morning on
Dulnan side. About an hundred good men of horse and foot marched
thither long ere the sun saw the welkin, so that we be but meagrely
garrisoned, else thou shouldst have been received with more honour.”
“Nay, then, since it is so,” said the lady, “let us cross as we best
may. That small boat will do for us, so lend me thine arm, Sir Page
Maurice.” And immediately entering the boat, she made the youth sit
beside her. Hepborne and Sir Andrew Stewart also embarked, and, leaving
the horses and attendants to follow at leisure, were pulled rapidly
towards the Castle by a couple of old boatmen. They landed on the
narrow strip of beach, extending hardly a yard from the walls, and that
only when the water was low, and were admitted through all the numerous
and potent defences of the deep gateway, by the warder, and one or two
men who kept watch. They then traversed the courts intervening between
the outer and inner walls, which were defended at all the salient
angles by immensely strong round towers, one of them completely
commanding the entrance. Then passing onwards, they came to the inner
gateway, through which they ascended into the central area of the
Castle, forming a large elevated quadrangle, surrounded by the
buildings necessary in such a garrison.
The Lady Mariota, still leaning on the arm of Maurice de Grey, led them
into that part of the square occupied by the Earl’s mansion, and soon
introduced them into a banqueting-hall of magnificent proportions, hung
round with arms, and richly furnished for the times we speak of, and
where, notwithstanding the draft made that morning on the forces of the
place, there was still a considerable show of domestics in waiting.
“Let us have the banquet immediately,” said the Lady Mariota to the
seneschal. “Sir Knight,” said she, turning to Hepborne, “if our
hospitality should lack its wonted comfort to-day, thou must lay it to
the account of our late absence from the Castle; and if it should want
its usual spirit, it must be set down to the score of the Earl’s
absence. But to-morrow both these wants shall be supplied. Andrew, thou
wilt see Sir Patrick Hepborne rightly accommodated. As for this naughty
page, Maurice de Grey, I shall myself see him fittingly bestowed in a
chamber near mine own, that I may have all proper and convenient
opportunity of repeating those lessons I have already endeavoured to
impress upon him. Come along then, good-for-nothing boy; come along, I
say.”
The page cast an imploring look at his master, who regarded it not;
then hanging his head, he followed the Lady Mariota with an unwilling
step, like a laggard schoolboy who dreads the ferula of his pedagogue;
whilst Hepborne was ushered to his apartment, where, having procured
the attendance of the faithful Mortimer Sang, he proceeded to array
himself in attire suitable to the evening.
CHAPTER XXX.
The Castle of Lochyndorbe—An Evening Episode on the Ramparts—The
Wolfe’s Raid on the Bishop’s Lands.
The evening’s banquet in the Castle of Lochyndorbe passed away pretty
much as the morning’s meal had done in the hunting pavilion, that is to
say, without anything very remarkable. The Lady Mariota, still devoting
all her attention to the page, left her son, Sir Andrew Stewart, to
entertain Sir Patrick Hepborne. Neither of the knights were disposed to
quaff those draughts of wine which the Wolfe of Badenoch himself seemed
to consider as essential to the comfort of life, and they soon
separated. Hepborne sat in his apartment for some time after Mortimer
Sang had left him, and then, falling into a train of reflection on the
events which had occurred to him since his return from France, and
perceiving that his clue of association must be fully unwound ere he
could hope to sleep, he walked forth to enjoy the balmy freshness of
the evening air, that he might give freer vent to his thoughts.
He got upon the rampart that looked out over the broader part of the
lake, and as he entered on one end of it, he was confounded—he could
not believe his eyes—but it certainly was the figure of the Lady
Eleanore de Selby that he beheld, leaning against one of the balistæ
near the farther angle of the wall. The waning moon shed a dim and
uncertain light; yet it was sufficient to convince him that the figure
he saw before him was the same that had made so powerful an impression
on his mind at Norham. She was wrapped in a mantle, with her head bare,
and her beautiful tresses flowing down in the same manner he had seen
them when blown by the breezes from the Tweed; and she seemed to look
listlessly out upon the wavelets that flickered under the thin and
scanty moonbeam, as they lifted themselves gently against the bulwark
stones under the wall. Apparently buried in thought, she was so
perfectly without motion that he began to doubt whether it was not a
phantom he beheld; nay, it was impossible she could be there in
substance—she whom he had left at Norham affianced as a bride. In those
days of superstition it is no wonder, therefore, that he should have
believed it was the Lady Eleanore de Selby’s spirit he saw, or, in the
peculiar language of his own country, her wraith. His manly blood ran
cold, and he hesitated for a moment whether he ought to advance. The
figure still remained fixed. Again the thought crossed him, that it
might possibly be the Lady Eleanore, and love urged him to approach and
address her; but then prudence came to caution him not to seem to see
her, lest he might be again subdued, and forget what he had discovered
at Norham. Thus tossed by doubt, until he could bear suspense no
longer, both superstitious awe and prudence yielded to the influence of
love, and, unable to restrain himself, he walked along the rampart
towards the figure. It seemed not to hear his step—it moved not till he
was within three or four paces, when it started at the sound of his
steps, and, turning suddenly towards him, displayed the countenance
of—the page, Maurice de Grey.
“Ah, Sir Patrick!” said the boy, and instantly applying his taper
fingers to his hair, he began twisting it up into a knot over his head,
accidentally assuming, as he did so, the very attitude in which
Hepborne had seen the lady when similarly employed on the rampart at
Norham.
“Maurice de Grey!” exclaimed Hepborne with extreme astonishment, “is it
you I see? Verily, thine attitude, boy, did so remind me of that in
which I once beheld thy cousin, the Lady Eleanore de Selby, that for a
moment I did almost believe it was really she who stood before me. I
did never remark before that thou dost wear thy hair so womanishly
long.”
Sir Patrick’s astonishment had been too great to permit him to remark
the page’s trepidation when first surprised by him, and before his
amazement had subsided, Maurice de Grey had time to recover himself.
“’Tis true,” said he, “Sir Knight, that I have always worn my hair
long, and put up in a silken net, being loth to cut it away, seeing it
was the pride of my mother’s heart; but, nathless, if thou dost think
it unmanly in me to wear it so, verily it shall be cut off before
to-morrow morning, that it may no longer offend thee. Yet I marvel much
what could possibly make thee to think that my cousin, the Lady
Eleanore, could be here in the Castle of Lochyndorbe; or how hast thou
perchance set thine eyes on her, so as to have so perfect a remembrance
of her figure as thou dost seem to preserve? I know that her father,
Sir Walter, doth take especial care that she shall never be seen by any
Scottish knight. Then by what accident, I pray thee, didst thou behold
her?”
Hepborne was considerably puzzled and perplexed by these naif questions
from the page. To have refused to reply to them at all would have been
the very way to have excited a thousand suspicions in the boy’s mind;
he, therefore, thought it better to answer him, and he wished to do so
in a calm and indifferent manner. But it was a subject on which he
could not think, far less talk, with composure, and, ere he wist, he
burst into an ecstacy of feeling that quite confounded the page.
“See her!” said he; “alas, too often have I seen the Lady Eleanore de
Selby for my peace. Never, never, shall peace revisit this bosom. She
is another’s; yet, nathless, must this torn heart be hers whilst it
shall throb with life.” And saying so, he covered his face with his
hands, and retreated some steps to hide the violence of his emotions;
but becoming ashamed of having thus exposed his secret to the page, and
made him privy to the extent of his weakness, he returned to the boy,
and found him weeping bitterly, apparently from sympathy.
“Maurice,” said Hepborne, calmly addressing him, “accident hath made
thee wring from me the secret of my love, as chance did also make me
tell thee yesternight, that I had cause to fear that the demoiselle who
hath so deeply affected me was not in truth altogether what she at
first appeared to me. As she is thy cousin, and so dear to thee as thou
dost now say she is, I would not willingly allow thee to suppose that I
have been estranged from her by mere caprice. I shall therefore tell
thee that the Lady Eleanore de Selby did give me good cause to believe
that my ardent protestations of love were not unpleasing to her; nay,
she even held out encouragement to the prosecution of my suit; and yet,
after all this ground of hope I did discover that she was affianced to
another knight, in whose arms I did actually behold her, as they parted
from each other, with many tears at the keep-bridge of Norham, on the
very morning when I and my friend left the place. Her emotions were too
tender to be mistaken. She it was who sported lightly with my heart,
not I with hers, for, had she not been faithless, I would have
sacrificed life itself for her love, and would have considered the
wealth of a kingdom but as dross compared with the possession of a
jewel so precious. Even as it is, I am doomed to love her for ever. I
feel it—I feel it here!” said he, passionately striking his heart—“I
can never, never cease to love her.”
The page seemed petrified with the charge brought against his cousin.
He grew faint, and staggered back a pace or two, until he was stayed by
the support he received from the balistæ; then panting for a moment he
was at length relieved by a flood of tears.
“Thou seest, Maurice,” said Hepborne, “the facts are too damning. It
would have been better for thee to have inquired less curiously. But
what figure is that which cometh yonder from the farther end of the
rampart?”
“Blessed Virgin,” cried Maurice de Grey, “’tis my perpetual torment,
the Lady Mariota. What shall I do? Methought I had escaped from her
importunity for this night at least.”
“Why shouldst thou not be able to bear with her?” said the knight;
“’tis a part of thy schooling, young man, to submit to mortification,
and, above all, to bear with unpleasant society, without losing a jot
of thy courtesy, especially where women are in question.”
“True, Sir Knight,” said the page, half whimpering, “but the Lady
Mariota hath actually made violent love to me. Oh, I cannot bear the
wretch.”
Hepborne could not help laughing at the ludicrous distress of the
youth, and he had hardly time to compose himself ere the Lady Mariota
came within speaking distance of them.
“So, so, thou art there, runaway?” said she to the page, as she passed
by Hepborne with a mere bow of acknowledgment, to get at Maurice, who
retreated towards the balistæ with his head down—“so thou art there,
art thou, Sir Scapegrace? Thou art a pretty truant, indeed,” continued
she, hooking him under one arm, and giving him a gentle slap on one
cheek. “But, thank my lucky stars, I have caught thee now, and verily
thou shalt not again escape me. I’faith thou shalt have thy wings
clipt, my little tom-tit; I shall have thee tied to my apron string,
that thou hop thee not away from me thus at every turning. I did but
let thee out of my sight for an instant, and whisk I find thee at the
very outermost verge of my circle. Nay, had it not been for these walls
and waters, in good truth thou mightest have been beyond my search ere
this. Come away, Sir Good-for-Nothing. Allons, make up thy mind to thy
chain; let me lead thee by it, and do not thou pull so.”
“Lady,” said Hepborne, “thou must have some mercy on the poor youth. He
hath so lately escaped from female thrall at home, that as yet he can
but ill brook anything that resembleth it. Leave him to me, I beseech
thee. At present he joys in the newly-acquired society of men; by
degrees he will come to feel how much more sweet and soothing are the
delights of women’s converse, and——”
“Nay, nay, Sir Knight,” said the Lady Mariota, interrupting him
hastily, “I shall not yield my control over the renegado, I promise
thee; he shall with me this moment. Come, along, Sir Page Maurice—come
along, I say. Thou art a pretty youth indeed! I have searched for thee
through every apartment, nay, through every creek and cranny in the
Castle; and now that I have found thee, by my troth, I shall not yield
thee up so easily. Come along, I say.” And like a bitch-fox dragging
off an unhappy kid, so did the Lady Mariota drag away the hapless
Maurice de Grey, in defiance of his lagging step, his peevish replies,
his hanging head, his pouting lip, and the numerous glances of vexation
he darted from under his eyelashes at his tormentor.
Hepborne retired to his repose, half amused and half angry with the
persecution inflicted on his poor page. Early next morning, Mortimer
Sang came to him with a courteous message from Sir Andrew Stewart,
begging to know if it was his pleasure to hunt for a few hours; and
Hepborne having cheerfully agreed to the proposal, the two knights met
alone at breakfast, and then crossed to the mainland with their horses,
hounds, hunting-gear, and a few attendants, to scour the neighbouring
forest for deer.
As they were returning homewards towards evening, they heard the
echoing sound of bugles.
“’Tis my father,” said Sir Andrew; “’tis the Earl returning with his
party from Badenoch; see, there they come, breaking forth from yonder
woodshaws.”
It was indeed the Wolfe of Badenoch; but he was now in a very different
array from that which he had first appeared in to Hepborne. He was clad
from head to foot in a complete suit of bright plate armour, and his
height and bulk seemed to be increased by the metamorphosis. He rode at
the head of a gallant troop of well-mounted and well-equipped spearmen,
after which marched a company of footmen, consisting of pole-axe-men,
and bowmen. His sons, Sir Alexander, Walter, and James, rode proudly by
his side. The cavalcade went at a foot pace, because a rabble of
bare-legged and bare-headed tatterdemalion mountaineers ran before
them, armed with clubs, goads, and pikes, and driving along a
promiscuous herd of cows, bullocks, sheep, and goats, of all different
ages and descriptions, which considerably retarded their march. A
bugle-man preceded the whole, bearing aloft an otter-skin purse on the
point of a spear. His banner waved in the middle of the clump of
spears; and in the rear of all followed a tired and straggling band of
men, women, and children, who were grieving loudly, and weeping sadly,
for some dire injury they had sustained, and vociferating vain appeals
in their own language to the stern Wolfe, who, with his vizor up, and
his brows knit, rode on unheeding them.
Ere the parties met, the two boys, Walter and James, galloped up to
meet their brother, Sir Andrew, and both began at once to shout out
their news to him—
“Oh, brother Andrew, brother Andrew, we have had such sport!” cried the
one.
“Nay, thou knowest not what thou hast lost, brother Andrew, by not
being with us,” cried the other.
“Father hath seized——” shouted Walter.
“The Earl hath taken possession of——” interrupted James.
“Tut, hold thy gabbling tongue, James, and let me tell,” responded
Walter.
“Nay, but I will tell it,” cried James lustily.
“By the holy Rood, but I will not be interrupted,” screamed out Walter.
“By the Bishop’s mass, then, but I will tell out mine own tale in spite
of thee,” bellowed James; “the Earl hath seized, I say——”
“Confound thee, then!” roared out Walter in a frenzy, and at the same
time bestowing a hearty thwack with the shaft of his spear across his
brother’s shoulders—“confound thine impudence, take that for thine
insolence.”
The no less irascible James was by no means slow in returning the
compliment, and they began to beat one another about the head with
great goodwill; nay, it is probable that their wrath might have even
induced them to resort to the points of their weapons, had they been
equal to the management of their fiery steeds; but the spirited animals
became restive in the bicker, and plunging two or three times, the
youths, more attentive to mauling each other than to their
horsemanship, lost their seats, and in one and the same instant both
were laid prostrate on the plain. Some of the followers of the hunting
party caught their palfreys, and raised the enraged boys, who would
have renewed their fight on foot had they not been held back.
“Oh, ye silly fools,” said Sir Andrew, smiling coolly and
contemptuously upon them; “as the old cock croweth, so, forsooth, the
chicks must needs ape his song. Have done with your absurd and impotent
wrath.” And leaving them in the hands of the attendants, he rode slowly
forward with Hepborne to meet his father.
“What!” demanded the Wolfe, laughing heartily, “were those cockerals
pecking at each other?”
“Yea,” replied Sir Andrew, “a trifling dispute between them, which I
have quashed.”
“Pshaw,” replied the Wolfe, “by the beard of my grandfather, but I like
to see their spirit; let not thy drowsy control quell it in them, son
Andrew. I would not have them tame kestrels like thee, for all the
broad lands of my father’s kingdom; so leave them to me to tutor, son
Andrew, dost hear?—Sir Patrick,” said he, turning to Hepborne, “I hope
thou hast not suffered in thine entertainment by mine absence? I should
crave thy pardon, I wis, for leaving thee so suddenly, and perhaps so
rudely; but I have let off my dammed-up wrath since I last saw thee,
and shall now be better company. By this trusty burly-brand, I have
shorn off the best plumes from the plump Bishop Barr; I have seized the
fat lands he held in the very midst of my Badenoch territory. By the
infernal fiends, I swore that he should pay for his busy intermeddling
in my family affairs, and by all the powers of darkness and desolation,
I have faithfully kept mine oath. I have hameled his pride, I trow. He
shall know what it is to have to do with the Wolfe of Badenoch. He
holds earth no more there. These are the custom-cattle of his lands,
and there dangleth the rent and the grassums gathered from his knave
tenants. Such of the churls who were refractory I have driven forth,
and put good men of mine own in their room. Begone with ye, ye
screaming pewits,” cried he, angrily turning towards the wretched train
of men and women who followed his party, and couching his lance as if
he would have charged furiously at them—“begone with ye, I say, or, by
the fires of the infernal realms, I will put every he and she of ye
instantly to the sword!”
The miserable wretches, without a house to go to, ran off into the
woods at his terrible threat, and the ferocious Wolfe rode on with his
party. When they came to the water’s edge, the bugles sounded, and a
boat being instantly manned by six rowers, the Wolfe called to Sir
Patrick Hepborne to go along with him, and they were wafted across in a
few strokes of the oar, leaving Sir Alexander Stewart and his brothers
to superintend the embarkation of the booty. All in the Castle was stir
and bustle the moment the owner of it appeared. The oldest man in it
seemed to be endowed with additional muscular action at the very
presence of the Wolfe. They were all ranked up to receive him as he
entered the gateway, and they followed him, and darted off one by one,
like arrows, in various directions, as he gave his hasty orders.
CHAPTER XXXI.
The Lady Mariota and the Page—The Fury of the Wolfe.
The Wolfe and Sir Patrick Hepborne had no sooner entered the
banquet-hall than they were surprised by the appearance of the Lady
Mariota, who approached them from a room beyond it, drowned in tears.
“Eh!” cried the Wolfe, setting his teeth against each other; “ha! mort
de ma vie, what is this I behold? Mariota in tears? Say, speak, why art
thou thus bywoxen? What, in the fiend’s name, is the matter? Who hath
caused these tears? Speak, and by all the infernal demons, I will have
him flayed alive.”
“My Lord,” replied the Lady Mariota, hiding her face in her kerchief,
“I can hardly speak it—the page—the page Maurice de Grey———”
“Say, lady, what of him? I beseech thee, what of him?” cried Sir
Patrick anxiously. “Hath any ill befallen him?”
“Nay,” said the lady; “would that had been all I had to tell!—Oh, how
shall I speak it?—the wretch, taking advantage of my being left alone,
dared to insult me. I fled forth from the apartment where I had
unconsciously received him, and, having called the attendants, I had
him secured, and he is now a prisoner in the dungeon.”
Hepborne was petrified with horror and amazement at this accusation
against Maurice de Grey.
“Ha!” cried the Wolfe, “by my beard, thou didst bravely indeed, my
girl.—The red fiend catch me, but he shall forthwith swing for it. A
gallows and a halter there in the court-yard! By all the grim powers of
hell, he shall dangle ere we dine.”
“Nay, nay, my Lord,” said Hepborne, sternly yet calmly, “that may not
be without a trial. The youth is mine, and I am thy guest. I demand a
fair trial for him; if he be guilty, then let him suffer for his
coulpe; but until his guilt be proved, depardieux, I shall stand forth
his defender.”
“By the holy Rood, but thou speakest boldly, Sir Knight,” cried the
Wolfe, gnashing his teeth in ire. “Art thou then prepared to fight at
outrance for thy minion?”
“My Lord,” said Hepborne coolly, “I am here as thy guest. Whilst I am
under thy roof I trust the common rules of hospitality will bind us
both; but shouldst thou rid thyself of their salutary shackles, I must
prepare myself to do my best to resist oppression, as a good and true
knight ought to do. I ask but fair trial for the boy, which, in justice
thou canst not and wilt not refuse me.”
The Wolfe paced the room backwards and forwards for some time with a
hurried step, whilst the Lady Mariota sat sobbing in a chair.
“Mariota,” said he at length, “thou wert alone when the page came to
thee?”
“I was, my good Lord,” replied the lady; “My damsels had gone forth at
the time he entered my chamber.”
“Now, Sir Patrick Hepborne,” exclaimed the Wolfe, “now thou must of
needscost see that all proof here is out of the question. Where can
proof be had where there hath been no witnesses?”
“Yea, my Lord,” said Hepborne temperately, “what thou sayest is true,
in good faith; and it is also true that without proof there can be no
just condemnation.”
The Wolfe began again to pace the room, hastily, his eyes flashing
fire.
“What, Sir Knight,” exclaimed he, “dost thou go so far as to doubt the
word of the Lady Mariota? By the devil’s mass, but thou art bold
indeed.”
“I say not that I doubt the word of the Lady Mariota,” replied
Hepborne; “but were the Lady Mariota my sister, and the page Maurice de
Grey my greatest enemy, I would not condemn him capitally on her simple
saying.”
“Mariota,” cried the Wolfe in a rage, “leave the apartment; get thee to
thy chamber. By the martyrdom of St. Andrew, but thou dost beard me,
Sir Knight. Thou presumest on my old dotard father’s introduction of
thee, and on the frail laws of hospitality, which may indeed bind me to
a certain point; but beware thou dost push me beyond it, or, by my
beard, neither he nor they shall protect thee.”
“Most noble Earl of Buchan,” replied Hepborne, with perfect temper and
sang froid, “again I say, that all I ask is justice. To that point only
do I wish to push thee, nor do I fear but thou wilt go so far. I do
confess, it seemeth somewhat strange to me to hear so foul a charge
against a boy who hath ever sought to fly the Lady Mariota’s advances.
Nay, ’twas but yesternight that she came herself to seek him on the
rampart, where the youth held idle parlance with me; and though he
tried to shun her, verily these eyes beheld her as she did court him to
go with her, the which the boy did most unwillingly.”
The Wolfe of Badenoch knit his brows, and strode two or three times
through the long hall, the arched roof ringing again to the clang of
his heel as he moved. He seemed to be pondering within himself what to
resolve, an operation to the fatigue of which he rarely ever subjected
his mind, his general practice being to act first, and then, if ever he
thought at all, to think afterwards. At length he stopped short in his
career, opposite to where Hepborne was standing, with his arms calmly
folded across his breast; and, stretching out his hand to him—
“Sir Patrick,” said he, “thou art right. I have perhaps been a little
hasty here. There is much in what thou hast said; and I honour thee for
thy cool and determined courage and temper. Listen to me then. If the
page Maurice de Grey confesseth the coulpe of which he is charged, thou
wilt not call it injustice if he be instantly ordered for execution. If
he denies it, then let him, or some one for him, do duel with me
to-morrow, as soon as light may serve us; and may God and the Blessed
Virgin defend the right, and make his innocence clear if he be sans
coulpe.”
“Agreed,” said Hepborne. “I stand forth the boy’s defender, and will
cheerfully appeal to wager of single combat in his behalf. Let him
straightway be sent for, then, and let him be questioned with regard to
his guilt or innocence; all I ask for him is full and free speech.”
“He shall have it,” cried the Wolfe; “I swear by my beard, he shall
have full power to speak as he lists. Pardieux, ’tis well we determined
this matter one way or other forthwith, for I long to dine.”
“What is this I hear?” cried Sir Alexander Stewart, entering in a fury;
“what is this I hear? My mother insulted by a minion page! By the ghost
of my grandfather, the miscreant shall die ere I eat a morsel. Why doth
he not swing even now? What hath delayed his execution?”
“Silence, Sandy,” cried the Wolfe angrily; “the matter is already
arranged without thine interference. The youth comes anon to be
questioned. If he confesses, the popinjay shall straightway grace the
gallows in the court-yard; if he denies, then is Sir Patrick Hepborne
prepared to do battle in his cause against me, by to-morrow’s sun.”
“Let that glory be mine, then, I beseech thee, my noble father,” cried
Sir Alexander eagerly; “I claim the right of doing battle in defence in
my mother’s cause.”
“Well, Alexander,” said the Wolfe gruffly, “if it so please Sir Patrick
Hepborne, I scruple not to yield him to thee.”
“My appeal,” said Sir Patrick, “is against one and all who may singly
choose to challenge mine arm, and who may be pleased to succeed one
another in the single combat I am willing to wage in defence of the
youth Maurice de Grey.”
“Hey day!” cried the Wolfe; “gramercy, Sir Knight, then, by mine honest
and trusty burly-brand, thou shall have thy bellyful of it, and I shall
not resign the first place to my son Alexander. We shall tilt it first,
so please thee. At sunrise we shall bestir ourselves, and on the open
lawnde beyond the land sconce we shall try the metal of our armour and
lance heads. If thou escapest mine arm, Sandy may have thee, if he
likes; but the red fiend’s curse upon it if it fail me. Ha! here comes
the prisoner.”
The page Maurice de Grey now entered, wearing his chains about his
wrists. His countenance was placid and composed, and he advanced with a
firm step and undisturbed manner.
“Knowest thou, Sir Page, of what coulpe thou art accused?” demanded the
Wolfe sternly.
“I do,” replied the youth calmly.
“Dost thou admit or deny the charge the Lady Mariota hath made against
thee?”
“I most solemnly deny it,” replied the page.
“Ha!” cried the Wolfe, “then is there no more to be said. Let him be
removed; and let everything be prepared for a single combat to-morrow
between Sir Patrick Hepborne and me—the place to be the lawnde beyond
the land sconce; and the time, the moment the welkin sees the sun. ’Tis
well ’tis so soon settled. Now let us dine, Sir Patrick, We may be
merry companions to-night, though we be to fight like fiends i’ the
morning. The banquet, I say—the banquet. Why dost thou tarry with thy
prisoner?”
“One word, I pray,” said Maurice de Grey, now thrown into extreme
agitation by hearing that his master’s life was to be put in jeopardy
for him—“I crave one word ere I go.”
“My Lord,” said Sir Patrick to the Wolfe, “I claim thy solemn behote;
thou didst promise free and ample speech for the youth; hear him, then,
I beseech thee.”
“Well, youth, well,” cried the Wolfe, very impatiently, “what hast thou
to say? Be quick, for time wears, and hunger galls me; be quick, I
say.”
“I demand a private conference, noble Earl,” said the page. “I have
something to unfold that will altogether change the complexion of this
case. If I do not make the Lady Mariota clear me of all guilt, I hereby
agree to hold myself as condemned to instant death, and shall patiently
submit to whatever fate thou mayest award me.”
“Nay, nay, dear Maurice,” cried Hepborne anxiously, and putting more
faith in his own prowess than in anything the page could urge to
convince the Lady Mariota, of whose villainous falsehood in the foul
charge she had brought against the youth he had been fully convinced
from the first—“nay, nay, dear Maurice, rather leave the matter as it
is; rather——”
“By the bloody hide of St. Bartholomew,” cried the Wolfe, with evident
joy, “but the boy shall have his way. We shall thus have this
mysterious affair cleared up, and settled forthwith, instead of
delaying till to-morrow. By the mass, but he hath excited queer
thoughts in my mind. But we shall see anon. Come then, let him along
with me, that I may show him to the Lady Mariota’s apartment. I swear
by the Holy Rood, Sir Patrick, that the youth shall have
justice—justice to the fullest extent of what he hath demanded. Clear
the way, then, I say; come, Sir Page, come along; thou shalt dance
hither anon at freedom, or thou shalt dangle it and dance it on the
gallows-tree below, where many as brave and stout a youth as thou hath
figured before thee. Come on, I say.”
After the Earl and the page were gone, Sir Alexander Stewart paced the
hall in gloomy silence, his fiery soul boiling within him, so that he
could with difficulty restrain his rage. Every now and then a stamp on
the pavement louder than the rest proclaimed the excess of his internal
agitation. The cool Sir Andrew sat him quietly down, without uttering a
word, or appearing to be much interested in the matter at issue. The
three boys had not yet come in, but a crowd of the retainers, who were
usually admitted to sit below the salt, stood in groups whispering at
the lower end of the hall. Sir Patrick Hepborne had been rendered so
unhappy by the turn the affair had taken, and was so oppressed with
distress, anxiety, and dread as to the result, that he thrust himself
into the deep recess of one of the windows, to hide those emotions he
felt it impossible to repress. Not a word passed between the chief
persons of the scene. The time, which was in reality not in itself
long, appeared to Hepborne like an age; and yet, when at length he did
hear steps and voices approaching along the passage, leading from the
Lady Mariota’s apartment into the banqueting-hall, brave as he was, he
trembled like a coward, lest the moment should have come too soon for
the unhappy page.
The door opened, and the Wolfe entered, frowning and gnashing his
teeth. Then came the page, freed from his fetters. The Wolfe of
Badenoch’s red eye was disturbed from recent ire, which he seemed even
yet to keep down with difficulty; yet he laughed horribly from time to
time as he spoke.
“Ha! well,” said he, “the page Maurice de Grey hath proved his
innocence beyond further question. By the blood of the Bruce—ha! ha!
ha!—but it is ridiculous after all. The red fiend catch me if I—but
pshaw!—let us have the banquet,” cried he, hastily interrupting himself
in something he was going to say—“the banquet, I tell thee. Give me thy
hand, Sir Patrick. Thou wert afraid to trust thy beauteous page with
me, wert thou?—ha! ha! ha! Thou wouldst rather have fought me at
outrance. By’r Lady, but thou art a burly knight; but I like thee not
the worse. Depardieux, but thou art safe enow in my hands; trust me,
thou shalt hear no more on’t. Ha! ha! ha! I confess that thy page is as
innocent—I hereby free him from guilt. The banquet, knaves—the banquet.
Ha! the curse of the devil’s dam on me, if I could have looked for
this.”
“What strange mystery is here?” said Sir Alexander Stewart impatiently.
“Where is the Lady Mariota, my mother?”
The Wolfe had all this time been reining in his wrath with his utmost
power; it was all he could do to curb it; and it was ready to burst all
bounds at the first provocation that offered.
“Better hold thy peace, Sir Alexander,” cried he, darting an angry
glance at him. “By the infernal flames, I am in no humour to listen to
thy folly. I have pledged my sacred word as a knight to secrecy, and
thou nor no one else shall know aught of this mystery, as thou callest
it. Be contented to know that the boy Maurice is innocent.”
“And am I to be satisfied with this?” cried Sir Alexander, his wrath
kindling more and more as he spoke; “am I to remain satisfied with
this, without my mother’s word for it?”
“Nay,” said the Wolfe, hastily, “by the holy Rood, thou shalt have no
word from thy mother to-night.”
“No word from my mother!” exclaimed Sir Alexander. “What! dost thou
treat me as a child? By all the fiends, but I shall see her, though.
Where is she? Why doth she not appear? By the holy mass, I must see
her, and that instantly.”
“By the martyrdom of St. Andrew, then,” cried the Wolfe, gnashing his
teeth, and foaming at the mouth from very ire—“by the martyrdom of St.
Andrew, but thou shalt not see her. I have sent her to cool her
passions in the dungeon to which she consigned the page; and hark ye,
son Alexander, if thou darest to prate any more about her, by all the
fiery fiends of Erebus, but thou shalt occupy the next chamber to that
assigned her, there to remain during my pleasure. Ha! what sayest thou
to that, Sir Alexander?”
“I say thou art a tyrant and a beast,” exclaimed his son, boiling with
rage; “and if thou dost not instantly liberate my mother, by all the
powers of darkness, I will choke thee in thine armour;” and he strode
across the banquet-hall in a frenzy, to put his threat into immediate
execution.
“Halt!” cried Sir Patrick Hepborne, in a voice like thunder, as he
stepped before the Earl, and planted himself directly in the
assailant’s way—“halt. Sir Alexander Stewart—halt, I say. Let reason
come to thine aid, and let not ungovernable passion lead thee to lay
impious hands on him to whom thou owest thine existence.”
“Nay, let him come on,” cried the Wolfe, his eyes glaring ferociously.
“Stand aside, Sir Patrick Hepborne,” cried Sir Alexander, “or, by all
the fiends of perdition, thou shalt suffer for thine interference;
stand back, I say, and leave us to——”
“Nay,” cried Hepborne, firmly, “I will not back; and by St. Baldrid I
swear, that thou shalt do no injury to thy sire until thou shalt have
stepped over my body.”
“Sayest thou so?” cried Sir Alexander, his eyes flashing like
firebrands—“then have at thee, Sir Knight;” and, catching up a
truncheon that lay near, he wielded it with both hands, and aimed a
blow at Sir Patrick’s head, that would have speedily levelled a patent
way for his fury over the prostrate body of the knight, had he not
dodged alertly aside, so that it fell harmless to the ground; and then,
with one tremendous blow of his fist, he laid the raging maniac
senseless on the floor of the hall.
“Bind him,” cried the Wolfe, “bind him instantly, I say, and carry him
to the dungeon under the northern tower; he is a prisoner until our
pleasure shall pronounce him free.”
His orders were instantly and implicitly obeyed, and Sir Alexander was
carried off, without sense or motion, under the charge of his jailors.
Sir Patrick was shocked at the outrageous scene he had witnessed, in
which he had been driven to interfere. Though satisfied of the justice
of the Earl’s sentence against his son, yet he was concerned to think
that he had been instrumental in effecting it, and he conceived he was
bound to endeavour to mediate in his behalf.
“Nay, nay,” said the Wolfe hastily, “I thank thee heartily for the
chastisement thou hast given the whelp. To loose him now, were to
deprive him of all its salutary effects. By the blessed Rood, he shall
lie in his dungeon until he comes so far to his senses as to make a
humble submission both to thee and to me.—What! am I to be bearded at
every turning by my boys?—The red fiend catch me, but they and the
callet that whelped them shall down to the deepest abyss of
Lochyndorbe, ere I shall suffer myself to be so disgraced by her, and
snarled at by her litter.”
Sir Patrick looked towards Sir Andrew Stewart for aid in his attempt to
soften the Earl; but, cool and cautious, he had never stirred from his
seat during the fray, and still sat there unmoved, turning a deaf ear
to his father’s stormy threats, and averting his eye from Hepborne’s
silent appeal.
“Come, come, the banquet, knaves,” cried the Wolfe. “Why stand ye all
staring like gaze-hounds? The red fiend catch me, but I will hang up
half-a-dozen of ye like a string of beads, an we have not our meal in
the twinkling of an eye!”
The lacqueys and attendants had hitherto been standing in silence and
horror, but they were all put instantly in motion. The banquet
appeared. The Wolfe ate more voraciously than usual, and swallowed
deeper draughts of wine also than he ordinarily did; but it was
evidently rather to wash down some vexation that oppressed him than
from anything like jollity. His conversation was hasty and abrupt, and
after drinking double his wonted quantity in half the usual time, he
broke up the feast and retired to his apartment.
CHAPTER XXXII.
Maurice’s Song—The Franciscan Friar—Excommunication.
As Sir Patrick Hepborne retired to his apartment, he called Maurice de
Grey, to inquire into the mysterious means by which he had so
effectually defeated the false charge which had been brought against
him; but the youth hung his head in answer to his master’s inquiries,
and hesitated in replying to them.
“Sir Knight,” said he at length, “there hath been a mutual promise
passed on both sides, that neither the Earl of Buchan nor I shall
reveal what did pass in the converse held between him, the Lady
Mariota, and myself at our conference. I am therefore compelled to
refuse thee that satisfaction which I should otherwise be glad to yield
to thee.”
With this answer Hepborne was compelled to remain satisfied, and the
page being suffered to depart, he retired to rest.
Next morning the Wolfe and he met at breakfast, where were also Sir
Andrew and the younger brothers, but the Lady Mariota, with her eldest
son, Sir Alexander, were absent.
“My Lord of Buchan,” said Sir Patrick, as they sat together, “I presume
not to touch thee on the subject of the Lady Mariota, because, with
regard to her, I can have no plea or right to interfere; but wilt thou
suffer me to entreat thee again in behalf of thy son Sir Alexander
Stewart? It grieveth me much that I should in any way have contributed
to his punishment, however greatly he may have merited thy
chastisement. Forgive me, I beseech thee, for being thus solicitous;
but as an especial boon granted to myself, I crave his liberation.”
“Ha! well, Sir Patrick,” said the Wolfe, after listening to him with
more patience and moderation of aspect than he usually exhibited; “it
is somewhat strange that thou and the child Duncan are the only two
persons who have had the heart to make any appeal to me, either about
my son Alexander or his mother.” And as he said so, he darted an
indignant and reproachful glance towards Sir Andrew, who, as if nothing
amiss had occurred, had been talking of the weather, and of hunting,
and was at that moment helping himself largely to venison pasty. “As
for Sir Andrew there, he cares not who suffereth, so that his craven
bouke be well fassed with food, like a kite as he is. True indeed is
the saying, that misfortunes try hearts. But trust me, I thank thee as
heartily for the tenderness thou hast displayed, as for the spirit thou
didst show yesternight in checking that foolish boy Alexander. Let me
but finish my meal, then, and I shall hie me straight to the dungeons
of the prisoners, and observe in what temper they may now be, after a
night’s cooling, when I shall judge and act accordingly.”
The Earl having gone in pursuance of this resolution, returned, after a
considerable absence, followed by the Lady Mariota and his son. Both
seemed to have been effectually humbled. The lady’s face bore ample
trace of the night of wretchedness she had spent. She curtseyed with an
air, as if she hoped that the forced smile she wore would melt away all
remembrance of what had passed; and then, without saying a word, sidled
off to her apartment. Sir Alexander Stewart came forward manfully. His
brow still bore the black mark of Hepborne’s fist that had prostrated
him on the floor, “as butcher felleth ox,” yet the blow seemed to have
been by this time effaced from his remembrance.
“Sir Patrick,” said he, stretching out his hand, “my father tells me
that I owe my liberation to thee. Thou hast behaved generously in this
matter. The Earl hath given me to know such circumstances as
sufficiently explain his seeming harshness to my mother. I now see that
I was hasty, and I am sorry for it.”
Hepborne readily shook hands with the humbled knight.
“And now let us hunt,” cried the Wolfe. “Horses and hounds there, and
the foresters, and gear for the chase!” and away went the whole party,
to cross to the mainland.
They returned at night, after a successful day’s hunting, and the Wolfe
of Badenoch was in peculiarly good spirits. The banquet was graced by
the Lady Mariota, as usual, tricked out in all her finery, and wearing
her accustomed dimpling smiles; and the Earl seemed to have forgotten
that he had ever had any cause of displeasure against her. Instead of
the marked attention she had formerly paid to Maurice de Grey, however,
she now, much to his satisfaction, treated him with politeness, free
from that disgusting and offensive doating which had heretofore so much
tormented the poor youth. The Wolfe ate voraciously, and drank deeply;
and his mirth rose with the wine he swallowed to so great a pitch of
jollity, that he roared out loudly for music.
“Can no one sing me a roundelay?” cried he. “Mariota, thou knowest not
a single warble, nor is there, I trow, one in the Castle that can touch
even a citrial or a guittern, far less a harp. Would that our
scoundrel, Allan Stewart, were here, but—a plague on him!—he hath gone
to visit his friends in Badenoch. He could have given us romaunces,
ballads, and virelays enow, I warrant thee.”
“My Lord Earl,” said the page modestly, “had I but a harp, in truth I
should do my best to pleasure thee, though I can promise but little for
my skill.”
“Well said, boy,” cried the Wolfe. “By the mass, but thou shalt have a
harp. Ho, there!—bring hither Allan Stewart’s harp. The knave hath two,
and it is to be hoped he hath not carried both with him.”
The harp was brought, and Maurice de Grey having tuned it, began to
accompany himself in the following ballad:—
There was a damsel loved a knight,
You’ll weep to hear her story,
For he ne’er guess’d her heart’s sad plight,
Nor cared for aught but glory.
Lured by its bright and dazzling gleam,
He left the woe-worn maiden,
Nor in her eyes beheld the beam
Of love, from heart o’erladen.
She sigh’d; her sighs ne’er touch’d his ear,
For still his heart was bounding
For neighing steeds, and clashing spear,
And warlike bugle sounding.
She wept; but though he saw her tears,
He dreamt not he had wrought them,
But ween’d that woman’s idle fears,
Or silly woes, had brought them.
He left her then to weep alone,
And droop in secret sadness,
Like some fair lily early blown,
’Reft of the sunbeam’s gladness.
But love will make e’en maidens dare
What most their sex hath frighten’d—
Beneath a helm she crush’d her hair,
In steel her bosom brighten’d.
She seized a lance, she donn’d a brand,
A sprightly war-horse bore her,
She hied her to the Holy Land,
Where went her Knight before her.
She sought him out—she won his heart—
Amidst the battle’s bluster;
As friends they ne’er were seen to part,
Howe’er the foes might cluster.
But ah! I grieve to tell the tale!
A random arrow flying,
Pierced through her corslet’s jointed mail,
And down she fell a-dying.
He bore her quickly from the field,
Through Paynim ranks opposing,
But when her helmet was unseal’d,
Her maiden blush disclosing.
He cried, “Blest Virgin be our aid!
What piteous sight appals me!
It is—it is that gentle maid,
Whose lovely form still thralls me.
“Lift, lift those heavy drooping eyes,
And with one kind look cheer me!”
She smiled like beam in freezing skies,
“Ah, Rodolph, art thou near me?
“My life ebbs fast, my heart’s blood flows,
That long hath beat for thee, love;
And still for thee my bosom glows,
Though death’s hand is on me, love.
“For thee in secret did I sigh,
Nor ween’d that love could warm thee,
Nor that my lustre-lacking eye
Could e’er have power to charm thee.”
“Nay, Angeline,” cried Rodolph then,
“I wist not that I loved thee,
Till left my home, and native glen,
Remembrance of thee moved me.
“Let him who woos not health nor joy,
Till lost are both the treasures,
My heart held love as childish toy,
Nor cared to sip its pleasures.
“But follow’d by the form so fair,
I saw it on each billow;
I saw it float in empty air—
It hover’d o’er my pillow.
“And e’en when hardy deeds I wrought,
’Midst murderous ranks contending,
Thy figure ever filled my thought,
Mine arm new vigour lending.
“And then the fame of deeds of arms
Had lost all power to cheer me,
Save that, methought, its dazzling charms
To thee might yet endear me.
“And have I pluck’d these laurels green,
To deck thy dying brow, love?
Oh, lift for once those lovely een,
To hear my plighted vow, love!”
“I’m happy now,” she faintly said,
“But, oh, ’tis cruel to sever!”—
Upon his breast her head she laid,
And closed her eyes for ever.
“Sir Page,” cried the Wolfe, at the close of this ballad, “by my
knighthood, but thou dost sing and harp it better than Allan Stewart
himself, though thy lays are something of the saddest. Meseems if thou
didst ween that our mirth had waxed somewhat too high, and that it
lacked a damper. In sooth,” continued he, turning to Hepborne with an
arch look, “thou art much to be envied, Sir Patrick, for the possession
of this lovely, this accomplished—ha! ha! ha!—this—this boy of
thine—ha! ha! ha!—this Maurice de Grey.—Come, Maurice, my sweet youth,”
said he, addressing the page, “essay again to tune thy throat, and let
it, I beseech thee, be in a strain more jocund than the last. Here,
quaff wine, boy, to give thee jollier heart.”
“Thanks, my noble Lord,” replied Maurice de Grey, “I will exert my poor
powers to fulfil thy wishes without drinking.”
And, taking up the harp again, he ran his fingers nimbly over the
strings, with great display of execution, in a sprightly prelude,
enlivening his auditors, and preparing them to sympathize with
something more in unison with the highly-screwed chords of the Earl’s
heart, when he was suddenly interrupted by the appearance of a new
personage.
A tall monk of the order of St. Francis suddenly entered, and, gliding
like a spirit into the middle of the hall, darted a pair of keen
searching eyes towards the upper end of the festive board.
“What, ha! brother of St. Francis,” cried the Wolfe of Badenoch, “what
wouldst thou? If thou be’st wayfaring, and need cheer, sit thee down
there at the end of our festive board, and call for what thou lackest.”
The Franciscan stood mute and unmoved, with his cowl over his head, and
his arms folded across his breast. The silver lamps threw a pale light
upon his face, and his shadow rose gigantically upon the wall.
“Whence comest thou?—Speak!” cried the Wolfe, impatiently. “Are we to
be kept waiting all night, till thou dost choose to effunde the cause
of thy strange visitation?”
“Alexander Stewart, Earl of Buchan, and Lord of Badenoch,” said the
Franciscan slowly, and in a deep solemn tone; “Alexander Stewart, I
come here as the messenger of the Bishop of Moray, to tell thee that
the tidings of thy daring, outrageous, and sacrilegious seizure of the
lands belonging to the Holy Church, have reached him: the cries alswa
of the helpless peasants, whom thou hast ousted from their dwellings,
have sounded in his ears. Thy cruelties are bruited abroad from one end
of the kingdom to the other, and it is now time that thy savage career
should be arrested. The godly Bishop doth, through me, his organ of
speech, call on thee to give up the lands thou hast sacrilegiously
seized in Badenoch; to restore the plundered herds and flocks, and the
rents thou hast theftuously taken by masterful strength; to replace
those honest and innocent peasants, who, resisting thy aggression, like
true vassals, were, with their wives and little ones, driven from their
homes and possessions by thee in thy brutish fury; and, finally, to
make such reparation to Holy Mother Church, by fine to her treasuries,
and personal abasement before her altars, as may stay her just wrath
against thee. In default of all which, the Holy Bishop hath commanded
me to announce to thee, that the lesser and greater excommunications
shall go forth against thee; and that thou shalt be accursed as a
vagabond on the face of this earth, and damned to all eternity in the
next world.”
The fiery and ferocious Wolfe of Badenoch was so utterly confounded by
what he considered the unexampled audacity of this denunciation, that
amazement kept him silent from absolute want of words, otherwise his
limited stock of patience could not have endured the Franciscan till he
had uttered the tenth part of his long speech. He gnashed his teeth,
curled up his nose, and foamed at the mouth; and striking the table
furiously, as was his custom when violently moved, he shouted out—
“Ha! Devils! Furies! Fiends of Erebus! What is this I hear? The Earl of
Buchan—the son of a King—the Wolfe of Badenoch—to be thus insulted by a
chough! Out, thou carrion-hooded crow! Thinkest thou to brave me down
with thine accursed crawing? By the beard of my grandfather, but thou
shalt swing twenty ell high, an thou voidest not the Castle of thy
loathsome carcase in less time than thou didst ware in effunding
one-fourth part of thy venomous and impudent harangue.”
The monk stood motionless, in the same fixed and composed attitude he
had at first assumed, altogether unmoved by these tremendous threats.
“Alexander Stewart, Earl of Buchan, and Lord of Badenoch,” he again
repeated in the same slow and solemn manner, “I call upon thee again to
declare whether thou be’st disposed to submit thyself patiently to the
healthful discipline of our Holy Mother Church? or whether thou be’st
resolved that she shall cut thee off, like a rotten and diseased
branch, to fall headlong into the pit where eternal fire shall consume
thee? Already, ere this, hadst thou incurred her just vengeance by
living in abominable adultery with Mariota Athyn, thy wanton leman, who
now sitteth in abomination beside thee; and by the abandonment of thy
leal, true and virtuous wife, whom thou hast left to mourn in a worse
than widowhood. In addition to the solemn appeal I have already made, I
am commanded to call on thee now to fulfil the sentence of the Bishops
of Moray and Ross, to pay down two hundred broad pieces of gold as the
mulct of thine offence, and forthwith to discharge thy foul and sinful
mate, and recal to thy bosom her who hath the true and lawful claim to
lay her head there. Wilt thou do these things, yea or not?”
This ripping up of the old feud not only redoubled the rage of the
Wolfe of Badenoch, but roused that of the Lady Mariota and her sons.
She burst into a flood of tears, a violent fit of sobbing followed, and
she finally rushed from the banquet hall. The hot and fierce Sir
Alexander was broiling with fury; but the Wolfe took the speech of
him——
“Ha! so thou hast come to the kernel of this matter at last, thou ape
of Satan, hast thou? Now I do clearly ken how far I was right in
guessing at the tale-pyet that chattered in the ear of the King, my
father. But, by the blood of the Bruce, I have revenged his impertinent
meddling, by ousting him from the roost he had in my lands; and, by all
the hot fiends of perdition, if he rouseth the Wolfe of Badenoch more,
his neck shall be twisted about. Art content with my answer now, thou
hooded-carrion-crow?”
“Alexander Stewart, Earl of Buchan, and Lord of Badenoch,” said the
Franciscan, with the same imperturbable gravity, firmness, and
composure, “hast thou no better response than this to make to the holy
Bishop of Moray? Bethink thee well———”
“Scoundrel chough, begone!” cried the Wolfe, interrupting him. “Thou
hast already more than outstaid my patience, which hath in itself been
miraculous. If thou wouldst escape hence in safety, avoid thee
instantly; for if thou goest not in the twinkling of an eye, may
infernal demons seize me if thou shalt have leave to go at all.”
“Then, Alexander Stewart,” said the Franciscan, “the Bishop’s curse be
upon thee and upon thine; for thou shalt be an outcast from our Holy
Mother Church, and———”
“And the red fiend’s curse be upon thee and the split-crowned Bishop!”
cried the Wolfe, interrupting him. “Why stand these kestrel rogues to
see their lord, to see the Wolfe of Badenoch flouted by that stinking
and venomous weasel! Seize the vermin, knaves, and let him be tossed
into the Water Pit Vault; if I mistake not, the loch is high enow at
present to keep him company there; but, let him sink or swim, I care
not; away with the toad, I say. He may thank his good stars that I gave
him a chance for his life. By the infernal host, I was much tempted to
string him up, without more ado, to the gallows in the court-yard, that
he might dance a bargaret for our sport, sith he hath spoilt our mirth
and music by his ill-omened croaking. Away with him, I say!”
“Beware of touching the servant of Heaven,” cried the firm and
undismayed Franciscan; “whosoever dareth to lay impious hands on me,
shall be subjected to the same curse as the sacrilegious tyrant who
sitteth yonder.”
“Why stand ye hesitating, knaves?” roared the Wolfe. “Let him not utter
another word, or, by the pit of darkness, I shall have ye all flayed
alive.”
The Franciscan’s threat had operated too strongly on the lacqueys to
permit them to secure the monk with their own hands, yet, afraid to
risk their master’s hasty displeasure, one or two of them had not
scrupled to fly off for the jailors and executioners of the Castle, men
who, like tutored bears, had neither fears nor hopes, nor, indeed,
thoughts of aught else but obedience to the will of a master, engrafted
upon their savage natures by early nurture and long usage. Four or five
of these entered as the Wolfe of Badenoch was speaking. They appeared
like creatures that had inhabited the bowels of the earth; bulky of
bone and muscle; their hair and beards were long and matted, their eyes
inanimate and unfeeling, and their hands, features, and garments alike
coarse and begrimed with filth, as if the blood of their murderous
trade still adhered to them.
“Ha! ay! there ye come, my trusty terriers; seize that polecat there in
the cowl, and toss him into the Water Pit Vault. Quick, away with him!”
The bold Franciscan had trusted to the sanctity of his character, but
he had presumed too far on its protecting influence; these reckless
minions of the Wolfe had him in their fell gripe in an instant, and
dragged him unresisting towards the door of the banquet hall, as if he
had been but a huge black goat. There, however, his eyes happened to
catch the figure and countenance of the page, Maurice de Grey; he
started, and, in spite of the nervous exertions of the ruffians who had
him in charge, he planted his feet so firmly on the pavement, that he
compelled them to halt, while he stood for a moment fixed like a
Colossus, darting a keen look at the page. The boy’s eyes sunk beneath
the sternness of his gaze.
“Thou here!” exclaimed he with an expression of extreme surprise; “by
what miracle do I behold thee here? Would that I had seen thee
before—would that I had known——”
But the sturdy and callous knaves who held him, noticed his sudden halt
and mysterious speech no otherwise than they would have done the voice
or struggles of the goat we have compared him to; they only put forth a
little more strength, and, before he could get another word out,
whirled him through the door-way, and lugged him sprawling down the
stair. Hepborne had been more than once on the eve of interceding for
the monk, but he saw that anything he could have said would have been
of little avail, amidst the general fury that prevailed against him,
and might have even provoked a more immediate and fatal vengeance; so
that all thoughts of running a hopeless tilt in his behalf, against the
highly excited ferocity of the Stewarts, were abandoned by him for the
present.
The Wolfe of Badenoch was too much unhinged in temper, by the visit of
the Franciscan monk, to be in a humour to prolong the feast.
“Caitiff! carrion! corby!” cried he after he was gone; “the red fiend
swallow me, but the bold Bishop shall bide for the return of his
messenger. Ho! bring me that stoup, knave.”
He put the stoup of Rhenish to his head, and quaffing a potent draught
from it, set it down on the table with a violent crash, and calling
out, “Lights there—lights for the apartments,” he broke up the feast.
CHAPTER XXXIII.
The Water Pit Vault—Friar or Devil, which?
Sir Patrick Hepborne went to his room, determined to leave Lochyndorbe
next day, to proceed to Tarnawa; so calling Maurice de Grey and
Mortimer Sang, and intimating his intention to both of them, he
dismissed them for the night and retired to his repose.
A little past midnight, however, he was suddenly awakened by the page,
who came rushing into his apartment in a state of intense apprehension,
and sunk into a chair, overcome by his terrors.
“Holy St. Baldrid,” exclaimed Sir Patrick, “what hath befallen thee,
Maurice? And of what art thou afraid? Speak, I beseech thee, and tell
me the cause of this strange alarm?”
“Oh, Sir Knight,” cried the boy, pale as ashes and ready to faint, “the
friar—the monk—the Franciscan! I was telling my beads by my lamp, as is
my custom, being about to undress to go to bed, when one of the doors
of my chamber opened slowly, and the figure of the Franciscan stood
before me. My blood ran cold when I saw him, for methought murder was
in his eye, and I fancied I saw the hilt of a poinard glittering from
his bosom. I waited not to hear him speak, but snatching up my lamp,
rushed through the farther door-way, and fled hither for succour.”
“Pshaw, Maurice,” said Sir Patrick, “verily thou must have dreamt that
thou didst see the friar. How couldst thou see him, who was plunged by
order of the stern Earl into the deep dungeon called the Water Pit
Vault?”
“Nay, Sir Knight,” cried Maurice, “but he may have ’scaped thence, and
may be now wandering about the Castle.”
“Nay, verily, that were impossible,” replied Sir Patrick; “’tis a
terrible place; I had the curiosity to peep into it, one of the times
it happened to be open, as I passed by the mouth of it. It is so much
below the level of the lake, that there is generally an ell’s-depth of
water in the bottom of it; and its profundity is such, that without
ropes, or a ladder, it were vain to hope to emerge from it, even were
the heavy stone trap-door that shuts it left open to facilitate escape;
nay, I tell thee it is impossible boy; believe me, the Franciscan
stands freezing there, God help him, among the cold water, for the
wretch cannot lie down without drowning. When I think of the horrors
the miserable man was so hastily doomed to, I cannot help regretting
that I did not make some attempt to soothe the Earl to mercy, though I
have strong reason to fear I might have brought a more hasty fate on
his head by my interference; but I shall surely use my endeavours to
move my Lord of Buchan for the poor friar’s liberation in the morning.
Trust me, boy, it could in no wise be the Franciscan thou sawest; and
by much the most likely explanation of thine alarm is, that thou hadst
become drowsy over thy beads, and, dropping asleep, didst dream of the
scene thou sawest pass in the banquet hall.”
“Nay, nay, Sir Knight,” cried Maurice de Grey, “it was the Franciscan,
flesh and blood, or”—said he, pausing and shuddering, “or—it was his
sprite.”
“Tush, boy Maurice,” said Sir Patrick, “in very truth, ’tis thy dreams
which have deceived thee; and, now I think of it, by St. Baldrid, I
wonder not that thou shouldst have dreamed of the friar, seeing that he
looked at thee so earnestly; and then he seemed to know thee too.
Pr’ythee, hast thou ever chanced to see him before?”
“Not as far as I can remember, Sir Knight,” replied the boy; “but sure
I am I shall not fail to recollect him if I should ever see him again,
which the blessed Virgin forbid, for there is something terrible in his
eye.”
“Tut, boy,” cried Hepborne, “what hast thou to fear from his eye?
Methinks thou hast displayed a wondrous want of courage with this same
peaceful friar.”
“Peaceful!” exclaimed Maurice de Grey.
“Ay, peaceful,” continued his master; “for a poor Franciscan friar
cannot well be aught else than peaceful. Thou hast played but a poor
part to run away from him, thou who didst attack the bison bull so
boldly; yea, thou who didst so nobly wage desperate strife with the
assassin who did attempt the life of thy master, at the Shelter Stone
of Loch Avon. Why didst thou not draw thy sword, and demand the cause
of his rude, intrusion?”
“Nay, Sir Knight,” said the boy, shuddering, “he did verily appear
something more than human.”
“Well, well,” said Hepborne, laughing, “I will but throw a cloak about
me and go with thee to thy chamber, to see whether he may yet tarry
there.”
But when they went to the page’s apartment they found not the slightest
vestige of the friar; and Sir Patrick, with the wish of convincing the
boy that he had been dreaming, laughed heartily at his fears. But the
youth resolutely maintained his assertion that he had not slept; and
his master, seeing that the vision, or whatever else it might have
been, had taken so strong a hold of the page’s mind, that it would be
absolute cruelty to compel him to sleep alone, admitted him into a
small closet adjoining the apartment he himself occupied; and the boy’s
countenance showed that he was sufficiently grateful for the boon.
When Sir Patrick Hepborne met the Earl of Buchan at breakfast, he
announced to him his determination to depart that day.
“Ha!” said the Wolfe, “by the mass, but it doleth me much that thou art
going, Sir Patrick. Thou hast as yet had but small enjoyment in
hunting, yea, or in anything else in Lochyndorbe. Thy visit hath been
one continued turmoil. Since thou wilt go, however, by’r Lady, I will
e’en resolve me to go with thee to this same tourney at Tarnawa. But I
must think how to bestow the corby Franciscan friar ere I go; he cannot
be left in the Water Pit Vault until I return hither, for one night of
that moist lodging hath been enow to set many a one ere this to eternal
sleep. I must look him out some drier, though equally secure place of
dortoure.”
“If I might not offend thee by the request,” said Hepborne, “I would
ask, as the last favour thou mayest grant me ere I go, and as it were
to put the crown upon the hospitality thou hast exercised towards me,
that thou wouldst give the poor wretch his freedom. Meseems it thou
hast done enough to terrify him, yea, and those also who sent him; and
the return of the ambassador with amicable proposals, may do more than
all his sufferings, or even his death. Forgive these gratuitous
advices, my Lord Earl, given in the spirit of peace and prudence, and
with the best intention.”
Hepborne’s firmness, courage, and temper had in reality gained a
wonderful ascendancy over the ferocious Wolfe, during the short space
he had been with him; besides, he always managed to take the most
favourable time for making his rational appeals. The Earl heard him to
an end most patiently, and then pausing for a moment in thought—
“Well,” said he, “Sir Patrick Hepborne, by the Rood, but there is
something right pleasing in seeing thee always enlist thyself on the
side of mercy—thou who so well knowest how to stand a bicker when it
comes, and who refuseth never to place thyself in the breach when of
needscost thou must. Well, we shall see, then; come along with me to
the Water Pit Vault, and we shall see what I can make of the
hooded-crow. He may be more tame by this time, and peraunter he will
croak less. Come along with me, I say, so please thee. Here, call the
jailor on duty—call him to the Water Pit Vault.”
A lacquey ran to obey his commands, and Sir Patrick descended with him
to the outer court-yard. They found the grim and gruff jailor standing
ready to raise the stone at his lord’s command. The vault was entirely
under ground, the mouth of it being immediately within the outer
rampart, and opposite to that part of the surrounding lake which was
deepest.
“Raise the stone trap-door, knave,” cried the Wolfe to the man; “we
need not send for a ladder or ropes until we see how the prisoner
behaves.”
The trap-door was lifted up with considerable difficulty by the sturdy
jailor, and all three cast their eyes downwards into the obscure depth
below. It was some moments ere their sight was sufficiently
accommodated to the paucity of light to enable them to see to the
bottom.
“Ha! what!” cried the Wolfe, “by the beard of my grandfather, but I see
him not; dost thou, Sir Patrick? Nay, by St. Andrew, there is no
Franciscan there, alive or dead; for now I can see even to the bottom
of the ell-depth of clear water that covereth the pavement. Hey! what!
by’r Lady, but it is passing strange. Knave,” cried he, turning to the
jailor, who appeared to be as much confounded as the Earl and his
guest, “didst thou see him lodged here yesternight with thine own
eyes?”
“I did put him down myself with a rope, so please thee, my noble Lord,”
said the man. The rest were called, and they all declared they had
assisted in lowering him, and in replacing the stone over the mouth of
the vault, and all were equally petrified to see that the prisoner was
gone.
“By all the powers of Tartarus,” cried the Wolfe, “but this passeth all
marvel! Of a truth, the devil himself must have assisted the carrion
corby; and, by my beard, but I did suspect that he was more the servant
of hell than of heaven, as he dared to call himself. Ha! well, if the
wizard caitiff do fall into my hands again, by all the fiends, but he
shall be tried with fire next, sith he can so readily escape from
water.”
Sir Patrick was not less astonished than the rest of those who beheld
the miracle. He thought of the strange and unaccountable appearance of
the Franciscan to the page, which he now readily believed to have been
real, and he shuddered at the narrow escape which the boy had made from
murder.
The news of the friar having vanished from the Water Pit Vault soon
spread like wildfire through the Castle, and many and various were the
opinions concerning it. Some few there were who secretly in their own
minds set it down as a miraculous deliverance worked in favour of the
Franciscan, to defeat the impiety and sacrilege of the Wolfe of
Badenoch, who had dared to order violent hands to be laid on a holy
man; but the greater part, who were of the same stamp with their
master, thought as he did; and some of them even went so far as firmly
to believe that the Franciscan was in reality no monk, but the devil
himself, disguised under the sanctified garb of a friar. The boldness
he had displayed, and the sudden and irresistible halt he had made, in
defiance of the power of the sturdy knaves who were dragging him away,
confirmed them in their notions. Nay, many of them even declared that
at that moment they had actually observed his cloven foot, pointed from
under the long habit, and thrust like iron prongs into the flag-stones
of the banqueting hall.
CHAPTER XXXIV.
The Wolfe of Badenoch and the Earl of Moray.
The Wolfe of Badenoch having once made up his mind to accompany Sir
Patrick Hepborne to the tournament of St. John’s, allowed but little
time to be lost by his people in preparation; and his sons and their
attendants, with his own splendid retinue, were speedily assembled on
the lawn beyond the land sconce. Hepborne’s more moderate cortège was
also quickly mustered there, and in less than an hour the two leaders
were at the head of their united trains, marching off with bugles
sounding, and banners and pennons flying.
Leaving the lake by the same route by which Sir Patrick had approached
it, they travelled northwards through the apparently ceaseless forest,
that varied only in the undulations of the surface it grew upon, and in
the trees it produced. The pines were very soon, in a great measure,
exchanged for magnificent birches and oaks, spreading themselves far
and wide over the country, and forming the vast forest of Drummyn.
There they skirted the Findhorn, which thundered through the romantic
chasm, yawning between confined and precipitous crags, until they found
themselves on the summit of a bold cliff overhanging the river, from
the base of which it swept in one grand and broad line through the
centre of a beautiful plain of about a mile in diameter, dividing it
from south to north into two nearly equal parts. These were the Meads
of St. John, and there the stream seemed gladly to slumber in a
comparatively gentle current, after its boisterous and laborious
passage downwards from its native mountains. Ledges of rock did indeed
push themselves here and there from its enamelled margins, and served
to diversify them, as did those groups of wide-spreading oaks of
enormous growth, forming in most places a broad bowery fringe to either
shore; but there was nothing to disturb the perfect continuity and
level of the grassy surface of the meadows, except one or two bosky
groves, carelessly planted by the hand of nature. The high banks
retreating on both sides, to bend round and embrace the Meads,
presented an irregularity of form and slope; while the forest,
extending itself everywhere over the upper grounds, sent down some of
its most magnificent representatives to grace their sides. About a mile
or more to the left, perched on a gentle eminence, arose the venerable
Castle of Tarnawa, looking far and wide over its woody domain. Towards
the northern extremity of the Eastern Mead, stood the little chapel
dedicated to St. John the Baptist, giving name to the lovely valley
that now stretched in rich verdure beneath their eyes; and over the
farther boundaries of the meadows appeared the fertile plain of Forres,
the broad expanse of the Frith, and the distant mountain-range beyond.
But these, the mere ordinary and permanent features of the scene,
though exquisitely beautiful in themselves, were at this time rendered
tenfold more interesting by the animation that everywhere pervaded the
Meads of St. John, where the whole population of the North had
assembled. Midway down the long stretch of the river was erected a wide
bridge, formed of enormous pillars and beams of wood, intended to give
temporary passage between the opposite banks during the ensuing sports;
and it was spanned above by several triumphal arches, which people were
then employed in decorating with boughs of holly and other evergreens.
A promiscuous and motley assemblage of booths, tents, log-houses, and
huts, in number beyond all possibility of reckoning, were seen
scattered like a great irregular village all around the base of those
semi-circular banks embracing the eastern side of the Meads. These
fragile tenements were occupied by the populace not only of the
neighbouring town and surrounding country, but by many who had come
from very distant parts of Scotland, some to establish a mart for their
wares, others to exhibit feats of strength, or agility, or juggling,
and the greater number, perhaps, to behold the spectacle, or assist in
the labours incident to the preparation for it.
The lists were then erecting in the centre of the eastern meadow,
while, on the western side of the river, were observed a number of
pavilions, within the recess of a beautiful glade retiring among the
wooded banks. These were brought thither by knights who came to attend
the tournament, the accommodations in the Castle being quite unequal
for more than a chosen few. Such as were already erected had each a
banner or pennon flying before it, and others were pitching with great
expedition. In the midst of the whole was the pavilion of the Earl of
Moray, of much greater magnitude than any of those around it, while his
banner unfurled itself to the breeze from the top of a tall pine fixed
in the ground for the purpose.
Such were the most prominent objects, then, in the Meads of St. John;
but the whole vale swarmed with living beings. Groups of men and horses
were seen moving over it in all directions, and the very earth seemed
in motion.
“By the Holy Rood,” cried the Wolfe, “but it is a noble sight. Methinks
my brother-in-law, Earl John, must have had his hands in the King’s
purse ere he could have ventured on such a show as this. Come, Sir
Patrick, let us hasten to see how things may be in the Castle.”
They followed a steep and winding path that led them down through the
wood into the valley below, and quickly crossed the level ground
towards the bridge. This they found guarded by a strong party of
spearmen and archers. The captain on duty came forward—
“Sir Knights,” said he courteously, “so please ye to honour me with
your names and titles, that they may be passed forward to the Earl’s
pavilion for his inspection.”
“Morte de ma vie,” cried the Wolfe of Badenoch pettishly, “but this is
ceremony with a vengeance. What! shall I not have liberty to approach
me to mine own brother-in-law, until I shall have sent him my name! and
am I, or is my horse, to be kept on the fret here until the return of a
tardy messenger from yonder tents? What a fiend, dost thou not know me,
Sir Captain? dost thou not know me for the Earl of Buchan?”
“My Lord Earl,” replied the captain of the guard with perfect
reverence, “I did indeed know the attence, but mine orders are so
imperative, that albeit it doth indeed much erke me to be so strict
with thee, yet must I of needscost subject thee to the same rule that
hath been laid down for all.”
To prevent further words, Hepborne hastened to give his name and
quality, and the number of his retinue, to the captain of the guard;
and observing the growing impatience of the Wolfe, he managed to avert
his coming wrath, by expressing a desire to ride towards the lists, to
see what was going forward there, hoping that, by the time they had
examined all the operations in progress, the passage of the bridge
would be open to them.
Having contrived to make the Wolfe waste nearly half-an-hour in this
way, Hepborne returned with him to the bridge, where they were informed
by the captain of the guard that the Earl of Moray was coming in person
to meet them; and accordingly they beheld him riding across the bridge
towards them, followed by an esquire and a very few attendants. He was
unostentatiously dressed in a light hunting garb; his figure was
middle-sized, his complexion fair, and his countenance fresh, round,
and of a mild expression.
His horse’s hoofs had no sooner touched the sod of the meadow than he
dismounted, and giving the rein to his esquire, advanced to meet his
brother-in-law. The Wolfe of Badenoch leaped from his saddle, and
moving one step forward, stood to receive him. Sir Patrick Hepborne and
the five Stewarts having also dismounted, were at his back.
“Brother,” said the Wolfe, after their first salutations were over,
“this is Sir Patrick Hepborne.”
“Sir Patrick,” said the Earl graciously, “I rejoice to see thee here;
welcome to thy country, and to these my domains; I regret to understand
that I must cast away all hope of seeing thine honoured father upon
this occasion, and I yet more grieve at the cause of his present
unfitness for mixing in sports in which he was wont to shine as a
bright star. Nevoys,” continued he, saluting Sir Alexander Stewart and
his brothers, “I rejoice to behold ye thus waxing so stout; an ye
thrive thus, even the very youngest of ye will soon be well able to
bear a shock. What sayest thou, Duncan, my boy? Your pardon, Sir
Patrick, for a moment, but I must speak a little aside here with my
brother, the noble Earl of Buchan; I shall be entirely at thy command
anon.”
The two Earls retired a few paces to one side, and Moray’s face
assuming an air of great seriousness, he began to talk in an under tone
to the Wolfe of Badenoch, whose brow, as he listened, gathered clouds
and storms, which went on blackening and ruffling it, until at length
he burst out into one of his ungovernable furies.
“Ha! by the beard of my grandfather, and dost thou think that I care
the value of a cross-bow bolt for the split-crowned magpie?” cried he.
“Excommunicate me! and what harm, I pr’ythee, will his excommunication
do me? But, by’r Lady, he shall suffer for it. He has already had a
small spice of what the Wolfe of Badenoch can do when he is roused,
and, by all the fiends, he shall know more on’t ere long.”
“Talk not so loud and vehemently, I beseech thee, brother,” said the
Earl of Moray; “publish not the matter thus.”
“Nay, but I will tell it,” roared out the Wolfe; “I will publish the
insolence of this scoundrel Bishop to the whole world. What think ye,”
continued he, turning round to his sons and Sir Patrick—“what think ye
of the consummate impudence of the rascally Alexander Barr? He hath
dared to void his impotent curse on the Earl of Buchan and Ross—on the
son of the King of Scotland—on the Wolfe of Badenoch. My brother here,
the Earl of Moray, hath just had an especial messenger from the
croaking carrion, to tell him the news of my excommunication; but the
red fiend catch me, an I do not make him rue that he ever told the tale
beyond his own crowing rookery. Ha! let us to the Castle, brother—let
us to my sister Margery, I say. Depardieux, but thou shalt see that the
hypocritical knave’s anathema shall be but as seasoning to my food.
Trust me, I shall not eat or drink one tithe the less of thy good cheer
for it.”
“Most noble Earl of Buchan, and my most excellent brother,” said the
Earl of Moray, with a hesitating and perplexed air, “it erketh me
sore—it giveth me, as thou mayest readily believe, extreme grief—to be
compelled to tell thee that I cannot with propriety receive thee at
present among the nobles who now house them within my walls, nor would
the heralds admit of thy presence at the ensuing tournament, whilst
thou liggest under the bann of the Holy Church, even were I bold enough
to risk for thee the Church’s displeasure against me and mine. Let me,
then, I pray thee, have weight with thee so far as to persuade thee to
ride straightway to Elgin, to make thy peace with the Bishop. Much as I
have on my hands at the present time, verily I will not scruple to
haste thither with thee, if thou dost think that I mought in any manner
of way further an accommodation, so that this dread reproach may be
forthwith removed from off thee. We can then return together speedily,
ere yet the matter shall have been bruited abroad (for, so far as I am
concerned, it is as yet a secret); and thou shalt then, much to my joy
and honour, take thy due and proper place by the side of thy brother
Robert, Earl of Fife and Menteith, at the head of mine illustrious
guests, and——”
“Ha! what!” cried the Wolfe of Badenoch in a fury; “thinkest thou that
I will hie me straight, to lout myself low, and to lick the dust before
the feet of that lorel Bishop, who hath had the surquedrie to dare thus
to insult me? By my trusty burly-brand, I shall take other means of
settling accounts between us. But methinks he is right hasty in his
traffic. No sooner have I settled one score with him, than he runs me
up another in the twinkling of an eye. But, by all the furies, he shall
find that I shall pay him off roundly, and score him up double on my
side. And so, brother, thou dost think that I carry such leprous
contamination about my person, as may altogether unfit me for the
purity of thy virtuous house? Gramercy for thy courtesy! But by the
Rood, I do believe that something else lurketh under all these
pretences. Thou hast seen my dotard father the King lately; thou hast
held council with him I ween; and, I trow, my interests have not been
furthered by the advices thou hast whispered in the Royal ear. I still
lack the best cantle of my Lieutenantship in lacking Moray Land, and a
bird hath whistled me that John Dunbar, Earl of Moray, hath not been
backward in urging the monarch to refuse it to me. If this be so,
Brother Earl——”
“I swear by my knighthood,” cried the Earl of Moray earnestly
interrupting him, and speaking at once with calmness and firmness—“I
swear by my knighthood, that whoso hath told thee this, hath told thee
a black falsehood; and I gage mine honour to throw the lie in his
teeth, and to defy him to mortal debate, should it so please thee to
yield me his name.”
“Well spoken, brother John,” cried the Wolfe, apparently satisfied with
the solemnity of the Earl of Moray’s denial. “But thou art pretty safe
in thy darreigne; I did but suspect thee, and, in sooth, appearances
were infernally against thee. But I must take it upon thy word and
abide the event. Yet do I know of a truth that thou wert with the
King——”
“That do I most readily confess,” replied the Earl of Moray mildly. “I
did indeed journey to Scone on my private affairs, and, among other
things, to crave His Majesty’s gracious permission to hold this same
tourney, and to petition for his royal presence here. But State
reasons, or infirmity, or perhaps both causes conjoined, keep him back
from us; nathless he hath sent his banner hither to wave over the
lists, to show that at least we have his royal good-will with us. I
most solemnly vow that I did never meddle or make with the King in any
matter of thine.”
“The red fiend ride me then,” cried the Wolfe hastily, “but thy
reception of me hath been something of the coolest. Methinks that,
putting myself in thy case, and thee in mine, I should for thee have
defied all the lorel coistrils that ever carried crosier. Ha! by’r
Lady, ’tis indeed a precious tale to tell, that the Earl of Buchan was
refused herborow within the Castle of his brother of Moray.”
“Again I repeat that it doleth me sore,” said the Earl of Moray, “that
I should be compelled to put on the semblance of inhospitality, and,
above all, towards thee, my Lord of Buchan, with whom I am so nearly
and dearly allied. But in this case, were I even to set the Bishop’s
threats at defiance in order to receive thee, thou must be aware that
it would only expose thee to certain disgrace; for, of a truth, thy
presence would quickly clear my hall of all the noble guests who are to
feast within its walls. Would, then, that I could incline thee to
follow my counsel, and that thou wouldst be content to ride with me to
Elgin, to appease the Bishop’s wrath, that he may remove his Episcopal
curse. We should be back here long ere cock-crow, and——”
“Thou hast had my mind on that head already, brother John,” cried the
Wolfe, interrupting him, in a rage. “By the mass, but it is a cheap
thing for thee to make trade and chevisaunce of another’s pride; but,
by the blood of the Bruce, I promise thee, I shall give up no title of
mine to swell that of the lossel drone of a Bishop; so make thyself
easy on that score. What! to be trampled on by a walthsome massmonger,
and then to go cap-in-hand, that he may put his plebeian foot on my
neck! My horse there—my horse, I say. What stand the knaves staring
for? I bid thee goode’en, my Lord of Moray. I’ll to Forres then, to inn
me, sith I may not put my leprous hide within thy pure and unsullied
walls. God be with thee, Sir Patrick Hepborne;” and so saying he sprang
into his saddle.
“But,” said the Earl of Moray, “though I cannot receive thee at
present, my Lord of Buchan, I shall be right glad to do all the honour
I may to Sir Alexander Stewart and the rest of my nevoys.”
“Gramercy for thy courtesy,” cried the proud and fierce Sir Alexander;
“sith thou dost hold my father as a polluted and pestilential guest,
thou shalt have none of my company, I promise thee.”
“Ha! well said, son Alexander,” shouted the Wolfe joyously; “well said,
my brave boy; by my beard, but thou hast spoken bravely. To Forres
then, my merry men.”
And without abiding farther parlance, the hasty Wolfe of Badenoch, with
Sir Alexander and the younger Stewarts, rode off at a hand-gallop,
followed by their retinue. Sir Andrew, however, remained quietly
behind, and manifested no inclination to accompany his father.
“And now, Sir Patrick Hepborne,” said the Earl of Moray, “I have to
crave thy pardon for having been thus so long neglectful of thee on a
first meeting; but, I trow, I need hardly apologise, since thou hast
thyself seen and heard enow, I ween, to plead my excuse with thee. This
matter hath in very sooth most grievously affected me. It hath truly
given me more teene and vexation than I can well tell thee. But I shall
to Forres by times i’ the morning, and then essay to soothe my Lord of
Buchan into greater moderation and a more reasonable temper than he
hath just displayed. Meanwhile the Countess Margery doth abide for us
in the pavilion. Let us then hasten thither, so please thee, for she
will not leave it to go to the Castle until I rejoin her, and verily it
waxeth late, and the nobles and barons will ere this be assembling in
Randolph’s Hall.”
The Earl now led the way across the bridge, and thence towards the
pavilions. As they approached the great one, before which his banner
was displayed, a group of squires, grooms, and caparisoned palfreys
appeared promenading in front of it.
“Yea, I see that her palfrey is ready,” said the Earl; “nay, yonder she
issues forth to meet us.”
He dismounted, and Hepborne, following his example, was straightway
introduced by him to the Countess, who received him with great kindness
and courtesy.
“Nevoy,” said she to Sir Andrew Stewart, who approached to salute her,
“I do most sincerely grieve at the cause of my brother the Earl of
Buchan’s absence. I hope, however, it will be but short, sith I trust
the holy Bishop Barr will not be inexorable, and that thy father will
join our festivities ere long. But where are thy brethren?”
“We shall talk of that anon,” said the Earl, wishing to get rid of an
unpleasant subject; “meanwhile let us not lose time, for it waxeth
late, and our presence at the Castle is doubtless looked for ere now.
Get thee to horse, then, my sweet lady spouse, with what haste thou
mayest.”
Hepborne advanced and gave his arm to the Countess, and having assisted
her into her saddle, the whole party mounted to accompany her to
Tarnawa. During their short ride through the forest, Hepborne enjoyed
enough of the conversation of the Earl and Countess to give him a very
favourable impression of both. The lady, in particular, showed so much
sweetness of disposition that he could not help contrasting her in his
own mind with her brother, the savage and ferocious Wolfe, to make up
whose fiery and intemperate character to its full strength, Nature
seemed to have robbed her soft and peaceful soul of every spark of
violence that might have otherwise fallen to its share in the original
mixture of its elements. Sound reason and good sense, indeed, seemed in
her to be united with a most winning kindness and sweetness of manner,
and it was quite a refreshment to Sir Patrick to meet with society so
tranquil and rational after that of the ever-raging and tempestuous
spirits with whom he had been lately consorting. The Countess failed
not to notice the handsome page, Maurice de Grey; but her attentions to
him were of a very different description from those of the Lady Mariota
Athyn, which had so afflicted him at Lochyndorbe. She spoke to him with
gentleness, and having been made aware of his family and history by
Hepborne, manifested the interest she took in the boy in a manner so
delicate that he was already disposed to cling to her as willingly as
he had before wished to avoid the Lady Mariota.
As they approached the straggling hamlet, through which lay the
immediate approach to the Castle, its inhabitants, as well as the
peasants from the neighbouring cottages, were collected together. Men,
women, and children came crowding about them for the mere pleasure of
beholding the Earl and his Countess, and the grateful hearts of these
poor creatures burst forth in showers of blessings on the heads of
their benefactors.
“God bless the noble pair!”—“There they come, God bless them!”—“May the
blessing of St. Andrew—may the holy Virgin’s choicest blessings be
about them!”—“What should we poor folk do an ’twere na for them?”—“What
should we do if anything should come over them?”—“Heaven preserve their
precious lives?”—“May Heaven long spare them to be a comfort and a
defence to us all!”—“God bless the noble Earl, and Heaven’s richest
blessings be showered on the angel Countess!”
Such was the abundant and gratifying reward these noble and generous
hearts received for well fulfilling the duties of the high station
their lot had placed them in. They replied graciously to those simple
but sincere benisons, and though in haste, the Countess more than once
reined up her palfrey as she passed along the lane they opened for her,
to make inquiries after the complaints, distresses, and wants of
particular individuals; and where the matter admitted of her relief,
she failed not to give an order to attend at the Castle at her daily
hour of audience.
CHAPTER XXXVI.
The Castle of Tarnawa—Distinguished Guests.
The party now climbed the slope, on the summit of which the Castle rose
grandly before them; and they were no sooner within its outer defences
than they found every corner of it alive. Lacqueys and serving-men of
all sorts, in all the variety of rich attire, were seen running about
in every direction. Most of the noblemen and knights had already
assembled to prepare for the tournament, and some of these, with their
ladies and daughters, were inmates of the Castle. From the Earl of
Moray’s particular regard and friendship for Sir Patrick Hepborne the
elder, an apartment was immediately assigned to his son; yet those who
were favoured with lodgings at Tarnawa were but few in number compared
with the many who were to be accommodated in the pavilions erected on
the margin of the Mead. But as all were expected to assemble at the
daily feast at the Castle, tables were laid for more than an hundred
guests in Randolph’s Hall, where even a company of twice the number
might have found ample room—this grand monument of feudal times
covering an area of nearly an hundred feet in length.
A Squire Usher promptly attended to show Sir Patrick to his chamber,
where he unarmed, dressed, and perfumed himself; and when he had
completed his attirement, the Squire Usher again appeared to conduct
him to the great hall.
“Nobles and chevaliers,” cried a pursuivant stationed at the entrance,
“nobles and chevaliers, place there for Sir Patrick Hepborne, younger
of Hailes, a puissant knight, of good stock and brave lineage, who but
the other day overthrew the renowned Sir Rafe Piersie in single combat,
which was nothing to his deeds of arms in France, for there——”
“Good pursuivant,” said Hepborne, interrupting him, in an under voice,
as he poured a liberal largess into his cap, “thou hast said enow—no
more, I beseech thee.” But the pursuivant’s tongue was rather oiled
than gagged by the unusual magnitude of his donation.
“Ay,” cried he aloud, “a brave tree is known by its good fruits, and
gentle blood by its generosity. Well may ye ken a noble hand by the
gift that comes from it; and well may ye ken a gallant and well-born
knight by his noble port and presence, and by his liberal largess.
Place there, I say, for Sir Patrick Hepborne—place there for the hero
of Rosebarque!”
“Silence, I entreat thee,” cried Hepborne, advancing with all eyes upon
him, to meet the Earl of Moray, who was approaching to receive him.
The magnificent Hall of Randolph presented at that moment one of the
most brilliant spectacles that could well be conceived, graced as it
then was with some of the flower of Scotland’s chivalry, who, with
their ladies and attendants, shone in all the richest and gayest
variety of silks, velvets, furs, and gaudy-coloured cloths, blazing
with gold and embroidery, sparkling with gems, and heavy with
curiously-wrought chains and other ornaments, while flaunting plumes
fluttered about, giving a multiplied effect of motion, so that the
whole area resembled one great tide of gorgeous grandeur, that was
perpetually fluctuating, mixing, and changing.
“Sir Patrick,” said the Earl to Hepborne, “I believe thy sojournance
abroad hath hitherto permitted thee to see but little of our Scottish
chivauncie. It will be a pleasing task to me to make thee acquainted
with such of them as are here; and it will give me yet greater
jovisaunce to teach them to know thy merits. Let me then, first of all,
introduce thee to my brother-in-law, Robert Stewart, Earl of Fife and
Menteith, who, though he be but the King’s second son, is supposed,
with some truth, to have the greatest share of the government of
Scotland.”
So saying, the Earl of Moray led Sir Patrick through the dividing
crowd, towards the upper end of the hall, where a platform, raised
about a foot above the rest, marked it as the place of honour. There
they found a circle of knights surrounding a tall majestic man of
commanding presence, whose countenance seemed to wear an expression of
amiability, affability, and even of benignity, apparently put on for
the occasion, like the ornaments he wore, but by no means forming a
part of his character. His face was handsome, and Hepborne could just
trace in it a faint likeness to his brother the Wolfe of Badenoch; but
there was a lurking severity about the eye which his gracious looks
could not altogether quench. He appeared to be highly courted by all
about him, and from the smiles that mantled over the faces he
successively looked at, he seemed to carry sunshine on his brow, and to
scatter joy wherever he threw his eyes. Hepborne only caught up the
last of his words as he approached the group in the midst of which he
stood.
——“And if it should so please my liege-father,” said he to an elderly
knight who stood bowing as he spoke,—“if it should so please my
liege-father to throw the heavy burden of government on me, trust me, I
shall not forget thy hitherto unrequited services. The debt thy country
doth owe thee is indeed great, and thou hast hitherto been met with but
small mountance of gratitude. But how enorme soever the debt may be, it
shall be faithfully paid thee should I have any control.”
“My Lord,” said the Earl of Moray, advancing, whilst the circle opened
up to make way for him, “this is Sir Patrick Hepborne, whom I promised
thee to introduce to thy notice.”
“Thanks, my good brother, for this so speedy fulfilment of thy behote,”
replied the Earl of Fife. “Trust me, it giveth me exceeding joy to have
this opportunity of knowing so valiant a knight, the son, too, of so
brave and renowned a warrior, and one so sage in council, as the highly
and justly respected Sir Patrick Hepborne of Hailes, who, to the great
let and hinderance of his country’s weal, hath kept himself too much of
late from the bustle of State affairs. But now that thou hast returned
to thy native soil, Sir Patrick, we shall hope to see thee bear a part
of that fardel, which thy gallant father might have been otherwise
called on to support alone; for, if fame lie not, thy prudence bids
fair to render thee as serviceable in the closet of council as thine
arm hath already proved itself fit to defend the fame and rights of
Scotland in the field.”
“My Lord,” said Hepborne, “I fear much that fame hath done me but a
left-handed service, by trumpeting forth merits the which I do but
meagrely possess, and that public expectation hath been raised high,
only to be the more cast down.”
“Nay, trust me, Sir Patrick, there is small fear of that,” said the
Earl of Moray.
“Fear!” said the Earl of Fife; “I have had mine eyes ever on the
branchers of the true breed, from whom Scotland and my father’s house
must look to have falcons of the boldest and bravest cast; and none
hath made promise of fairer flight than thou hast, Sir Patrick. True it
is, that thou hast yet to be reclaimed, as the falconer would term it;
that is, I would say, thou hast yet to learn what game to fly at. But I
shall gladly teach thee, for it will give me real joy to direct the
views, and advance the fortunes, of the son of my worthy old friend Sir
Patrick Hepborne.”
“My Lord,” said Sir Patrick, “I am indeed much beholden to thy
courtesy——”
“Nay,” said the Earl of Fife, interrupting him, “nay, not to me or my
courtesy, I promise thee, but to thine own worth only; for if the good
old King my father, and my brother John, should force the regency of
this kingdom on me, the duty I owe to them and to my country will never
suffer me to give place or office to any but those who are fit and
worthy to fill them; so thou hast to thank thyself and thine own good
conduct, already so much bruited abroad, for the high opinion I have
thus so early formed of thee, as well as for the desire I now feel to
foster thy budding honours, and to bring out all thy latent talents for
Scotland’s behoof.”
“I am overwhelmed with your Lordship’s goodness,” said Hepborne,
bowing. “Trust me, mine humble endeavours shall not be wanting to
deserve this thy kind and early good opinion, formed, as I am disposed
to guess, for my revered father’s sake, though thou art pleased to
flatter me by assigning another cause.”
“However that may be,” replied the Earl of Fife, squeezing him warmly
by the hand, “thou mayest rely on me as thy sincere friend, Sir
Patrick.—Ho! Sir John de Keith,” exclaimed he, suddenly breaking off,
and joining a knight who bowed to him as he passed by, “I shall have
that matter we talked of arranged for thee anon. The son of my old
friend the Knight-Marischal of Scotland, and one for whom I have so
high a personal regard, shall always command my most earnest endeavours
to gratify his wishes. Walk with me apart, I pray thee. Thou knowest
the money hath been——”
But the rest of his discourse was lost in a whisper, and Hepborne’s
attention was called off by the Earl of Moray, who introduced him to
David Stewart, Earl of Stratherne and Caithness, another son of the
King’s, though by a second wife. After a few expressions of mere
compliment had passed between them, and the Earl of Stratherne had
moved on,
“Lindsay,” cried his noble host to a bold and determined-looking
knight, who was elbowing his way through the crowd, with his lady
hanging on his left arm, “Lindsay, I wish to make thee acquainted with
Sir Patrick Hepborne, son of the gallant Sir Patrick of Hailes.—Sir
Patrick, this is my brother-in-law, Sir David de Lindsay of Glenesk;
and this is his lady, the Lady Catherine Stewart, sister to my
Countess. Sir David is my most trusty and well-approved brother, and it
would give me joy to see the bonds of amity drawn tight between you.”
The lady received Sir Patrick’s compliments most graciously; a cordial
acknowledgment took place between the two knights; and Hepborne felt,
that although there was less of protestation, there was a greater smack
of sincerity in Lindsay than in the powerful Earl of Fife, who had said
and promised so much.
“Welcome to Scotland, Sir Patrick,” said he. “By St. Andrew, but I
rejoice to see thee, for I have heard much of thee. What news, I pray
thee, from foreign pa——”
The word was broken off in the midde, for ere he had time to finish it,
to the great astonishment of his lady, and the no small amusement of
Hepborne and the Earl, he suddenly struck himself a violent blow on the
cheek with the palm of his right hand. A roguish laugh burst from
behind him. Lindsay quickly turned round.
“Aha! Dalzell,” cried he, “so it was thou, wicked wag that thou art?”
“’Tis indeed Sir William de Dalzell,” said Lady de Lindsay, laughing;
“he is always at his mad tricks. There now, do but see what he is
about; he is actually applying the tip of a long feather from a
peacock’s tail to tickle the cheek of my sister Jane’s husband, the
grave Sir Thomas Hay of Errol.”
“How doth he dare to attack the august cheek of the High Constable of
Scotland?” said the Earl of Moray, with a smile.
“Nay, do but observe,” said Sir David Lindsay, “do but watch, I beseech
thee, what strange and uncouth grimaces our brother-in-law, the High
and Mighty Constable, is making, as the fibres of the delicate point of
the feather titillate the skin of his cheek. Ah! ha, ha, ha! by the
mass, but he hath given himself as hard a blow as I did, thinking to
kill the fly.”
“And see,” said the lady, “he hath suspected a trick; but he looks in
vain for our waggish friend Dalzell, who hath dived like a duck and
disappeared. Ha, ha, ha! see how strangely the High Constable eyes the
solemn Earl of Sutherland near him, as if he half believed that grave
personage was the perpetrator of the espièglerie. ’Twould be rare sport
if he should tax him with it.”
“’Twould be a rich treat indeed,” said Sir David Lindsay.
“Sir Patrick,” said the Earl of Moray, “come hither, I pray thee.
Yonder comes James Earl of Douglas and Mar, with his Countess the Lady
Margaret Stewart, another sister of my Margery’s.”
“He is indeed a knight worth knowing,” said Hepborne.
“This way, then, and I will introduce thee to him,” said the Earl of
Moray.
Hepborne followed his host towards that part of the hall where the bold
and Herculean Earl of Douglas was making his way with his lady slowly
through the assembled company, who crowded eagerly around him to offer
him their compliments. His manner was plain and dignified, and he
behaved with kindness and affability to all who addressed him, though,
on his part, he did not by any means seem to court notice. When
Hepborne was brought up to him by his brother-in-law, and his name made
known, he gave him a good soldierlike shake by the hand.
“I am right glad to see thee in thine own country, Sir Patrick
Hepborne,” said he. “An I mistake not, some storm is a-brewing in
England, that may cause us to want all the good lances which Scotland
can muster. When King Dickon doth send these hawk-eyed ambassadors to
talk of peace, depardieux, but I, for my part, am apt to smell war. My
Lord of Fife sayeth that ’tis not so, and he is shrewd enough in
common. I have mine own thoughts; but we shall see who is right, and
that too ere many days are gone, an the signs of the times deceive me
not.”
“’Twere well that we young unschooled soldiers should have something to
do, my Lord,” said Hepborne, “were it only to keep our swords from
rusting, and lest we should forget our exercises, and such parts of the
rudiments of war as chance hath taught us.”
“Thou sayest well, my gallant young friend,” said the Douglas, his eyes
flashing as he spoke, again shaking Hepborne heartily by the hand; “but
thou art no such novice to forget thy trade so easily. Yet sayest thou
well; piping times of peace are the ruin of our Scottish chivauncie,
and stiffen the movements of even the most experienced warriors. Such
sentiments as these, seasoned with so much modesty, are but what I
mought have looked for from the son of that knight of sterling proof of
heart as well as hand, my brave old friend Sir Patrick Hepborne, thy
father.”
Sir Patrick was more than gratified by the expressions of respect for
his father which he had heard drop from every mouth. The blush of
honest pride, mingled with that of warm filial affection, rose more
that once to his cheek; but it never before mounted with such a rushing
tide of joy as it did when this short panegyric fell from the lips of
the heroic Douglas. He was not permitted time to reply, for all were so
eager to have one word, nay, one glance of recognition from the brave
Earl, that his attention was rifled from Hepborne, and he was carried
away before he could open his mouth to speak to him again.
“Dost thou see yonder group?” demanded the Earl of Moray as he pointed
them out to Sir Patrick. “The elderly knight and dame are William de
Vaux, Lord of Dirleton, and his lady. The fair damosel seated behind
them is their daughter, the Lady Jane de Vaux, held to be the loveliest
of all the maidens who have come to honour this our tournament. Nay,
she is indeed esteemed one of the fairest pearls of the Scottish Court,
and a rich pearl she is, moreover, seeing she is the heiress of her
father’s domains. The knight who lieth at her footstool, and sigheth
enlangoured at her feet, effunding soft speeches from his heart, and
gazing upwards with a species of adoration in his eyes, is the gallant
Sir John Halyburton, who wears her favours, and bears her proud merits
in high defiance on his lance’s point.”
“Let me entreat your Lordship, who are those knights who come yonder so
bravely arrayed?” said Hepborne.
“Those,” replied the Earl, “are the English knights who lately came on
ambassage. He in the purple velvet is the Lord Welles; that elder
knight on his right hand, who showeth deportment so courteous, is the
worthy Sir John Constable of Halsham and Burton, one who hath done good
deeds of arms in his day; he that is so flauntingly attired in the
peach-blossom surcoat so richly emblazoned, is the gay Sir Piers
Courtenay; and immediately behind him is the stark Sir Thomas Fairfax
of Walton. But stay, here comes my brother George, Earl of Dunbar and
March. George,” cried he, addressing his brother as he passed, “this is
Sir Patrick Hepborne, whose father thou well knowest.”
“I do,” said the Earl of Dunbar, energetically squeezing Hepborne’s
hand, “and I shall not fail to receive the son of my dearest friend
into my warmest affections for his father’s sake. How left ye thy
gallant sire?”
This question was but the preliminary to a long and friendly
conversation between Hepborne and the Earl of Dunbar, which lasted
until it was interrupted by a flourish of trumpets and clarions,
announcing the entrance of the Grand Sewer, with a white wand in his
hand. He advanced at the head of a perfect army of lacqueys, who
brought in the feast, and the company began to be marshalled to their
places by the pursuivants.
CHAPTER XXXVII.
The Banquet at the Castle—Alarm—Forres on Fire.
The banquet given daily by the noble Earl of Moray was in every respect
befitting the rank and splendour of the company assembled to partake of
it. On the raised platform, at the upper end of the hall of Randolph, a
table was placed transversely, to which was attached, at right angles,
a limb that stretched down the greater part of the pavement. One side
only of the upper, or cross table, was occupied; and opposite to the
centre of it were seated the Earl and Countess of Moray, in full view
of all their guests. With them sat the Earl of Fife, and all those who
could boast of royal blood or alliance; whilst both sides of the long
table were filled up by the rest of the nobles, and knights, and
ladies, who were marshalled according to their respective rank. The
shield of each chevalier, with his coat armour emblazoned on it, was
hung on a hook on the wall, opposite to the place occupied by him at
table; so that all might be known by their bearings.
Hepborne having been introduced to the party of William de Vaux, Lord
of Dirleton, led off his lady to the festive board.
“Sir Patrick Hepborne,” said the old knight to him, soon after they had
taken their places, “perhaps thou art aware that thine excellent father
and I were early friends? yea, well did I know thee, too, when thou
wert as yet but an unfledged falcon. Full often, perdie, hast thou sat
on these knees of mine, and many a hair, too, hast thou plucked in
frolic from this grizzled beard, the which was then, I’ll warrant thee,
as black as the raven’s back. Thou knowest that my domains of Dirleton,
and those of Hailes, stand within a fair degree of neighbourhood. Give
me leave then to drink this cup of Malvoisie to the better acquaintance
of friends so old.”
“I have often heard my father give utterance to many a kind and warm
remembrance of thy friendship for our house,” replied Sir Patrick, as
he prepared to return the Lord of Dirleton’s pledge; “and it giveth me
extreme joy thus unexpectedly to meet with one who deigned to bestow
notice upon my childhood, albeit I cannot recall the recollection of
the countenance of him who vouchsafed it.”
“Nay, thy memory was too young at the time, Sir Patrick, to have
received permanent impressions of any kind,” replied the Lord of
Dirleton; “and as we were soon after driven abroad by domestic
affliction, thou never hadst any opportunity of seeing me after thou
couldst observe and remember; for when we returned to Scotland again,
we discovered that thou hadst gone to the very country we had left.”
“I did hear of thy name from those who considered themselves highly
honoured by having enjoyed thy society during the time thou didst make
Paris thy residence,” said Hepborne.
“Yea, we knew many there,” replied the Lord of Dirleton, “many who were
worthy and amiable; yet none, I trust, who could dislodge the early and
fixed Scottish friendships we had formed. That between thy father and
me was so strong in its nature, that we longed to cement our families
irrevocably together; and I do well remember me, that when thou wert
but some two or three years old, and the Lady Dirleton had produced her
first child, a daughter, Sir Patrick and I did solemnly vow that, with
the blessing and concurrence of Heaven, thou and she should knit us
more closely by thy union, so soon as years should have ripened ye
severally into man and woman.”
“Alas!” interrupted the Lady Dirleton, the tears swelling in her eyes
as she spoke—“alas! it did not please Heaven to give its blessing or
its concurrence to our vows, or to lend its ear to our many prayers and
supplications for the fulfilment of our wishes. A cruel fate deprived
us of our infant daughter, and made me a wretchedly bereft and
grief-bywoxen mother. When I saw thee——”
“Leave off this sad theme, I do beseech thee, Maria,” said the old
knight, interrupting her, with eyes that streamed over as fast as her
own; “’tis but unmeet talk, I wis, for a festive scene like this. At
some other and more fitting time, Sir Patrick may be disposed to list
the story, and to sympathise with our dole and dreriment.”
By this time the more substantial part of the banquet had been removed,
a profusion of lights had changed the dim twilight of the place into
more than day, and healths and brimming goblets of wine were
circulating. Each knight was called upon to quaff a pledge to the
bright eyes that held him in thrall; and this public avowal of his
tender attachment was considered as a sort of prelude to the more
determined appeal he might be afterwards disposed to make in support of
her beauty and fame, at the point of his lance in the lists. Some there
were who, when it came to their turn, bowed silently, and permitted the
cup to pass by them; these, however, were few in number, and were such
as, from some private reason, wished to throw a veil of delicacy over
their attachment; but when Sir John Halyburton was called on, he arose
from the side of the blushing Jane de Vaux, and boldly proclaimed his
love and adoration of her to all present.
“I pledge this brimming mazer to the health of the peerless Lady Jane
de Vaux,” said he; “and as I now drink the cup dry for her sake, so am
I prepared to drain my life’s blood in her service.”
A murmur of approbation ran around the festal board. When it had
subsided,
“Sir Patrick Hepborne,” said the Earl of Moray, “wilt thou vouchsafe to
honour us with a cup to the fair enslaver of thine affections?”
Sir Patrick arose, and, putting his right hand over his heart, bowed
gracefully, and then seated himself in silence. In the former
instances, where knights had declined to speak, the Earl of Moray had
passed them by without further notice, but he was himself so
disappointed, and perceived disappointment so legibly written on the
faces of the company after Hepborne’s silent bow, that he could not
resist addressing him again.
“What, Sir Patrick,” said he, “hast thou then no lady-love, for the
sake of whose bright eyes we may hope to see thee bestirring thyself
sturdily in the lists?”
“My Lord Earl,” replied Hepborne, risingly modestly, “it will give me
joy to break a few spears, out of mere courtesy, with any knights who
may esteem mine arm worthy of being opposed to theirs.”
The Earl saw that it would be indelicate to press him further, and went
on to the conclusion of his circle of healths. The choir of minstrels,
who had already occupied the music gallery, had begun to make the
antique Hall of Randolph resound with their pealing preludes, when
their harmony was interrupted by a clamouring noise of voices from
without; and immediately a crowd of squires and domestics of all kinds
came rushing into the hall, exclaiming, “Fire, my Lord Earl of Moray,
fire!”
“Where—where—where is the fire?” burst from every mouth; and the ladies
shrieked, and many of them even fainted, at the very mention of the
word.
“The town of Forres is blazing,” cried half-a-dozen voices at once.
The utmost confusion instantly arose amidst the assemblage of nobles,
knights, and ladies. Out rushed the Earl of Moray, and out rushed such
of his guests as had no lady to detain them within. Hepborne, for his
part, happened by accident more than anything else, to follow his host
up a staircase that led to the battlements, which in daylight commanded
a view over the whole surrounding country; but the landscape was now
buried in darkness, save where a lurid blaze arose at three or four
miles’ distance in the direction of the eastern horizon, through which
appeared some of the black skeletons of the consuming tenements of
Forres, or where the broad and full estuary of the river reflected the
gleam which cast its illumination even over the houses of the seaport
of the distant point, and the wide ocean beyond it. Far off, shouts and
yells arose from different quarters of the circumjacent forest, as if
from people who were collecting, and hastening in dismay towards the
scene of the conflagration.
“Holy Virgin, defend us! what can have caused so sudden and
unlooked-for a calamity?” cried the Earl of Moray, in a tone of extreme
distress.
“Meseems it can hardly be the result of accident,” replied Hepborne,
“for the fire doth blaze in divers parts at once. Can it have been the
work of some enemy?”
“Enemy!” cried the Earl, “what enemy can there be here? And yet it may
have been done by some marauding band of plundering peelers. Yet that
seems impossible—it cannot be. But let me not waste time here, when I
can ride to the spot. Ho, there, in the court-yard—my horse, d’ye
hear?” shouted he over the battlements, and then rushed down stairs.
Sir Patrick followed him, with the determination of accompanying him to
the blazing town. Both speedily donned their riding gear and light
armour, and sallied forth. On the terrace they found a crowd of the
nobles and knights collected together in amazement. The Earl only
stopped to throw out a few hasty words of apology for so abruptly
leaving his guests, and then, accompanied by Hepborne, descended to the
court-yard, vociferating loudly for their horses. In a short time both
mounted and galloped off, attended by a few horsemen, who threw
themselves hastily into their saddles.
“Let us take our way by the Mead of St. John’s,” cried the Earl,
pushing his horse thitherward; “we can cross the river by the bridge,
and we shall then be able to alarm the people, who have there a
temporary abode at present. Their aid will be of much avail, if, as I
fear, all aid be not already too late.”
On they galloped through the dark alleys of the forest, every now and
then overtaking some straggler, who was hurrying on, out of breath, in
the direction they were going, shouting at intervals to those who had
outrun him, or who had lagged behind him; but when they reached the
Mead of St. John’s, those plains, which were lately so full of
animation, were now silent as death; not a human being seemed to have
remained within their ample circuit; all had been already summoned
away, some by anxiety to arrest the destruction of their houses and
goods, others by the charitable wish to assist in subduing the
conflagration, and others, again, by the nefarious desire and hope of
an opportunity of pilfering, but the greater number by that universal
human passion, curiosity.
“Let us hasten onwards to Forres, for there is no one here,” cried the
good Earl, after riding in vain over part of the ground, and knocking
and shouting at most of the temporary erections on the Eastern Mead, as
he swept past them. “This way, Sir Patrick; our road lies up this steep
bank; I hope some good may yet be done by the united force of such
multitudes. By St. Andrew, it was good they were here; and ’twill be a
lucky tournament if it be the means of stopping this sad malure.”
Sir Patrick followed him over some irregular hillocks, covered with the
forest; and, winding amongst them, they entered a defile, where the
trees grew thinner, giving place, in a great measure, to a natural
shrubbery, composed of scattered bushes of furze, broom, and juniper.
The fire had been all this time hid from their eyes, but it burst upon
them through the farther opening of the defile in all its terrific
grandeur, at about a mile’s distance. The destructive element had now
all the appearance of speedily gaining resistless dominion over the
little town, for the several independent detachments of flame which had
appeared in different parts of it, as they surveyed it from the Castle,
had now run together, and united themselves into one great sea of red
and overwhelming destruction, that heaved and tossed its tumultuous
billows high into the air. The appalling blaze filled up the entire sky
that was visible through the defile they were threading. Against the
bright field it presented, a dark group of armed horsemen were seen
standing on the path before them, where it wound from among the
hillocks, their figures being sharply relieved against the broad gleam
beyond. The Earl of Moray reined up his steed, but his previous speed
had been such that he was almost upon them ere he could check him.
CHAPTER XXXVIII.
The Burning of the Church and Town of Forres.
“By’r Lady, but the bonfire brens right merrily,” cried a stern voice,
which they immediately knew to be that of the Wolfe of Badenoch. “Ha!
is’t not gratifying to behold? Morte de ma vie, see there, son
Alexander, how the Archdeacon’s manse belches forth its flaming bowels
against the welkin. By St. Barnabas, but thou mayest tell the very
blaze of it from that of any other house, by the changes produced in it
from the abundant variety of ingredients that feed it. Thou seest the
cobwebby church consumeth but soberly and meekly as a church should;
but the proud mansion of the Archdeacon brenneth with a clear fire,
that haughtily proclaims the costly fuel it hath got to maintain it—his
crimson damask and velvets—his gorgeous chairs and tables—his richly
carved cabinets—his musty manuscripts, the which do furnish most
excellent matter of combustion. By the mass, but that sudden quenching
of the flame must have been owing to the fall of some of those swollen
down-beds, and ponderous blankets, in which these lazy churchmen are
wont to snore away their useless lives. But, ha! see how it blazes up
again; perdie, it hath doubtless reached the larder; some of his
fattest bacon must have been there; meseems as if I did nose the
savoury fumes of it even here. Ha! glorious! look what a fire-spout is
there. Never trust me, if that brave and brilliant feu d’artifice doth
not arise from the besotted clerk’s well-stored cellars. Ha, ha, ha!
there go his Malvoisie and his eau-de-vie. The vinolent costrel’s
thirsty soul was ever in his casks; so, by the Rood, thou seest, that,
maugre every suspicion and belief to the contrary, it hath yet some
chance of mounting heavenward after all. Ha, ha, ha! by the beard of my
grandfather, but it is a right glorious spectacle to behold.”
“My Lord brother-in-law,” cried the Earl of Moray, in a voice of horror
and dismay, as he now advanced towards the group, “can it be? Is it
really thou who speakest thus?”
“Ha, Sir Earl of Moray,” cried the Wolfe, starting and turning sharply
round, “what makest thou here, I pray thee? Methought that ere this
thou wert merry in thy wine wassail?”
“Nay, perhaps I should have been so,” replied the Earl of Moray
temperately, “had not news of yonder doleful burning banished all note
of mirth from my board. Knowest thou aught of how this grievous
disaster may have befallen?”
“Ha, ha, ha! canst thou not guess, brother of mine?” cried the Wolfe,
with a sarcastic laugh.
“I must confess I am not without my fears as to who did kindle yonder
wide-spreading calamity,” said the Earl of Moray gravely; “yet still do
I hang by the hope that it was impossible thou couldst have brought
thyself to be the author of so cruel, so horrible, so sacrilegious a
deed. Even the insatiable thirst of revenge itself, directed as it was
against one individual, could hardly have led thee to wrap the holy
house of God, and the dwellings of the innocent and inoffensive
burghers, in the same common ruin with the tenements belonging to those
whom thou mayest suspect as being entitled to a share of thy vengeance.
’Tis impossible.”
“Ha! by the flames of Tartarus, but it is possible,” cried the Wolfe,
gnashing his teeth; “yea, and by all the fiends, I have right starkly
proved the possibility of it too. What! dost think that I have spared
the church, the which is the very workshop of these mass-mongering
magpies? Or was I, thinkest thou, to stop my fell career of vengeance,
because the beggarly hovels of some dozen pitiful tailors, brogue-men,
skinners, hammermen, and cordwainers, stood in my way?—trash alswa, who
pay rent and dues to this same nigon and papelarde Priest-Bishop, who
hath dared to pour out his venomous malison on the son of a King—on the
Wolfe of Badenoch! By all the infernal powers, but the surface of the
very globe itself shall smoke till my revenge be full. This is but a
foretaste of the wrekery I shall work; and if the prating jackdaw’s
noxious curse be not removed, ay, and that speedily too, by him that
rules the infernal realms, I swear that the walthsome toad and all the
vermin that hang upon him shall have tenfold worse than this to dree!”
“Alexander Stewart!” cried a clear and commanding voice, which came
suddenly and tremendously, like that of the last trumpet, from the
summit of the knoll immediately above where the group was standing.
There was an awful silence for some moments; a certain chill of
superstitious dread stole over every one present; nay, even the
ferocious and undaunted Earl of Buchan himself felt his heart grow cold
within him, at the almost more than human sound. He looked upwards to
the bare pinnacle of the rising ground, and there, standing beside a
scathed and blasted oak, he beheld a tall figure enveloped in black
drapery. The irregular blaze of the distant conflagration came only by
fits to illumine the dusky and mysterious figure, and the face, sunk
within a deep cowl, was but rarely and transiently rendered visible by
it, though the eyes, more frequently catching the light, were often
seen to glare fearfully, when all the other features were buried in
shade, giving a somewhat fiendish appearance to the spectre.
“Alexander Stewart!” cried the thrilling voice again; “Alexander
Stewart, thou grim and cruel Wolfe, when will the measure of thine
iniquity be filled up? Thou sweepest over fair creation, levelling
alike the works of God and man, regardless of human misery, like the
dire angel of destruction; the very green of the earth is turned into
blood, and hearts are rent beneath every tramp of thy horse’s hoofs:
yet art thou but as a blind instrument in the hands of the righteous
Avenger; and when thou shalt have served the end for which thou wert
created, verily thou shalt be cast into eternal fire. If thou wouldst
yet escape the punishment which speedily awaits thine atrocities,
hasten to bow, in penitence, before those altars thou hast dared to
pollute, and make full reparation to the holy ministers of religion for
the unheard of insults and injuries thou hast offered them. Do this, or
thine everlasting doom is fixed; death shall speedily overtake thee,
and thou shalt writhe amidst the ineffable torments of never-ceasing
flames.”
As the voice ceased, there arose from the distant town a strong and
more enduring gleam of light, which rendered visible every little
broom-blossom and heath-bell that grew upon the side of the knoll, and
threw a pale, but distinct illumination over the features of the
figure.
“Holy Virgin! blessed St. Andrew! ’tis the mysterious Franciscan,”
whispered several of the Earl of Buchan’s attendants, as they crossed
themselves, in evident alarm.
“Ha! is it thee, thou carrion chough?” cried the Wolfe of Badenoch,
recovering from the surprise and dismay into which he had been plunged
by so unexpected and fearful a warning from one whom he had not at
first recognized; “ha! morte de ma vie,” cried he, couching his lance,
digging the spurs deep into his horse’s flanks, and making him bound
furiously up the slope of the knoll; “by all the furies, thou shalt not
’scape me this bout, an thou be not a very fiend. Haste, Alexander,
ride round the hill.”
“This way, villains,” cried Sir Alexander Stewart instantly, obedient
to his father’s command; “this way, one-half of ye, and that way the
other half. Let not the caitiff escape us; take him alive or dead; by
the mass, it mattereth not which.”
Divided into little parties, the Wolfe’s attendants spurred off to
opposite points of the compass, in order to encircle the hill. The
figure had already disappeared from the pinnacle it stood on, but the
furious Earl of Buchan still pushed his panting horse up the steep
ascent, until he disappeared over the top. The Earl of Moray and Sir
Patrick Hepborne remained for some time in mute astonishment, perfectly
at a loss what to think or how to act. Shouts were heard on all sides
of the hillock; but in a short time they ceased, and the individuals of
the Wolfe of Badenoch’s party came dropping in one by one, with faces
in which superstitious dread was very strongly depicted.
“Didst thou see him?” demanded one. “Nay, I thank the Virgin, I saw him
not,” replied another. “Whither can he have vanished?” cried a third.
“Vanished indeed!” cried a fourth, shuddering, and looking over his
shoulder. “Ave Maria, sweet Virgin, defend us, it must have been a
spirit,” cried another, in a voice of the utmost consternation.
“Hold your accursed prating,” cried the Wolfe of Badenoch, who now
appeared, with his sons clustered at his back, all bearing it up
boldly, yet all of them, even the stout Earl himself, much disturbed
and troubled in countenance. “Ha!” continued he, “by all that is good,
there is something strange and uncommon about that same friar. I know
not well what to think. I bid thee good-bye, brother-in-law; I wot, we
part but as half friends; yet commend me to Margery. Sir Patrick
Hepborne, when it pleaseth thee to come to Lochyndorbe, thou shalt be
right welcome. Allons, son Alexander, we must thither to-night yet for
our hostelry; so forward, I say;” and saying so, he rode away at the
head of his party.
“Rash and intemperate man,” cried the good Earl of Moray, in a tone of
extreme distress and vexation, as he turned his horse’s head towards
Forres, “what is it thou hast done? Into what cruel and disgraceful
outrage hath thy furious wreken driven thee. The very thought of this
ferocious deed being thine, is to me more bitter than ligne-aloes. The
noble and the peasant must now alike hold thee accursed for thy red
crimes. Hadst thou not been my wife’s brother, and the son of my liege
lord the King, I must of needscost have done my best to have seized
thee straightway; but Heaven seemeth to be itself disposed to take
cognizance of thy coulpe, for in truth he was more than mortal
messenger who pronounced that dread denunciation against thee.”
The solemn silence with which these words were received by Sir Patrick,
showed how much his thoughts were in unison with those of the Earl.
“But let us prick onwards,” cried Lord Moray, starting from his musing
fit; “every moment may be precious.”
They had not gone many yards, when they heard the mingled sound of
numerous voices, and found themselves in the midst of a great crowd of
people of all ages, and of both sexes, who, idle and unconcerned, had
taken post on the brow of the hill, and now stood, or lay on the ground
in groups, calmly contemplating the rapid destruction that was going on
in the little town, and giving way to thoughtless expressions of wonder
and delight, at the various changes of the aspect of combustion.
“Why stand ye here, idlers?” cried the Earl of Moray, riding in among
them, and stirring up some of them with the shaft of his lance; “come,
rouse ye, my friends; shame on you to liggen here, when ye might have
bestirred ye to save the town; come, rouse ye, I say.”
“Nay, by the mass, I’ll not budge,” cried one. “’Tis no concern of
mine,” cried another. “Nay, nor of mine,” cried a third. “I do but come
here to sell my wares at the tourney,” cried a fourth.
“Depardieux, but every mother’s son of ye shall move,” cried the Earl,
indignant at their apathy.
“And who art thou, who dost talk thus high?” gruffly demanded one of
the fellows, as he raised a sort of pole-axe in a half-defensive and
half-menacing attitude.
“I am John Dunbar, Earl of Moray,” replied the Earl resolutely; “and by
St. Andrew, if ye do not every one of you make the best of your way to
Forres sans delay, and put forth what strength ye may to stop the
brenning of the poor people’s houses and goods, I will order down an
armed band from the Castle, who shall consume and burn to tinder every
tent, booth, bale, and box, that now cumbereth the meads of St. John.
“Will ye on with me now, knaves, or no?”
“Holy Virgin, an thou be’st the good Earl,” cried the fellow, lowering
his pole-axe, “I humbly crave thy pardon; verily we are all thine
humble slaves. Come, come, my masters, run, I pray ye, ’tis the good
Earl John. Fie, fie, let’s on with him, and do his bidding, though we
bren for it.”
“Huzza for the good Earl John—huzza! let’s on with the good Earl of
Moray,” cried they all.
“Mine honest men,” cried the Earl, “I want not thy services for nought.
Trust me, I shall note those who work best, and they shall not go
guerdonless; and if ye should all be made as dry as cinders, by hard
and hot swinking, ye shall be rendered as moist as well-filled sponges,
with stout ale, at the Castle, after all is over.”
“Huzza for the good Earl John! huzza for the good Earl of Moray!”
shouted the rabble; and he rode off, followed by every man of them,
each being well resolved in his own mind to earn his skinful of beer.
As the Earl and Sir Patrick were pushing up towards the ridge along
which the town was situated, the shouts of men, and the dismal screams
and wailings of women and children, arose from time to time from within
it. The good nobleman redoubled his speed as he heard them, and the
party soon reached the main street, the scene of confusion, misery, and
devastation. The way was choked with useless crowds, who so encumbered
those who were disposed to exert themselves, that little effectual
opposition could be given to the fury of the fire. Amidst the shrieks
and cries which burst forth at intervals from the mob, the Earl’s ears
were shocked by the loud curses on the Wolfe of Badenoch that were
uttered by the frantic sufferers. But no sooner was he recognized than
his arrival was hailed with acclamations of joy and gratitude, which
drowned the expression of every other feeling.
“Here comes the good Earl”—“The Virgin be praised—blessed be St.
Laurence that the Earl hath come”—“Ay, ay, all will go well now sith he
is here”—“Stand aside there—stand aside, and let us hear his commands.”
The Earl and Sir Patrick Hepborne hastily surveyed the wide scene of
ruin, and were soon aware of its full extent. The manse of the
Archdeacon, to which the incendiaries had first set fire, was already
reduced to a heap of ashes. The priest who owned it had fled in terror
for his life when it was first assailed; and the greater part, if not
all the population of the little burgh having been employed on the Mead
of St. John’s in the preparations for the tournament, or in loitering
as idle spectators of what was going on there, little interruption was
given to the vengeful Wolfe of Badenoch in his savage work. He and his
troop were tamely allowed to stand by until they had seen the residence
of the churchman so beleagured by the raging element, that little hope
could remain of saving any part of it. He next set fire to one end of
the church; and ere he and his party mounted to effect their retreat,
they fired one or two of the intervening houses. Many of the tenements
being of wood, and the roofs mostly thatched with straw, the fire
spread so rapidly as very soon to form itself into one great
conflagration, that threatened to extend widely on all sides. Still,
however, it was confined to one part of the town, and there yet
remained much to save. Hitherto there had been no head to direct, but
the moment the Earl appeared all were prepared to give implicit and
ready obedience to his orders. He took his determination in a few
minutes, and, imparting his plan to Hepborne, they proceeded to carry
it into instant execution.
The portion of the street that was already in flames had been abandoned
by the people, the fire having gained so hopeless an ascendancy there
that all efforts to subdue it would have been vain. The Earl therefore
resolved to devote his attention to confining it within its present
limits. He stationed himself within a few yards of that extremity which
they had first reached, and, having ordered the crowd to withdraw
farther off, he brought forward the useful and active in such numbers
as might be able to work with ease, and he began to pull down some of
the most worthless of the houses. Hepborne, in the meanwhile, called
together a few hardy and fearless-looking men, and followed by these
and Mortimer Sang, who was rarely ever missed from his master’s back
when anything serious or perilous was going forward, he proceeded, at
the risk of life, to ride down the narrow street, between two walls of
fire, where blazing beams and rafters were falling thick around them.
His chief object was to get to the farther boundary of the
conflagration, and he might have effected this by making a wide circuit
around the town; but, besides gaining time by forcing the shorter and
more desperate passage, the generous knight was anxious to ascertain
whether, amidst the confusion that prevailed, some unfortunate wretches
might not have been left to their fate among the blazing edifices.
He moved slowly and cautiously onwards, his horse starting and prancing
every now and then as the burning ruins fell, or as fresh bursts of
flame took place; and, steering a difficult course among the smoking
fragments that strewed the street, or the heaped-up goods and
moveables, which their owners had not had time to convey farther to
some place of greater security, he peered eagerly into every door,
window, and crevice, and listened with all his attention for the sound
of a human voice. More than once his eyes and his ears were deceived,
and he frequently stopped, in doubt whether he should not rush boldly
through fire and smoke to rescue some one whom his fancy had caused
him, for an instant, to imagine perishing within. His mind being so
intensely occupied, it is no wonder that he could pay but little
attention to his own preservation; and accordingly he received several
rude shocks, and was at last fairly knocked down from his saddle by the
end of a great blazing log, which grazed his shoulder as it descended
from a house he was standing under. Mortimer Sang caught the reins of
his master’s horse, and Sir Patrick was speedily raised from the ground
by the people who were near him; and he regained his seat, having
fortunately escaped with some slight bruises received from the fall,
and a contusion on his shoulder, arising from the blow given him by the
beam.
CHAPTER XXXIX.
Sir Patrick and the Earl at Forres.
Sir Patrick Hepborne had hardly recovered himself when, as he was
passing a house to which the fire had but just communicated, he
encountered a crowd of people rushing out, hastily attired in all
manner of strange coverings. It was the inn of the burgh. Among those
who came forth there was one gigantic figure, who ran against his horse
like a battering-ram, and almost threw the animal on his haunches by
the concussion. Ere Hepborne could recover himself the monster was
gone; but his attention was quickly diverted from this incident by the
sound of a voice chanting irregularly in broken song, mingled with the
notes of a harp. It came from the upper part of the building. The
house, though extending a good way backwards from the street, was of
two storeys only; but as the flames were briskly attacking the lower
part, no time was to be lost in making the musician leave it.
Hepborne sprang from his horse, and, hastening down a lane to the
doorway, rushed up the narrow stair, and being led by ear towards the
music, ran along a passage and entered an apartment over the gable next
the street, where, to his utter astonishment, he beheld the minstrel,
Adam of Gordon, seated on a stool, in his nightcap and under-garments,
accompanying his voice by striking wild chords upon the harp, and
looking upwards at intervals, as if seeking inspiration.
“Adam of Gordon!” cried Hepborne, in absolute amazement, “what dost
thou here? Quick, quick, old man; thy life is in peril; throw on thy
cloak and fly with me; the flames gain upon us!”
“Nay, Sir Knight,” said the minstrel, “disturb me not, I beseech thee;
I do but work myself here into proper bardic enthusiasm, that I may the
better describe the grandeur of this terrific scene. Trust me, this is
the minstrel’s golden moment; let it not pass by unimproved.” And
saying so he again began to strike on his harp, and to recur to his
subject.
The raging flame in fury swept,
It seized their chamber where they slept,
Along the wasting floor it crept,
Where locked in virtuous love they lay.
She dreamt that on a bed of flowers,
Beneath the cool and fragrant bowers,
With him she wasted happy hours;
She waked—she shrieked! she swooned away!
He quick uprose, in wild alarm,
To snatch his love——
“Nay, Adam, this is absolute madness, for whilst thou art composing thy
ballad we shall both be brent. Haste thee, old man. Hark! there was the
crash of falling ruins.”
“One stanza more, I entreat thee, Sir Knight; my brain is hot with my
subject.
To snatch his love from threatening harm,
He clasped her in his vigorous arm.”
“Nay, then,” said Hepborne, “I must of needscost enclasp thee in mine,
or we shall both perish;” and snatching up, with one hand, the
minstrel’s drapery that lay beside him, he lifted old Adam, harp and
all, high in his other arm, and carried him down the stair on his
shoulder; whilst the bard, entirely occupied with his subject, was
hardly conscious of being removed from his position, and went on
chatting and strumming—
“He quick uprose, in wild alarm,
To snatch his love from threatening harm;
He clasped her in his vigorous arm,
And rushed——
Holy St. Cuthbert, I’m choked! I’m—pugh!—ooh!”
A sudden stop was indeed put to his song by the smoke through which
Hepborne was condemned to force his way with his burden, and the harp
accompaniment was effectually silenced by the flames which shot over
them on either hand, and burnt off the strings of the instrument.
Hepborne bore the minstrel bravely into the street.
“Where is thy steed, Adam?” demanded Hepborne, as he set him down.
“In the stable behind,” replied the minstrel, somewhat brought to his
senses by the danger which he now saw had threatened him. Hepborne
immediately despatched some of those who were with him to fetch out the
horse.
“Heaven bless thee for my safety, Sir Knight,” said Adam; “but now that
I am beyond risk, if it so please thee I would gladly saunter through
the burning town alone, to gather hints for the garniture of my
ballad.”
“Nay, nay, old man,” replied Hepborne, quickly, “this is no place for
thee. Here cometh thy little curtal nag—mount thee, straightway, and
hie thee to Tarnawa with this man, who shall guide thee thither. There
thou mayest inquire for a page of mine, called Maurice de Grey, who
will quickly make thee known to my Lady the Countess of Moray; she will
be right glad to see any one of minstrel kind in these times of
tournament. But stay,” added Hepborne, laughing to observe the
grotesque figure of the half-clad minstrel on horseback; “Here, throw
his cloak over him and hasten hence with him beyond danger. Away, away
from hence, or ye are lost,” cried he, with increased rapidity of
utterance; and the group had hardly time to make their horses spring
from the spot ere the front wall of a house, slowly cracking and
rending, fell with a tremendous crash into the street, and they were
divided from each other by the heaped-up debris. Satisfied, however, of
the minstrel’s safety, Sir Patrick now hurried on to the post which the
Earl of Moray had assigned him at the farther extremity of the
conflagration.
A considerable vacant space around the church had fortunately prevented
the fire from spreading beyond it. The holy edifice itself was burning
slowly, yet so little attention had been paid to it that the choir,
which the incendiaries had first inflamed, was already almost consumed.
Sir Patrick Hepborne immediately established two lines of people,
extending between the church and a neighbouring well, so that buckets
of water were conveyed with great rapidity towards it, and the supply
in this way was so great that he soon succeeded in preventing the
flames from spreading to the other parts of the building; and their
progress being once arrested, they at last began to sink of themselves
from lack of combustible materials, and by degrees were altogether
subdued by the crowds of active and well-directed men, who thought and
talked of nothing but the Castle beer, and who worked to earn a skinful
of it.
The sun had now risen on the scene of desolation. Toil-spent, and
overwhelmed with grief at the misery which appeared around him, as well
as vexation at the thought of how it had been occasioned, the Earl
dismounted from his horse and sat himself disconsolately down on a
stone by the side of the way. There Hepborne found and saluted him for
the first time since their separation of the previous evening.
“’Tis a grievous spectacle, my Lord Earl,” said Sir Patrick, as he
observed the affliction that was pourtrayed on his Lordship’s
countenance, “’tis indeed a grievous spectacle; but thou hast the
pleasing gratification of thinking that, without thy timely presence
here, the ruin must have spread itself wider, and that if it had not
been for thy well-timed counsels and generous exertions not a house
would have been remaining at this moment within the burgh.”
“Alas!” exclaimed the Earl, in a tone of extreme mortification,
“grievous as the calamity is, I am less moved by it than with the
tormenting reflection that it was the work of my wife’s brother. ’Tis
piteous, indeed, to listen to the lamenting of those helpless and
innocent people, but their wounds may be speedily salved by the aid of
a little paltry gold; whilst those which the Earl of Buchan hath
inflicted on the hearts of all connected with him by allowing a brutal
thirst of revenge to make him guilty of an act so cruel and outrageous,
must fester and rankle for many a day. What will the good old
greyheaded Monarch suffer when the news do reach him? Verily it doleth
me sorely that by my marriage I should be sykered with one who hath the
fear of God so little before his eyes. Yet must I not think of it. It
behoveth me now to remedy the mischief he hath wrought, and to set
about relieving the more immediate wants of the wretched people who
have lost their houses and their all. Here, Martin,” cried he to one of
his esquires, “take these tablets; seek out some one who is well
informed as to the town and its inhabitants, and quickly bring me a
careful list of the houses that have been burned, together with the
name, sex, age, and condition of the inmates.”
The squire hastened to obey the Earl’s command. Several of the knights,
his guests, who had followed him from the Castle, and who had given him
good assistance in extinguishing the fire, now came about him, pouring
out liberal congratulations on the success of his well-conceived and
promptly-executed measures; and while they formed a knot around him,
they were in their turn surrounded by crowds of the lower sort of
people, composed partly of the homeless sufferers, who were weeping and
wailing for the calamity that had befallen themselves and their little
ones, and pouring out curses against the ferocious Wolfe of Badenoch,
who had brought all this misery upon them. But these execrations on the
Earl of Buchan were not unmingled with blessings on the Earl of Moray
for his timely aid, without which the speakers felt that they too might
have been by this time rendered as destitute as their less fortunate
neighbours. Then many were the clamorous entreaties for charitable
succour; whilst those indifferent persons, who had assisted in subduing
the conflagration, were elbowing one another, and uttering many a broad
and rustic hint of the reward they looked for. At length Martin
appeared with his list.
“Here,” said the Earl, aside to him, “into thy faithful hands do I
confide this purse; ’tis for the more immediate relief of those poor
people. Leave not the town until thou hast inquired into circumstances,
and done all thou canst to secure temporary accommodation for those who
have been rendered houseless. I shall take care to provide more
permanent aid for them anon.”
This order, though given in a half whisper, was caught up by some of
those miserables, whose wretched and forlorn state had quickened their
ears to every sound which gave them the hope of relief. The news of the
Earl’s humane bounty spread among them more rapidly than the fire had
done over their possessions and property. Their gratitude burst forth
in shouts:
“God bless the noble Earl of Moray!”—“Long live our noble
preserver!”—“Heaven reward our kind benefactor!”—“If his brother, the
wicked Wolfe of Badenoch, be a destroying devil, surely the good Earl
of Moray is a protecting angel!”—“May the best gifts of the Virgin be
upon him and his!”
The Earl called for his horse, and mounted amid the cheers of the
populace.
“Let all those who lent me their friendly aid on this occasion
forthwith follow me to the Castle,” cried he, and, glad to escape from
praises which, as they were bestowed on him at the expense of the
brother of his Countess, gave him more of pain than pleasure, he turned
his horse’s head in the direction of the Castle, and rode off,
accompanied by Sir Patrick Hepborne and the rest of the knights who
were with him, and followed at a distance by a shouting and ragamuffin
rabble, who were eager to moisten their hot and parched throats from
the capacious and hospitably-flowing cellars of Tarnawa.
CHAPTER XL.
In the Countess of Moray’s Apartments—Sir Patrick gets Quizzed.
The Earl and his friends had no sooner reached Tarnawa, than they
retired, each to his own chamber, to enjoy a few hours’ rest. Sir
Patrick Hepborne made inquiry for his page, but the latter was nowhere
to be found at the time; so, leaving orders that the youth should be in
attendance, he gladly committed his wearied limbs to the comforts of
his couch.
It was about midday when he raised his head from his pillow, and his
first thought was to call for Maurice de Grey; but a lacquey informed
him that the youth had not yet appeared. He sent the man for Mortimer
Sang, and when the esquire came, he was much disappointed to learn that
he had seen or heard nothing of the boy.
“Go then, I pr’ythee,” said Sir Patrick, “and make diligent inquiry for
the youth through the Castle, and when thou hast found him, send him
hither without a moment’s delay. Verily, it seemeth that he doth
already begin to forget that I am his master.”
Sang hastened to obey, but remained absent much longer than Sir
Patrick, in his anxiety about the boy, could think reasonable. The
knight walked hastily about the room, and at length becoming very
impatient, he sent first one lacquey, and then another, after the
esquire. At last Mortimer Sang returned.
“Well, where is Maurice de Grey?” demanded Hepborne.
“By the mass, Sir Knight, I can gain no tidings of him.”
“’Tis very strange,” replied the knight, with a look of much vexation.
“I do much fear me that the youth is of a truant disposition; it was
indeed that which gave him to me. He ran away from his paternal home,
and from maternal care, united himself to my party, and how oft did he
solemnly and hautently vow never to quit me until death should sever
us! His present absence doth wear a very mysterious and suspicious
aspect.—Hath the old Harper been seen?” demanded Sir Patrick, after a
pause, during which he paced the room two or three times backwards and
forwards.
“Nay, Sir Knight,” replied the squire, “he hath not been visible.”
“Depardieux, then they must have gone off together,” replied Sir
Patrick, with a tone of extreme dissatisfaction; “’tis most like that
the minstrel, who must have known him before, hath aided, and perhaps
been the partner of his escape. Yes, they must have been well
acquainted, seeing that old Adam did so greatly frequent the English
Border, and that he was so much esteemed by the Lady Eleanore de ———, I
mean, by the page’s kinswoman. Well, I shall feel the loss of the boy’s
company, for, sooth to say, his prattle did often beguile me of a dull
hour. Truly, he was a shrewd and winning youth; but I am sore grieved
to discover that he hath had in him such deceit, and so little feeling
for the kindness I did ever show him.”
With these words, the knight threw himself on the couch, altogether
unable to conceal the chagrin and distress of mind he was suffering.
“Perdie, I should have been as a father to that boy,” said he again; “I
should have made him a knight worthy of the highest place in the annals
of chivalry. The youth seemed to value, yea, and to give heed to my
counsels too; nay, the admiration with which he looked up to me might
have been almost considered as ridiculous, had it not been viewed as
the offspring of extreme attachment. He spoke as if he imagined that I
was all excellence, all perfection. What strange cause can have
occasioned his so sudden abandonment of me, and that, too, without
having given me the smallest warning or hint of his intention? Did not
I, more than once, tell him that I should be willing to aid his return
to his friends, should he ever feel a desire to do so? His escapade is
an utter mystery to me. Ha! I have it,” continued he, after a short
pause of consideration; “I trow, I have hit it at last. The youth hath
some turn, nay, and, I wot, no mean one neither, for poesy and song;
moreover, he toucheth the harp with liard and skilful fingers; and
seeing that he is fond of change, he hath, ’tis like, taken fancy to
become a troubadour, and so has exchanged me as his master for old Adam
of Gordon. Well, well, why should I vex myself about a silly, careless,
truant boy?”
But Sir Patrick did, notwithstanding, vex himself most abundantly, and,
nearly an hour afterwards, he was found, still lying in peevish and
fretful soliloquy, by Mortimer Sang, who entered his chamber, with a
message from the Countess of Moray, entreating his company in her
apartment for a short conference. Sir Patrick hastily prepared himself
to attend her, and was immediately ushered into her presence by a
squire in waiting.
He found his noble hostess seated with the Lady Jane de Vaux, in the
midst of her damsels, some of whom were employed in idle chitchat,
others in singing, from time to time, to the harp or guitar, whilst the
rest were assisting in an extensive work of embroidery. They were
immediately dismissed on his entrance, and the Countess came forward
graciously to receive him.
“I fear, Sir Patrick,” said she, “that I may have perhaps broken in
rather prematurely upon those hours of repose which the fatigue of
yesternight’s violent, though charitable, exertions had doubtless
rendered as welcome as they were necessary. The Earl, my husband, was
so overspent with toil when he returned this morning, that he was
buried in slumber ere I had time to question him as to the cause of the
calamity, or even as to its full extent. I was on the eve of entreating
a few minutes’ audience of thee at that time, that I might have my
curiosity satisfied, but just as I was about to send my page to crave
this boon of thine, thy page, Maurice de Grey, came hither, and
informed me that thou also hadst betaken thee to thy couch. I have thus
been compelled to champ the bit of impatience ever sithence; but,
impatient as I am, I shall not easily forgive myself if I have been the
means of rudely disturbing thy needful refreshment.”
“My page!” cried the knight with a mixture of surprise and eagerness,
and made him forget everything else that the Countess had said to him;
“verily, I have been seeking and sending for my page during the greater
part of the morning. I beseech your Ladyship, when was the little
varlet here, and what could have induced him to be so bold as to
intrude himself on the Countess of Moray?”
“Nay,” replied the Countess, with an air of surprise no less strong
than that of Sir Patrick, “I did assuredly think that it was thou who
didst order him to come hither. He came to introduce a certain minstrel
to my notice, and in so doing to take the opportunity of paying his
duty to me, by thine own desire, ere the old man and he should depart
hence together.”
“Depart hence!” cried Hepborne, with still greater astonishment,
mingled with excessive vexation; “depart hence, didst thou say? So then
the heartless boy hath really left me. Of a truth, when first I missed
him, I did suspect that he and the minstrel had gone off together.
Whither have they gone, I do beseech thee?”
“Nay, that is indeed miraculous,” replied the Countess; “’tis indeed
miraculous, I say, that thou shouldst not have known the page was going
away; for albeit he did not positively say so, yet did he so
counterfeit with us that I for one did never doubt but that he came
hither by thy very command to do his obeisance to me ere he should yede
him hence. ’Tis a right artful youth, I’ll warrant me. Nay, Sir Knight,
methinks thou hast good reason to congratulate thyself on being so
happily rid of a cunning chit, who mought have worked thee much evil by
his tricks. Of a truth, I liked not his looks over much———”
“Forgive me, noble lady,” cried the knight, “I cannot hear the boy
spoken of otherwise than as he may in justice deserve. I saw not ever
any trick or mischief in him; on the contrary, he did always appear
most doced in his demeanour and service. Moreover, he is a boy of most
sensible remark, and more prudence of conduct than one might reasonably
look for in a head so young and inexperienced; then as for his heart,
it was warmer than any I ever met with in old or young. I trow he did
prove to me more than once that his attachment to my person was
something beyond mere pretence. Twice did he nearly sacrifice his life
for me. What can have induced him to go off thus secretly? Had I been
cruel to him he might have fled from me with good reason; but I loved
the boy as I should have loved a younger brother, yea, or a son, if I
had had one. There was so much gentleness about him; yet lacked he not
a sly, sharp, and subtle wit.”
“Yea, of a truth, he hath a wit,” cried the Lady Jane de Vaux, archly;
“ay, and as you say, Sir Knight, ’tis indeed a sharp one. How the
wicked rogue did amuse us by the rehearsal of thy loves, Sir Knight! I
do mean thy loves for his fair cousin, the beauteous Lady Eleanore de
Selby. Ha, ha, ha! parfay, the varlet did stir up some excellent
good-humoured pleasantry and merry laughter in us.”
“In truth, his stories were most amusing,” said the Countess; “trust
me, it is a smart and witty little knave as ever I saw.”
“A most rare and laughter-stirring imp, indeed,” cried the Lady Jane de
Vaux; “nay, the mere remembrance of him doth provoke me yet—ha, ha,
ha!”
Sir Patrick Hepborne stood confounded and abashed, to find himself thus
unexpectedly placed as a butt for the ridicule of the two ladies.
“My noble Countess of Moray, and you, beauteous Lady Jane de Vaux, you
do seem to have vouchsafed me the honour of being your quintaine this
morning—the targe against the which you may gaily prove the sharp
points of your merry wit. Depardieux, my lot in being so selected is to
be envied, not deplored; and I must thank you for the distinguished
preference you have deigned to show me. Yet cannot I but feel
disappointment most severe, to discover thus that a youth, towards whom
I was so well affected, should have requited my love so ill-favouredly.
Of a truth, the wicked knave hath been most indiscreet. And yet meseems
that I myself have been even more indiscreet than he, since the secret
was altogether mine own, and I ought to have kept it better.”
“In good sooth, we were much indebted to the imp for his information,”
said the Lady Jane de Vaux; “for to be free with thee, Sir Knight, our
stock of female curiosity, the which was raised highly by the public
refusal of so renowned a chevalier to drink a pledge to his lady love,
was beginning to be much an over-match for our limited store of
patience. Our appetite for intelligence regarding the state of thy
heart was waxing so great, that had not this boy of thine come to us
this morning, to open his wallet and satisfy our craving, we might ere
this have been dead of mere starvation. His visit here was quite a
blessing to us.”
“By St. Andrew, I am thunderstruck,” cried the Knight, “Depardieux, the
young caitiff hath indeed deceived me deeply in thus betraying the most
sacred secret of my heart.”
“Of a truth, thine unexampled constancy did deserve better treatment,
Sir Knight,” said the Countess, with a tone and manner tinged with a
certain degree of asperity and sarcasm, which Hepborne hardly believed
that amiable lady could have assumed; whilst, at the same time, she and
Jane de Vaux exchanged very significant looks. With an effort to
command herself, however, she turned the conversation rather suddenly
towards the subject of the burning of Forres; and after gathering from
Hepborne the general circumstances of that calamity, she, with more
than usual dignity, signified to him her wish to be alone, and he
retired to his apartment, to fret himself about the loss of his page,
and the provoking circumstances by which it was accompanied.
CHAPTER XLI.
Rory Spears, the Earl’s Henchman.
Sir Patrick Hepborne left the apartments of the Countess of Moray
melancholy and unhappy. He retired to his own chamber, to ruminate on
the ingratitude of his heartless page; and, when the hour of the
banquet arrived, he went to the Hall of Randolph with a mind but little
attuned to harmonize with its festivities. But it was more in unison
with his feelings than he had anticipated. The Countess of Moray, who
was by this time fully aware that the destructive fire of Forres had
been kindled by her brother’s hand, was unable to appear; and her
example was followed by most of the other ladies. The Earl of Fife,
too, and several other nobles and knights, were absent. The Earl of
Moray was indeed present; but he was there only in body, for his
thoughts seemed to be elsewhere. All his attempts to rally his spirits
were unavailing, and the sombre air which hung upon his countenance
speedily spread along the gay ranks of the festive board, to the
extinction of everything like mirth.
In this state of things, the Earl speedily broke up the feast. He had
serious thoughts of breaking up the tournament also, and these he
privately communicated to his brother-in-law, the Earl of Fife; but
that crafty politician objected to a measure which could only make his
brother’s outrage the more talked of; and he had a still stronger
reason in his own mind, for he did not wish to be deprived of the
opportunity, afforded him by the tournament, of gaining over friends to
the party he was forming to strengthen his own power. It was therefore
finally determined that next day it should be solemnly proclaimed by
the heralds.
The Earl of Moray and his lady passed a sleepless night, turning in
their minds how they could best repair the wrong done by their brother,
the Wolfe of Badenoch. Early in the morning one of the Countess’s
favourite damsels, Katherine Spears by name, came to beseech an
audience of the Earl for her father, Rory Spears. There was nothing
extraordinary in this request, for the Earl was so much the friend of
his people that he was ever ready to lend an ear to the complaints of
the meanest individual among them. The man who now craved an interview
was an old partizan of the Earl’s, who had fought under his banner and
at his back in many a battle, and who was employed in time of peace in
hunting, hawking, and fishing.
As the Earl had a peculiar regard for Rory Spears, the damsel was
ordered to send him up immediately to a small turret room, where his
Lordship usually received people in his rank of life. Rory’s heavy
fishing boots were soon heard ascending the turret stair, and his bulky
figure appeared, followed by a great rough allounde and one or two
terriers. As Katherine showed him in, there was something peculiarly
striking in the contrast between her sylphlike figure, delicate face,
and ladylike air, and his Herculean mould and rough-hewn features, in
which there was a strangely-mixed and contradictory expression of
acuteness and simplicity, good nature, and sullen testiness. His huge
shoulders had a natural bend forward, and a profusion of grizzled curls
mingled in bushy luxuriance with the abundant produce of his cheeks,
lips, and chin. On his head was a close red hood, that lay over his
neck and back, and he wore a coarse grey woollen jerkin and hauselines,
covered with an ample upper garment of the same materials, and of a
form much resembling that constituting a part of the fisherman’s garb
of the present day. In one hand he brandished a long pole with a sharp
iron hook at the end of it, the bend of the hook being projected into a
long pike, and the whole so constructed as to be equally serviceable as
a hunting-spear or as a fish-clip. He stooped yet more as he entered
the low doorway of the turret room, and had no sooner established his
thick-soled boots upon the floor than he made an obeisance to the Earl,
with his cap under his arm.
“What hath brought thee hither so early, friend Rory?” inquired the
Earl.
“In good sooth, my noble Lord, I did think that the Castle mought maybe
be lacking provender, wi’ a’ thay knights, grandees, and lordlings ilka
day in the hall, an’ so mony o’ their people in the kitchen, so I did
gather some of the knaves with their horse beasts, and I hae brought
thee ower six fat deer, some wild pollayle, and a dozen or twa o’
salmons, to help the buttery-man to fill his spense; ’tis no deaf nits,
I rauken, that’ll fill sae mony mouths.”
“I thank thee, Rory,” said the Earl; “it was indeed most considerate in
thee; thy present is most welcome. How fares it with Alice, thy wife?”
“Fu’ weel, my Lord Yearl,” replied Rory; “troth I see no complaints
about the woman. And how’s a’ wi’ my Lady Countess?”
“A little indisposed to-day, Rory,” replied the Earl gravely.
“Fie, fie! I’m sorry for that,” said Rory; “I’se warrant feasting and
galravaging mun agree but soberly wi’ her Ladyship’s honour. By St.
Lowry, but I’m no that mokell the better for it mysel when I drink ower
deep.”
“Too much drink is certainly bad, Rory, though the Countess’s
indisposition hath nothing of that in it,” replied the Earl smiling:
“but a black-jack of ale can do thee but little harm of a morning, so
get thee to the kitchen, that thou mayest have thy draught.”
“Thanks, my most noble Yearl,” cried Rory; “a black-jack full of
ale—nay, I spoke of gallons; it will take gallons to gi’ me an aching
head, I promise thee; nay, one gallon, or twa gallons, peraunter, would
do me but little harm. But that wasna just a’ my business, my Lord; I
hae something mair to speak to thee about. Wasn’t thee wanting a cast
o’ hawks?”
“Yea, I did indeed much wish for some of these noble birds, the which
our rocks are famed for rearing, good Rory,” replied the Earl. “The
King hath heard of the excellence of our falcons, and I have promised
to send him a cast of them.”
“Aweel, aweel, the King’s honour shanna want them an’ I can get a grup
o’ them,” replied Spears; “and sae your Lordship may tell him frae me.”
“Thanks, good Rory, for thy zeal,” replied the Earl; “get thee then to
the kitchen, and have thy morning’s draught.”
“But that was not just a’ that I had to say to thine honourable
Lordship,” said Rory, still lingering.
“I do opine that thou lackest advice and assistance in some little
matter of thine own, friend Rory?” said the Earl smiling.
“Troth, my noble Lord Yearl, thou art not far from the mark there; and
yet it’s not just mine own matter neither, though some few years mought
peraunter ha’ made it mine; but it’s nobody’s now but his who hath got
it.”
“Nay, now thou art somewhat mystical, Rory,” said the Earl; “come to
the point at once, I pr’ythee, and effunde thy whole tale distinctly to
me, for my time is rather precious this morning.”
“The short and the long, then, of this matter, my Lord Yearl, is, that
my wife’s mother hath been robbed of fifty broad pieces,” replied Rory.
“What! old Elspeth of the Burgh? who can have done so foul a larcen?”
demanded the Earl.
“Ay, good my Lord, just our old mother Elspeth,” replied Spears. “The
money was the hard earnings of her goodman, the smith, who, rest his
soul, was a hard-working Christian, as thou mayest remember.”
“And how did this wicked stouthrief happen?” inquired the Earl.
“By the mass, I will tell thee as speedily as may be, my Lord,” replied
Rory. “It was but the night before last, that is to say, the night o’
the brenning o’ the Burgh, that it did happen. The haflins lassie that
looketh after old Lucky was sent out to bring her tidings o’ the fire.
Thee knawest that the poor soul downa easily budge from eild; and as
she did lig in her blankets she hearden a heavy foot in the place; and
when she got up she did find the kist opened, and the old leathern
purse with her money gone.”
“’Tis a hard case, indeed,” said the Earl; “and hast thou any
suspicions, Rory?”
“Nay, for a matter o’ that, I hae my own thoughts,” replied Rory; “yet
I canna say that I am just sicker anent it; but cannot thou do nought,
my noble Yearl?”
“Do thou use all thine ingenuity to find out the thief,” said the Earl;
“I shall see what my people may be able to do to aid thee; and if we
discover the rogue, a court shall be summoned, and he shall straightway
hang for his villainy.”
“Thanks, my good Lord,” replied Rory, making his obeisance preparatory
to departure; “verily I am much beholden to thee; but an’ we recover
not the broad pieces, we shall gain little by the foiterer’s neck being
lengthened; yet I’ll see what may be done to catch him.”
“Do so, Rory,” said the Earl; “thou shalt have the aid of some of my
people, and I do wish thee success.”
CHAPTER XLII.
The Lovely English Damosel.
“So,” said Rory Spears to his daughter, as she saw him out into the
court-yard of the Castle, previous to his departure, “my lady the
Countess hath bid thee attend to a young English damosel, sayest thou?”
“Yea, and she is one of the sweetest, as well as one of the loveliest
damosels I did ever behold,” replied Katherine, “and of temper and
disposition most gentle and sunshiny. Of a truth, it is quite a
pleasure to be with her; I am already as if I had known her from
infancy. She is so gently condescending with me, that I could live with
her for ever.”
“What, wouldst thou forget thy benefactress to cleave to a stranger?”
exclaimed Rory Spears, in a tone of reproach.
“Nay, verily, not so,” replied Katherine. “The duty I owe the Countess,
and, above all, the love and gratitude I bear her, are too strong to
permit me ever to forget her; but whatever my lady wills me to do, I am
bound to do; and I own I do feel grateful to her for laying no more
disagreeable task on me than that of attending on one so truly amiable
as this English lady.”
“English leddy here, or English leddy there, what is ony English leddy,
compared to the Countess of Moray?” replied Rory Spears impatiently. “I
like not newfangledness—I like not to see thee relish any one but thy
noble mistress, to whom thou shouldst ever cleave. She hath made a
woman o’ thee, for the whilk may the Virgin’s blessing be about her.
She hath caused thee to be taught many things; but let me not have the
grief and vexation to find that thou hast forgotten the plain simple
lesson o’ hamely virtue, and right acting, and the kindly feelings that
I did put into thy young heart when thou wert but as a wild kid o’ the
craigs, that is, when thou wert my bairn; for, from thy leddy lear and
tutoring, thou art now far aboon a simple man like me. Yet dost ane
honest warm heart, simple though it be, lift up him that carries it to
be the make of the very greatest and wisest among the judges o’ the
land, and so I am even wi’ thee, lassie, and enteetled to speak to
thee, learned as thou art, and foolish though I be. Let not thy heart
dance away after strangers.”
“My dearest father, thou hast much misjudged me,” replied Katherine.
“This lady hath robbed me of no title of mine affection for the Earl
and Countess, whom I do most ardently love, yea, as second parents;
nay, I do love them hardly less than I do my mother and thee.”
“Thou shouldst love them more, lassie,” cried Rory, with great energy
and emphasis. “Much as we may have claim to thine affection, what have
we done for thee that may equal the bounteous blessings they have
conferred?”
“Thou art my father, and Alice is my mother,” replied Katherine,
seizing his rough horny hands, and looking up in his weather-beaten
face and smiling affectionately. “Thou kennest thou didst put notions
of virtue and of right acting, yea, and kindly feelings, into my young
heart; and do I owe thee nothing for sike gifts?”
“Nay, Kate, thy lear hath made thee an overmatch for me,” cried Rory,
quite overcome, and, embracing his daughter with the tears pouring over
his cheeks; “God bless thee, my bairn—I fear not for thy heart; but, by
St. Lowry, I must away. My blessing rest with thee, Kate. Ho there,
loons, hae ye redd your beast horses o’ their burdens?”
“Ou ay, Maister Spears,” replied one of the men who came with him.
“Let’s on, then,” exclaimed he; so, striking the end of his pole to the
ground, and whistling shrilly on his dogs, he moved hastily out by the
Castle gate at the head of his ragged troop.
CHAPTER XLIII.
Mustering for the Tournament—The Proclamation—The Procession at St.
John’s Chapel.
The lists were now finished, and the crests and blazoned coat-armour of
such knights as meant to tilt were on this day to be mustered in the
little chapel of St John’s. Chivalry was to be alive in all its gaudy
pomp. Hitherto the knights had loitered about idle, or wasted the hours
in sighing soft things into the delighted ears of their lady-loves, or
in playing with them at chess or tables. Some, indeed, had more
actively employed themselves, in hawking or hunting, and others had
formed parties at bowls; but now all was to be bustle and busy
preparation in the Castle, both with knights and ladies.
By dawn of day, squires, pages, and lacqueys, were seen running in all
directions. Armour was observed gleaming in the ruddy beams of the
morning sun; proud crests and helms, and nodding plumes, and
richly-emblazoned shields and surcoats, and glittering lances, and
flaunting banners and pennons, everywhere met the eye. The Earl of
Moray, who had much to direct and to decide on, was compelled to shake
off the sombre and distressing thoughts that oppressed him, and even to
use his eloquence with the Countess, to induce her to rouse herself
from the grief she had been plunged into by the shame her brother, the
Wolfe of Badenoch, had brought upon her. She also had important duties
to perform; and the first burst of her vexation being now over, she
exerted her rational and energetic mind to overcome her feelings, and
to prepare for the proper execution of them.
To gratify to the fullest extent that fondness for parade which so
powerfully characterised the age, and to render the spectacle as
imposing as possible, the whole of the knights, with their respective
parties, were ordained to appear in the Castle-yard, where, having been
joined by the ladies, it was intended they should be formed into a
grand procession, in which they were to ride to the Mead of St John’s,
to witness the herald’s proclamation.
Sir Patrick Hepborne was early astir, and his attendants and horses
were all assembled before the Castle-yard began to fill. In the midst
of them waved his red pennon, bearing his achievement on a chevron
argent, two lions pulling at a rose. The parade that Mortimer Sang had,
with great good judgment, selected for them, was immediately opposite
to the window of the apartment which he knew was occupied by Katherine
Spears, whose melting eyes had much disturbed his repose, and had
created no small turmoil in his bosom. Mortimer yet hoped to win his
spurs, in which event, the daughter of Rory Spears, though he was
reputed rich, might have hardly, perhaps, been considered a proper
match for him. But Master Sang could not resist the fascination of
Katherine’s talk; and when in her company, he was so wrapped in
admiration of her, that he invariably forgot that Rory Spears was her
father, or that she had ever had a father at all. The damsel, for her
part, looked with inexpressible delight on the soldier-like form of
Squire Mortimer, and listened with no less pleasure to his good-natured
sallies of humour, graced, as they always were, with much of the polish
of travel.
The sound of the trumpets, as the party of each respective knight
appeared within the arched gateway of the Castle’s outworks, now came
more frequent, and the neighing of impatient steeds, provoking one
another in proud and joyous challenge, became louder, and the shrill
voices of the pursuivants were heard, proclaiming the name, rank, and
praises of each chevalier as he appeared. The sun shone out bright and
hot, increasing the glitter of the gold-embossed armour of the knights,
and the splendour of their embroidered pennons and banners, their
richly-emblazoned surcoats, and their horse-furniture, that swept the
very ground as the coursers moved.
As Sir Patrick Hepborne passed outwards, on his way to descend to the
courtyard, he found the Earl of Moray already upon the terrace, arrayed
in all his pride. Behind him stood his standard-bearer, supporting the
staff of his banner in an inclined position, so that its broad silk
hung down unruffled by a breath of air, displaying on a golden field
the three cushions pendant, within a double tressure, flowered and
counterflowered with fleurs-de-lys gules.
“Sir Patrick,” said he, “thou art yet in good time. If it so please
thee to tarry here with me for some short space, I will endeavour to
teach thee some of the names and titles of those gallant chevaliers who
are beginning to throng the yard of the Castle below. Thou dost already
know my brother, the Earl of Dunbar, who standeth yonder, with his red
surcoat covered with argent lions rampant; and I have also made thee
know him with whom he holdeth parlance, who beareth an ostrich proper
as his crest, and who hath his surcoat emblazoned gules, with a fess
cheque argent and azure, to be the brave Sir David Lindsay of Glenesk,
my worthy brother-in-law. With him is the proud Sir Thomas Hay of
Errol, Constable of Scotland, who standeth alike sykered to me. Thou
seest he beareth as his crest a falcon proper, and the silver cloth of
his surcoat is charged with three red escutcheons.
“But see how the noble Douglas’s flaming salamander—jamais
arrière—riseth over the towering crests around him; and as he shifts
his place from time to time, thou mayest catch a transient glimpse of
the bloody hearts that cover his argent field. Yonder hart’s head
erased proper, attired with ten tynes, and bearing the motto, Veritas
vincit, tells us that the wearer is Sir John de Keith, son of the
Knight Marischal of Scotland. His emblazonry is hid from thee at
present, but peraunter thou art aware that his coat-armour is argent on
a chief or, three pallets gules. Yonder surcoat of cloth of gold with
three mascles on a bend azure, as thou mayest have already discovered,
veils the armour of Sir John Halyburton, than whom no knight hath a
firmer seat in saddle, or a tougher arm to guide his ashen spear. Thou
seest he weareth the red scarf of his lady-love attached to the Moor’s
head proper, that grinneth as his crest amid the plumes of his helmet.”
“I do know him well, my Lord,” replied Sir Patrick; “it hath pleased
him to admit me already into close friendship.”
“Ha!” continued the Earl, “seest thou yonder knight, who rideth so
gaily into the court-yard, with his casque surmounted by a buck’s head
couped proper, attired or? He is as brave a chevalier as ever spurred
in field—Sir John de Gordon, Lord of Strathbolgy; his azure banner
waves behind him, charged with three boars’ heads couped or. That
knight who beareth for his crest a sleuth-hound proper, collared and
leished gules, and whose gold-woven surcoat is charged with three red
bars wavy—he, I mean, who now speaketh to the Douglas as he leaneth on
his lance—is his brother-in-law, Sir Malcolm Drummond. Next to him
stands Sir Alexander Fraser of Cowie, known by his azure coat, and his
three cinquefeuilles argent.
“Thou mayest know the Earl of Sutherland by the gravity of his air, as
well as by his richly embroidered red surcoat, displaying three stars
within a border or, and the double tressure flowered and
counterflowered with fleurs-de-lys of the field, marking his descent
from King Robert the First. His helm beareth the cat sejant proper,
with the motto, Sans peur. Behind him standeth Hugh Fraser, Lord of
Lovat, with his crest, a stag’s head erased or, armed argent, and his
azure coat charged with three argent cinquefeuilles.
“Ha! ha! ha! there thou comest, thou mad wag, Sir William de Dalzell,
with thine erect dagger on thy helm, and thy motto, I dare. Depardieux,
thou mayest well say so, for, by St. Andrew, thou wilt dare anything in
lists or in field. Thou seest, Sir Patrick, that his sable surcoat hath
on it a naked man, with arms extended proper. That lion passant,
quardant gules, doth ornament the silver surcoat of Sir Walter Ogilvie
of Wester Powrie, Sheriff of Forfar and Angus; and yonder golden coat,
with the three red crescents, doth cover the armour of Sir William
Seaton of Seaton. That argent lion rampant is the crest of Sir Robert
Bruce of Clackmannan; thou seest his golden coat hath a saltire and
chief gules. That crest, a boar’s head couped or, marks Sir Gillespie
Campbell of Lochow; and the unicorn’s head, near it, is that of Sir
William Cunninghame of Kilmaurs. My neighbour, Sir Thomas de Kinnaird
of Cowbin, is easily known by his red surcoat, bearing a saltire
between four golden crescents. He that holdeth converse with him, and
hath three silver buckles on a bend azure on his silver surcoat, is Sir
Norman de Leslie of Rothes. Behind him is Sir Murdoch Mackenzie of
Kintail; his surcoat is hid from our view, but he beareth, on an azure
field, a stag’s head embossed or.
“Yonder knight, who rideth in at this moment, clad in a golden surcoat,
blazoned with a bend azure, charged with a star of six points between
two crescents of the field, is Sir Walter Scott of Rankelburn, as brave
a Borderer as ever rode with his lance’s point to the South. With him
cometh a chevalier, whose crest is an erect silver spur winged; he is
Sir John de Johnston, one of the guardians of the Western Marches. He
who cometh after Sir John, bearing as his crest the bear’s paw holding
a scimitar, and who hath his red surcoat charged with a lion rampant
holding a crooked scimitar in his dexter paw, is Sir James Scrimgeour,
the Constable of Dundee, I wot a right famous knight. With him is a
knight also clad in a red surcoat, but having three golden stars; that
is Sir Henry Sutherland of Duffus.
“Yonder sable eagle displayed on the argent surcoat, doth distinguish
the gallant Sir Alexander Ramsay, Lord of Dalwolsy; and that other
knight in silver, with the three sable unicorns’ heads, is Sir Henry de
Preston of Fermartyn. He in the azure——But hark, Sir Patrick, the
trumpets sound—the procession is about to be marshalled—we must descend
to the courtyard.”
The trumpets had no sooner ceased than the voice of a pursuivant was
heard—
“Oyez! oyez! oyez!—Let the standard-bearer of each noble and knight
take up the parade which the herald did already assign to him, there to
remain till he be duly marshalled.”
Immediately the banners and pennons, which waved in numbers below, were
seen moving in various directions through the crowd, and each became
stationary at its fixed point, near the edge of the area of the
court-yard. This was a preliminary arrangement, without which the
herald would have found great difficulty in executing his duty. As it
was, he and his assistants soon began to bring the most beautiful order
out of the gay confusion that prevailed. The Earl of Fife, who was to
represent the King, appeared, and the Countess of Moray, and all the
ladies, gorgeously apparelled in robes of state, came forth from the
Castle, and began to mingle their slender and delicate forms with the
firm, muscular, war-proved, and mail-clad figures of the knights.
At length all were marshalled and mounted; the court-yard shook with
the shrill clangour of the trumpets and kettle-drums, and the neighing
and prancing of the steeds; and the shouts that began to arise from the
vulgar thousands who were impatiently waiting without the walls,
announced that their eager eyes were at least gratified with the
appearance of the first part of the spectacle.
Forth came some mounted spearmen and bowmen, before whom the dense
crowd began slowly to open and divide; and then some half-dozen
trumpets, with several kettle-drums and clarions, all riding two and
two. These were followed by a troop of pages, also riding in pairs, and
after them came a train of esquires, all gallantly mounted and armed,
and riding in the same order. Between the pages and the esquires were
some kettle-drums and trumpets as before. Then came the Royal Standard,
preceded by a strong band of trumpets, kettle-drums, and clarions, and
various other martial instruments, and guarded by some of the oldest
and noblest of the knights, and such as had no ladies present to claim
their attendance. The standard was followed by the Earl of Fife, who
rode a magnificent milk-white charger, armed and barbed at all points,
and caparisoned with regal splendour. On the present occasion he was
here acting as representative of the King his father, and the pomp of
his array was not inferior to what might have been looked for from a
crowned head. Before him rode six pages and six esquires; and eight
more pages walked, four on each side of his horse, supporting the poles
of a canopy of crimson velvet, covered with golden shields, bearing the
lion rampant gules. His golden surcoat, and the drapery of his horse,
were richly emblazoned with the rampant red lion, and his private
banner that followed bore the full blazon of his arms. The Earl of Fife
was attended by a number of elderly knights of noble blood, who acted
as his guards.
After the King’s representative came the trumpets of the heralds,
followed by the pursuivants; immediately after them appeared the
heralds, in their crowns and robes; and in the middle of the latter was
Albany Herald, his horse led by a page on each side of him. He bore
before him, on a crimson velvet cushion, a helmet and sword of rare and
curious workmanship, which glittered with gold, and sparkled with
precious stones. These were to be the prize of him who, by universal
consent, should best acquit himself in the lists; and the very sight of
them called forth loud shouts of applause from the populace.
Immediately after the heralds came the Marischal and Speaker of the
Lists, attended by the Marischal’s men.
After these came the Earl and Countess of Moray, richly attired,
magnificently mounted, and nobly attended. They were accompanied by the
Lord Welles, and his suit of English knights, to whom succeeded the
married knights who had ladies present, each riding according to his
rank, with his lady by his side, her palfrey being led by a page on
foot. Before each chevalier went his banner or his pennon, and he was
followed by his esquire, pages, and other attendants. Next came the
young or unmarried knights, also marshalled according to their rank,
each preceded by his banner or pennon, and followed by his squire and
cortège. But the youthful gallants were each bound round the neck with
a silken leash, which was held in gentle thrall by the fair hand of a
lady, who rode beside him on a palfrey, led by a foot page. It is
perhaps unnecessary to mention that Sir John Halyburton’s silken
fetters were held by the Lady Jane de Vaux.
After the knights came another train of esquires, who were followed by
pages and lacqueys; and, lastly, the procession was closed by a
considerable force of spearmen, bowmen, and pole-axemen.
The head of the procession had no sooner appeared through the echoing
gateway, than the air was rent with the repeated acclamations of the
populace, who formed a dense mass, stretching away from the outworks in
one uninterrupted mosaic of heads and faces, until they disappeared
beneath the shade of the distant trees of the woodland. The paltry
roofs of the cottages in the straggling hamlet were clustered so thick
that they looked like animated heaps of human beings; and the ancient
single trees that arose here and there among the hovels, were hung with
living fruit. The agitation and commotion of the motley and
party-coloured crowd was very great, but it expanded, and consequently
thinned itself, as the procession moved on, the whole flowing forward
like a vast river, until it lost itself in the depths of the forest,
where its winding course, and the appearing and disappearing of its
various parts among the boles of the trees, with the brilliant though
transient gleams produced by the sunbeams, that pierced their way now
and then downwards through accidental openings in the foliage, kindling
up the bright lance-heads and helmets, and giving fresh lustre to the
vivid colours of the proud heraldic emblazonments, lent an infinite
variety of effect to the spectacle.
Whilst they moved over the green sod, under the leafy canopy of the
forest, the tramp of the horses was deafened, and the shouts of the
populace were in some sort muffled; but when the procession issued
forth on the Meads of St. John, the affrighted welkin rang again with
the repeated and piercing acclamations of a multitude which went on
increasing in numbers as they advanced, particularly after they had
crossed the bridge, and even until they reached the lists. The gates
and barriers were wide open, and the procession filed in.
The Royal Standard was now hoisted over the crimson-covered central
balcony, in which the representative of the Sovereign was afterwards to
take his place, and it was hailed with prolonged cheers; while the
heralds, pursuivants, Marischal, and Speaker of the Lists, and the
judges of the field, having stationed themselves on a platform
immediately underneath the royal balcony, the procession formed itself
into a wide semi-circle in front of it. Meanwhile the galleries
surrounding the lists were rapidly filled up by the populace, and all
waited the issue with breathless impatience.
The Albany Herald now advanced to the front of the platform, and,
holding up the prize sword and helmet in both hands, there was a
flourish of trumpets and kettle-drums, which was drowned by the
deafening shouts of the spectators. This had no sooner subsided, than
Albany, having commanded silence by means of the shrill voices of his
pursuivants, thus began:—
“Oyez, oyez, oyez!—All ye princes, lords, barons, knights, esquires,
ladies, and gentlemen, be it hereby known to you, that a superb
achievement at arms, and a grand and noble tournament, will be held in
these lists, within four days from this present time, the acknowledged
victor to be rewarded with this helmet and sword, given by the noble
and generous John Dunbar, Earl of Moray. All ye who intend to tilt at
this tournament are hereby ordained forthwith to lodge your
coat-armouries with the heralds, that they may be displayed within the
holy chapel of St. John the Baptist, and this on pain of not being
received at the tournament. And your arms shall be thus:—The crest
shall be placed on a plate of copper, large enough to contain the whole
summit of the helmet; and the said plate shall be covered with a
mantle, whereon shall be blazoned the arms of him who bears it; and on
the said mantle, at the top thereof, shall the crest be placed, and
around it shall be a wreath of colours, whatsoever it shall please him.
Further be it remembered, that on the morning of the fourth day from
hence, the arms, banners, and helmets of all the combatants shall be
exposed at their stations; and the speakers shall be present at the
place of combat by ten of the horologue, where and when the arms shall
be examined, and approved or rejected, as may be fitting and right. The
chevaliers shall then become tenants of the field, and tilt with blunt
weapons in pairs, and then the victors shall tilt successively in
pairs, until they be reduced and amenused to two; and he of the two who
may the best acquit himself, shall receive from the hand of her whom he
may proclaim to be the most peerless damsel, the prize of the helmet
and sword.—God save King Robert!”
The herald’s proclamation was received with a flourish of trumpets,
clarions, and kettle-drums, and the continued shouts of the people.
Silence being at length restored,
“Pursuivant,” said he, “stand forth and deliver thee of the rules of
the tourney.”
The pursuivant obeyed the orders of his superior, and proclaimed the
laws of the tourney item by item; after which the trumpets and kettles
again sounded, and the shouts of the populace were renewed. When they
had died away, the heralds with their attendants again mounted, and
then the procession moved round the lists in the order we have already
described, and, issuing from the same gate at which it had entered, it
proceeded slowly towards the adjacent chapel of St. John the Baptist,
which it entirely surrounded, and then halting, under the direction of
the heralds, it formed a wide circle about the beautiful little Gothic
building that stood in an open grove of tall ash-trees.
“Oyez, oyez, oyez!” cried a pursuivant, “let the esquires of those
chevaliers who mean to tilt at this tournament for the prizes given by
the noble and generous John Dunbar, Earl of Moray, or who may, in any
manner of way, desiderate to challenge others, or to leave open to
others the power of challenging them to by-tilting for any other cause
whatsoever—let their esquires now advance, and let the heralds have
inspection of their crests and coat-armouries. He who shall fail to
comply, and whose crest and coat-armour shall not be up before sunset,
shall have no right to enter the lists as a tenant of the field in any
manner of way whatsoever, except always as to pages or squires, to
whom, for this day and to-morrow, the lists shall be open, to give all
such an opportunity of proving their manhood. Advance, then, ye
standard-men and esquires, that ye may deposit the gages which prove
your masters to be gentlemen of arms, blood, and descent; that ye may
see their trophies erected, and stay and watch each by his master’s
achievement, to mark whosoever may touch the same, that his knight’s
honour may not suffer by his neglecting the darreigne.”
In obedience to this order, each knight sent his standard-man, and an
esquire or page, towards the chapel; and Sir Patrick Hepborne was about
to send Mortimer Sang, when that faithful esquire dropped on his knee
before him.
“Nay, my good master, I do humbly crave a boon at thy hands,” said he;
“I do beseech thee let some other of thy people be chosen for this
duty, sith I should at least wish to be a free man for this day and
to-morrow, that I may do some little matter for mine own honour. By St.
Andrew, if I may but bestir myself decently, it will not be amiss for
thy credit, Sir Knight, seeing that a chevalier, whose personal
renommie hath been already established, may be even well enough excused
for amusing himself by taking pleasure in the well-doing of his horse,
his hound, or his hawk.”
“Friend Mortimer,” replied Sir Patrick, “I do much rejoice that thou
hast the glorious desire of reaping laurels so strong within thee.
Trust me, I shall be no hindrance in thy way to fame, but rather I
shall hold fast the ladder, and aid thee to climb and reach it. Thy
time shall be thine own, and thou shalt be at full liberty to use thy
discretion. I shall be much interested in thy success, and shall have
small fear in thy commanding it; so get thee to one of the armourers of
the field, and fit thyself forthwith at my cost, in whatever thou
mayest lack.”
The squire threw himself on one knee, and, kissing his master’s hand,
warmly expressed his gratitude, and then hastened away towards the
lists, to purchase from some of the armourers who had shops there, the
pieces of which he deemed himself in want, and Hepborne, for his part,
chose out another esquire to fulfil the duty of watching his
achievement in the chapel.
The heralds having put everything in such order as might bear
inspection, now came forth from the chapel, and marshalling the nobles,
knights, and ladies into a foot procession, they led them through the
enclosure to the western door, where they entered to behold the
spectacle. The sight was most imposing. Along both sides of the nave,
and all the way up to the screen of the choir, were placed stands, each
covered by a plate of copper, on which stood the tilting helmet,
surmounted by the wreath and crest of the knight. The helmet rested on
the upper part of the mantle, so as to support it by the pressure of
its weight, whence it was expanded with the lower part of it spread on
the ground, in such a manner that the achievement emblazoned on it in
dazzling colours was fully stretched before the eye. Behind it, on the
right side, stood the squire or page who was appointed to watch it, and
on the left stood the standard-bearer, supporting the banner or pennon
of his master.
“Advance, ladies, dames, and damosels,” cried the herald in a loud
voice, that made the groined roof re-echo; “advance and survey the
helmets, crests, and coat-armouries, and see whether thou mayest
peraunter descry the bearings of any traitor, malfaitor, or reviler of
the ladies; for if so be that such may be discovered by any, she shall
touch his crest, and both it and his achievements shall be thrust
hence, that he may have no tilting at this tournament. Advance, then,
and the herald shall descrive them in succession; and if any other
knight or achievement may yet appear this day before sunset, it is
hereby reserved to the ladies to exercise their right on him, if they
see fitting so to do.”
The herald now led the knights and ladies in procession up the right
side of the nave, around the transept, and returned down the left side
of the nave; and having thus given them a general view of the whole, he
led them around three times more, during which he accurately described
the name and titles of each knight to whom the successive crests and
achievements belonged. One or two achievements were touched by some of
the younger knights, who wished to prove the firmness of their seat,
before the day of tournament, by trial in a by-tilting, with some
antagonist of their own selection, or against whom they wished to
establish the superior charms of their lady-love; but the more
experienced warriors, who had already well proved their lances
elsewhere, reserved their efforts for the grand day when the tournament
was properly to begin.
The ceremony of surveying the crests and coat-armouries being now over,
the knights and ladies returned to their steeds, palfreys, and
attendants, and the whole were soon again in motion, though not in the
order or with the ceremony they had observed in their approach to the
lists, and to the Chapel of St. John’s. The procession was now broken
up into parties, and the Earl of Moray and his Countess, leading the
way with the Earl of Fife, all followed in gay disorder, with a less
chastened pace and less formal air. The ladies had freed their knights
from their temporary bonds, though they still held them by the mere
influence of their radiant eyes. The laughing Jane de Vaux went on in
the full enjoyment of her own triumph, and her face reflected the
smiles of her merry party, as she cantered joyfully over the Mead after
the Earl and Countess of Moray, to partake of a collation spread under
a large awning in front of the pavilions on the other side of the
river.
Sir Patrick Hepborne’s pleasure in this rural feat was damped by the
marked distance with which the Countess of Moray now treated him. He
fatigued himself with attempts to account for a conduct so different
from the kind and easy reception she had given him at first; and he was
still more shocked to observe, that even the Earl himself seemed to
have adopted somewhat of the same freezing exterior since he had last
parted with him in the court-yard. He tried to persuade himself that it
was in a great measure fancy in him, and that in reality it was to be
explained by the natural tone of dignity which the day demanded; and
with this explanation he was obliged to content himself.
CHAPTER XLIV.
The Italian Armourer—The Knight of Cheviot.
“Ha! Signor Andria Martellino, can it be? Do mine eyes deceive me, or
is it really thou whom I do thus behold in Scotland?” cried Mortimer
Sang, as he entered the temporary shop of an armourer, erected at the
back of one end of the lists; “by the mass, I should as soon have
looked to see our Holy Father the Pope in these parts, as thee in the
Mead of St. John’s.”
The person the squire thus addressed was a tall, thin, shambling,
though athletic, black-a-viced looking man, whose very appearance
bespoke his long intimacy with ignited charcoal and sulphurous vapours,
and whose stooping shoulders argued a life of bending over the anvil,
whilst the length, swing, and sinew of his arms betrayed the power with
which he might still be expected to assail the stubborn metal. As Sang
spoke to him he opened a wide mouth from ear to ear, so that the large
gold rings that ornamented their pendulous cartilages almost appeared
to issue from the corners of it, and replied with a grin of immediate
recognition.
“Eh! Signore Mortimero Sang, how I am verri glad to see dee. Dee be
verri vell, I do hope? E il vostro padrone, il Cavaliere?—Eh! il
Cavaliere Seer Pietro Hepborne, I hope he is good?—sta bene?—Preet
vell, eh?”
“Yes,” replied Sang, “I thank God, he is well; he is here upon the
field.”
“Ha, ha!” returned the armourer, “Seer Pietro wid dee here? Ha, I glad
to hear dat. I glad to see heem. San Lorenzo, he alvays moss good for
me. Sempre, sempre mi fa molto bene. He do me more vell dan all de oder
Cavalieri in de leest at Paris; he break more shield, more
breast-plate, more helmet of knight, dan all de oder who did joust.
Dite mi, Signor Mortimero, dos he vant anyding in my vay? I have moss
good armour, all made of right good Milano metal—tutta fabricata nella
fabrica mia—all made in my vat dee do call vorksop. Dere, guardate, see
vat a preet show. Aha!” continued he, as he opened a door that led from
the temporary workshop, where his assistant workmen were labouring at
the forge, into an inner place, where there was a grand display of
armour, and weapons of all sorts and sizes, ready for immediate use;
“dou mayest see I can feet il Cavaliere Seer Pietro vid anyding dat he
may vant in my vay.”
“Nay,” replied Sang, “I do opine that Sir Patrick lacketh nothing in
thy way; he is right well supplied with all necessary gear at present.”
“Ah!” said the Italian, “I am verri sorri, verri sorri for dat. I glad
to gif him armour for noding at all; he do cause me moss good vid the
vicked blows he do give. Ha! it vas vonder to see heem. I do make
armour to stand against the blows of de Diavolo heemself—ma, for Seer
Pietro—no; he cut troo anyding. I verri glad to arm heem for noding—si,
Signor Mortimero, for noding at all.”
“Eh! sayest thou so, Signor Martellino, my master?” exclaimed Sang,
with a knowing look; “by the mass, but I am right glad to find thee so
liberally disposed, yea, and all the more, too, that thou dost seem to
have sike mountance of the very articles I do lack. By St. Baldrid,
though Sir Patrick hath no need to put thy generosity to the preve in
his own proper person, I shall do my best to pleasure thee, and shall
strive so far to overcome my delicacy, and to yield me to thy volunde,
as to coart myself to accept of a helmet and a complete suit of plate
from thee on gift.”
“Eh, cospetto! no, no, no, Signor Mortimero, mio caro,” hastily replied
the Italian starting back, and screwing up his mouth, and shrugging his
shoulders; “eh, povero me, quello non poso fare—I not can do dat. Ma,
dou not intend vat I do mean. I not do mean dee; but I do mean il
Signor Cavaliere Pietro Hepborne, il vostro padrone. It vas heem I do
speak about.”
“Nay, I do comprehend thee perfectly,” answered Sang; “but as it is
with my master’s money that I must pay for what I may buy from thee, I
was in full thought that thou mightest have been filled with jovisaunce
thus to discover a mode of showing thy gratitude and regard towards
him, by haining his purse, and giving that gratis the which he must
otherwise lay out for so largely.”
“Ha! Signor Mortimero caro,” said Andria, “ma non m’intendete ancora;
dou not intend vat I do say yet. Il Signor Cavaliere Pietro Hepborne e
voi sono du persone; ha! dou and dy master not von man. I do say
(figurativamente) dat I moss glad to arm Seer Pietro, because he do
vork moss mischief to de arms of de oder knights, so moss dat he more
dan pay me by vat I sell to dem, for all vat I mote gif him. He do cut
out good vork and good sell for me; ma voi siete vat you call an
apprentiss in de joost. I give dee good armour! Ha, ha! it vould be all
destroy in one leettel momento, and dou voud do leettel harm to dose
dat mote be against dee. Ah-ha! dou voud destroy no von man’s armour
but dine own. Ha! dou hast de good coraggio, and de stout leems; ma,
per Baccho, dy skeel is not like dat of dy padrone, Seer Pietro.”
“Nay, as to that,” said Sang, laughing good-naturedly, “thou mayest be
right enow, Signor Andria; yet meseemed that the stream of thy
generosity did run best when thou didst ween that no one thirsted. But
I am glad to see thee so well provided with good steel plate, from the
which I must now supply myself, sith that thou wilt not be generous;
and though they be dear, yet of a truth I do ken that thy goods are
ever of the best.”
“Ah-ha! Signor Sang,” answered the Italian, with an air of triumph,
“adesso avete ragione—dou art right; la mia armadura è fabricata
d’acciajo stupendissimo de Milano—vat dou voud call de best steel of
Milano. Dere is not no von as do work in vat dou call steel as do know
his trade better; dere is no armajuolo is so good as mine broder and
me. Bah! Giacomo dere dost make so moss noise vid his hammaire dat I
not see myself speak. Come dis vay, Signor Mortimero, com dis vay—come
into dis appartamento, and I make dee see all vat do make thee vonder.”
“Holy St. Andrew, what sort of men dost thou look to meet with in
Scotland, when thou dost bring sike armour as that?” cried Sang, as he
entered, and pointed to an enormous suit of plate armour that hung at
one side of the farther wall of the place; “why that must be intended
for a giant.”
“Ha, ha, ha, he! so dou dost vonder already, Signor Sang,” said the
Italian; “I did look for dy vonder, but I did not tink so dat I voud
see dee vonder for dat; I not tink but dou didst see dat in my store at
Paris. I have had him verri long—ma no, I do remember dat ’tis not long
since mine broder Giuseppe did bring him from our store at Milano. He
and anoder I did sell yesterday morning vas make by mine broder
Giuseppe, for de two ends of de store at Milano, for show. Dey look
verri preet at de two ends of de appartamento dere, vere we did show de
armour for sell. I never tink I sell von or oder, or dat I ever see von
man dat mote be big enow to wear dem. But yesterday morning I have de
good fortune to meet vid von Polypheme, who did come to me, vid von
mout I fear he did eat me up. He did vant armour. Eh, morte, I do tink
I did feet him ven none oder von man in Europe have done it but
mineself. I make him pay vell; ma, ven you see armourers like de
broders Martellini—Andria me, e Giuseppe, mine broder—de first
armourers in the vorld?”
“True, true,” replied Sang, “ye are both mighty men-at-arms, and ye
seem to know it as well, too; though, from what I know of ye both, ye
do ken better how to make a sword than to use it. But come, we lose
time. Hand me down that tilting helmet, that cuirass, and those
vantbraces and cuisses. Let me see, I say, what thou hast got that may
fit me for a turn or two in the lists. I must e’en try what I can do,
an ’twere only to hack and destroy some steel-plate to win thy favour,
and so screw up thy generosity, that I may earn a gratis suit from thee
for my prowess one of these days.”
“Aha! Signor Sang, den must dou joost vid some knight dat vear de
armour of dat donner Tedesche at de oder end of de leest,” cried
Martellino, with a sarcastic air of triumph; “dat stupid Meenher
Eisenfelsenbroken, dat do pretend to make de armour as good as me. Eh,
he! quel bericuocolajo! dat do make his breastplate of de bread of de
gingaire, his vork vill split more easy; ma, for dat sell by de
Martellini, no, dou not break it so fast, caro Signor Sang.”
“Perdie, if I can but meet with that same Polypheme of whom thou didst
talk, I will at least try the metal of thy brother Giuseppe’s plate.”
While the squire was in the act of fitting himself with what he wanted,
a new customer came into the front shop or forge, where the armourer’s
men were working strenuously, with heavy and repeated strokes, at a
piece of iron that glowed at that moment on the anvil. It was Rory
Spears.
“Hear ye me, lads,” roared he; “will ye haud yer din till I speak?”
The hammers fell thicker and faster, for the men heard him not.
“Dinna ye hear me? Haud yer din. I tell ye, till I effunde three words.
Na, the red fiend catch ye, then—devil ane o’ ye will stop. Haud yer
din, I tell ye,” shouted Rory, at the very top of his voice; but if it
had been like that of ten elephants united, it must have had as little
effect as that of a weasel amidst such thunder. The furious grimaces
and gesticulations that accompanied it were sufficiently visible, and
the iron having now become cold, the men stopped of their own accord,
and gave him an opportunity of being heard.
“Ay, by St. Lowry, I thought I should gar ye hear at length. Seest thou
here, lad,” continued he, addressing one of the men in particular, and
at the same time holding out to him the strange amphibious weapon he
usually carried, “seest thou here, my man? my clip-gaud lacketh
pointing; try what thou mayest do to sharpen it.”
The man understood not his words, but comprehended his signs, and
nodded assent; then pointing to the work they were busy about, he made
Rory aware that he must wait until they had finished it.
“Ou, ay, weel-a-weel,” said Rory, “Ise tarry here till thou be’st ready
to do the job;” and sitting down on a stool, he began peering about
with his eyes in all directions.
The door of the inner apartment being open, he sent many a long look
through the doorway, as Mortimer Sang and Andria Martellino crossed and
re-crossed his field of vision. The squire at last appeared, fully
armed cap-a-pie.
“Ha!” said he, as he strode forth, well contented with himself, “ha!
this will do—this will do bravely.”
“Ou, Maister Sang, art thou bound for the lists too,” said Rory Spears.
“Hey, Master Spears, art thou there?” replied the squire. “By’r
lackins, I knew thee not at first. Yea, I am going to try my luck.
What! be’st thou bent thither alswa with thy gaud-clip?”
“Na, na, not I,” replied Rory. “I hae other fish to fry, I promise
thee. I did come here but to get my gaud-clip sharpened. As I did sit
yestreen watchin the salmons loupin at the ess, I did espy an otter
creeping over the rock; so I threw my gaud at the brute and speared
him, but I broke the point on’t, as thou mayest see here. Na, na, I can
clip a salmon, or can toss a spear at a rae or red buck i’ the forest,
or it may be, at a man in the field; but I kenna about yere galloping
and jousting.”
“Signor Martellino, here is thy coin,” said Sang, counting it out to
him; “but remember thee thou didst owe me half a broad piece in change
the last chevisaunce that did pass between us; I do mean the which thou
didst forget to return me in our dealings at Paris, ere thou didst set
out for Milan.”
“Ah! signor, non mi recordo niente di quello,” replied Martellino, with
a knavish air of pretended forgetfulness.
“Nay, but by St. Bartholomew, thou must remember it,” said Sang
sternly. “I higgle never for thy price, but I shall have every penny
that is lawfully mine own. It was in paying thee for a morion I had of
thee; thou hadst not the change, and thou didst say I should have it
next day; but when I did call, thou wert gone to Milan. By St.
Barnabas, I will have mine own.”
“Ah! si, Signor Mortimero,” said the Italian, as if suddenly
recollecting, and twanging his response obsequiously through his nose,
accompanying it at the same time with a profound inclination of his
body, “si, avete ragione davvero, I do now remember.”
“’Tis well,” said Sang, “take this then; I shall now go look for
Polypheme. Master Spears, I bid thee good day;” and saying so, he
walked out of the forge, and, taking the rein of his steed from the
groom that attended him, mounted and rode off towards the chapel of St.
John’s.
As he approached the gate of the enclosure that surrounded it, he
observed a countryman holding two sorry ill-equipped hackneys with one
hand, and with the other an enormous heavy long-tailed coarse black
waggon-horse, covered with saddle and trappings of no small value; yet,
unfit as it seemed for tourney, it bore all the furniture necessary to
a steed destined for the lists.
Squire Mortimer dismounted, and, tossing his rein to the groom,
hastened into the Chapel, to see what new knight had arrived who could
own so unseemly a courser. The crowds who had visited the interior to
gaze at the achievements of the chevaliers, were by this time all gone
to the lists, and the most perfect stillness reigned within the Chapel.
The pages, esquires, and bannermen stood by the heraldic trophies of
their respective knights, immovable as statues; and the only sound or
motion within the place proceeded from a herald who remained to receive
and put up the achievement of any knight who might yet arrive before
sunset, and to register his name and titles, and who was at that moment
employed in doing these offices for him who called himself the Knight
of Cheviot.
This colossal man in armour was standing opposite to the place where
his achievement was erecting. On the helmet was a furze bush, with the
motto, “I prick full sore;” and the blazon bore on a field-vert, a
mountain azure, with the sun’s disc beginning to appear from behind it,
or, and the motto, “I shall shine.” The gigantic owner was leaning on a
spear, the shaft of which looked liker some taper pine-tree of good
growth, than any instrument that mortal might be supposed to wield. The
vizor of his bassinet was down, and his face was hid so that no one
could judge of it or know it; but the very shadow that he threw over
the length of the pavement of the transept, even until it rose against
the wall at the farther end of it, was enough to have daunted the
boldest heart. Sang stood patiently, with his arms folded, attentively
surveying him, and the achievement that was rearing for him; and no
sooner was the arrangement of it completed than, clutching up the shaft
of his lance short in his hand, he bestowed such a thwack with the butt
end of it on one cheek of the tilting helmet of the Knight of Cheviot,
that he made it sound through the Chapel like a bell, till all the
squires, pages, and bannermen started to hear it.
“Who art thou,” demanded the huge figure in a hollow and indistinct
voice—“who art thou who darest to challenge the Knight of Cheviot to
tilt before the day of tourney?”
“I am Mortimer Sang, esquire of the body of the renowned Sir Patrick
Hepborne, younger of Hailes,” replied he, “and thus may the herald
inscribe me, so please him. Achievement have I none at present, but a
bold heart and doughty deeds may yet win me a proud one. I do crave the
boon of a meeting from thee, mighty Knight of Mountains, so soon as the
lists may be free for us.”
“Am I, a knight, obliged to give ear to the challenge of an esquire?”
demanded he of Cheviot.
“Sir Knight,” said the herald, “such matchers are not without example,
both for jousting and outrance. But to-day and to-morrow are set apart
for giving license to all esquires and pages of good report, who have
fair reason to hope that they may one day win their spurs, that they
may challenge whom they list.”
“I could have wished some nobler antagonist to begin with,” muttered
the Knight of Cheviot; “I could have wished that Sir Patrick
Hepborne——”
“Dost thou refuse my challenge, then?” demanded Sang, striking the butt
end of his lance against the other cheek of the helmet with greater
force than before.
The Knight of Cheviot was silent and disturbed for some moments.
“Nay, Sir Knight,” said the herald, “thou mayest not well refuse it,
without forfeiting all right to tilting at this tourney.”
“Then will I accept it,” muttered the Knight of Cheviot, after a short
silence of seeming hesitation. “What! must it be even now, saidst
thou?”
“Ay, truly, as soon as the lists are clear for us,” replied Sang
coolly; “for I take it some of them are hot at it by this time. I shall
look to meet thee there forthwith, and I shall now hasten thither to
secure us our turn.”
CHAPTER XLV.
The Tournament.
The Earl of Moray’s sylvan banquet of refreshment was by this time
over, the balconies and galleries were already filled with the knights
and ladies, and the lists were surrounded by the populace, all eagerly
beholding the numerous tilting matches going on between young knights
who wished to exercise themselves, and prove each other’s strength of
arm, adroitness, and firmness of seat, or between squires or pages, who
wished to earn their first harvest of fame. The sport had been as yet
but indifferent. Most of those who had ridden against each other were
novices, who afforded but a poor specimen of what the Scottish chivalry
could do. The English knights, and, above all, the Lord Welles, were
sneering to each other at the wretchedness of the exhibition, and every
now and then throwing out sarcastic remarks against those who were
engaged, whenever the occurrence of any slight piece of awkwardness
gave them an opening for doing so. The Scottish knights who were within
ear-shot of what dropped from them, were nettled at what they heard;
and had not the sacred character of an ambassador compelled them to
keep down their emotions, the Lord Welles, or some of his suite, might
have been called on to show, in their own persons, what Englishmen
could do; but, circumstanced as they were, none of the members of this
diplomatic corps had considered it as necessary to put up his blazon in
the chapel of St. John.
“Thinkest thou, Courtenay, that there is any chance of men appearing
here to-day?” said the Lord Welles, in a voice that showed he little
cared who heard him, or what soreness he might occasion. “In my mind
those have been but women and boys who have been tilting for our
amusement.”
“Depardieux. thou sayest well, my lord,” replied Sir Piers Courtenay,
“for such woman’s play and child’s tilting did I never before behold.
Our Cheapside shop-boys would make better work on’t with their
yard-measures. Then there is no fancy in their armour—a crude and
barbarous taste, my Lord—yea, and a clownish and plebeian air about
their very persons, too. Trust me, my Lord, I do not rashly venture on
the grave and serious accusation I am now about to hazard, when I do
declare, solemnly and fervently, that I have not seen one spur of the
accurately proper fashion on any knightly heel in these Caledonian
wildernesses.”
“Ha, ha, ha. The nicety of thy judgment in such matters, Courtenay, is
unquestionable,” said the Lord Welles laughing.
A trumpet now sounded from one of the barriers, and was immediately
answered from that at the other end of the lists. The voice of a
pursuivant was next heard.
“Oyez! oyez! oyez! The good esquire Mortimer Sang doth call on the
gallant Knight of Cheviot to appear to answer his challenge.”
There was some delay for a little time, during which all eyes were
thrown towards the barrier, where Mortimer was steadily bestriding a
superb chestnut charger, with an ease and grace that might have led the
spectators to suppose that the horse and man were but one animal. One
of Sir Patrick Hepborne’s pages, well mounted, attended him, to do him
the necessary offices of the lists; and although his helmet displayed
no crest, and that his arms were plain, and his shield without
achievement, yet his whole appearance had something commanding about
it, and all were prepossessed in his favour.
“That looks something like a man,” quoth the English knights to each
other.
“What a noble-looking presence! If he be only an esquire, of a truth he
deserves to be a knight,” went round among the spectators.
“How handsome he is, and how gallant-looking and warlike!” whispered
the soft voice of Catherine Spears, who stood behind the Countess of
Moray.
The pursuivant from Sang’s barrier now repeated his challenge; a
confused murmur soon afterwards arose from that at the opposite end of
the lists, and by and by, the huge bulk of the Knight of Cheviot,
mounted on his enormous charger, was seen moving like the mountains he
took his name from, through an amazed group of wondering heads. The
horse and man seemed to have been made for each other, and they looked
like the creatures of a creation altogether different from that of this
earth, and as if such inhabitants would have required a larger world
than ours to have contained them.
“By’r Lady, but yonder comes no child, then,” exclaimed Sir Miles
Templeton, one of the English knights, who sat behind the Lord Welles.
“By St. George, ’tis an animated colossal monument,” said the Lord
Welles.
“If it be cast down, we cannot choose but have an earth-quake,” cried
Sir Piers Courtenay.
“Who or what can he be?” said Sir John Constable.
“We shall doubtless hear anon,” replied the Lord Welles.
“Hath not the brave esquire been rash in selecting so huge a monster
for his coup d’essai in the lists?” said the Countess of Moray. “To
what knight may he be attached?”
“To me, my noble lady,” said Sir Patrick Hepborne from a place behind,
where he had sat unnoticed by the Countess. “Trust me, he will acquit
himself well—his heart is as stout as it is true.”
“Sayest thou so, Sir Knight?” said the Countess, turning round and
looking at him with some severity. “Then do I give thee joy that thou
hast at least one leal heart in thy company.”
“Oh, my lady,” cried the alarmed Katherine Spears, “Squire Mortimer can
never stand against yonder terrible giant. What will become of him?
Holy St. Andrew protect us, I dare not look!”
“Nay, fear thee not, gentle damsel,” said Sir Patrick, with assumed
composure; “though yonder living tower look so big and so threatening,
trust me I have no dread for friend Sang. He hath much good thew and
muscle packed into reasonable compass, and they are nerved by a heart
withal that nothing can danton. Fear ye not for Sang. By St. Baldrid, I
begin to feel a stirring interest in this coming shock.”
“May the blessed Virgin guard and aid him!” cried Katherine Spears,
half covering her eyes.
The pursuivant at the end of the lists where the Knight of Cheviot
appeared, now responded to him who had given forth the challenge.
“Oyez! oyez! oyez! The gallant Knight of Cheviot is here, and ready to
answer the darreigne of the good squire, Mortimer Sang.”
“Laissez les aller” cried the herald from the platform under the Royal
balcony; the trumpet sounded, and the barriers at both ends of the
lists were immediately dropped.
The lists, as was very commonly the case in those times, were double;
that is to say, they were divided towards the middle, for about
two-fourths of their length, by a longitudinal barrier of wood of about
four feet high. This was for the purpose of separating the horses of
the combatants from each other, to save them from injury; for each
knight, taking a different side of the wooden wall, ran his career
close to it, and tilted at his adversary over it, without risk of the
steeds meeting in shock, as in the undivided lists.
No sooner were the barriers withdrawn, than Mortimer Sang spurred his
courser, sprang forward, and swept along like a whirlwind. The huge
animal ridden by the gigantic and ponderous Knight of Cheviot was slow
in getting into motion, and came on blowing and snorting, with a heavy
lumbering gallop, that shook the very ground. The esquire had already
ridden along one-half of the wall of division ere his antagonist had
reached a third of the distance. His lance was firmly and truly pointed
against the immense body that approached, and every eye was intently
watching for the issue of a joust that promised to be unexampled in the
annals of chivalry. Both steeds were steadily maintaining the line in
which each had started. The enormous tilting-lance of the knight, as it
came on, resembled the bolt-sprit of some vessel driven before the
wind, and, blunt though it was, the annihilation of the esquire
appeared certain to the spectators. The collision was within a few
yards of taking place, when, to the astonishment of all, the Knight of
Cheviot suddenly dropped his lance, and, seizing the bridle of his
charger with both hands, exerted all his strength to pull him aside,
and succeeded in making him bolt away from the thrust of his opponent.
That it was an intentional effort and no accident was evident to every
one. A general hiss, mingled with loud hootings broke, from the
balconies and galleries. Mortimer Sang, exasperated at the shameful and
cowardly conduct of him on whom he had so sanguinely hoped to prove his
prowess, checked the straight course of his horse’s career, and,
sweeping around in a narrow circle, ran him at the wooden barrier, and,
leaping him desperately over it, rode furiously, lance in rest, against
the dastard Knight of Cheviot, who had hardly yet reined up his steed.
Shouts of applause followed this spirited manoeuvre of Sang’s. The base
knight heard them, looked around, beheld the esquire coming, and began
immediately to fly towards the gates of the lists. “Halt,” cried
Mortimer aloud, “halt, thou craven. What! fearest thou a blunt lance?
Halt, thou mountain of Cheviot, halt, I say, that I may climb to thine
uppermost peak to tweak thee by the nose, that I may pluck thy prickly
crest from thy foggy head, and stick it beneath the tail of the
draff-horse that beareth thee; halt, coward, that I may forthwith blot
out thy rising sun, that thou mayst no more dare to shine.”
But the Knight of Cheviot stayed not to look behind him. His legs
played upon the sides of his horse like some piece of powerful
machinery, and he spurred off as if the devil had been after him, the
animal exhibiting a pace which no one could have believed was in him.
The marshalmen would have stopped him in his way to the gate, but to
have essayed to arrest the progress of a huge rock, just parted from
the summit of some lofty Alp, and spinning along the plain with all the
impetus derived from its descent, could not have been a more irrational
or more hopeless attempt, or one more pregnant with certain destruction
to those who made it. The way was cleared before him; but the gate was
shut. Neither horse nor man seemed to regard the obstruction, however;
it appeared as if both were influenced by the same blind fear. They ran
against it with so great an impetus, that its strong bars and rails
yielded before the shock, and were strewed upon the plain. Away flew
the fugitive across the Meads, and on Sang urged furiously after him.
The shouts from the lists were redoubled. Down rushed crowds of the
populace from the scaffolds, and away they poured with a hue and cry
after the chase.
The flying giant had much the start of Sang, but the superior speed of
the squire’s well-bred courser was fast lessening this advantage. It
was in vain that he attempted to double and wheel, for Sang, cutting
sharply round, only gained the more on him. He stretched his course
straight for the forest, but all saw that he must be speedily
overtaken. Sang neared him, and couching his lance, planted himself
firmly in his saddle. A single bound of his horse brought him within
reach of the knight, and giving him an alert and vigorous push in the
rear with his blunt weapon, he threw his unwieldy body forward on his
horse’s neck, so that, encumbered by the weight, the animal stumbled a
step or two, and then losing his fore legs, rolled himself and hurled
his rider forward upon the sod.
Ancient Æsop hath told us of a certain tortoise, that, being carried
into the clouds by an eagle, was dropped thence on a rock. It is easy
to conceive how the various compartments of the creature’s natural
armour must have been rent from each other by the fall. So it was with
the Knight of Cheviot. The descent of such a mountain was no light
matter. Large as his armour was, its various pieces were far from
meeting each other over the immense limbs and joints they should have
enclosed; and the leathern latchets which laced them together being
somewhat aged, they, and even the rivets, gave way with the shock; and
the fastenings of the helmet and of the different plates bursting
asunder, and there being no shirt of mail beneath them, the Knight of
Cheviot lay sprawling among the ruins of his defences, in a black
jerkin and hauselines. The active Sang would have been upon him in a
trice, but, filled with astonishment, he reined up his steed and halted
to wonder. Nor was superstitious fear altogether without its influence
in arresting him in his first intention of seizing the dastard
impostor, who had thus disgraced the name of knight, as well as the
lists in which he had dared to show himself, and of having him dragged
to that summary punishment inflicted on such occasions by the laws of
chivalry. His eyes stared with an amazement that was almost incredulous
of the reality of what they beheld. He whom he saw struggling on the
ground was the wizard, Ancient Haggerstone Fenwick, whom he had once
accidentally seen at Norham, and of whose supernatural powers he had
then heard enough to fill him now with temporary awe, at this his
unexpected appearance. Sang raised his own vizor and rubbed his eyes,
and when he saw that it was really the face and figure of the Ancient
which he beheld, he for a moment suspected that it was some demoniacal
trick of enchantment that had been played him to rob him of the fame he
had hoped to earn. Rage got the better of every feeling of
superstition.
“Ha!” exclaimed he, “be’st thou wizard or devil, I’ll wrestle with
thee;” and flinging himself from his horse, he strode towards the
struggling Knight of Cheviot.
But he was a moment too late. Ere he could reach the wizard, the latter
had recovered himself sufficiently to scramble to his legs; and just as
the squire was about to lay his fangs upon him, he escaped with a sort
of shuffling run, that grew as he proceeded into an awkward striding
gait that might have done honour to a camelopard; the plates of his
armour hanging to his body by frail tags, clattering and jingling as he
flew, and spinning off at a tangent from his person, as the thongs
successively gave way. The esquire pursued him as fast as he could, but
his armour hampered him so much that he had no chance in a race with
one who was loosely attired, and who was every moment lessening his
weight by getting rid of some part of his steel encumbrances.
“Halt, coward!” cried Sang, puffing and blowing after him. “Ha, by St.
Baldrid, ’tis in vain to follow him. An he were the Spirit of the
Cheviots himself, who may step thee from one hill-top to another, he
could not exert more alacrity of escape. He devoureth whole roods of
ground at a stride as he fleeth. By the mass, see him! he courses up
yonder bank with his backpiece hanging down behind him, rattling like a
canister at the tail of some mongrel hound. Body o’ me, how it got
atween his legs; would that it had thrown him down. Ha! now it hath
lost its hold of him—and now the red fiend may catch him for me, for
there he goes into the forest.”
The squire returned slowly and sullenly to meet his page, who was by
this time coming up. The huge dray horse of the Knight of Cheviot
having regained his legs, was standing heaving his enormous sides like
a stranded whale.
“’Tis a cruel bite, Archibald Lees,” said Mortimer Sang to the page;
“’tis a cruel bite, I say, when a man thinketh he hath roused a lion,
to find his game turn out but a stinking pole-cat after all. Get thee
after the lurdon, and pick up the pieces of his armour, the which did
drop from his scoundrel carcase as he fled.”
“Methought, as I chanced to see him casing, that he would turn out to
be some such vermin,” replied the page, as he proceeded to obey the
squire’s commands.
Sang sat himself down for a little time to recover his wind, comforting
himself with the idea that he had at least won a trophy of armour that
would be valuable from its very rarity.
“I shall have them hung up in mine own tower,” said he to himself. “As
for the horse, he may fetch as much as may repay Sir Patrick for the
advance he hath made for the arms I had of Andria Martellino. By mine
honour, he hath a body and limbs that might pull a castle after them.
He will sell right speedily to a wainman, ay, and that for a noble
price too.”
A crowd of the populace now began to approach the place where he was
sitting, clamouring as they came along. At their head came Rory Spears,
with his fish-clip brandished over his shoulder, and followed by a
party of the marshal’s men, bringing along the Italian armourer in
custody, whose face exhibited an expression of extreme dismay and
trepidation.
“Ay, ay, we shall soon ken whether the rogue speaketh truth or no,”
cried Spears indignantly. “He saith, if I mistake him not, that Squire
Sang knoweth somewhat of the matter. We shall see what he may hae to
say for himsel when he cometh before him. Bring him along here.”
“What turmoil is here, I beseech ye, my masters?” demanded Sang.
“Ah! Signor Mortimero,” cried the Italian, with a deplorable face of
terror; “a—a—ah! It is moss joy for me to see dee; I ask dem to bring
me to dee—dey no ondairstond me; ah, San Lorenzo!—dey do vant to hang
me by de naik—dey do accuse me of de steal.”
“Well,” said Sang, with a gruff laugh, as if the attempt at a joke
suited but ill with his present vexation and disappointment at the
issue of his combat, “by the mass, methinks thou mayest be well enow
content to be accused of steel in Scotland, for there lacketh not in
Paris those who did boldly affirm that thou didst employ a much softer
metal in thy warlike wares.”
“Pah! no, no, no, signor,” exclaimed Martellino, in extreme distress,
“not acciajo, vat dou do call steel van metal—ma, de steal, de rob; dey
do accuse me of steal a posse of gold, and as dou art mine verri good
friend, I did crave them to bring me to dee.”
“Nay,” said Sang, “that is in truth a more serious matter. An that be
made out to be truly the case, thy neck will assuredly be stretched,
friend Andria, in spite of all that I may do to help thee. But sith
thou hast come to me, I swear that I shall see that thou hast fair
play.”
“Oh, Signor Sang, sarai il mio protettore,” exclaimed the Italian, with
a gleam of hope in his anxious eyes. “All dat I do vant is de play
fair. If dou veelt listen to me, I vill make dee ondairstond dat I no
steal.”
“Nay,” said Rory Spears, coming forward, “I have no objection that he
should be questioned by Squire Mortimer. St. Lowry forbid that he sudna
get justice. Gif he be innocent o’ the coulpe, and can but make his
innocence clear, we sall be saved the trouble o’ hooking him up afore
the Yearl and his court. It wad be but an evil turn to do a poor
foreign deevil, to gar him dree two or three days’ jail, whan he hath
done naething that may call for sike a warison. Question him, Maister
Sang, question him.”
“If I am thus appointed preliminary judge,” replied Sang, mounting the
dray-horse, “I shall get me on my sack here, that I may sit at mine
ease, and have mine eye on all that passeth in court. Make way there;
clear the way for the prisoner,” continued he, motioning? to the crowd
to form a circle round him. “Who hath lost the purse the which he is
accused of having taken?” demanded he.
“My wife’s mother, auld Elspeth i’ the burrows town,” replied Rory, and
he hastily recapitulated the meagre particulars he had lately given the
Earl of Moray.
“Ha!” said Sang, “and who accuseth Andria Martellino of being the
thief?”
“Ich do dat, mynheer joodch,” replied a squat, thick-set, broad-faced,
heavy-looking German.
“And who mayest thou be, friend?” asked Sang; “and what mayest thou
have to effunde that may throw light upon this affair?”
“Mine name ist Hans Eisenfelsenbroken, de grat Yarman, dat mach de
armou better nor nobody dat can mach dem so well. Ich dit see de borse
in de hond of dis him here mit mine own eyes.”
“A suspicious evidence,” said Sang shaking his head gravely, “a most
suspicious evidence; trust me, I shall tell no store by it without
strong corroboration. Hath the prisoner yet been searched?”
“Nay, there hath as yet been no time,” replied the marshalmen.
“Let him be forthwith riped, then,” said the esquire.
The marshalmen proceeded to execute his orders, and, to the joy of Rory
Spears, they very speedily drew forth from beneath his gaberdine a
leathern bag, containing a considerable weight of coin.
“By St. Lowry, but that is my auld mother’s money-bag,” cried Rory
Spears, eyeing it from a distance.
“Let me have it,” said Sang; “knowest thou thy mother’s money-bag by
any mark?”
“Yea,” replied Spears, readily; “it hath E. S. on the twa lugs of it,
and a cross on the braid side.”
“Of a truth, this is the very bag,” said the squire; “the marks are all
here.”
“Eh! mine Got, did not Ich tell dee de troot, Mynheer Spears! I do know
him to be a tafe. Ha, ha! Er wird be hanged, and Ich werde have all de
trade Ich selbst!” cried the rival German armourer, with a joy which he
could not contain.
“Silence, fellow, and respect the court,” cried Sang, in a tone of
authority. “Canst thou explain how thou hadst this leathern purse,
Master Martellino?” continued he. “By St. Andrew, if thou canst not, it
will go hard with thee.”
“Ah, si, signor,” replied Martellino, with a face of joy, “de page of
dy vorship, de good Signor Lees, he happain to be vid me in my shop at
de time after I did sell de great armour to de big gigante, and he did
see him give to me de posse of gold dat is dere—van fifty broad piece
of gold.”
“That is thy mother’s sum to a tittle,” said Sang, addressing Rory.
“But how camest thou to receive so much money from the dastard knave
for a suit of armour?” continued he, putting the question to the
Italian.
“He did bribe me to give him van of mine vaine horses, dat do carry
mine goods,” replied the Italian; “and he did give me de posse and de
money and all.”
Archibald Lees vouched for the truth of all this; and some one in the
crowd, who had been in Forres during the fire, had remarked the uncouth
and gigantic figure as it glided into the old bedrid woman’s house; and
having been struck with the strangeness of its appearance, had
particularly remembered its passing speedily out again in great haste.
Another remembered that the false knight and his two accomplices had
lodged in a house of entertainment next door to Elspeth Spears’ house;
and it was even supposed by many that they had aided the conflagration,
after it was begun by the Wolfe of Badenoch and his party.
All was now clear, and the upright judge proceeded to pronounce his
decision.
“Let the money be forthwith told over, and let it, and the bag that
holds it, be restored to Master Roderick Spears, as custos thereof for
his aged mother. Let the armour, the which hath been gathered piecemeal
from the plain, be restored to the rightful owner, Signor Andria
Martellino; and let him have our judgment-seat also, sith it doth of
right belong to him. I do hereby absolve him from all coulpe. Albeit he
is sharp enow in a bargain, verily I believe he would hardly steal. As
for thee, Mynheer Eisenfelsenbroken, I shall only say that thy zeal to
further justice was rather of the eagerest, and mought have been more
creditable to thee had not the culprit, against whom thou wert so ready
to witness, been thy rival in trade. Thy conduct will doubtless have
its weight with all good men. And now I dissolve the court,” added he,
jumping from the dray-horse, and proceeding to mount his own charger,
which the page held for him.
The German went grumbling away, disappointed wickedness giving a
blacker hue to his swarthy face.
“Ah, Signor Sang,” exclaimed the Italian, coming up to him with tears
of gratitude in his eyes; “dou hast been mine good friend; dou hast vin
dine armour. Here is de money—here is de price thou deedst pay me. Take
it back.”
“What, fellow!” cried Sang, jocularly, putting him by; “what, wouldst
thou bribe the hand of justice? Wouldst thou soil that which should be
pure? Avoid, I tell thee, avoid;” and, putting spurs to his horse, he
rode off towards the lists, followed by the cheers of those who had
witnessed the scene.
CHAPTER XLVI.
The English Ambassador and the gallant Lindsay.
BY the time Mortimer Sang returned to the lists, he was disappointed to
find that he had no chance left of establishing his reputation that
night against a worthier antagonist. The Earl of Fife had already
dropped his white wand, and orders had been issued for the clearance of
the enclosure and shutting the barriers. The heralds had commanded the
banners to be furled, and all were now on the move.
The gay groups of chevaliers and ladies returned from the lists in
independent parties, some to the Castle, and others to their pavilions
on the field, to prepare for joining the general assemblage at the
banquet in the Hall of Randolph. The number of guests who met there at
the usual hour was much greater than on any of the former occasions,
many knights having arrived during the previous evening, or during that
day, that they might have their heraldic blazons and trophies put up in
the chapel of St. John the Baptist, to give them a right to tilt at the
tournament. The Countess of Moray resumed her place beside her lord, at
the head of the board. Sir Patrick Hepborne attended the party of the
Lady of Dirleton, who, with her lord, showed him an increase of
kindness each successive time they met; but when he addressed the Lady
Jane de Vaux, she seemed to have put on that frosty and chilling air
which had given him so much vexation in the Countess of Moray.
The conversation naturally turned on the exhibition of the day, and was
for some time confined to the various private dialogues in which it had
sprung up. Praise fell on some few names—Sang’s conduct, and his
amusing chase were talked of with commendation of him, and ridicule of
his opponent, the impostor Knight of Cheviot, of whose robbery of the
old woman’s purse all were now made aware. Some young knights were
mentioned with approbation, but the general feeling was, that the
exhibition had been poor, and much more was hoped for from to-morrow.
By degrees the hum of voices that prevailed around the festive board
began to subside beneath the interest that was gradually excited by a
conversation now arising between the Lord of Welles and some of his
English knights, on the one hand, and several of the Scottish
chevaliers on the other; and, at last, so deep was the silent attention
it produced, that every word of it was heard by all present.
“My Lord Earl of Moray,” said the Lord Welles, “I feel much beholden to
thee for having persuaded me hither from Scone; for, however tedious
and tiresome mought have been the journey, it hath given me an
opportunity of satisfying myself and my friends of the unbounded
liberality and magnificence of thy hospitality, the which can be
surpassed by nothing south of Tweed. But I hope thou wilt take no
offence at the plainness of speech and honesty which I use, when I tell
thee that had thy Scottish tilting been all the inducement thou hadst
to offer me, I mought have as well staid where I was, as I should most
assuredly have been but meagrely recompensed for the hardships and
deprivations of my long and wearisome pilgrimage through so large a
portion of your trackless Scottish forests and wastes.”
“Nay, my Lord Welles,” replied the Earl of Moray, “I care not what may
have occasioned me the honour of thy presence at Tarnawa, enow for me
is the satisfaction of its enjoyment, enhanced as it is by the gracious
reception of what hospitality I may offer thee. Yet of a truth it
erketh me to find that thou hast lacked that pleasure in the survey of
the exercises of this day’s jousting the which I had hoped to afford
thee. Thou knowest that such meetings of arms are but rare with us in
Scotland, and we may not look for that expertness the which doth
distinguish the tourneys of more southern climes; yet had I hoped that
thou mightest have been in some sort amused.”
“Nay, perdie, I said not that I was not amused,” cried the Lord Welles,
with a sarcastic leer—“I said not that I was not amused; for amused I
certainly was, and that exceedingly too; but amusement is not what I do
ever look for in beholding the exercise of the lists. When I do lack
amusement, I do hie me to view the tomblesteers, and those who do
practise jonglerie; and indeed I did of a truth see many to-day who
were very well fitted for shining among a corps of tumblers; and so I
could not choose but be amused, yea even unto laughter, as I did
witness the ingenious summersaults they performed. Yet looking, as I am
ever accustomed to do, for firm sitting and well-addressed lances in
the lists, depardieux, I could not but be disappointed that thou hadst
nothing better to show me in behalf of Scottish chivalry.”
“Thou knowest, my Lord Welles,” said the Earl calmly, “that these were
but the novices in arms, to whom the license of this day and to-morrow
is given to exercise themselves withal. Judge not too hastily, I
beseech thee, of our Scottish chivalry, of whom thou hast but as yet
seen the feeble efforts of the braunchers.”
“I should not wish to judge too hastily,” replied the Lord Welles; “but
if the young falcons show such poor courage of flight, parfay, I see
not great hope of their ever winging well up to the quarry. If thy
youthful knighthood of Scotland show no more bravely, depardieux, there
is but little chance of much shining metal or skill being displayed
among those who have grown tall under such awkward and unseemly
practice.”
“My most excellent Lord,” said Sir Piers Courtenay, following up the
speech of his principal, “my most sweet, excellent, and
highly-respected Earl of Moray, I must be permitted to add to those
remarks, the which it hath pleased the judicious and nicely-observant
Lord Welles to effunde, that I did, to my inexpressible astonishment
and dismay, yea, and almost to the doubting the accuracy of the
observation of mine eyes, perceive, and I hope thou wilt forgive me for
thus daring to divulge it, always believing that I do so without
meaning offence, and giving me credence for the entertainment of the
most perfect respect and consideration for your Lordship; I did verily
perceive, I say, several grievous outrages on the established rules for
the equipment of men and horses in those who did ride to-day. Three
spurs did I observe that were too high set on the heels, by the fourth
part of an inch at least; one did I notice of a vile fashion; one
bridle-bit was all courbed awry; one dagger was worn nearly, though not
quite, an inch too low; divers of the wreaths were ill adjusted on the
helmets (the ladies,” bowing round to them as he said so, “will pardon
me for adventuring on criticism so nearly affecting them); some of the
crests were an inch too high; and, to conclude, there were more than
one surcoat ill cut. Now, I do crave thy permission to remark, most
potent Earl, that he who doth neglect these highly essential, though
minute points of chivalry, cannot be expected to excel in the greater
and more obvious.”
“I do hope, my noble Earl of Moray,” said Sir William de Dalzell
roguishly—“I do hope that thou wilt exert thy power and thine influence
over the young and rising sprigs of Scottish chivalry, that they may
arm themselves more en regle; but, that they may strictly and correctly
do so, it doth behove thee to hunt out and catch that large ensample of
good and well-fashioned English knighthood the which did with such
brilliancy grace our Scottish lists this day—he of the Cheviot
mountains, I do mean, for I am credibly informed that he is of English
fabrication; but I trow it will puzzle thee sore to find a Scot,
whether knight, esquire, or page, who can run with him; yet ought he
natheless to be hunted out, caught, and exhibited for the amelioration
of our salvage nation; yea, and after his death he should be speedily
embowelled, embalmed, and stuffed, to be set up as a specimen of the
rigid and scrupulous accuracy of chivalric arming practised by English
knights, to the securing of the improvement of Scottish taste and the
establishment of a purer and more perfect description of it than hath
hitherto prevailed in such matters, to the latest generation.”
“Thou dost not call by the glorious name of knight that impostor who
assumed the character and name for some villainous purpose, and who had
the lion’s skin torn from his scoundrel carcase?” exclaimed the Lord
Welles, with a haughty and indignant air.
“It mattereth not whether he were knight or no,” replied Sir William de
Dalzell; “of one thing we are all certain, and that is, that he was ane
Englishman.”
“And are all Englishmen to be judged by the ensample of such a craven
as that? one, too, who was hatched on the very borders of Scotland?”
replied the Lord Welles, with a slight expression of anger.
“Nay” said Sir David Lindsay of Glenesk, “nay, my good Lord, not so;
but neither are the deeds of all Scottishmen to be judged by the
nerveless essays of a few untaught striplings. I do beseech thee to
suspend thy decision as to Scottish tilting until our tourney doth
commence, and I do give thee leave to call us gnoffes if thou wilt,
yea, tomblesteers, if so be thou dost then think we deserve any such
opprobrious epithets; but if I mistake not, thou shalt see enow to
satisfy thee that thou mayest meet with some in Scotland who may be an
overmatch for the best of thine English knights.”
“Parfay, thou goest far, Sir David Lindsay,” said the Lord Welles, with
a sneer; “meseems it thou knowest but little of the mettle of English
chivauncie, to talk of it so slightingly.”
“Nay, I went not farther than I did intend,” replied the Scottish
knight; “I trow I have seen good emptying of saddles in my day, and
have encountered knights of all nations, and I am bold to say that were
I to choose my champion it should not be from England he should be
taken, while we have Scotsmen left to afford me good picking. At
present, thanks be to God, we have whole armies of knights, any one of
whom, so far from provoking an Englishman’s mirth, will, by the very
mention of his name alone, make any southern chevalier look grave.”
“Nay, boast not, Lindsay,” said the gallant Douglas, “we can prove enow
by deeds to set us above vaunting.”
“I vaunt not, my Lord Earl of Douglas,” replied Sir David Lindsay; “yet
when vaunts are the only weapons used against us, what can a man do?”
“Let words have no place, then,” said the Lord Welles, with
considerable eagerness, as well as haughtiness of manner—“let words
have no place; and if thou knowest not the chivalry and the valiant
deeds of Englishmen, appoint me a day and a place where thou listeth,
and, depardieux, thou shalt have experience to thine edification.”
“If it so please thee, then, to waive thy privileges, my Lord,” quickly
rejoined Sir David Lindsay; “if so be, I say, that thou wilt condescend
to waive thy privileges, and that thou wilt vouchsafe to honour our
lists with an exhibition of thy skill and nerve, by St. Andrew I will
gladly meet thee to-morrow; yea, or if thou shouldst wish to eschew the
encounter in thine own sacred person, of a truth I shall be well
contented to take whichsoever of thy companions thou mayest be pleased
to assign me. We shall at least be sure that the appearance of one
English knight in the lists shall give a zest to the jousting which
to-day’s exhibition did so meagrely supply.”
“I do beseech thee, my noble and most fair Lord,” said Sir Piers
Courtenay to the Lord Welles—“I do beseech thee, let me be the
supremely felicitous knight who may appear under the banner of St.
George to combat in honour of England.”
“Nay, Courtenay,” said the Lord Welles, “I can neither resign to thee
the right I have obtained to the gallant Sir David Lindsay, nor can I
submit to tilt now; but if Sir David will indulge me so far as to name
some other time and place, verily, I shall pledge myself to give him
the meeting, yea, and that, too, with as much good-will as he can wish
for it.”
“By the mass, I care not though thou dost make the meeting in England,
or even in London itself,” said Sir David Lindsay. “Let me have a
safe-conduct from the English King for myself and party and I will not
scruple to ride, yea, even to the farthermost point of thy southern
soil in search of an antagonist so desirable.”
“Let it be on London Bridge, then,” said the Lord Welles.
“On London Bridge!” muttered a number of the Scottish knights, as if
they thought that it was but hardly liberal in the English noble to
close so narrowly with the wide proposal of their champion.
“Yea, on London Bridge, or in thine own garden, if it so listeth thee,
my Lord Welles,” replied the staunch Sir David, without attending to
the ejaculations of his friends. “Let us not delay to record the
conditions.”
“My word is enow for this night, I do trust,” replied the Lord Welles,
rising and offering his hand across the table to Sir David Lindsay, who
took it in the most friendly manner. “To-morrow we may have the terms
properly drawn up at greater leisure.”
“So then, ’tis as it should be,” said the Earl of Moray. “Let a
brimming goblet be filled. I drink to the health of the Lord Welles and
the health of Sir David Lindsay of Glenesk, and let both names float
together in friendly guise on the same mantling mazer.”
This double health was received with loud acclamations by all, and the
goblets circulated briskly to do honour to it.
CHAPTER XLVII.
The Earl of Fife’s Council Meeting—The Challenge between the
Scottish and English Knights.
The health had hardly well gone round ere the shrill notes of a bugle
were heard, followed by a stir that arose in the court-yard, the noise
of which even reached the ears of those in the hall. A messenger had
arrived express, and a letter was speedily delivered to the Earl of
Fife.
“Ha!” said he, with an air of surprise, as he surveyed the impression
of the signet attached to the purple silk in which it was wrapped; and
then hastily breaking it open, glanced rapidly over its contents.
All eyes were turned towards him with eager inquiry. An expression of
earnest attention to what he read was very visibly marked on his
features.
“Your pardon, brother,” said he, starting up at length, after a
moment’s thought; “I crave your pardon, and that of this honourable
company, but this letter is from my Royal father, and on pressing state
affairs. I must of needscost break up the banquet sooner than thy
wonted hospitality would authorize me to demand of thee, were the
business of a less urgent nature; but we must hold a council
straightway to determine how we may best and most speedily fulfil the
wishes of His Majesty. I shall wait thy coming in thy private
apartment, and shall by and by hope for the attendance of such of the
nobles and knights here assembled as may be required to aid our
resolves.”
Having said so, the Earl of Fife bowed graciously to the company with
such a sweeping, yet particularizing glance, as left each individual in
the firm belief that he had been especially distinguished by the great
man’s notice; and, putting his hand into his bosom, he moved down the
hall with all the appearance of being instantly absorbed in deep
reflection.
The Lord Welles and his suite of English knights, darting very
significant looks towards one another, sat a few minutes, and then
rising, retired in a body. The Countess of Moray, and the rest of the
ladies, also soon afterwards left the board, and sought their
apartments, and the Earl of Moray instantly broke up the banquet, and
hastened to join his brother the Earl of Fife, taking with him the Earl
of Douglas and the Earl of Dunbar. Such of the Scottish nobles and
knights, however, as conceived that their presence might be required at
the expected council, continued to pace the ample pavement in small
parties, or to stand grouped together in little knots, all exercising
their ingenuity in guessing at the probable cause and nature of so
sudden and unlooked-for, and apparently so important a communication.
The most prevalent surmise was, that a war with England was to be
declared, and the very thought of such a thing gave joy to every manly
bosom. Suspicions of the prospect of a rupture between the two
countries had begun to be pretty general of late; and the circumstance
of bringing down the English ambassadors to Tarnawa, was by some, who
affected to be deeper read in such matters than others, interpreted
into a fine piece of state policy to keep them out of the way, while
preparations were maturing for the more powerful and successful
commencement of hostilities on the part of Scotland. All were impatient
to know the truth, and when a messenger came to the door of the hall
with a roll of names, which he read over, calling on those of the
nobles and knights who were named in it, to remain in the hall, and
take their places at the board, at the upper end of it, according to
their rank, those who were so selected could not well hide their
satisfaction, while those who were compelled to withdraw did so with
extreme reluctance.
Sir Patrick Hepborne was overjoyed to find that he was to be one of
those in whom the Earl of Fife wished to confide. He took his seat at
the table with the rest, and the most profound silence succeeded to the
sounds of mirth and pleasure which had so lately reigned within the
hall. Whatever conjectures might have escaped the lips of those around
the board, whilst they mingled carelessly with those who were idly
speculating on the probable purport of the King’s message, they now
considered the seal of silence imposed on their lips, by their being
selected as councillors; and accordingly they sat gazing at each other
with grave and solemn looks, calmly awaiting the arrival of the Earl of
Fife. Certain faces there were which betrayed something like a
consciousness of greater self-importance than the rest, as if they
either knew, or would have had others believe that they knew, something
more than those around them. But whatever they knew or thought they
ventured not to express it.
At length the Earls of Fife, Moray, Douglas, and Dunbar appeared, and
took their seats at the upper end of the table. All eyes and ears were
fixed in attention; and the Earl of Fife, laying the King’s letter and
packet on the table, began to open the business he had to communicate
to them.
“My Lords and Gentlemen,” said he, in a tone of voice which, though
audible enough to every one of them, was yet too low to have found its
way through any of the crannies of the door at the farther end of the
hall, “I shall be as brief as possible with you. Ye all know how great
is my consideration for you individually, so I trust that I have no
need to waste time in assuring ye of my love for ye all, or of the zeal
with which I am filled for promoting your respective interests. Highly
sensible am I of the great blessing that hath befallen Scotland, in
raising up such store of wisdom and valour among her sons, as I do know
to exist in the persons of the noble lords and honourable knights by
whom I have now the felicity of being surrounded; and I do the more
congratulate myself upon this knowledge at the present time, seeing
that the wisdom and the valour I have spoken of must now be called
forth into important action. For, to withhold the news from you no
longer, Scotland is about to be, nay, more probably hath been already
invaded—a large army having hovered on the Eastern Marches, threatening
the Merse with fire and sword, the which may have ere this been poured
out upon them. Your good King, and my Royal father, hath sent this
intelligence express from Aberdeen, where he now abideth, at the same
time commanding our instant attendance there to counsel and advise him,
and to receive his orders for our future conduct. We are, moreover,
directed to lead thither with us all the strength of dependants we can
muster, and to take such immediate measures as may ensure the instant
gathering of those districts which are under the control of each of us
respectively. A large force must of needscost be quickly got together;
it is therefore highly expedient that our vassals should be forthcoming
with as little delay as possible, that they may be ready to unite
themselves with the host wheresoever and whensoever it may assemble.
Such of us as are wanted at Aberdeen must set forward to-morrow. These,
then, are the matters and the commands which my Royal father sends you,
and which I, as his organ, have been instructed to convey to you.”
A murmur of applause ran round the table. Broken sentences burst from
the respective knights, each shortly but pithily expressing the
satisfaction he felt at the prospect of having something more serious
than jousting to occupy him.
“I have yet one more communication to make, my Lords and Gentlemen, of
which you must be the witnesses, and I need not say that I entreat you
to be the silent witnesses of it. I must convey to the Lord Welles
intelligence, which I am not without suspicion he hath been for some
time anticipating, from his own private knowledge of events. I mean to
crave an immediate conference with him here in your presence; but it is
my wish that no one whom I have here admitted to my confidence will
talk to him, or any of the English knights, either now or afterwards of
anything I have mentioned. I have to communicate to the Lord Welles the
King’s license for his departure, and I hope I do not ask too much when
I beg that I may be left to do so entirely unassisted, and that nothing
he or his shall say may provoke ye to speak. Silence will best accord
with your dignity. Go, brother, my Lord Earl of Moray, so please thee,
and entreat the presence of the Lord Welles among us, with such of his
suite as he may list to accompany him.”
The Earl of Moray hastened to obey his brother-in-law, and, during his
absence, the Earl of Fife seemed to have retreated into his own
thoughts. The knights who sat with him remained in still contemplation
of him and of one another. The English envoy was received with
dignified decorum.
“My Lord Welles,” said the Earl of Fife to him after he was seated, “I
have now to perform a piece of duty to my King, the which, as it
regardeth thee, doth particularly erke me. As thou art thyself aware, I
have this night received a letter from His Majesty, and I have now to
tell thee, that in it I am commanded to inform thee that he will
dispense with thy further attendance at his Royal Court. In so far as
our personal intercourse hath gone, I have good reason to regret that
it is to be discontinued so soon; and the more so that it hath fallen
into my hands to snap it. This parchment, which I have now the honour
of presenting to thee, doth contain a safe-conduct for thee, and all
with thee, to return into thy native country by the shortest possible
route. It doleth me much that we are to be so soon reft of thine
agreeable society. Yea, the removal of thy presence is most especially
galling at such a time, when all was prepared for making the days of
thy stay in Scotland as light as mought be. Our coming tourney will be
nought without thee.”
“My Lord of Fife, of a truth this is a most sudden and unlooked-for
event,” said the Lord Welles, with the appearance, if not with the
reality, of surprise on his countenance. “Hath any reason been
assigned, the which it may be permitted thee to utter to me?”
“His Majesty’s reasons, my good Lord, are not always given,” replied
the Earl of Fife, evasively; “but thou knowest that it is the part of a
subject implicitly to obey, without inquiring too curiously into the
nature of the wires that may be on the stretch to put him in motion;
and I must submit as well as others. Hast thou had no communications
lately from thine own court?”
“If thy coming tourney doth ever hold,” said the Lord Welles,
altogether avoiding the home question of the Earl of Fife, and glancing
curiously into the faces of those around him, “it will suffer little in
its pomp or circumstance, I trow, from my departure, where thou hast so
great an assemblage of Scottish knights to give lustre to it, but if
they should be called away, indeed, by anything connected with my
dismissal, it may in that case dwindle, peraunter, and expire of very
consumption ere it hath been well born.”
The Lord Welles’s eyes returned from their excursion round the table,
without displaying signs of having gathered anything from the firm
Scottish countenances they had scanned.
“And when must I of needscost set forward, my Lord?” continued the Lord
Welles, addressing the Earl of Fife.
“A party of lances will be in waiting to-morrow morning by sunrise, to
guide and protect thee on thy way, and I do believe that thou wilt find
that sufficient time hath been given thee in the parchment thou hast,
to make the journey easy. Shouldst thou, peradventure, covet the
provision of anything that may contribute to thy comfort or expedition,
the which I may have the power to procure for thee, I do beseech thee
to let me be informed, and it shall be mine especial care that thou
mayest be gratified.”
“Nay, my Lord Earl of Fife, I lack nothing,” replied the Lord Welles.
“And now, then, my good Lord, I bid thee good night,” said the Earl of
Fife. “Farewell; it will give me joy again to meet with thee as a
friend, until when may St. George be with thee.”
“Receive our fullest thanks for all thy gracious courtesy,” replied the
Lord Welles.
The Earl of Fife now arose with the Earls Douglas, Moray, and Dunbar,
and took his leave, with many condescending protestations. The Lord
Welles and his friends loitered a little time after he was gone, and
the Scottish knights having by this time risen from the council board,
he mingled familiarly among them.
“This dismissal of mine is something of the suddenest,” said he, in a
general kind of manner, to a few of them who were clustered together.
“Can any umbrage have been taken? Is it possible King Robert can mean
to steal a march on His Majesty of England, and cross the Border ere he
giveth him warning? or hath he already done so with an English envoy in
his territories?”
He paused after each of these short interrogatories, as if in the hope
of fishing out a reply from some one, which might instruct him in the
extent of the information that had come from the Scottish Monarch; but
no one exhibited either the will or the power to gratify him, and he
adroitly changed to another subject.
“Ha! Sir David Lindsay,” said he, turning round and addressing that
knight, “let us not forget to settle the engagement and darreigne that
hath passed between us.”
“Nay, trust me, that shall not I,” replied Sir David Lindsay; “I but
waited until thou hadst concluded thy weightier and more pressing
affairs, to entreat thee that we may enter into our articles of tilting
now. I do hope that nothing may arise to baulk us of our sport.”
“What, I beseech thee, can baulk us?” demanded the Lord Welles slyly,
and probably with the hope that he would yet catch what he had been
angling for, by throwing this long line, and drawing it so skilfully
round.
“Nay, I know not,” replied Sir David Lindsay readily; “thou mightst
have repented thee peraunter, and it would have sorely grieved me hadst
thou wished to draw thy head from our agreement.”
“Depardieux, thou needest be in no dread of that, Sir David; I am not a
man of that kidney, I promise thee,” hastily replied the Lord Welles,
in some degree thrown off his guard by the gentle touch which Lindsay
had given to his honour; “for whether it be in war or in peace thou
shalt have a safe-conduct from King Richard, if I have the influence
that I do believe I have; yea, a safe-conduct for thee and thine, that
thou mayest on thy part fulfil thy behote. Let us straightway hasten to
arrange and register the terms of our meeting.”
“’Tis well thought of,” said Sir David Lindsay; “let us have a clerk to
put our mutual challenge in proper style, and distinct and lasting
characters, that, each of us having a copy thereof, neither of us may
mistake.”
A scrivener was accordingly sent for, and the council board, again
ordained to change the service it was destined to, now became a
theatre, where the nicest points of chivalry and the minutest rules of
tilting were canvassed at greater length and with more eagerness of
debate than had been bestowed on the much more important business which
had been previously gone through there. The superfine judgment of Sir
Piers Courtenay in such matters was singularly pre-eminent; and his
auditors were extremely edified by some long and very learned
disquisitions with which he was pleased to favour them. At length
everything was happily adjusted to the satisfaction of both parties,
and written copies of the terms being signed and exchanged between the
two principals in the proposed affair, they cordially shook hands and
separated, with many chivalric and courteous speeches to each other.
Things were no sooner settled thus, than several Scottish knights
pressed forward to entreat Sir David Lindsay that they might be
permitted to bear him company when the time should be finally fixed.
The first of these was Sir William de Dalzell, and another was Sir
Patrick Hepborne. To these, and to Sir John Halyburton, Sir David
Lindsay readily promised that places should be preserved, however
limited a number the safe-conduct might be granted for; but he declined
further promises until he could be sure of fulfilling them. The
Scottish knights, who had been all too much interested in what was
going forward to permit them to leave the hall until everything was
finally adjusted, now hastened to call their esquires, and to make
those private preparations for travelling which were not publicly to
appear until after the departure of the English envoy and his suite.
CHAPTER XLVIII.
The Departure from the Castle of Tarnawa—The Alarm of War.
The morning had not yet dawned when the court-yard of the Castle
re-echoed to the tramp of the mettled steeds of the Lord Welles and the
English knights, and their numerous retinue. The gay caparisons of the
men and horses, and the gaudily embroidered banners they carried,
flaunted and fluttered in vain amid the raw, grey, and chilling light
that quenched their glittering lustre, and left them but meagrely
visible. A body of Scottish lances, commanded by several trusty
officers, stood ready to march with them as a guard, and the troop was
of such strength as might overawe any undue curiosity they might
display, as well as do them honour, or protect them from injury or
insolence during their march through Scotland. The Earl of Moray was on
foot to do them the parting civilities of a host.
“Forget not London Bridge,” cried a loud voice from the window of a
high turret that overlooked the court-yard.
The Lord Welles and his knights were already in their saddles. They
twisted their necks with some difficulty, so as to have a view upwards,
and there they beheld the hairy bosom and sternly-comic features of Sir
William de Dalzell, who, in his chemise and bonnet de nuit, had thrust
his head and shoulders forth from a window.
“Fear not,” cried the Lord Welles; “the meeting shall not fail on the
side of England.
“Nor of Scotland neither,” replied Dalzell, “if so be that fourfooted
beasts can be had to carry our bodies to the muddy banks of thy
stinking Thames. I bid thee bon voyage, my Lord, though, by St. Andrew,
I envy thee not thine early morning’s march; and so I’ll to my couch,
and court the gentle influence of Morpheus for some hour or twain, for
contraire to all due course of nature, I see it threatens to snow.”
With these words he threw into the air two large handfuls of
feather-downs, and instantly drew himself in. The Lord Welles was half
disposed to take the matter up as an insult; but the Earl of Moray,
laughing good-humouredly as the artificial snow descended on the group,
soon pacified his excited indignation.
“Nay, mind him not, my Lord,” said he—“no one among us minds the jest
of Sir William de Dalzell; and if we did, perdie, we should gain little
by the trial, for we should only bring more of his humorous conceits on
our heads. His wit, how rude soever it may seem, hath no meaning of
harm or insult in it.”
The Earl allowed the Lord Welles and his knights to be some time gone
ere he began to summon his people about him, and to issue his orders
for an immediate march. Sir William de Dalzell was the first of the
Scottish knights, his guests, who appeared armed cap-a-pie in the
court-yard, where the bustle of the foregoing morning was soon more
than renewed. Two or three hundred good men of the Earl’s followers
began to assemble, with their horses and arms, in obedience to the
summons which had been secretly sent through the population of the
district during the night. The rumour of the approaching war spread
from mouth to mouth, and rude jokes and laughter followed its
propagation, until the joyous clamour, becoming louder and louder,
began at last to swell till the welkin was rent with the bursting
shouts of the men-at-arms and soldiery, who rejoiced at the prospect of
having something more serious than a tourney to do with.
Sir Patrick Hepborne sprang from his couch, and began to busy himself
for his departure. As he moved across the floor, his naked foot struck
against something that felt like the head of a nail, and was slightly
wounded by it. He stooped to ascertain what it was, when, much to his
surprise, he discovered a ring, with a beautiful emerald set in it,
that had slipped into a crevice between the planks, so as to leave the
stone sticking up. He immediately recognized it as having been worn by
the page Maurice de Grey. It was of beautifully wrought gold, and,
after a more minute examination, he discovered some Gothic characters
within its circle, which he read thus—
Change never,
But love ever
Thine Eleanore de Selby.
At the very name of Eleanore de Selby, Sir Patrick’s heart beat
quicker. He had no doubt that the jewel had dropped from the finger of
the page, probably the morning he left Tarnawa. He had already resolved
to keep it carefully, in remembrance of the boy; but the legend seemed
to prove it to have been a gift to Maurice de Grey from his cousin the
Lady Eleanore de Selby; and the conviction that it had once been hers,
all unworthy as she was, imparted to it a tenfold value, which he in
vain attempted to struggle against. It seemed to have appeared
miraculously to warn him never to forget her, and he resolved to
treasure it as a relic of one who could never be his.
Meanwhile the court-yard resounded with the neighing of steeds and the
din of arms, and the trumpets and bugles were heard to strike shrilly
on the Castle walls, till its very turrets seemed to thrill with their
hoarse clangour. It was chiefly thronged by some of the same knights,
and some of the same esquires, pages, lacqueys, and steeds, whose
painted surcoats of a thousand dies, whose armour glittering with gold
and gems, and whose gorgeous attire and furniture, had reflected the
rays of the sunrise of the previous morning. But the new-born orb of
this day looked upon them in another guise. Though by no means devoid
of splendour, what they now wore was more adapted for use than for
ornament, and their very countenances displayed more of the fury of
joy, and had put on an air of greater sternness, that sorted strangely
with their uncouth jeers and laughter. The number of spearmen, bowmen,
pole-axe-men, and men-at-arms of all descriptions, was now much larger;
and in addition to this variety of the motley crowd, there were several
horse litters in attendance, and numerous batt and sumpter horses
loading with the lighter baggage, whilst at the Castle gate appeared a
small train of wains and wainmen, who were receiving the heavier
articles that were to be transported.
One of the most active men in the midst of the bustle was Rory Spears,
who, with a morion on his head, and a back and breast-plate donned
instead of his fisherman’s coat, was busily occupied assisting in and
superintending the loading of the baggage.
“Father,” said his daughter Katherine to him, as she at last obtained
an opportunity of addressing him, whilst at the same time her eyes
wandered to the adjacent spot, where Squire Sang was engaged in getting
Sir Patrick Hepborne’s party in order; “would I could wend with thee,
father!”
“Hey!” exclaimed Rory, turning suddenly round upon her, and at the same
time poising a large package on his broad shoulder, and keeping it
there with one hand, whilst with the other he brandished his gaud-clip,
with singular energy of action; “what ails thee, lass? Is the wench
wud, think ye? Wouldst thou to the wars, sayest thou? Na, na, Kate; the
camp be nae fit place for sike like as thee, I trow. What, expose thee,
with all thy leddy learning and madame ’haviour, to be the hourly butt
for the ribald jests of the guards, and the boozing companions of the
sultering huts! By my fackins, that would be it indeed. Na, na! stay
thee at home, lassie, and look to the Countess, and thy new young
leddy; ay, and thy mother Alice, and the auld woman in the Burgh alswa;
and when I come back, my winsome grouse-pout, I’ll bring thee some
bonny-waully frae the wars. We shall ha’ spulzie to pick and choose
amang, I rauckon.” So saying, he threw his right arm, gaud-clip and
all, around his daughter’s waist, and kissing her heartily and with
much affection, hastened off with his burden.
He was no sooner gone, than Mortimer Sang, seizing one moment from the
bustle of his occupation, strode across to where Katherine was
standing, gazing in silent, abstracted, and melancholy guise, towards
the pile of baggage heaped up on the ground, which her father’s
powerful arms had been rapidly diminishing. With the corner of her eye
she marked the squire’s approach; but the fulness of her heart told her
that she dared not look up, lest it should run over. Sang stood for
some moments absorbed in contemplation of her, his eyes rapidly feeding
his passion, and his passion slowly filling his eyes.
“Mrs. Katherine,” said he at length, “ahem! Mrs. Katherine. Of a truth,
it is a bitter and ill-favoured thing to be compelled to part with
those with whom we have been happy. Verily, ’twas but yestre’en that
you and I were right blithe together, and by this e’en there will be
many miles atween us—ay, and who can tell, for a matter of that,
whether it may ever again please Heaven to bring us together for even
one such jolly evening—Heigho!”
Katherine could stand this no longer, but giving way to a burst of
grief, hid her eyes in her apron, and being too much agitated to speak,
and too much shocked at this her involuntary disclosure of her
attachment to the squire, she ran off and disappeared into the Castle.
Sang brushed the mists from his eye-lids with the back of his hand,
that his eyes might follow the fair vision as it flew. A Gothic doorway
received it. He heaved up a sigh, that rose from the bottom of his
heart, and again sunk heavily to the abyss whence it was raised, and
stood for some moments gazing at the black void that no longer
possessed her figure. Again his eyes were dimmed with moisture, again
he cleared them, and again he sighed; and casting one look towards his
men, who were standing idle in consequence of his absence, and another
to the doorway, he seemed to stand fixed between the equal attractions
of duty on the one hand and love on the other. A confused and
half-smothered laugh roused him from his dream. It proceeded from the
troopers and lacqueys of his party, who were all regarding him, and
nodding and winking to each other. Stung with an immediate sense of the
ludicrous appearance he must have presented his men, the balance of his
will was overthrown at once, and he sprang off to rate them for their
idleness.
“What ho, my masters, meseems as if ye had lost your main-spring, that
ye stand so idle. By the bones of the blessed St. Baldrid, but I will
baste your lazy ribs with my lance-shaft, an ye stand staring in that
fashion; by all that is good I will make kettle-drums of yere bodies.
Ha! I’ll warrant me I shall alter your music, ay, and change these
jokes and that laughter of yours into grinnings that shall make your
fortunes at e’er a fair in Christendom. Go to, bestir yourselves,
knaves.” And following up this with a few well-directed hints of a more
substantial description, laid across the shoulders and backs of those
whom he conceived to be most deserving of his chastisement, they were
all as busy as ants in a moment.
“Master Spears,” said Sang to Rory, as he passed him accidentally, “it
erketh me to learn that thou goest not with us.”
“Not ganging with thee!” exclaimed Rory, with an expression of
countenance partaking partly of surprise at the question, partly of
doubt whether it was put seriously or in joke, and partly of the
pleased anticipation of the proud triumph he was about to enjoy when he
should have breath to pour forth his answer; “not ganging with thee,
Master Sang! By St. Lowry, but I am at a loss to fortake thy meaning.
What wouldst thou be at? Dost thou mean to say that I wend not with my
Lord the Yearl? If thou dost, by’r lackins, but thou art as sore wide
o’ the mark as if thou hadst shot blindfold. I’d have thee to know, Sir
Squire,” continued Rory, raising himself up to his full height,
sticking his left arm akimbo, and thrusting out his right to its utmost
horizontal extent, his hand at the same time resting on the hook of his
gaud-clip, the shaft of which was pointed to the earth, “I’d have thee
to know, my most worthy friend, Master Mortimer, and be it known to
thee, with all the due submission and respect the which I do bear thee,
that thy master, Sir Patrick, mought no more take the field withouten
thee, than my master, the noble Yearl of Moray, would get into his
saddle till he saw me at his back. Trust me, though I cannot ride
tilting as thou dost, nor loup barriers, nor gallop after runaway Gogs,
Magogs, and Goliaths of Gath, in armour, as thou mayest, I can push as
good a thrust with a lance, when I take a grup o’t in real yearnest,
against a chield that may be ettling to do me the like favour, as I can
yerk out this same gaud-clip i’ my hand here, again a rae or ane otter
beast. Na, na—the Yearl gang to the wars withouten me! No possible.”
“Nay, as to its being possible, Master Spears,” replied Sang, folding
his arms across his breast with a waggish air, “trust me, I can assure
thee of the fact, seeing I did hear the Earl say to his esquire that
thou wert to tarry at Tarnawa, to wait on a young English damsel, who
might lack thy protection for a certain journey she hath in
contemplation.”
“Ha!” exclaimed Spears, who had stood in utter dismay as Sang was
speaking; “art thou sickerly assured of what thou sayest, Squire
Mortimer? My faith, things be come to ane queer pass indeed, sin’ they
are gawin to transmew rough Rory Spears into a squire of dames. They
will, nae doot, make a tire-woman of him ere it be lang. But, by my
troth, I ken mair aboot mewing of hawks than mutching of maidens, and
there is no sweet essence, oil, or unguent to me like the guff o’ a
wolf, a tod, or a brock. Aweel-aweel, the Yearl’s wull sail be my wull;
but this I will say, though it may be I should not, that if ever it
gaed contraire to the grain wi’ me to do his bidding, by St. Lowry, now
is the very time. But what maun be maun be—that’s a’ I can say till’t.”
So shouldering his gaud-clip, he slowly and sullenly retired into the
Castle, his utter disappointment and mortification being but ill
concealed by his drooping head, and his hair that hung loose about his
face from under his morion.
Rory sought his Lord, and, notwithstanding the bustle of business in
which the Earl was immersed, he succeeded in obtaining an interview
with him, when, to his indescribable horror, he discovered that all
that Sang had told him was correct. His grudge at his daughter’s
present service now grew into a dislike to her whom she served, who,
besides her crime of being an Englishwoman, no light one in his eyes,
had also to answer for his present humiliation. The Earl paid him some
handsome compliments on his fidelity, his good conduct, and his valour,
the possession of which qualities had occasioned his selection as the
person to be left at Tarnawa, to be in readiness for the honourable and
delicate piece of duty which might be perchance required of him. But
even these high commendations from the quarter most valued by him were
insufficient to make amends for the mortification he felt at his
disappointment, nor could they season the proposed duty so as to make
it palatable to him.
“Aweel-aweel, my Lord Yearl of Moray, thy wull sall be my wull,” was
all that his Lordship could extract from Rory Spears.
After Mortimer Sang had arranged everything about the baggage of his
party, and got the men and horses in proper order for the march, he
took the opportunity of stealing away from them for a few moments, with
the hope of obtaining a sight of Katherine Spears, whom he now
discovered to be, even more than he had ever supposed, the ruling
magnet of his heart. He found her drowned in tears.
“Fair Katherine,” said he as he approached her with the utmost delicacy
and tenderness, “why art thou thus grief-by-woxen? Knowest thou not
that thy father tarrieth with thee at Tarnawa? Dost thou not already
know that he goeth not with the host?”
“Yea, Sir Squire,” sobbed Katherine, hastily drying her eyes at the
sound of his voice, and vainly endeavouring to wipe away all traces of
her sorrow; “yea, I did so learn this morning from my lady.”
“For whom grievest thou, then, fair maiden?” demanded Sang. “Surely
thou canst not be so oppressed at thoughts of the Earl’s departure?”
“Nay, as to that, no,” replied the artless girl. “It may be I shall
partake in the woe of my Lady Countess. But I weep not for him. Nay, I
weep not for any one now.”
Mrs. Katherine spoke the truth. She certainly did not weep at that
particular moment, but the exertion it cost her to restrain her tears
becoming much more than she was equal to, their accumulation was too
powerful to be withstood, and, overwhelming every dam and barrier that
maidenly prudence and propriety had raised to confine them, they burst
forth more violently than ever, and poor Katherine sobbed aloud as if
her heart would have broken. If there were still any remains of
resolution about that of the squire, it melted at once like the
snow-wreath that lies in the direct course of some wide and resistless
deluge of waters, which, as it is dissolved, mingles itself with and
swells the very flood that creates its dissolution. He blubbered like
an infant.
“Lovely Katherine,” said he, sitting down beside her, and taking her
hand with the utmost respect and tenderness—“most beauteous Mrs.
Spears—my loveliest of all damsels, be composed, be comforted, I
beseech thee; my dearest Katherine, my love, my only love, be composed
and tell me—ah, tell, I entreat thee, whether I have any share in these
precious drops? Tell me thou weepest for my departure, and those liquid
diamonds that fall on my hand will be more prized by me than the purest
gems that ever came from the East. Tell me but that I shall carry thy
heart with me when I go, and I will leave thee mine in exchange for it,
and swear on the honour and faith of a trusty esquire, to be thine, and
thine only, for ever. What is glory, what is renown, what is the
exalted rank of knighthood itself, without the possession of her we
love? Say but thou wilt love me, sweet Katherine, and, when the war is
at an end, I will return to claim thy hand, were it from the uttermost
part of the earth. Say, do my hopes deceive me, or am I in very truth
happy in being beloved by thee?”
Katherine’s paroxysm of grief had been partially arrested, almost from
the moment that Squire Mortimer had taken her hand so kindly, and begun
to speak. She quickly became more composed as he went on; her cheeks
became suffused with blushes, and showed beneath her tears like roses
after a shower; smiles soon afterwards came to play over them like the
sunbeams over the fresh and fragrant flowers; and, by the time that Mr.
Sang had finished, the maiden’s confusion, rather than her indistinct
murmurs, gave the esquire all the satisfaction he could have wished.
They swore eternal fidelity to each other, and, after a short and sweet
conversation, and an exchange of some little love-tokens had taken
place between them, they separated, to attend to their respective
avocations.
By this time all was in order for the march. Already had several of the
nobles and knights departed independently from the Castle; and those
who remained, being of the Earl’s kinsmen or connexions, were to guide
their motions by his. He resolved to begin his journey immediately,
being anxious to accomplish several miles of way ere the sun was yet
risen to the height of his fury. The trumpets sounded; the clangour
stirred up the hearts of both men and steeds, and they expressed their
joy by stunning shouts and repeated neighings. But their shrill brazen
voices were a death-knell to the departing joy of many a soft bosom
that sighed within the Castle, and to none more than to that of
Katherine Spears. Her nerves were subjected to no fresh trial of
resolution, for the esquire’s absence from his party, at the moment of
starting, would have been inadmissible.
The trumpet brayed aloud, for the third time, its harsh summons, and
the court-yard rang as the mailed horsemen leaped into their
steel-cased saddles. The Countess of Moray was on the terrace with her
maidens, waving many a sighing farewell to her gallant lord. The Earl
gave the word, and, in company with his brothers-in-law the Earls of
Fife and Caithness, his brother the Earl of Dunbar, the Earl of
Douglas, Sir David Lindsay, Sir John Halyburton, the Lord of Dirleton,
Sir Patrick Hepborne, and others, he rode forth at the Castle gate,
followed by the whole column of march.
The troops which he headed were but a small portion of those whose
attendance he could command as vassals, being only such horsemen as
were ever ready to assemble at a moment’s notice, to attend him on any
sudden emergency. They now served him as a guard of honour in his
journey to the King, and the charge of summoning and mustering the
great body of his feudal force, and of despatching them under their
proper officers, to join him where he might afterwards direct, was left
to his Countess to carry into effect. The cavalcade filed off with a
noise like thunder through the gateway, and part of them forming upon
the natural glacis beyond, halted until the train of baggage wains had
fallen into the line immediately in rear of the horse litters, in which
the ladies travelled, and then they closed into the rear of the line of
march. The whole moved on slowly through the little hamlet, now silent
and deserted, except by its weeping women, its old men, and its
children, and then wound into the depth of the forest. An opening among
the trees gave them again a view of Tarnawa, and many was the head that
turned involuntarily round to look once more at its grey walls, some of
them, perhaps, though they little thought so, for the last time.
Sir Patrick lifted up his eyes, raised his beaver, and turned them
towards the Castle. He beheld a bevy of white figures grouped together
on a bartizan, and white scarfs or handkerchiefs were waving. He smiled
in secret as the imagination crossed him that the motion of these was
like that which had flashed upon his eyes from the keep of Norham. But
his fancy had dreamt so, and the vision having been once engendered,
continued to haunt him as he rode at the head of his small troop.
CHAPTER XLIX.
The Lord of Dirleton’s Tale—The Bishop of Moray and his Clergy.
The Earl of Moray led him and his little force through the Meads of St.
John. That scene, lately so gay, was now considerably changed. Most of
the pavilions on the hither meadow had been struck, and the knights who
had occupied them had already left the ground with their people, whilst
others waited to join the line of march. The temporary bridge was there
to afford them a passage; but the demolition of the lists had been
already begun under the superintendence of the pursuivants, and others
of the heralds, to whom the property of the materials was an
acknowledged perquisite. The inhabitants of the little town of tents
and temporary huts were in humming motion, like a hive of bees that are
about to swarm. All were preparing to depart with lamentations, their
occupation being gone with the tournament that had assembled them; and
pack-horses, and wains, and rude carts without wheels, that were
dragged along the ground on the pointed extremities of the shafts
projecting behind, were loaded with the utmost expedition.
The street of the burgh presented a different picture. Thither the news
of the approaching war had not yet reached, and the townsmen rested
with blackened hands and faces from their melancholy work of clearing
out the burnt rubbish from the foundations of their houses, to gaze,
and wonder, and speculate on the armed force. Loud were the cheers with
which they greeted the Earl of Moray, and they were not tired with
these manifestations of their gratitude to their generous lord until
they had accompanied him for a considerable way beyond the eastern end
of the town. At the distance of some five or six miles from Forres the
Earl halted his men, just where the half-wooded and half-cultivated
country gave place to a bare heath of considerable extent, and where
the gentle breeze was permitted to come cool and unbroken against their
throbbing temples, after they were relieved from the thraldom of their
bassinets and morions; whilst the oaks that fringed the moor, and
straggled into it in groups and single trees, enabled them to find
sufficient shade from a now oppressive sun, to eat their morning’s meal
in comfort.
A pavilion was pitched for the reception of the nobles, knights, and
ladies, and, after partaking of the refreshment that was provided under
it, they wandered forth in parties to waste the time beneath the trees,
until the horses should have been fed, and everything prepared for
continuing the march. Sir Patrick Hepborne, having fallen into
conversation with De Vaux, the old Lord of Dirleton, wandered slowly
with him to a clump of trees at some distance, and they sat down
together on an old oak that had fallen by natural decay from the little
grove of gigantic trees that threw a shade over it. The place was
sufficiently retired to promise security from interruption, and
Hepborne longed much to obtain from his companion the distressing
history to which he and his lady had alluded on the evening of their
first meeting at Tarnawa. He felt it difficult, however, to hint at a
subject of which he already knew enough to satisfy him, that it could
not fail to be productive of painful emotions to his father’s old
friend, and he would have left it untouched had not accident led to it.
“That blasted moor, where tree grows not,” observed the Lord of
Dirleton, “and where, as thou see’st, the stunted heath itself can
hardly find food for life, amid the barren sand of which its soil is
composed, was cursed into sterility by the infernal caldron of the
weird-hags who, by their hellish incantations, did raise a poisonous
marsh-fire to mislead Macbeth; and did so drag him down from the path
of honour and virtue, to perish in a sea of crimes his soul would once
have shuddered at. See’st thou yonder huge cairn of stones? Some men
say that it marks the very spot where the foul crones first met him,
as, with his associate Banquo, he did return victorious from the
overthrow of the Danes, who did invade Fife, and whose bravest leaders
he sent to eternal repose in St. Colme’s Isle; it was there, I say,
that tradition reporteth they did appear to him, when, with the
flattering tongue of the great Tempter, they did salute him Thane of
Glammis and of Cawdor, and alswa King hereafter.”
“Tell me, I pray thee,” said Sir Patrick, “what make these soldiers who
do so crowd towards the cairn? Methinks some of them on horseback, and
some of them on foot, are riding and running full tilt around it, as if
in frolicsome chase of each other.”
The Lord of Dirleton was silent for some moments. He sighed, and, much
to Sir Patrick’s surprise, tears came into his eyes. He was deeply
affected for some moments.
“Thou must of needscost marvel, Sir Knight,” said he at length, “to see
me so much moved by a question the which is so simple in itself, and
the which did fall so naturally from thee. But thy wonder will cease
anon. Be it known to thee, that these men do run and ride in that
manner, in compliance with a well-received belief, that to surround the
cairn with three times three circuits, securely buys the happiness of
him who doth so, for the space of three times three months. Peraunter
thy marvel will now be enhanced, why I should have wept at the notice
of a practice so apparently harmless; but that thine astonishment may
forthwith cease, I shall haste me to tell thee the cause of these
tears. I am not sorry that I have been led thus accidentally to the
subject, sith I did well intend me to effund into thine ear, at first
fitting time, the circumstances of that bereavement of the which, when
I did once before obscurely hint to thee, thou didst then seem to wish
to hear more.”
The Lord of Dirleton paused, as if to recollect himself, and, after an
effort to master certain feelings that agitated him, he began his
narrative—
“It was about three months after the Lady of Dirleton had happily given
birth to her first daughter, that I left her and her baby in full
health, and soon afterwards travelled northward into these parts, with
mine early friend, John Dunbar, Earl of Moray. We had been at Lithgow
together, at the proclamation of King Robert, and I had yielded to my
Lord’s wishes, to bear him company for some few days at his Castle of
Tarnawa. After a short sojournance in his hospitable hall, I reached
this spot on my way homewards, and chancing to halt here, as we do now,
I was told of the virtues of the Witch’s Cairn. Bethinking me that it
was good to secure nine months of happiness at so easy a price, I
spurred my horse into a gallop, and began to course around it at full
speed.
“I had already encircled it twice three times, and had begun the
seventh round, when my horse was suddenly scared by the appearance of a
haggard female figure that arose from among the docks and clot leaves
in the middle of the heap, and glared fearfully at me. The animal
started so unexpectedly aside that he threw me from the saddle, and I
lay stunned by the severity of the fall. When my senses returned to me,
I found myself in the hands of my people, who were busied about me
under a tree. Convinced that it was some supernatural thing that had so
strangely crossed me, and put a period to mine attempt to work against
fate, I did eagerly demand of those about me what had become of the
unsightly witch. All agreed that she had limped slowly away before
their eyes until lost in the neighbouring wood; one or two there were
who did ween her to be no other than some ancient shepherdess or
nerthes-woman, who, wearied with watch, mought liggen her down to rest
there, and who had been frayed from her sleep by the sounding tramp of
my horse’s gallop; but the rest were of my mind, that she was verily
some evil witch, whose blasted form and eyne boded some dire malure.
“Sore oppressed with the belief of approaching calamity, I did hie me
back to mine own Castle of Dirleton, with a far heavier heart than I
had left it, dreading drearily as I went that I should learn some
dismal tidings when I should reach thither. But all was well; and as
things went not in anywise awry for some time, I began to laugh in
secret at my own apprehensions. Prosperity favoured me, indeed, in a
somewhat unusual manner. For six months was I blessed by a train of
good luck so unusual, that hardly a day passed without some happy or
favourable occurrence; but this was the very cause of awakening new
fears in me. If, said I, reasoning with myself—if the six withershin
circles round the Witch’s Cairn have had any influence in producing
this marvellous coil of good fortune, what will happen when the
spell-thread is unwound to the end, where it was so mysteriously
snapped? This seventh moon must be pregnant with some dire affliction.
“I trembled for its approach. It began—several days of it had already
stolen away—all was well, and I did again blush for my fears; but,
alas! they were too soon realised. One evening Sarah, the nurse of our
infant, was amissing with her charge. It grew late, and the Lady
Dirleton became frantic with the most cruel apprehensions. She insisted
on accompanying me out to search for the nurse and her babe. The alarm
spread, and not only the domestics but the whole vassals, largely
sharing in our affliction, turned out to aid us. All our efforts were
in vain, for a dark and stormy night came on; and on that wide plain
that stretcheth between the Castle and the sea, there was greater risk
of the seekers losing themselves than chance of their finding the woman
and the babe. The Lady Dirleton recklessly wandered until she was so
sore toil-spent that she was carried to the Castle almost insensible. I
did still continue my search in despair, in defiance of whirlwinds of
sand and red glaring flashes of lightning. Faint and distant screams
were heard by times ymeint with the blast. We followed in the direction
they went in, as well as the mirkness of the night might permit us to
do. Sometimes they would bring us down towards the shore of the sea,
where they were lost amidst the thunders of its waves rolling furiously
in on the beach. Anon we did hear them retreating inland, and we were
led by them, in a zig-zag course, hither and thither across the plain,
in idle pursuit. ‘The child! the babe!—ha, the murderer!—ha, blood,
blood, blood!—murder, murder!—the child, the child!’ were the fearful
words we caught from time to time, ymingled with wild unearthly cries.
Still we followed, and we shouted by times; but our shouts were
unheeded, albeit they must natheless have been heard by the person
whose voice reached our ears so strongly.
“At length, after a harrassing night of fruitless following, the voice
died away from us, and we groped wearily and hopelessly about until day
did gloomily dawn upon us. We again wandered down towards the shore,
and there descried a female figure, with torn garments and dishevelled
hair, running and leaping about with wild and irrational action among
the sand-heaps by the sea side. I thought of the hag of the Witch’s
Cairn, and my blood curdled within me.
“For some time we followed the figure, but almost with as little
success as we had before done in the darkness of night. At length, by
making a circuit around her, we came close upon her, where she had
seated herself on the top of a benty hillock. It was Sarah, the nurse
of our child. She rose wildly, by fits and starts, and waved her arms
high in the air, and gave streaming to the wind the infant’s sky-blue
mantle, the which was red with blood-stains. Her eyes were fixed in
vacancy, and she regarded us not as we approached her; but she screamed
and shrieked unintelligibly; and again she laughed loud and horribly at
intervals. We rushed upon her, and then it was we discovered that
reason had been reft from her. Her eyes glared wildly around on us all,
but she knew no one, and no syllable could now be extracted from her.
It was too clear, alas! that she had murdered mine infant in the sudden
frenzy that had seized her!”
“Blessed Virgin, protect us!” cried Sir Patrick Hepborne, horror-struck
with the Lord of Dirleton’s story.
“She was the daughter of an old and much attached domestic,” continued
de Vaux, “and she herself, devoted to us as a daughter, loved the
infant as her own. Nothing but madness could have driven her to do a
deed so horrible. Where she had disposed of the body of the poor
innocent we could never discover, though our search for it was
unceasing for some days. As for the wretched Sarah, whom God had so
visited as to make her no longer accountable for her actions, she was
brought back into the Castle, and put under that needful restraint to
the which she was subjected for many years thereafter. When she came to
be examined more narrowly, some one discovered a dreadful gash on her
right hand, as if given by a dagger, a circumstance the which did add
to the heap of mystery the truth was buried under, and engendered full
many a vague thought and idle surmise. I gave mine orders that some one
should be for ever on the watch by Sarah, night and day, to catch up
anything she might utter in her ravings, that might chance to
illuminate the darkness that hung over this heart-breaking calamity.
But albeit her voice was rarely silent for a moment, being unceasingly
poured forth in elritch screams of laughter when she was in her wildest
fits, or in piteous moaning and waymenting when she was low, yet did
she rarely mould it into words of meaning. Full oft would she take up
in her arms the mantle, the which she had never parted withal, and hush
it with sad lullaby, as if the child had been within it; and more than
once, when thus employed, she was seen to clasp it in agony to her
bosom, to look wildly on vacancy, and to stretch forth her arm, as if
dreading the approach of some one, and fleeing into the darksome corner
of her cell, she was heard to yell out, ‘Murderer!—ha! the babe, the
babe!—help, murder!—blood, blood!—my babe!’—and then she would lay open
the mantle, and gazing into it with frenzy, would increase her screams
to the very cracking of her voice, as if she had but that moment
discovered that the infant was gone.
“Thou mayest right well conceive, Sir Patrick,” continued the Lord of
Dirleton, after a pause, during which he yielded to the emotions so
powerfully excited by this recapitulation of the circumstances of this
so terrible affliction which had befallen him—“thou mayest easily
imagine, I say, what a deep, nay, fathomless tide of sorrow poured over
the souls of the Lady Dirleton and me. We loathed the very air of the
scene tainted by this dreadful tragedy. Anxious to escape from it, we
hastened abroad, and strove, by mixing in the society of a new world,
to blunt the pangs we suffered from the very souvenance of our home. I
need say no more, I wis, but to crave thy good pardon, Sir Patrick, for
drawing so hugely on thy patience by this long narration, the which, I
do natheless opine, hath not been altogether uninteresting to thee,
sith I have observed that thou hast, more than once, showed signs of
thy friendly sympathy for our misfortune.”
“In truth, my Lord, I am deeply affected by thy strange and melancholy
history,” replied Hepborne. “But what, I pray thee, hath become of
Sarah, thy child’s nurse, on whom so much mystery doth hang?”
“After many years of confinement, Sarah’s wudness did become more
tranquil; it seemed as if it was gradually worn out by its own fury.
Then did succeed the mantling and stagnant calmness of idiocy—and
seeing that she was no longer harmful, she was, by slow degrees,
permitted greater license, until at last she was suffered to go about
at the freedom of her own will. But will she seemed to have none.
Supported by the Lady Dirleton’s charity, and tended by her order, she
wandered to and fro in the neighbourhood of the Castle, like a living
clod, hardly ever exhibiting even a consciousness of existence.”
“And dost thou believe, my Lord,” demanded Hepborne, “that the wudness
of this poor afflicted wretch did verily work this sad malure to thee?
Or didst thou never entertain aught of suspicion of crime against any
who were more accountable for their deeds?”
“Ay,” replied the Lord of Dirleton, after a pause; “ay, we had
suspicions—horrible suspicions. My brother John, that is my
half-brother, for he was the son of my father by a woman of low birth
and infamous character, who, by sacrifice of virtue and afterwards by
her cunning, didst circumvent my father, then an old man, and did
induce him to patch up a marriage with her. After the death of my
father she would fain have kept the same place she had done during his
life; but as I had just then married me I could not insult my wife by
the introduction to her notice of a woman so notourly infamous. I
natheless did what in prudence I might for my brother, then a young man
of some eighteen or twenty winters. I took him under mine own roof,
where I in vain endeavoured to bring down his naturally haughty and
unbending temper, and to restrain the violence of his passions. I had
shown him an elder brother’s kindness from very boyhood, and methought
his heart did love me. But his wicked and infamous mother, stung with
the disgrace of being refused admittance within our gates, so worked
upon his young mind that she taught him to regard me rather as an enemy
than as a benefactor. Forgetful of the anxiety I did ever display for
the advancement of his fortunes and the improvement of his mind, he
became impatient of reproof, and ever and anon he was guilty of the
most gross and offensive insults to me, and yet more so to the Lady
Dirleton, against whom his mother’s hatred was more particularly
inflamed. Such ungrateful behaviour did naturally beget much unhappy
brawling, and high and bitter words often passed between us. At length
his daring arose to such a height that he presumed to usher in his
impure dam among the noble and honourable guests who assembled to
witness the ceremonial baptism of our infant. O’ermastered by rage at
the moment, and boiling with indignation, I forgot myself so far as to
give him a blow; and I did hound both of them straightway forth with
ignominious reproach from my walls. I saw not John ever again, yet I
had good cause to fear that he——But hold! my wife and daughter
approach; and, hark! the trumpets do sound for the march.”
As the Earls of Moray, Fife, Dunbar, and Douglas, who led the line,
were breaking through the oak forest through which they travelled for
some time after leaving the halting-place, the proud towers of Elgin
rose before them, and the tinkling of many a bell from its various
convents and churches told them that its inhabitants were already aware
of their approach. Soon afterwards the long train of a procession was
seen winding down from the entrance of the town, and as they drew
nearer they descried at the head of it the venerable Alexander Barr,
bishop of the diocese. He was accompanied by his twenty-two canons
secular, and various other members and servants of the Cathedral; and
after him came a body of Black Dominican Monks, followed by the Grey
Franciscan Friars, all marching in pairs. Ere the warlike body of
nobles, and knights, and men-at-arms had reached the bridge, the
procession had halted to receive them. The Bishop, in his episcopal
robes, sat, patiently waiting them, on a well-fed milk-white palfrey,
of sober and staid disposition, suited to his master’s habits. The Earl
of Moray hastened to dismount, and would have run to assist the Prelate
from his horse. But there was no pride in the old man, and seeing the
Earl’s intention, he quitted his saddle with an agility hardly to be
looked for from one of his years, and, hastening to meet his embrace,
bestowed his willing benediction on him, as well as on the Earls of
Fife, Dunbar, and Douglas, and those who followed them.
“My Lord Bishop,” said the Earl of Fife, “verily I did scarcely look
for this good countenance and gentle demeanour from thee, seeing how I
am sykered to him who hath wrought the Church so much foul wrong. But
thou well knowest——”
“Talk not of these matters, my Lord Earl of Fife, I beseech thee,”
cried the Bishop, interrupting him; “talk not of these matters now. We
shall have ample leisure to discuss these painful themes ere the hour
of couchee. Mount, I beseech thee, and let me now do what honour I may
to the son of my King, and to his noble brothers-in-law, the gallant
Earls of Douglas and of Moray, by escorting them to the Royal Castle.
Thy messengers, my Lord,” continued he, turning to Earl Moray, “did
out-run my tardy hospitality; for ere I gathered tidings of thy coming,
or could bestir myself to make fitting provision for thy reception, and
for the banqueting of these nobles, knights, and ladies, thy
preparations at the Castle were already largely advanced, else had I
assuredly claimed thee and all as my guests.”
“Of a truth, we are rather too potent a company to harass thee withal,”
replied the Earl of Moray; “and, as Constable of the Royal Castle here,
it would ill become me to shrink from the fulfilment of its
hospitality. Let us mount, then, and hie us thither.”
All being again in their saddles, those composing the procession turned
their faces towards the town, and began to move slowly onwards. The
black crosses on the humble white gowns of the Dominicans or Black
Friars, and the grey gown and cowl of the Franciscans—their meek and
world-contemning countenances—their bare feet, the soft tread of which
gave forth no sound—the humble banner of St. Giles, the tutelary saint
of the town, who was represented in his pastoral habit, holding a book
in his right hand, and a staff in his left, with the motto, “Sic itur
ad astra,” were all calculated to lead the mind far above the pomps of
this vain world, and were strangely contrasted with the fierce and
haughty looks of the warriors—their glittering armour—their nodding
plumes—the yell of the bugles—and the proudly-blazoned surcoats, and
shields, and banners, and pennons, which flared against the declining
sun, as if their glory had been made to endure even beyond that of the
blessed luminary itself.
They wound up the steep hill to the Castle, and there the religious
orders halted in two lines, facing each other, until the gaudy
war-pageant had passed inwards, with all its crashing clangour of
instruments, and all its flash and glitter. The holy brethren then
moved away in silence, disappearing in succession, like the waves that
follow the foaming surges raised on the bosom of a lone lake by the
fall of some mountain crag.
But there was one monk of the order of St. Francis there who staid not
with his brethren to gaze with lack-lustre eye on the ranks of the
warriors as they rode by. Deep excitation seemed suddenly to be
awakened in him by some passing object. With an agitated air, he
shrouded himself up in his grey cowl, and tightening his girdle of
ropes about his loins, he mingled with the ranks of riders, and glided
into the Castle.
CHAPTER L.
The Mystery of the Lady Beatrice—Arrival of the Nobles and
Men-at-Arms at Aberdeen.
The banquet, though sufficiently splendid, was tempered by moderation,
and the guests broke up at an early hour, for the Bishop took an
opportunity of signifying his wish to hold private council with the
Earls of Fife, Moray, Douglas, and Dunbar, and one or two of the other
nobles and knights whom he named. The hint was accordingly taken, and
the accommodation of the Castle being too confined for a company so
numerous, the Bishop of Moray consigned to the care of his canons the
duty of providing fit lodging for such as might be compelled to go into
the town. Though the apartments in the houses of these churchmen were
small, yet were they most luxuriously furnished for the times to which
this history refers.
As De Vaux, the Lord of Dirleton, was one of the few whom the Bishop
requested to aid him with his advice, the former remained for some time
at the Castle. His lady and daughter were therefore consigned to the
care of a rosy-faced, tun-bellied canon, who was ready with his
attendants to escort them to his antique mansion. As his lacqueys
lighted them along under the covered arcades lining both sides of the
streets, his gay smiles and gallant air sorted but indifferently with
the solemn religious grandeur that was everywhere spread over this
ancient episcopal town.
The subject of conference between the Bishop and the nobles was the
late outrages of the Wolfe of Badenoch. The good Bishop was himself
incapable of seeking vengeance, in as far as he as a mere man was
concerned. But he was zealous for the interests of that religion and of
that Church of which he was the minister; and being firmly resolved
that neither should be insulted with impunity, he stated to the Lords
and Knights his determination to go with them to Aberdeen, and to lay
the matter before the King. To such a step no objection could be urged
by those who heard him, and accordingly, after some conversation on
other matters, which continued to a pretty late hour, the party broke
up.
As the Lord of Dirleton was leaving the Castle, with the intention of
finding his way to the house of the canon, whither his lady and the
Lady Jane de Vaux had gone before him, he was suddenly addressed by
some one from behind, who, in a distinct but hollow tone, whispered in
his ear—
“Wouldst thou know aught of the fate of thy first-born daughter?”
“Ha! what canst thou tell me?” cried De Vaux, turning round with
inconceivable eagerness, and addressing a Franciscan monk who stood
behind him shrouded up in his cowl; “speak, I beseech thee, holy man,
what hast thou to tell of my first-born daughter?”
“Dismiss thine attendants,” replied the Franciscan calmly, “and follow
me to the church of Greyfriars; there shalt thou learn all that I have
to tell.”
“Get thee to thy lodgings,” cried the Lord of Dirleton to his people,
“and leave me with this holy monk. I would have converse with him
alone.”
“My Lord,” replied his esquire, “it were safer methinks to have thy
people about thee; treachery hath many disguises—there may be danger.”
“Talk not to me of danger,” cried De Vaux; “leave me, as I do command
thee.”
The esquire bowed, and retired with the valets and lacqueys who had
waited. The monk, who had stood aloof abiding his determination, now
moved away, and the Lord of Dirleton followed him. The streets were
deserted and silent, and the Franciscan staid not to speak, but glided
so quickly along as to defy all attempts at conversation on the part of
the knight who followed him. After threading through some narrow lanes
and uncouth passages, the Lord of Dirleton was led by his guide to the
door of the church of the Greyfriars, to which the monk applied a large
key that hung at his girdle, and after letting himself and the knight
in, he again locked it carefully behind him. The interior of the holy
place was dimly illuminated by the few lamps that were burning here and
there before some of the shrines, but the gloomy light was not even
sufficient to dissipate the shadows that hung beneath the arch of the
groined roof.
“Speak, quickly speak, father—in charity speak, and satisfy my
anxiety,” cried the old Lord of Dirleton, panting with the eagerness of
expectation, combined with the breathlessness of exertion. “What
knowest thou of the fate of my child?—Is she alive?—In mercy speak!”
The Franciscan shot a glance at De Vaux from under his cowl, and then
strode slowly up the nave of the Church until he came opposite to a
shrine dedicated to an image of the Virgin. There he halted, and
leaning against its iron screen with his back to the lamps, dropped his
head on his bosom, and seemed lost in thought for some moments.
“Oh, speak,” cried the Lord of Dirleton, following him—“Speak—does my
child live? my child Beatrice?”
“Thy child liveth not,” murmured the monk, in a deep sepulchral tone;
“’tis of her death I would tell thee.”
“Alas, alas! I did indeed fear so,” cried the Lord of Dirleton, deeply
affected. “I had indeed ceased to hope that she might be yet alive. Yet
even to know her fate were something amid the sad obscurity which hath
so long oppressed us. What canst thou tell me of her, holy father?”
“Thou hadst a brother,” said the Franciscan, slowly and solemnly.
“Alas! I had. I had indeed a brother,” cried De Vaux. “Then are my
fears but too just. It was he then who reft me of mine infant. Oh,
wretch, wretch, how couldst thou be so cruel!”
“It was he,” cried the monk, with a peculiar energy of manner, whilst
his eyes glared strangely from beneath his cowl as he spake; “it was
thy brother, who, in revenge for the blow he received from thine hand,
tore thine infant daughter from her nurse, and fled with her.”
“Then may God in His infinite mercy forgive him!” cried De Vaux,
clasping his hands together with strong agitation of manner; and,
dropping on his knees before the shrine of the Virgin, he buried his
face in his mantle, and gave way to his emotions.
“What! canst thou in truth forgive him, then?” cried the monk; “canst
thou in sincerity pray for his forgiveness in Heaven? Wouldst thou not
rather seek revenge against him—revenge, the which may ere long be put
within thy power—revenge, to which even I might peradventure help
thee?”
“And dost thou, the servant of Christ—thou who shouldst be the
messenger of peace—dost thou become a tempter?” cried De Vaux, looking
upwards at the monk with astonishment; “dost thou counsel revenge?—dost
thou become a pander to the most malignant of human passions, so as to
offer thyself to be the instrument who shall drag up my sinful, yet
perchance ere this, repentant brother, to dree my vengeance?”
“’Tis well,” replied the Franciscan coolly; “I did so speak but to
prove thy virtue, the which I do find to be great. Forgiveness is the
badge of our Christian faith, which it well becometh thee to wear; and
thou hast the jewel of its highest perfection, sith thou canst bring
thy mind to forgive him who was the murderer of thy first-born child.”
“The murderer of my child!” cried the wretched De Vaux, starting from
his knees, and pacing the church, wringing his hands. “Were my worst
fears true, then? was my innocent infant, my smiling cherub, was my
Beatrice murdered? The few words thou didst let fall had overpowered my
first suspicions, and had already engendered hopes that my brother’s
violence had at least stopped short of a crime so horrible. Murdered,
saidst thou? Oh, most foul, most foul! He whom I did love and cherish
from boyhood as my son—yea, loved as the issue of my own loins—in whose
nurture I so interested myself, and on whom I did propose to bestow
large possessions—What, the flesh of mine own father to murder my
helpless babe!”
“Thy forgiveness is indeed of most marvellous and unexampled
excellence,” cried the Franciscan in a whining tone, the true meaning
of which could hardly be interpreted; “wouldst thou, then, that thy
brother should be brought before thee, that he may receive full pardon
at thy hands for the cruel coulpe he hath committed against thee?”
“Nay, nay, nay,” cried the wretched Lord of Dirleton with rapid
utterance, “let me not see him—let me not see him. I loved the sight of
him once as the darling son of mine aged father—let me not see him now
as the murderer of my child. The taking of the life of my brother
cannot restore that of which he did bereave my Beatrice. As I hope for
mercy from on high, so do I forgive him. Let him then live and repent;
let him do voluntary penance, that his soul may yet meet with mercy at
Heaven’s high tribunal; but let me not see him. Had he only robbed me
of my child, I mought peraunter have been able to have yielded him my
forgiveness face to face; yea, and moreover to have extinguished all
animosity by weeping a flood of tears upon his bosom; for verily I am
but as a lone and bruised reed, and a brother’s returning love were a
healing balm worth the purchasing. But the murderer of my child—oh,
horrible!—let me not see him.”
The Franciscan drew his cowl more completely over his face, and stood
for some moments with his head averted, as if to hide those emotions to
which De Vaux’s agitation had given rise. Starting suddenly from the
position he had taken, he sprang forward a pace or two towards the Lord
of Dirleton, and then halted suddenly ere he reached him. De Vaux,
wrapped up in his own thoughts, was unconscious of the movement of the
monk. He threw himself again on his knees before the shrine of the
Virgin, and began offering up sincere but incoherent and unconnected
petitions, at one time for the forgiveness of his own sins, at another
for the soul of his murdered daughter, and again for mercy and pardon
from Heaven for the crimes of his brother. The Franciscan, with his
arms crossed over his breast, stood with his body gently bent over the
pious supplicant, absorbed in contemplation of him, and deeply moved by
the spectacle. A footstep was heard—the Lord of Dirleton’s ear caught
it too at length, and he arose hastily; but the Franciscan friar with
whom he had been holding converse was gone.
“Father,” said the knight eagerly to a brother of the convent who now
approached him from an inner door, “tell me, I pray thee, who was he of
thine order who passed from me but now?”
“Venerable warrior,” replied the monk with an air of surprise, “in
truth, I saw no one. May the blessing of St. Francis be with thee.
Peraunter thine orisons hath induced our Blessed Lady to send some
saint miraculously to comfort thee. Nay, perhaps St. Francis himself
may have been sent by the Holy Virgin to reward thy piety for thus
seeking her shrine at such an hour. Leave me something in charity for
our poor convent, and her blessing, as alswa that of St. Francis, will
assuredly cleave to thee.”
“Hath not one of thy brethren loitered in the streets until now?”
demanded the Lord of Dirleton.
“Nay,” replied the monk, “I this moment left the dormitory, where they
are all asleep. Trust me, they are not given to wander in the streets
at such an hour as this; and no one else could come hither, seeing that
the door of our church is carefully locked at night.”
The Lord of Dirleton was lost in thought for some moments; but,
recollecting himself, he gave gold to the begging friar, who received
it meekly. He then craved the monk’s guidance to the house of the
canon, where his lady and daughter were lodged; and the holy man,
taking a key from his girdle, unfastened the door of the church, and De
Vaux silently followed him, ruminating as he went on the mysterious
interview he had had, as well as on the sad story of his murdered
daughter, the whole of his affliction for whom had been so strangely
and so strongly brought back upon him.
In the morning, the march of the nobles, knights, and men-at-arms was
swelled by the presence of the Bishop of Moray, attended by a large
party of his churchmen and followers. The whole body reached the
ancient city of Aberdeen early on the fourth day, and Sir Patrick
Hepborne had reason to be fully satisfied with the gracious reception
he met with from King Robert. He was gladdened by a happy meeting with
his father, and with his friend Assueton, who had come to attend on His
Majesty.
“How fareth thine excellent mother, Assueton?” demanded Hepborne
jocularly; “thou hast doubtless ere this had enough of her good
society, as well as of thy home.”
“Nay, of a truth, my dearest bel ami,” replied his friend, “parfay my
conscience doth sorely smite me in that quarter. Verily, I have not yet
seen mine excellent mother. Day after day have I been about to hie me
to her, to receive her blessing; but something untoward hath ever
arisen to detain me; and just as I was about to accomplish mine intent,
I was hurried away hither by the King’s command. Perdie, I did never
before think that I could have complained of the sudden outbreak of
war; yet do I confess that I did in good earnest begrudge this
unlooked-for call most bitterly.”
“And hath love or filial affection the most to do in exciting thy
complaint, thinkest thou?” demanded Hepborne.
“Um! somewhat of both, perhaps,” replied Assueton gravely. “By St.
Andrew, but I am an altered man, Hepborne. Nay, smile not; or rather,
if it so pleaseth thee, smile as thou mayest list, for certes I am now
case-hardened against thy raillery.”
CHAPTER LI.
King Robert at Aberdeen—Duncan MacErchar again.
The evening was beautiful, when the loyal inhabitants of Aberdeen, who,
by their King’s temporary residence among them, were rendered eagerly
alive to every little movement regarding him, began to be aware that
something was in contemplation, from observing a slender guard of
spearmen marching forth from the Castle, and forming in single files at
about a yard between each, so as to enclose an extended oblong space on
the upper part of the street. The populace began to crowd towards the
barrier of spears, in expectation of something interesting, and soon
formed a dense mass everywhere behind it. The houses overlooking the
spot began to be filled with guests, too, who were glad to claim
acquaintance with their inmates, for the sake of procuring places at
the windows, which were all of them quickly occupied, as well as every
one of those antique and curiously applied outer stairs and whimsical
projections that characterized the city architecture of the period.
Idle speculation became rapidly busy among the anxious gazers. All
hoped they were to see the King, yet few thought the hope well founded;
for the infirmities of age had so beset His Majesty that he was but
little equal to undergo the labour of the parade attendant on his
elevated rank, far less to endure public exhibitions of his person.
All doubt was soon put to an end, however. A distant flourish of
trumpets was heard, and martial music followed, swelling and growing
upon the ear as it slowly approached from the innermost recesses of the
Castle. It burst forth with shriller clangour, and the performers
presently issued from the Castle, preceding a grand procession of
nobles, knights, and ladies, habited in the most magnificent dresses,
followed by a small body of guards, in the midst of whom there was a
splendid litter, having the Royal Arms, surmounted by the Crown of
Scotland, placed over its velvet canopy. It was borne by twelve
esquires, in the richest Royal liveries. Murmurs of self-congratulation
and joyful greeting began to run around the assemblage of people; but
when the litter was set down in the middle of the open space, and
Robert II., their beloved monarch, the observer of justice, whose ears
were ever open to the complaints of his meanest subjects, and of whom
it was even commonly said that he never spoke word that he performed
not—when the good King of Scotland was assisted forth from his
conveyance, deafening shouts rent the air, and were prolonged
unceasingly, till the lungs of the shouters waxed weary from their
exertions.
The reason of the monarch thus taking the air before his people, was to
give confidence to the good citizens of Aberdeen, amidst the
exaggerated rumours of invasion, by showing himself so surrounded by
his dauntless barons.
The infirm old King, plainly habited in a purple velvet mantle, lined
with fur, and purple silk nether garments, with grey woollen hose,
folded amply over them, for the comfort of his frail limbs, leaning
upon his son the Earl of Fife, and partly supported by his
much-favoured son-in-law, the Earl of Moray, took his broad hat and
plume with dignity from his head, and, showing his long snowy hair,
bowed gracefully around to the people, and then began to walk slowly
backwards and forwards, aiding himself partly with his son’s arm and
partly with a cane, now stopping to converse familiarly with some of
the ladies, or of the many nobles and knights by whom he was attended,
or halting occasionally, as if suddenly interested in some person or
thing he noticed among the crowd, and then again resuming his walk with
all the marks of being perfectly at home among his people. The show, if
show it might be called, went not on silently, for ever and anon the
enthusiasm of the vulgar getting the better of their awe for majesty,
their voices again rose to heaven in one universal and startling peal.
The gallant groups of nobles and knights, who, by their numerous
attendance on the King, gave strength to the throne in the eyes of the
people, were also hailed with gratifying applause; and even some of the
more renowned leaders among them were singled out and lauded by the
plaudits of the spectators. Among these the Douglas was most
prominently distinguished, and the good John Dunbar, Earl of Moray, had
his ample share.
How important do the smallest, the most pitifully trifling
circumstances of a King’s actions appear in the eyes of his people! All
those of his nobles or knights to whom Robert chanced particularly to
extend his Royal attention, were it but for a minute, were noted by the
shrewd observation of the Aberdonienses as among the favoured of the
Court, and many a plan was hatched by individuals among the spectators
for winning their patronage. Not a movement of His Majesty, not a turn,
not a look, escaped remark, and the mightiest results were augured from
signs the most insignificant.
It happened that Sir Patrick Hepborne was standing with his father not
far from the lower extremity of the open space, when the King came up
to them. He had particularly noticed both of them before; and the
acclamations of the people, who knew the deeds of the elder knight, and
already loved the younger for his father’s sake, showed how much their
hearts beat in unison with this mark of their Sovereign’s approbation.
But now the King had something more to say to Sir Patrick the elder
than merely to honour him in the eyes of the people, with an appearance
of familiarity. He really wanted his advice with regard to the proposed
armament, and to have his private opinion of certain matters ere the
council should sit. With monarchs, opportunities of private conference
with those they would speak to, are difficult to be commanded without
remark; their actions, and the actions of those about them, are watched
too closely to permit them to be approached without begetting
speculation. A politic King is therefore obliged to catch at and avail
himself of moments for business which are perhaps but ill suited for
it; and it is often in the most crowded assemblage that they run the
smallest risk of suspicion of being engaged in anything serious.
Robert, leaning on his two attendants, stood unusually long in
conference with the Hepbornes. The fatigue and pain which he suffered
in his limbs, by being detained in the standing posture for so great a
length of time, was sufficiently manifest from the uneasy lifting and
shifting of his feet, though his countenance, full of fire and
animation when he spoke himself, and earnestly fixed in attention to
what Sir Patrick Hepborne said to him in return, had no expression in
it that might have led the spectator to believe that it was at all
connected with the frail and vexed limbs that supported it, but which
it seemed to have altogether forgotten in the intensity of the interest
of the subject under discussion.
While the personages of this group were thus engaged, a considerable
movement in that part of the crowd near them, followed by some
struggling and a good many high words, suddenly attracted their notice.
A momentary expression of anxiety, if not of fear, crossed the wan
features of royalty. The Earl of Moray and the two Hepbornes showed by
their motions that they were determined to secure the King’s safety at
the risk of their own lives; for, with resolute countenances, they laid
their hands on their swords, and stepped between him and the point from
which the danger, if there was any, must come, and to which their eyes
were directed. The Earl of Fife acted independently. He made a wheel,
which was difficult to be explained, but halted and fronted by the side
of his father again, immediately in rear of the Earl of Moray and his
two companions. The crowd, within a few yards of them, still continued
to heave to and fro as if in labour, and at last a bulky figure
appeared in the ancient Highland costume, and worming his way forward
to the line of guards, immediately endeavoured to force a passage
through between two of them. The two soldiers joined their spears to
each other, and each of them grasped a butt and a point the more
effectually to bar his progress. Undismayed by this their resolution,
he in an instant put a hand on a shoulder of each of them, and raised
himself up with the determined intention of hoisting himself over the
obstruction. This action of his, however, was immediately met by a
simultaneous and equally decisive movement on the part of the two
guards. Just as he had succeeded in throwing one leg over the
impediment, they, by a well-concerted effort, lifted him vigorously up,
and horsed him upon the shafts of the coupled spears, amid the laughter
of the surrounding populace. After some moments of rueful balancing
upon his uneasy and ticklish saddle, during which he seemed to hang in
dreadful doubt on which side he was to fall, his large body at last
overbalanced itself, and he rolled inwards towards the feet of the
King, and those who were standing with him. The whole was the work of a
moment.
A loud murmur, mingled with the shrieks of “Treason—traitorie!” arose
among the anxious people; and all bodies, heads, and eyes were bent
towards the scene of action, in dread lest something tragical should
follow. The two guards pressed forward to transfix the unceremonious
intruder with their spears as he lay on the ground.
“Back,” cried Sir Patrick Hepborne the younger, bestriding his body
like a Colossus; “back, I say, this man must not be hurt; he means no
evil; I will answer for him with my life.”
“Secure him at least, Sir Patrick,” cried the Earl of Fife.
“My Lord, I will be his security,” replied Sir Patrick. “He is a good
and loyal subject, and nothing need be apprehended from him.”
“Is he not mad?” demanded Fife, with some anxiety. “Methinks his eye
rolls somewhat wildly. By the mass, I like not his look overmuch.”
“Be assured, my Lord, I well know the man,” replied Sir Patrick,
stooping to assist him to rise.
“Out fie!” cried Duncan MacErchar, who now stood before them, smoothing
down his quelt, and blowing the dust with great care off a new suit of
coarse home-spun tartan, that, with his rough raw-hide sandals, suited
but ill with the splendid sword and baldrick that hung on him, and the
richly-jewelled brooch that fastened his plaid; “Och, oich! Sir
Patrick—ou ay, ou ay—troth, she be’s right glad to see her honour
again. Uve, uve, ye loons,” continued he, addressing the two soldiers
who had made so powerful a resistance to his entrance, “an she had kend
that ye were going to give her sike an ill-faur’d ride as yon, and sike
an ugly fling at the end o’t, by St. Giles, but she would have crackit
yere filthy crowns one again others like two rotten eggs. But, oich, is
she weel?” cried he, again turning eagerly towards Sir Patrick Hepborne
the younger. “Troth she did hear of the gatherin’, and so she e’en came
down here to see if King Roberts was for the fechts. And oich, she was
glad to see her honours again, and the ould mans Sir Patricks yonder;
but, uve, uve, she has had a sore tuilzie to get at her.”
“I rejoice to see thee, Master MacErchar,” said Hepborne, hastily
waving him away, under the strong impression of the necessity of
ridding the King’s presence of him, without a moment’s delay; “but the
present time and place ill befitteth for such recognition. Retire then,
I do beseech thee, and seek me on some other occasion. Thou mayest ask
at the Castle gate for mine esquire Mortimer Sang, whom thou knowest;
he will bring thee to me at such time as may be convenient for me.”
“Uve, uve!” cried Duncan MacErchar, the warm sparkle gradually
forsaking his eye, as Hepborne spoke, leaving him much abashed with a
reception, for the coldness of which he had been little prepared; “oit,
oit—ou ay—surely—troth she’ll do that. She’s not going to plague her
honour’s honour a moment. She’s yede her ways hame again to her nain
glen as fast as her legs can carry her. That she will—surely, surely.
But, by the blessed mass, had she but kend that she sould be any
hinderance to her honour, she sould not have yalt so far to fartigue
her with a sight of her. But she did bid her be sure to claim ken o’
her in ony place, and before ony body.”
“Yea, I did so,” replied Hepborne, vexed to see that he still remained
in the King’s presence, and rather provoked at his boldness, not being
aware that poor Duncan was perfectly ignorant that one of the four
persons before him was His Majesty—“I did indeed bid thee do so; but
verily I looked not for thine audacious approach before such eyes.”
“And fat was Duncan MacErchar to mind fat other lord-bodies might be
standing by, when her father, the noble Sir Patrick Hepborne, and at
whose back she used to fight, was before her eyne?” replied the
Highlander, a little out of temper. “Uve, uve!—surely, surely, Sir
Patrick Hepborne, that did lead her on to the fechts, is mokell more to
her than ony lord o’ them a’—ay, than King Robert himsel, gin she were
here, as she’s in yon braw box yonder. Sure she did ken hersel the
bonny Earl John Dunbar there, right brave and worthy knight; and feggs
she kens that she’s not the noblemans that will scorn a poor man. And
as for that pretty gentleman, and that douce discreet auld carle in the
purple silken hauselines and the grey hose, they may be as good as him
peraunter, but surely, surely, they cannot be better. Na, troth, but
they must be mokell waur than him, an they would be for clapping their
hands on the mouth o’ a poor man’s gratitudes. But surely, surely,”
added he, “he be sorry sorry to have angered her honours.”
“Thou dost altogether mistake in this matter, Duncan,” said Sir Patrick
the younger, much distressed to perceive the mutual misunderstanding
that existed—“thou dost altogether mistake; I am not offended.”
“Hoot, toot—ay, ay—ou ay—sure,” replied Duncan, with a whimsical look
of good-natured sarcasm in his countenance. “Troth, she doth see that
she’s not, neither the one nor the others, the same mans here, on the
crowns o’ the causey o’ Aberdeen, that she was in the glen o’ the Dee
yonder. Hup up!—Troth, she did take a grup of her hands yonder, ay, and
she did moreover drink out of the same cup with her, and a proud mans
she did make Duncan MacErchar hersels. But, uve, uve!—she’s with her
neighbour lords and knights noo, and sike a ragged goat o’ the hills as
her nainsel is no to be noticed amang so many braw frisking sheep, with
fine woo on their backs. But sith that she did make Duncan proud, troth
she’ll show her pride. Fient a bit o’ her will force her nainsel to the
kens o’ mortal mans; so here’s her bonny sword and braw baudrick,”
continued he, as he tried to take them off, “here’s the sword and the
baudrick she bore so lightly, but the which hae grown of the sudden
over heavy for her backs. But the poor Sir Page’s bonny brooch—oh ay!
she’ll keep it right sickerly, as it was kindly and gratefully gi’en.”
“Nay, Duncan, keep the sword and baldrick, I beseech thee, and seek for
mine esquire to-night,” said Hepborne, much annoyed.
“Hoof, uve, no,” replied the Highlander testily. “Sith she careth not
to notice poor Duncan MacErchar before her father the ould mans (the
Virgin’s blessing be upon her!) and the good Earl of Moray, and that
pretty gentlemans, and yon discreet, well-natured, laughing auld carle
in the grey hose and the purple hauselines yonder, troth she’ll no seek
to trouble her esquire. So here’s her sword and baudrick, and she’s
yede her ways hame again.”
“Nay, Duncan, I’ll none of them,” cried Hepborne, putting them back
with the back of his hand. “Thou art strangely mistaken here. Trust me,
mine is not the heart that can use an old friend, yea, and above all,
one that did save my very life, with the coldness that thou dost fancy.
But thou art now in the presence of——.” He stopped, and would have
added “of the King;” but at that moment His Majesty, who had richly
enjoyed the scene as far as it had already gone, gave him such a look
as at once showed him it was not his pleasure that it should be so
speedily terminated. He went on then differently. “But thou art now in
the presence of certain lords, with whom I am deeply engaged in
discussing divers matters of most grave and weighty import, and deeply
affecting the wellbeing of our country and the glory of our King; and
of a truth I well know that thou dost love both over much to suffer
thine own feelings to let, hinder, or do them prejudice in the smallest
jot. Thou canst not take offence that I did seem to neglect thee for
matters of such moment. By the honour of a knight I will take thee,
brave preserver of my life, by the hand,” continued he, seizing
MacErchar with great cordiality, “I will take thy hand, I say, in the
presence of the whole world, yea, an it were in the presence of King
Robert himself. And as for drinking from the same cup with thee, what,
have I not drank with thee of the sacred cup of thy hospitality, and
thinkest thou I would refuse to drink with thee again? By St. Andrew,
though rarely given to vinolence, I would rather swill gallons with
thee than that thou shouldst deem me deficient in the smallest
hair’s-breadth of gratitude to thee for the potent service thou didst
render me at the Shelter Stone of Loch Avon. Put on thy baldrick, man,
yea, and the sword also, and think not for a moment that I could have
been so base as to slight thee.”
“Oich, oich!—oot, oot!—uve, uve!—fool she was—fool she was, surely,”
cried Duncan, at once completely subdued, and very much put out of
countenance by these unequivocal expressions of Hepborne’s honest and
sincere regard for him. “Oit, oit! troth she was foolish, foolish; na,
she’ll keep the sword, ay, and the bonny baudrick—ay, ay, ou ay, she’ll
keep them noo till she dies. Uve, uve, she’s sore foolish, sore
foolish. Oich, oich, will her honour Sir Patrick pardons her? Troth,
she’s sore ashamed.”
“Pardon thee,” said Sir Patrick the younger, again shaking MacErchar
heartily by the hand—“pardon thee, saidst thou? By St. Baldrid, but I
do like thee the better, friend Duncan, for the proper pride and
feeling thou didst show. Thy pride is the pride of an honest heart, and
had I, in good verity, been the very paltry and ungenerous knight that
appearances did at first lead thee to imagine me to be, by the Rood,
but I should have right well merited thy sovereign despisal.”
“Oich, oich,” said Duncan, his eyes running over with the stream of
kindly affections that now burst from his heart, and quite confused by
his powerful emotions, “she’s over goods—she’s over foolish—out fie,
surely, surely, she’s over goods. God bless her honour. But troth,
she’ll no be tarrying langer noo to disturb her honour’s honour more at
this times; and, ou ay, she’ll come surely to good Squire Mortimer’s at
night, to see if her honour’s leisure may serve for seeing her.”
“Nay, nay,” said Hepborne, after consulting the King’s countenance by a
glance, to gather his pleasure, “thou shalt not go now. We had nearly
done with our parlance, and the renewal of it at this time mattereth
not a jot; so sith that thou art here, my brave defender, perdie, thou
shalt stay until I introduce thee to my father. Father,” continued he,
turning to Sir Patrick the elder, “this is a brave soldier who hath
fought for his King in many a stark stoure with thee. I do beseech thee
to permit him opportunity to speak to thee, and peraunter thou wilt all
the more readily do so, when I tell thee that he did save my life from
the murderous blows of an assassin, the which had well nigh amortised
me, by despatching the foul traitor with a single thrust of his spear.”
“To hear that thou hast saved the life of my beloved son,” replied Sir
Patrick, advancing and taking MacErchar by the hand, “were in itself
enow to coart me to recognise thee as my benefactor, though I had never
seen thee before. But well do I remember thy brave deeds, my worthy
fellow-soldier.”
“Oich, oich,” cried Duncan, dropping on his knees, and embracing those
of Sir Patrick, but altogether unable to express his feelings, “oich,
oich—surely, surely—fat can she say?—foolish, foolish—hoot, toot—ower
big rewards for her—ooch—ower good, surely—hoit, oit, Duncan will die
hersel for the good Sir Patrick—ay, or for ony flesh o’
hers—och-hone—uve, uve, she cannot speak.”
“Yet did I never hear mortal tongue more eloquent,” said Sir Patrick
Hepborne the elder, “sith that its very want of utterance doth show
forth the honest and kindly metal of the heart. But by St. Andrew, I do
know the heart to be bold as well as kind, seeing I forget not the
actions of this heroic mountaineer in the field. Where all are brave,
verily ’tis not an easy task to gain an overtopping height of glory;
and yet less is it easy in the lower ranks of war, where the
individuals stand thicker. Natheless, and maugre all these obstacles to
fame, did this man’s deeds in battle so tower above all others, that,
humble as he was, I often noted them—yea, and he should have been
rewarded too, had I not weaned that he was killed in doing the very
feat for the which I would have done him instant and signal honour.
What came of thee,” continued Sir Patrick, addressing MacErchar, who
had by this time risen to his legs, “what came of thee, my valiant
mountaineer, after thou didst so gallantly save those engineer-men and
their engine, when basely abandoned by the French auxiliaries, at the
siege of Roxburgh, whose retreat thou didst cover against a host of the
enemy by thy single targe and sword, until others were shamed into
their duty by thy glorious ensample?”
“Oich, oich—he, he, he!—a bonny tuilzie that,” cried Duncan, laughing
heartily, “a bonny tuilzie; troth, she was but roughly handled yon
time. Of a truth, noble Sir Patrick, she did get sike an ill-favoured
clewer from a chield with a mokell mace, that she was laid sprawling on
the plain; and syne, poo! out ower her body did the English loons come
flying after our men, in sike wicked fashion, that the very breath was
trampled out o’ her bodys.”
“But how didst thou ’scape with life after all?” demanded Sir Patrick
the elder.
“Troth, after they had all trotted over her, the wind just came back
again into her bodys,” replied MacErchar; “and so she got up till her
legs, and shook hersel, and scratched her lugs, that were singing as
loud as twenty throstle-birds; when back came the villains, running
like furies before our men, and whirled her away wi’ them, or ever she
kend, into the town. There she lay prisoners for mony a days, till she
broke their jails, and made her way to the Highlands. But troth, she
took her spulzie wi’ her, for she had hidden that afore, and kend whare
to find it again.”
“Of a truth, the deed was one of the most desperate I did ever behold,”
said Sir Patrick the elder, recurring to MacErchar’s action to which he
had alluded. “He planted himself against a host, and seemed doomed to
certain destruction. ’Tis a marvel that he is alive.”
Whilst Sir Patrick Hepborne and the Earl of Moray, who also remembered
him, were holding some further conference with MacErchar, Sir Patrick
the younger approached the King, and privately begged a boon of his
Majesty, the particulars of which he specified to him.
“’Tis granted, Sir Patrick,” whispered the King; “but let it be asked
of us aloud, that such part of the populace who may have been listening
to what hath passed, may have their minds filled also with the
wholesome ensample of their King rewarding virtue.”
In obedience to Robert’s command, Hepborne knelt before him, and
addressed him in a loud and distinct voice.
“My liege, I do humbly beg a boon at thy Royal hands.”
“Speak forth thy volunde, Sir Patrick Hepborne,” replied the King;
“there are few names in our kingdom the which may call for more ready
attention from King Robert than that the which hath ever been heard
shouted in the front of his armies, and in the midst of the ranks of
his discomfited enemies.”
“The boon I do earnestly crave of your Majesty is, that you will be
graciously pleased to bestow upon this gallant soldier, Duncan
MacErchar, a commission in thy Royal Guard.”
“He hath it,” replied the King, “he hath it cheerfully at thy request,
Sir Patrick; and by the faith of a King, it doth right well pleasure us
thus to exercise the happiest part of our Royal power—I do mean that of
rewarding loyal bravery such as this man hath so proved himself to
possess; yea, and no time so fitting, methinks, for the exercise of
this power; for when war is beginning, we should show our people that
we do know to reward those who do well and truly serve us.”
“Kneel down, kneel down, I say, before Robert King of Scotland,” said
the Earl of Moray, slapping the astonished MacErchar upon the back, as
he stood bereft of all sensation on discovering in whose presence he
had been standing and prating so much. He obeyed mechanically, whilst a
shout arose from that part of the crowd who had heard all that had
passed, and was caught up gradually by those farther off, who cheered
upon trust long ere the story could spread among them. The King moved
away; but still Duncan remained petrified upon his knees, with his
hands clasped, his eyes thrown up, and his mouth open, until Sir
Patrick the younger showed himself his best friend by awaking him from
his trance and leading him away, amidst the ceaseless shouts of the
mob.
CHAPTER LII.
The Wolfe of Badenoch at Aberdeen—Father and Son.
Duncan MacErchar’s intellect was so much confused by the unexpected
discovery that he had been standing and talking before his King, a
being whom he had always conceived to be something more than man, and
whose image had floated like a spirit before his misty eyes, that it
was some time ere Sir Patrick Hepborne could make him comprehend the
good fortune that had befallen him. He then inquired eagerly into the
nature and advantages of the situation which had been so graciously
bestowed upon him by His Majesty; and finding that he was to be an
officer in that corps of stipendiaries who were always on Royal duty,
with the best possible pay and perquisites, and superb clothing, he
asked Hepborne, with some degree of earnestness, what became of the
corps during the time of war.
“They never go to war, unless when the King appears in the field in
person,” replied Sir Patrick; “and of that I well wot there is but
little chance during this reign.”
“Uve, uve,” cried MacErchar, with a look that showed he was but half
satisfied; “and is she never to see the English loons again? Sure,
sure, of what use will be the pay and the harness, an she must liggen
at home while tothers folks be at the wars? And is she never to have
the good luck to fight at the back of the good Sir Patrick again! Oich,
oich, she would like full weel to see her down, and ane Englishman
cleavin’ her skull, and her nainsel wi’ a pike in the body o’ the
chield—oich, hoich! it would be braw sport. Sure, she would rather
fight for Sir Patrick, yea, and albeit she got nothing but cuffs and
scarts for her pains, than sit wi’ her thumbs across serving a king
himsel, though she got goupins of gold for her idleness. Troth, she
would die for Sir Patrick.”
“And wouldst thou sacrifice the honour, yea, and the weighty emolument
of a commission in the King’s Guards, with all the fair promise of
advancement the which it doth hold forth to thee, for the mere
gratification of a chivalric self-devotion to my father?” demanded
Hepborne, desirous to try him.
“Out ay—surely, surely, she would do that; and little wonder o’ her,
too, she would think it,” replied MacErchar.
“Wouldst thou, then, that I do resign thy commission to the King, and
that I do obtain for thee a lance among my father’s spears?” asked
Hepborne.
“Oich, oich!” cried MacErchar, rubbing his hands, and with his eyes
sparkling with delight; “surely her honour is ower good—ower good,
surely. But if her honour will do that same, oich, oich! Duncan
MacErchar will be happy—oop, oop, happy. Troth, she will dance itsel
for joy. Oit, she may need look for no more till she dies; God be good
unto her soul then! Oich, will her honour do this for her?” demanded
Duncan eagerly of Hepborne, and in his more than usual keenness, taking
the knight’s hand, and squeezing it powerfully; “will her honour do but
this for her?”
“Verily, I shall at least do for thee what I can,” replied Hepborne,
heartily shaking his hand; “albeit so honourable a gift from thy King
may not be lightly rejected. Yet will I do what I may for thee. Let me
find thee with mine esquire to-morrow morning; thou shalt then hear the
result of mine application to the King.”
Hepborne was as good as his word. He craved an audience of the King,
and, being admitted to his couchee, the good monarch was pleased with
the singularly disinterested wish of the Highlander, and immediately
signified his gracious pleasure that MacErchar should retain the
commission in his Guards, whilst he should be permitted to follow the
banner of Sir Patrick Hepborne to the wars. The old knight, who
happened to be present, was much touched by Duncan’s devotion to him,
and very gladly admitted him among his followers, so that every wish of
MacErchar’s heart was more than gratified.
As Sir Patrick Hepborne was quitting the Royal apartments, and as he
was passing through a small vestibule feebly illumined by a single
lamp, he was almost jostled by a tall figure, who, enveloped in an
ample mantle, was striding hastily forward towards the door of the room
whence he had issued, the metal of his harness clanging as he moved.
“Ha! Sir Patrick Hepborne,” cried the Wolfe of Badenoch, for it was
he—“by the blessed bones of my grandfather, but thou art right far ben
already in the old man’s favour, that I do thus meet thee ishing forth
from his chamber at an hour like this; but thou art more welcome,
peraunter, than his son the Earl of Buchan—Is the King alone?”
“By this time I do ween that he is, my Lord; for, as I left him, the
Earl of Fife, the Earl of Moray, and my father, who had been in
conference with him, were preparing to take their leave by another
door, and the King was about to retire into his bed-chamber, with the
gentlemen in waiting on his person.”
“Ha!” said the Wolfe—“John Dunbar, Earl of Moray, saidst thou?—By my
word, but he seemeth to be eternally buzzing about the King, ay, and he
doth buzz in his ear too, I warrant me. Hast thou seen or heard aught
of the Bishop of Moray being here?”
“The Bishop of Moray had an audience of His Majesty this very day, on
his arrival,” replied Hepborne; “and if I mistake not, he did take his
leave, and hath already departed on his homeward journey.”
“Ha! ’tis well,” replied the Wolfe hoarsely, and gnashing his teeth as
he said so. “Good night, Sir Patrick, I may, or I may not, see thee in
Aberdeen at this time, for I know not whether I may, or may not, ride
hence again anon.” So saying, he passed hastily towards the door
leading to the King’s private chamber, to reach which he had several
apartments to pass through.
The aged Robert, tired by the unusual fatigue he had that day
undergone, was alike glad to get rid of business and of his privy
councillors. Retiring into his bed-chamber, and laying aside the
dignity of his high estate, his two attendants assisted him to put on
his robe-de-chambre, and he immediately descended to the more humble
level of a mere man, to which even the greatest and most heroic
potentate is reduced by the operations of his valet. His legs had been
already relieved from those rolls of woollen which had been employed to
cherish and to support them during the day; and being seated in an easy
chair of large dimensions, among ample crimson cushions, his pale
countenance showed yet more wan and withered under the dark purple
velvet cap he wore, from beneath which his white hair curled over his
shoulders. Though his eyes were weak and bleared, their full and
undimmed pupils beamed mildly, like the stars of a summer twilight. He
had just inserted his limbs knee-deep into a warm foot-bath, which one
of his people had placed before his chair, when a loud tap was heard at
the door.
“Ha!” said the King, starting, “get thee to the door, Vallance, and see
who may knock so late. By the sound, we should opine that either
rudeness or haste were there.”
Vallance did as he was ordered, and, on opening the door, the Wolfe of
Badenoch stepped into the apartment, and made a hasty and careless
obeisance before his father. The old King’s feeble frame shook from
head to foot with nervous agitation when he beheld him.
“Son Alexander, is it thou?” demanded Robert with astonishment. “We
looked not to have our sacred privacy disturbed at so unseemly an hour,
yea, and still less by thee, whose head, we did ween, was shrouded by
shame in the darkness of thine own disgrace, or rather buried, as we
had vainly hoped, amid the dust and ashes of ane humble repentance.
What bringeth thee hither?—what hath”——He stopped, for he remembered
that they were not alone. “Vallance, and you, Seyton, retire. Wait
without in the vestibule; we would be private. What hath brought thee
hither, son Alexander?” repeated he, after the door was shut upon them.
“I wot thou art but a rare guest at our Court, and methinks that,
infected as thou art at this present time, thou art but little fitted
for its air.”
Naturally violent and ferocious as was the Wolfe of Badenoch, he now
stood before his father and his King, a presence in which he never
found himself without being in a certain degree subdued by the
combination of awe, early inspired into his mind by this twofold claim
on his respect, and to which he had been too long accustomed, to find
it easy to rid himself of it. The grim Earl moved forward some steps
towards the chair where His Majesty was seated, and again louting him
low, he repeated the obeisance which the venerable form of his parent
and Sovereign commanded.
“My liege-father,” said he at length, “I do come to pay mine humble
duty to your grace, and——”
“Nay, methinks thou shouldst have bethought thee of humbling thy fierce
pride before another throne than ours, ere thou didst adventure to wend
thee hither,” interrupted the King with indignation. “It would have
well become thee to have bowed in humble contrition before the
episcopal chair of our Right Reverend Bishop of Moray, yea, to have
licked the very dust before his feet. Then, with his absolution on thy
sinful head, mightest thou have approached the holy altar of God, and
the shrine of the Virgin, in penitence and prayer; and after these, and
all other purifications, we mought have been again well pleased to have
seen our reclaimed son mingling with the nobles of our Court.”
“I do see that the Bishop of Moray hath outrode me,” said the Wolfe of
Badenoch, his eye kindling, and his cheek darkly reddening, the flame
of his internal ire being rendered more furious by the very exertions
he was making to keep down all external symptoms of it. “The Bishop
hath already effunded his tale in the Royal ear; but yet do I hope that
thou wilt hesitate to condemn me, yea, even on the Bishop’s saying,
without hearing what I may have to declare in mine own defence.”
“Son Alexander,” said the old King mildly, and at the same time slowly
shaking his head as he spoke, “we do fear much that thou canst have but
little to tell that may undermine what the soothfast Bishop, Alexander
Barr, hath possessed us of.”
“He hath been with thee, then, my liege-father?” said the Wolfe, in a
voice of eager inquiry, and at the same time biting his nether lip.
“Yea, the godly Bishop of Moray hath been with us this very day,”
replied the King. “He hath harrowed up our soul with the doleful tale
of the brenning of our good burgh of Forres—of the great devastation of
men’s dwellings, goods, and mœubles, the which thy fury hath
created—the sacrilege of the which thou hast been guilty in reducing
God’s house and altar to ashes, as also the house of his minister—the
wicked and as yet unestimated sacrifice of the lives of our loving
subjects, the which thou hast occasioned.”
“As God is my judge, my liege,” replied the Earl impatiently, “as God
is my judge, there was not a life lost—credit me, not one life. The
hour of the night was early when the deed was done; yea, it was done
openly enough, so that there was little chance of mortal tarrying to be
food for the devouring flames. Trust me, my liege-father, I did
secretly send to certify myself, as I can now truly do thee, on the
honour of a knight, that not a life was lost.”
“Nay, in truth, it must be confessed that the Bishop spake only from
hearsay as to this head of charge against thee,” replied the King,
“and, of a truth, thou hast lightened our mind of a right grievous part
of its burden by thy solemn denial of this cruel part of the accusation
against thee. Verily, it was to my soul like the hair-shirt to the back
that hath been seamed by the lash of penance, to think that flesh of
ours could have done such wanton murder on innocent and inoffensive
burghers. But yet, what shall we say to thy brenning of God’s holy
house—of the gratification of thy blind and brutal thirst of vengeance
even by the destruction of his altars, and of the images of his
saints?”
“Nay, mine intent was not against the Church,” replied the Wolfe, “but
rage reft me of reason, and I deny not that it was with mine own hand
that I did fire it; yet was it soon extinguished, and the choir only
hath suffered. But,” continued he, as he turned the subject with
increasing irritation, “but had not an excommunication gone forth so
rashly against me, yea, and poured out alswa by him who hath ever been
mine enemy, the flood of my vengeance had not flowed; and if it had
swept all before it, by the Rood, but Bishop Barr himself must bear the
coulpe of what evil it may have wrought.”
“Speak not so horribly, son Alexander,” said the King, with emotion.
“Thine impious words do shock mine ear. Lay not blame to Bishop Barr
for at last hurling upon thee the tardy vengeance of the Episcopal
chair, which thine accumulated insults did loudly call for, long ere
his long-suffering temper did permit him to employ them. Didst thou not
outrageously and sacrilegiously ravish and usurp the lands of the
Church in Badenoch? and didst thou not refuse to restore them to the
righteous possession of our holy Mother when called on so to do?”
“Yea,” replied the Wolfe of Badenoch, waxing more angry, and less
scrupulous in his manner of speaking, as well as in his choice of
terms, as his father thus began to approach nearer to the source of all
his heart-burnings with the Bishop—“yea, I did indeed seize these
lands, but, by the mass, it was not against the Church that I did war
in so doing, but against mine insidious enemy, Alexander Barr, who did
feed himself fat upon their revenues. And well I wot hath he worked for
my vengeance. Hath he not poisoned thine ear against me?—hath he not
been ever my torment?—hath he not been eternally meddling with my
domestic, with my most private affairs?—hath he not sported with my
most tender feelings?—hath he not done all that in him lay to rend the
ties of my dearest affections?”
“Ah, there, there again hast thou touched a chord the which doth ever
vibrate to our shame,” replied the King, deeply distressed by the
remembrance of the subject which the Wolfe had awakened. “That
disgraceful connection with thy leman Mariota Athyn—’tis that which
hath poisoned the source of all thine actings, and that hath thereby
transmewed the sweet waters of our life into bitterness and gall. Did
we not write to thee with our own hand, urging thee to repentance, and
beseeching thee to dismiss thy sinful and impure mate, and cleave to
thy lawful wife, Euphame, Countess of Ross? and——”
“Nay, my liege-father, I wot this is too old a wound to be ripped up
now,” interrupted the Wolfe of Badenoch, beginning to wax more and more
ireful; “ha! by the Rood, but ’tis sore to bear—cruelly sore. I did
come hither to complain of the evil usage, of the disgrace, of the
insults which this upstart priest hath thrown on me, hoping for a
father’s lenient interpretation of mine actings; yea, and that some
salve might have been put to the rankling sores this carrion hath
wrought on me; but the croaking raven hath been here before me—he hath
already sung his hoarse and evil-omened song in thine ear, and all that
I may now say cannot purge it of the poison with which it has been
filled. By my trusty burly-brand, but thou hast forgotten the mettle of
thy son Alexander.”
“Oh dole, dole, dole!” cried the old King, clasping his hands in bitter
affliction at the obstinacy shown by his son; “what can be done with a
heart which beareth itself so proudly, which refuseth to listen to the
voice of reason, which despiseth a father’s counsels, and which
resolveth to abide in its wickedness.”
“Wickedness!” replied the Wolfe fiercely, and enchafing more and more
as he went on; “by the holy Rood, but I do think that the word is ill
applied. Meseems that to throw her off who hath borne me five lusty
chields, and who hath stuck to me through sun and wete, would savour
more of wickedness than to continue her under the shadow of my
protection. Ha! by my beard, but the voice of reason—ha, ha, ha!—is
like to be as much with me in this case as against me. Thank God, I
have reason—yea, and excellent reason too—full, vigorous, and perfect
reason—whilst thou hast thine, old man, far upon the wane. Whatsoever
mountaunce of reason thou mayest have once had, by Heaven, thou dost
now begin to dote. Yet what was thy reason in like matters when it was
at the best? Didst thou not thyself live a like light life in thy
youthhood, and dost thou school me for having followed thine example?”
“Oh, dole, dole!—oh, woe for my sins!” cried the old man, agonized by
his son’s intemperate accusation of him; “’tis bitter, I wot, to bear
the reproach of a wicked and undutiful son. O, alas for my sins! yet
sure, if I have had any, as the blessed Virgin knoweth, I do humbly
confess them, and may her holy influence cleanse me from them; if I
have had sins, surely I have dreed a right sore penance for them in
having thee as an everlasting scourge to my spirit. God, doubtless,
gave thee to me for the gracious purpose that thou mightest be as
bitter ligne-aloes to purge away the disease of my soul; and may He
sanctify the purposes of mine affliction! But what art thou, sinful
wretch that thou art, who wouldst thus cast blame on thy father, yea,
and ignominy on thyself? If I sinned in that matter, did I not awaken
from my sin and repent me? did I not do all that mortal could do to
salve the misery I had begotten? did I not——. But thou art a cruel and
barbarous wretch, a disgrace and infamy to thy father—a diseased,
polluted, and festering limb, the which should be cut off and buried
out of sight.”
“Old dotard,” cried the Wolfe, his fury now getting completely the
better of him, “talk not thus—I—I—I—ha!—provoke me not—thou hadst
better——”
“Get thee to thy home,” replied the King; “turn thy vile strumpet
forth, and, above all, humble thyself in penitence before the good
Bishop Barr, who, godly man, hath been unwearied in his pious
endeavours to reclaim thee from thy sinful and polluted life. Lick the
dust from the very shoes of the saintly Bishop of Moray; in his
Christian mercy he may forgive thee, and thou mayest then hope for
restoration to our Royal favour; but if thou dost not this, by the word
of a King, I will have thee thrown into prison, and there thou shalt
liggen until thou shalt have made reparation to God and man for all
thine impurities and all thine outrages and sacrileges.”
“Ha!” cried the enraged Earl of Buchan, half drawing his dagger, and
then returning it violently into its sheath, and pressing it hard down,
as if to make it immovable there were the only security against his
using it; whilst, at the same time, he began to pace the apartment in a
furious manner; “ha! what! confine the eagle of the mountain to a
sparrow’s cage? chain down the Wolfe of Badenoch to some walthsome den?
threaten thy son so, and all for an accursed, prating, papelarde
priest? Old man,” said he, suddenly halting opposite to his father, and
putting a daring hand rudely on each shoulder of His Majesty, while his
eyes glared on him as if passion had altogether mastered his
reason—“old dotard carle that thou art, art thou not now within my
grasp? art not thine attendants beyond call? is not the puny spark of
life that feebly brens in that wintry frame now within the will of
these hands? What doth hinder that I should put thee beyond the power
of executing thy weak threats?—what doth hinder me to——”
He stopped ere he had uttered this impious parricidal thought more
plainly. The old man blenched or quailed not; nay, even the agitation
which he had before exhibited—an agitation which had been the result of
anger and vexation, but not of fear—was calmed by the idea of
approaching death; and, pitying his son more than himself, he sat
immovable like some waxen figure, his mild eyes calmly and steadily
fixed upon the red and starting orbs of the Wolfe of Badenoch. The
group might have been copied for the subject of the martyrdom of a
saint.
“’Tis the hand of God that hindereth thee, son Alexander,” said the
aged Monarch, slowly and distinctly.
The ferocious Wolfe could not withstand the saint-like look of his
venerable father. The devil that had taken possession of Lord
Badenoch’s heart was expelled by the beam of Heaven that shot from the
eyes of the good King Robert. Those of his son fell abashed before
them, and the succeeding moment saw the hard, stern, and savage Earl on
his bended knees, yea, and weeping before the parent of whom his
ungovernable rage might have made him the murderer. There was a silence
of a minute.
“Forgive me, forgive me, father. I knew not what I did; I was reft of
my reason,” cried the Wolfe of Badenoch, groaning with deep agony and
shame.
“Son Alexander,” said the King firmly, yet as if struggling to keep
down these emotions of tenderness for his son which his sudden and
unexpected contrition had excited; “Son Alexander, albeit the
consideration that the outrage was done by the hand of a son against a
father doth rather aggravate the coulpe of the subject against the
King, yet as it doth regard our own Royal person alone, we may be
permitted to allow the indulgent affection of the parent to assuage the
otherwise rigorous justice of the Monarch. So far as this may go, then,
do we forgive thee.”
The Wolfe remained on the ground, deeply affected, with his head buried
within his mantle.
“But as for what the duty of a Sovereign doth demand of us,” continued
Robert, “in punishing these malfaitours who do flagrantly sin against
the laws of our realm, and those, above all, who do sacrilegious
outrage against our holy religion and Church, be assured that our hand
will be as strong and swift in its vengeance on thee as on any other;
nor shall these thy tears make more impression on us than thine
ungovernable fury did now appal us. Doubt not but thou shalt feel the
full weight of our Royal displeasure, yea, and thou shalt dree such
punishment as befits the crimes thou hast committed against God and
man, unless thou dost straightway seek the footstool of the injured
Bishop of Moray. Nay, start not away, but hear us; for thou shalt
suffer for thy crime, unless thou dost straightway seek the injured
Bishop’s footstool, and, bowing thy head in the dust before it, submit
thee to what penance he in his great mercy and wisdom may hold to be
sufficient expiation for thy wickedness.”
The Wolfe of Badenoch started up and again began to pace the room in a
frenzy; and as Robert went on he became more and more agitated by
passion, gnashing his teeth from time to time, and setting them against
each other, as if afraid to permit himself the use of speech, and with
his arms rolled up tight into his mantle, as if he dreaded to trust
them at liberty.
“Nay, never frown and fret, son Alexander,” continued the King. “By St.
Andrew, ’tis well for thee that thou didst come to us thus in secret,
for hadst thou but had the daring to appear before us when surrounded
by the Lords of our Court, verily our respect for justice must of
needscost have coarted us to order thee to be forthwith seized and
subjected to strict durance. As it is, thou mayest yede thee hence for
this time, that thou mayest yet have some space left thee to make thy
peace with the holy Bishop Barr; for without his pardon, trust me, thou
canst never have ours. And we do earnestly counsel thee to hasten to
avail thyself of this merciful delay of our Sovereign vengeance, for an
thou dost not speedily receive full absolution from the godly prelate
whom thou hast so grievously offended, by the word of a King I swear
that thou shalt liggen thee in prison till thou diest.”
The Wolfe of Badenoch heard no more. He relieved his hands in a hurried
manner from the thraldom in which he had imprisoned them—halted in his
walk, and glared fiercely at the King—groped again at the handle of his
dagger—threw up his arms in the air with frenzied action—dashed his
clenched fists against his head—and then rushed from the Royal presence
with a fury which was rendered sufficiently evident by the clanging of
the various doors through which he retreated.
The King folded his hands, groaned with deep agony, looked up to
Heaven, uttered a short petition to the Virgin to have mercy on the
disordered and polluted soul of his unhappy son, and to beseech her to
shed a holy and healing influence over it that might beget a sincere
repentance; and then giving way to all the feelings of a father, he
burst into tears, which he in vain attempted to hide from the
attendants, who soon afterwards appeared.
CHAPTER LIII.
The English Lady’s Departure from Tarnawa Castle—The Crafty Son of
the Wolfe of Badenoch.
It was more than a week after the departure of the Earl of Moray and
his friends from Tarnawa that Rory Spears was ordered to attend the
Countess of Moray to receive her instructions for the duty his master
had left him at home to fulfil. He was called into the room, where the
lady in whose service he was to be employed was sitting veiled; but the
Countess had not more than time to open the matter to him when she was
interrupted by a message from her nephew, Sir Andrew Stewart, who, with
very opposite feelings to those of Rory, had found some plausible
excuse for not going with the Knights to Aberdeen, and now craved a
short audience of the Countess. The English lady arose and retired into
the recess of a window, where Katherine Spears was plying her needle,
and Sir Andrew was admitted.
“My gracious aunt,” said he, “I crave thy pardon for pressing my
unbidden services; but, I beseech thee, let me not be deprived of the
highest privilege that belongs to knighthood; I mean that of being the
prop and stay of beauty in distress. Thou knowest that I have some half
dozen spears here. Be it my pleasing task, I entreat thee, to protect
the lady through those difficulties and dangers that may beset her
path. Trust me, she shall pass unscathed while I am with her.”
“I am utterly astonished, nevoy,” replied the Countess; “how, I pray
thee, art thou possessed of the secret that any such emprise may be in
hand?”
“Nay, it mattereth but little, I trow, how I know that, my noble aunt,”
replied Sir Andrew Stewart with a careless smile; “but, what may be to
thee some deal more strange, peraunter, I do know the lady too.—Madam,”
said he, gliding gently past his aunt, and going up to the window, “I
have only to tell thee that we have met at Lochyndorbe, to convince
thee that I do not err; yet be not alarmed at what I have said; trust
me, thou shalt find that I have over much delicacy and knightly
courtesy about me rudely to withdraw the veil in which thou hast been
pleased to shroud thyself. I come but to offer thee mine escort, and I
do fondly hope thou wilt not refuse me the gratification of shielding
and defending thee with this arm, amid the many perils that may environ
thee in thy travel between Tarnawa and Norham.”
“’Tis gallantly spoken of thee, nevoy,” replied the Countess; “and
albeit I do hope that danger there may be none in this our own country
of Scotland, seeing, I have reason to believe, that the tide of war
hath already been turned from us; yet will it give me joy to be
certiorated of the safety of this sweet lady, who will doubtless most
cheerfully accept thy proffered courtesy.”
The lady readily made her acknowledgements to Sir Andrew, and gladly
availed herself of his protection. Katherine Spears, who was to
accompany her as a female companion on the journey, was rejoiced, like
all young persons, at the prospect of so speedily seeing a little of
the world, especially as her father was to be with her, and she was
going in the service of a lady to whom she was already so much
attached. But old Rory, who had been standing aloof during the
conversation, showed by his countenance that he was ill satisfied with
the arrangement which had been made, as well as with every one about
him. He turned on his heel to leave the place, brandishing his
gaud-clip, and followed by a brace of large wolf-dogs in couples, and
began slowly descending the stairs, letting down first one-half of his
ponderous person and then the other in succession, each step he took
bringing out a humph, as a break to the continuity of his audible
grumble.
“Ay, by St. Lowry, wha wad hae thought it, humph—wha wad hae thought
that Rory Spears, humph—the Yearl’s henchman, as a body mought say,
umph—that Rory Spears, that mought be ca’d as necessar till his back as
the hound to his heel, or the falcon to his wrist, humph—that Rory
Spears, I say, suld hae been left behind at sike a time as this,
umph—like a crazy old destrier, or ane crackit targe, humph—and to be
turned ower to be the plaything to a silly bit lassie, umph—and an
Englisher quean, too, mair’s the wonder, hugh!—Ay, and to make matters
better, she hirsels me off, too, like ane auld pair o’ boots, to put
faith in that kestrel, Sir Andrew Stewart, humph—a kite frae an ill
nest, umph—ay, and ane that she’ll aiblins find is no that ower mukel
to trust till, maugre a’ his havers, umph!—Weel, I maun e’en do the
Yearl’s wull, and his leddy’s wull; but, troth, I sall gie mysel no
unnecessar trouble wi’ the lass, umph—aboon a’, sith she hath chosen
her ain champion, hugh!—And that foolish glaikit thing Kate, too,
umph,—she’s smiling and smirking, when it wad better set her to be
greetin’, hugh!—Och sirs, sirs, it’s a queer warld this. Whiew, whiew,
Brand—whiew, whiew, Oscar,” cried he, whistling to his hounds, as he
gained the area of the Castle-yard; “come awa, my bairns, ye hae mair
sense than half o’ human fouk.”
Next morning the beautiful milk-white palfrey, that had been the gift
of Sir Patrick Hepborne to his page Maurice de Grey, stood ready
caparisoned in the court-yard, along with those of the party who were
to form the escort. The lady recognised him as she descended from the
terrace, leaning on the arm of Sir Andrew Stewart, and her eyes ran
over at sight of the noble animal. She stopped to caress him silently
ere she mounted him, her heart being too full to permit her to trust
her voice in speaking to him. As Sir Andrew Stewart aided her to rise
into her saddle, the generous steed neighed a joyous acknowledgment of
the precious burden he was entrusted with. The lady waved her hand to
the Countess, who streamed her scarf from a window, in visible token of
the prayers she was putting up for her safety; and the cavalcade rode
slowly forth, the beauteous eyes of the Englishwoman so dimmed with
tears that she saw not aught that was around her. She felt as if, in
leaving Tarnawa, the last tie that had bound her heart to the object of
its tenderest affections were dissolved, and it seemed to wither within
her. She drew her mantle over her head and gave way to her feelings, so
that even Sir Andrew Stewart saw that, to break in upon her by
conversation, would have been an intrusion too displeasing to be risked
by him. He therefore continued to ride by her side in silence; and the
example of the knight and lady spreading its influence over the party,
not a word was heard among the riders.
The lady at last felt that common courtesy required her to exert
herself to control her feelings, and with some difficulty she began to
enter into conversation with Sir Andrew Stewart, who rode at her side.
She was now able to reconnoitre her attendants, which she had not had
strength or spirits to do before. Before her rode the minstrel, Adam of
Gordon, who no sooner saw that the lady had given his tongue license by
breaking the silence she had maintained, than he began to employ the
innocent artillery of an old man’s gallantry on the dimpling charms of
the lovely Katherine Spears, who, by her merry replies, and her peals
of laughter, showed that she enjoyed the well-turned compliments and
high-flown speeches of the courteous and fair-spoken bard. Next came
the spearmen, and a couple of lacqueys, and one or two other
attendants; and last of all, wrapped up in a new fishing-garb of more
than ordinarily capacious dimensions, with an otter-skin cap on his
head, and his gaud-clip in his hand, rode Rory Spears, sulky and
silent, on a strong, active little horse, whose ragged coat, here
hanging down in shreds, and there pulled off bare to the skin, showed
that he had been just rescued from the briers, brambles, and black
thorns of the forest, which had been waging war against his sides for
many a day. Rory was followed by a single wolf-hound, and his whole
accoutrements were so far from being fitted for the important duty of
convoy, to which he had been appointed, that it almost seemed as if he
had purposely resolved it should be so from pure spite against his
employment.
“Be’st thou for the hunts, Master Spears?” cried the wife of a
publican, one of the Earl’s dependants, whom curiosity hurried to her
door to gaze at the travellers as they passed.
“Na, na, Meggy Muirhead,” cried Rory, checking his horse for an
instant. “The hunts, quotha! pretty hunts, truly. But hast thou e’er a
stoup o’ yill at hand? for thou must know I am bent on a lang and
tedisome journey—yea, and I do jalouse a right thirsty and
throat-guisening travel, gif I may guess from the dry husk that my
craig hath already been afflicted withal?”
“Thou shanny want a drap o’ yill, Master Spears,” cried Maggy Muirhead,
who ran in and brought out a large wooden stoup, that, as she swung it
on her head, foamed over the brim with generous nut-brown, by which she
hoped to extract some information from Rory; “and where mayest thou be
ganging, I pray thee? to join the Yearl maybe at the wars, I’se
warrant?”
“Wars,” cried Rory, “wars! Gie me the stoup, woman.” And dropping his
reins, and sticking the shaft of his gaud-clip into his enormous boot,
he stretched out both hands towards the double-handed stoup, and
relieving mine hostess’ head of the weight, he applied its laughing
brim to his lips, and slowly drained it so effectually that she had no
occasion to replace it there. “Haugh; wars, saidst thou, Mistress
Muirhead?” cried Rory again, as he held out the empty vessel, one
handle of which the hostess now easily received upon a couple of her
fingers, and kept swinging about as he was speaking—“wars! look at me,
am I girded for the wars, thinkest thou? Na, I’ve e’en taen on to be
tirewoman to yon black-e’ed Englisher leddy, and I’m to get a kirtle,
and a coif, and a trotcosy, ere long. What thinkest thou of that,
Mistress Muirhead?”
“Preserve me, the Virgin have a care o’ us a’!” cried Mistress Muirhead
in wonder, as Rory rode away; “wha ever heard tell o’ sike a thing? The
man’s gaun clean wud, I rauckon.”
Sir Andrew Stewart was unremitting in his attention to the lady, and
all his speeches and actions were so cunningly tempered with delicacy,
that she neither had the power nor the will to conceal her satisfaction
at his treatment of her. He inwardly congratulated himself on the
advance he supposed he was making in her good opinion, and with some
consummate art began to pave the way for a declaration of the violent
passion he had secretly cherished for her, and gradually drawing nearer
and nearer to her bridle rein as they rode, whispered the warm language
of love in her ear in sentences that grew more and more tender at every
step they advanced. Being occupied with her own thoughts, she had the
appearance without the reality of listening to all he said, and the
enamoured knight, interpreting her silence into a tacit approval,
seized the first favourable opportunity of addressing her in plainer
language.
“Most angelic lady,” said he to her, as he sat beside her alone under
an oak, where they had halted for rest and refreshment, “why shouldst
thou undertake this tedious journey? Why shouldst thou leave Scotland,
where thou mightst be made happy? To permit beauty so divine, and
excellence so rare, to quit the Caledonian soil, would be a foul
disgrace to the gallantry of its chivalry. Deign, I beseech thee, to
listen to my ardent vows; let me be thy faithful knight. The love thou
hast kindled in this bosom is unquenchable. Oh, let me——”
“Talk not thus besottedly, Sir Knight,” replied the lady, interrupting
him hastily and rather sternly; “I may not honestly listen to any such.
Gallantry may peraunter come with good grace enow from thy lips, but
permit not thyself license with me, whose heart doth already belong to
another, and who can allow these words of thine no harbour. I shall
ever be grateful to thee for this thy courteous convoy, but I can never
return thy love. Stir not then the idle theme again.”
“Nay, loveliest of thy sex,” said the silky Sir Andrew Stewart with
strange ardour, “to keep thy heart for one who hath so vilely entreated
thee, and that after thou didst sacrifice all to yield thee to his
service, were neither just to thyself nor to me. Let me occupy that
place in thy heart, so unworthily filled by one whose very bearing
towards thee (rather that of a master than of a lover) did sufficiently
betray how much those matchless charms had ceased to please his palled
appetite. Let me then——”
“Sir Andrew Stewart,” replied the lady with astonishment, mingled with
a dignified expression of resentment, “I know not what falsehood may
have conspired to conjure up so much unseemly boldness in thee; for I
cannot believe that thou, a knight of good report, couldst thus have
ventured to insult me, unless on some false credence. What though my
love hath been misplaced? My heart can never change. Urge not, then,
again a theme that must ever rouse my indignation.”
A cloud passed across the smooth brow of Sir Andrew Stewart as he
received this resolute rejection of his passion, but it speedily
disappeared.
“Forgive me, beauteous lady,” said he, after a pause, “mine unhappy
passion hath indeed mastered my better reason. Kill me not with thy
frowns, but lay my fault to the account of these thy stirring charms.
Sith that I dare not hope for more advancement, I shall still be the
humblest of thy slaves, for to cease to love thee were impossible.”
After this decided repulse, Sir Andrew Stewart confined his attentions
to those of mere courtesy. Towards evening, they began to descend into
a narrow glen, watered by a clear river. The hills arose on both sides
lumpish and vast, and the dense fir forest that covered them rendered
the scene as gloomy as imagination could fancy. As they picked their
way down the steep paths of the forest, they caught occasional glimpses
of the lone tower of a little stronghold that stood on a small green
mound, washed by the river on one side, and divided from the abrupt
base of the mountain by a natural ravine, that bore the appearance of
having been rendered more defensible by art.
“Behold the termination of our journey of this day,” said Sir Andrew
Stewart to his lady. “Thine accommodation, beauteous damsel, will be
but poor; yet, even such as thou mayest find it, it may be welcome
after the fatigue thou hast endured.”
They reached the bottom, and, crossing the ravine by a frail wooden
bridge, climbed a short ascent that led them to the entrance of the
little fortalice, that wore the appearance of having been lately
demolished in some feudal broil; for the massive iron gate of the
court-yard lay upon its side, half buried among the weeds. Many of the
outhouses, too, were roofless, and bore recent marks of having been
partly consumed by fire.
“Alister MacCraw,” said Sir Andrew Stewart to an old man who came
crawling forth from the low entrance at the sound of the bugle, “so
thine old dwelling yet standeth safe, I see. I trust it may afford us
some better harbour than those roofless barns and byres do show?”
“In troth, not mokell better, Sir Andrew Stewart,” replied the old man;
“but stone vauts wunna brenn like thaken roof. Troth, ’tis mokell
wonders that the Yearl o’ Buchan wouldna gar mend them up, and put some
stout loons to guard them, sith he doth use to lodge here when he doth
travel between Buchan and Badenoch; an yon bit gavels were mended, an
yon bit breach in the wa’, yonder, and——”
“Nay, Alister, spare thy counsel for my father’s ear,” replied Sir
Andrew Stewart impatiently, “and forthwith proceed to house us as best
thou mayest. Let us see how this lady may be bestowed.”
“Thou knowest there be no great choice of chambers,” replied the old
man, with a certain leering chuckle, which the lady could not
understand.
MacCraw had reason for what he said, for the simple plan of the
building was of three storeys. That on the ground floor contained one
large vaulted kitchen, occupied by the old man, with two small dark
chambers. A stair, ascending from a central passage, running directly
from the outer door, led to a room occupying the whole of the second
floor of the building, from a farther angle of which a small stair
wound up, within a hanging turret, to a single apartment in the
uppermost storey.
The lady was ushered by Sir Andrew Stewart into the kitchen, where
MacCraw busied himself in renovating the embers on the hearth, and soon
afterwards in preparing some refreshment. The knight spoke little and
abstractedly, and rising at last, he mumbled something about orders he
had to give, and abruptly left the place.
“Erick MacCormick,” said he to his esquire, “I would speak with thee
apart.”
The esquire followed his master without the walls. “Erick,” said Sir
Andrew again, when he judged that they were beyond all risk of being
overheard, “I did try to move the lady to give ear to my love, but she
hath sternly rejected me, yea, and that with signs of no small
displeasure. I burn with shame for the blindness with which my passion
did hoodwink mine eyes.”
“Hath she indeed refused thee, Sir Knight?” demanded the esquire. “By
the mass, but with such as she is I would use smaller ceremony, as a
preface to mine own gratification.”
“Ay, if we could without detection, Erick,” replied Sir Andrew.
“This is a fitting place, meseems,” said the esquire.
“’Tis as thou sayest, a fitting place, good Erick,” replied Sir Andrew;
“but albeit I may put sicker trust in thee, yea, and peraunter in most
of mine own men, yet were it vain to hope that I might effect my
purpose without being detected by one of her followers.”
“Fear not, Sir Knight,” said the esquire; “I trow we are strong enough
to eat them both up.”
“Nay, nay—that is not what I mean,” replied Sir Andrew; “but thou
knowest, Erick, that I do put value on character and reputation. I have
hitherto passed as a miracle of virtue, as a rare exception in the
lawless family to the which I belong; nay, even in the ear of my
grandfather the King hath my praise been sounded, and my name standeth
in godly odour with the very Bishop of Moray himself. I must not
sillily wreck the vessel of my fortunes, while ’tis blown on by gales
so favouring.”
“In sooth, it were vain to hope to have thine actions pass withouten
the remark of her followers,” replied the esquire.
“Her followers!” said Sir Andrew. “I would not adventure aught with
her, unless I were secure that none but the most faithful of mine own
instruments should have cause even to guess at my share in the matter.
Were but that sly fox, Rory Spears, out of the way, methinks we might
contrive to throw dust in the eyes of the maid and the minstrel.”
“If Spears be all the hindrance thou seest,” replied MacCormick, “I
beseech thee be not afraid of him. By St. Antony, but he cares not the
value of a cross-bow bolt for her of whom he hath charge. I have had
much talk with him by the way, and I will pledge my life that thou
shalt win him to thy purpose with as much ease as thou mayest lure thy
best reclaimed falcon. The old allounde is sore offended at being left
behind by his master the Earl, to attend upon a damsel; yea, and the
damosel herself, too, seemeth to have done little to have overcome the
disgust he hath taken at his employment. Trust me, Sir Knight, never
hungry trout was more ready to swallow baited hook than old Rory Spears
will be to pouch a good bribe, that may be the means of ridding him of
so troublesome and vexatious a duty.”
“Art thou sicker in thy man?” demanded Sir Andrew Stewart, stopping
short, after taking a turn or two in silent thought, with his arms
folded across his breast.
“Nay, he did so effunde his ill humour to me by the way, that I will
venture my life for him,” replied the squire.
“Seek him out straightway, and bring him hither,” said the knight.
CHAPTER LIV.
Sir Andrew’s Deep-laid Plot—An Unexpected Arrival.
MacCormick proceeded in quest of Spears, and Sir Andrew Stewart
continued to pace backwards and forwards upon the green sward outside
the rampart wall, pondering how he might best open the negotiation. It
was already dark; and, villain as he was, he felt thankful that it was
so, for he had ever been accustomed to set so much value on outward
reputation, that he was ashamed to lift the veil, even to him whom he
was about to make an accomplice in his crimes. Footsteps were at last
heard approaching softly, and Rory and MacCormick saluted him.
“Master Spears,” said Sir Andrew Stewart, “this is a troublesome task
the Earl hath imposed on thee.”
“Task!” replied Rory, in a gruff ill-humoured tone; “I carena mokell
how dour his tasks be, so he be present himsel for to see me fulfil
them; but to cast his trusty servant frae his back—me, wha used to be
tied, as I mought say, till his horse’s curpin, and to tak a parcel o’
young loons to the wars wi’ him, is enew to break ane auld crazy heart
like mine.”
“’Tis indeed a bitter reproach on thee, Rory,” said Sir Andrew, “and
but little amended by the service thou art put upon. But what doth
hinder thee to return? Surely I may save thee all this long and painful
journey. My protection, methinks, may suffice for the lady.”
“Na, na,” replied Rory impatiently, being secretly nettled at the cheap
rate at which his services were apparently held by the man he despised;
“na, na—thy protection, Sir Andrew Stewart, that is to say, the
protection o’ thy stout lances yonder, may be a’ weel enew; but I maun
not at no rate be kend to slight the wull o’ my lord the Yearl; and to
leave the lass, and gang back afore the journey be weel begood—hoot,
that wadna do at a’.”
“Thou sayest true, Rory,” replied Sir Andrew; “but thou knowest I have
ever been a friend to thee, and I would fain do thee a good turn on
this occasion. Methinks I have hit on a scheme for saving thee thy
pains and travel, preserving thy good character for fidelity to the
Earl, and, finally, putting a purse of gold into thy pouch.”
“Ay!” replied Rory, in a tone of surprise. “By St. Lowry, an’ thou
canst make a’ that good, thou wilt work marvels, Sir Andrew.”
“Nay, ’twill need no conjurer,” said Sir Andrew Stewart. “Keep thou but
out of the way this night, and see that thou dost keep the old minstrel
with thee. Thou canst not sleep in the lady’s chamber, thou knowest,
therefore it is but natural to leave the entire charge of her to me,
who am to spend the night in MacCraw’s kitchen. And then—d’ye mark
me—if the lady should chance to disappear during the night, no one
knowing how, the blame must of needscost fall on me alone. Thou mayest
then yede thee back with thy daughter to the Countess to-morrow to tell
the tale; nay, peraunter, I may go with thee to make all matters
smooth, by the confession of my careless watch; and so thou shalt hie
thee after the Earl, and may yet join his standard in the field. Dost
thou comprehend me now, friend Rory?”
Rory stood silently pondering over the tempting proposal. Sir Andrew
Stewart drew forth the purse of gold, and the broad pieces chinked
against each other as he dangled it in his hand. Their music was most
seducing.
“Give me the purse,” said Rory at length.
“’Tis thine,” cried the overjoyed Sir Andrew Stewart; “I know thee to
be faithful, and I fear me not but that thou wilt earn it.”
“I will do my best to deserve it,” replied Rory.
“Quick, then, to thy duty,” said Sir Andrew Stewart. “Be it thine to
see that no one may approach the tower who might disturb our plans.”
“The safety of my daughter Kate must be secured to me,” said Rory.
“I am answerable for it,” replied Sir Andrew Stewart. “If I can so
arrange it, she shall be committed to thine own care; but if I should
be defeated in this matter, she shall sleep in the highest chamber,
where she may be out of the way. But, happen what will, her safety
shall be mine especial care.”
The conference being thus ended, Sir Andrew Stewart returned to partake
of the meal which MacCraw had by this time prepared. A manifest change
had taken place in his manner. His conversation was gay and sprightly,
and he was so entertaining that the lady sat listening to him for some
time after supper. At length the fatigue she had undergone began to
overcome her, and she signified her wish to retire to rest. Katherine
Spears, who had been out and in more than once during the meal, now
lifted a lamp to light her mistress upstairs to the principal apartment
in the tower, which was destined to receive her.
“Katherine,” said Sir Andrew Stewart, carelessly, after having paid his
parting evening compliments, “when thou hast done with thine attendance
on thy lady, MacCraw will show thee the way to where thy father is
lodged, where a bed hath been prepared for thee also.”
“Nay, Sir Knight,” replied Katherine, with uncommon energy, “I will at
no rate quit the tower, though I should sit up all night by this fire.”
“That as thou mayest list, my maiden,” said Sir Andrew Stewart, with
the same tone he had already spoken in; “I did but wish to give thee
the best harbour the place might yield. But now I think on’t, the high
chamber may do well enow for thee after all. Here—drink thy lady’s
health in the remnant of her wine-cup, ere thou goest.”
Katherine did so, and then tripped up stairs before her mistress. She
no sooner found herself fairly within the door of the lady’s apartment,
than she shut it behind her, and began to look eagerly for the bolt,
and she exhibited no small dismay when she saw that it had been
recently removed. Trembling with agitation, she then conducted the lady
with a hurried step towards a pallet-bed, which had been prepared for
her in one corner of the place, and seating her on the blankets—
“Oh, my lady, my lady,” whispered she, half breathless with alarm, “I
fear that some foul treachery may be designed against thee. Whilst thou
didst sit at thy meal I didst step me up hither to see thy couch
prepared, and as I returned through the lower passage, I overheard
certain voices in the little vault to the right—‘When is it to be
done?’ said one. ‘It must not be until late in the night,’ replied
another, ‘for we must be sure that she sleeps.’ ‘Ay, and her Abigail
alswa,’ said the first man. ‘Nay, I trust that she will be without the
tower, for she would spoil all,’ said the other. Just then as I was
listening, the outer door of the tower was slowly opened, and my
father’s head slowly appeared. He drew back when he saw me. I ran out
to him. ‘Help, help, father,’ said I to him in a whisper, ‘or the lady
will surely be the victim of treachery.’”
“And thy father,” said the lady, stretching eagerly towards her
damsel—“what did thy father say?”
“He laughed at me, lady,” replied Katherine, hesitating—“he laughed at
my fears.”
“But what were his words?—give me his very words, I entreat thee,”
anxiously demanded the lady.
“His words, lady,” replied Katherine—“his words were but those of a
bold man, who scorneth the fears of a weak woman. Trust me, he must be
faithful, lady.”
“Ay, Katherine, but his words—what were his very words?” asked the
lady, with the same eagerness of manner.
“Nay, indeed, they were naught, lady,” replied Katherine, “but thou
shalt have them as they did drop from his very mouth. ‘Tush! foolish
quean,’ said he in a tone of displeasure at what he did suppose to be
my silly apprehension; ‘where sould there be treachery, thinkest thou?
But an there sould, tell thy lady that Rory Spears is ane auld
fusionless doited dolt-head, as unfit for stoure and strife as for
war-stratagem. What did cause his being left behind his lord the Yearl,
but superannuation? The silly coof, Sir Andrew Stewart, guse though he
be, is mair to be lippened till than Rory Spears. But get thee in,
lass, and tend on thy mistress;’ and so saying he opened the door of
the tower, and shuffled me by the shoulder into the kitchen where thou
didst sit at supper. In vain did I try to catch thine eye after I
entered. But oh, sweet lady, believe not that my father can be traitor
to thee.”
“His words have spoken him to be anything rather than my protector,”
replied the lady, pale with alarm at what her maid had told her. “But,”
added she, with a forced smile, “thou hast redeemed his sin by nobly
resolving to share my danger, when thou hadst the opportunity of
escaping from it. As it is, I must prepare me for the worst. I have
still a dagger, and weak as is mine arm, it shall do bloody work ere I
do yield to such villainy; yet, after all, thou mayest have mistaken
the words thou didst hear. Let us trust to God and the Holy Virgin,
then, and, above all things, let us put up special prayers for
protection from Her, who is purity itself.”
The lady and her maiden knelt down together, and joined in earnest
devotion, that was only damped at times as fancy led them to imagine
they heard a soft tread on the stair, or a suppressed breathing at the
door of the chamber. When their orisons were ended, they sat silent for
some time. All was already quiet below, and an unaccountable and
perfectly uncontrollable sleep, that seemed to bid defiance even to
their apprehensions, was stealing insidiously upon them. Just at this
moment Katherine Spears uttered a short and faint scream, and had
nearly swooned away. The lady started up in a frenzy of alarm, and drew
her dagger, when, much to her astonishment as well as to her relief,
she perceived the large wolf-hound that had followed Rory Spears,
which, having unceremoniously put his cold nose into Katherine’s
well-known hand, had produced the damsel’s sudden panic. The lady and
her attendant viewed the unexpected appearance of this mute defender as
an especial interposition procured for them by their prayers. But the
scream, though scarcely audible, might have been heard below, and they
listened in quaking dread. All continued quiet underneath them. But, as
they still listened, they distinctly heard a heavy footstep cautiously
planted, but, to their utter amazement, it came from above downwards.
The lady grasped her dagger more firmly, and wound up her determination
to use it, if need should demand it. The steps still came stealing down
the turret stair that communicated with the uppermost apartment, and at
last the bulky form of Rory Spears, gaud-clip and all, appeared before
them.
“Heaven be praised!” murmured Katherine, as she sprang to meet her
father. “By what miracle of Heaven’s mercy art thou here?”
The lady stood aloof with her dagger clenched, still doubtful of his
errand.
“And what for needs ye ask?” said Rory to his daughter, with a certain
archness of expression quite his own. “Hath not my Lord the Yearl o’
Moray made a tirewoman o’ me? and was Rory Spears ever kend to be
backward at his Lord’s bidding? Verily, it behoveth me not to desert
mine occupation. So I am here to do my new mistress’s wark, I promise
thee.”
“May Heaven grant that thou mayest not have something more cruel to do
to-night than attend on dames,” said Katherine Spears; “yet verily thy
coming is most providential, for assuredly we are sore beset with
treachery.”
“Ay, ay, I ken a’ that,” replied Rory; “and troth it was the very
thoughts o’ a bicker that pat the pet out o’ me, and wiled me hither.
But stap ye baith yere ways up the stair there, and liggen ye down
quietly, and leave me here to deal with whomsoever may come.”
“He is true to thee, after all, lady,” said Katherine with exultation.
“I rejoice to see that he is faithful,” replied the lady; “may St.
Andrew reward him! Already are my fears banished, but irresistible
sleep oppresses me. I feel as if I had swallowed some potent drug. I
cannot keep my head up.”
“Nay, Katherine nods too,” said Rory; “by the mass, some sleepy potion
must have been mingled with your wine. Let me help ye both upstairs;
ay, there ye may rest in quiet,” said he, as he set down the lamp and
was preparing to leave them, “and I’se leave Oscar with ye as a guard,
for the loon had nae business here, and wi’ me he might spoil sport;”
and saying so, he tied up the dog beside them, and ere he had done
which both were in a profound sleep.
Having returned to the apartment below, Rory threw himself down on the
bed, and huddled himself up in the blankets, with his inseparable
companion the gaud-clip by his side, and there he lay patiently to
watch the event, until, the fire falling low on the hearth, the
darkness and his own drowsiness overcame his vigilance, and he fell
into deep oblivion.
He had not lain long in this state when the door slowly opened, and the
head of Sir Andrew Stewart appeared. Over it there was a lamp, which he
held up in his hand, so as to throw a glimmer of light into the farther
corner of the place. He paused for a moment, and seeing the form of a
figure within the blankets, and observing that all was quiet, he
withdrew the lamp.
“She sleeps,” whispered he to his esquire and the two men who were with
him; “the potion hath worked as it ought. Approach the bed, yet be
cautious; rude carelessness might break her slumbers. Let her not be
awakened while she is within earshot of those within the place; ye may
be less scrupulous anon. Approach and lift her up in the blanket; her
weight can be but as that of an infant in such hands.”
“No sike infant, I wot,” muttered one of the men to the other, as they
strained to lift up the blanket with the enormous carcase of Rory
Spears in it.
“By the mass, but she is a load for a wain,” said the other.
“Be silent, ye profane clowns,” said Sir Andrew.
“St. Roque, how she doth snore!” said the first, in a lower voice.
“Silence, I say, villains,” said Sir Andrew, “silence, and bear her
this way.”
“Hold, hold, Murdoch, the blanket is slipping,” said one; “keep up your
end, or we are done with her.”
“Hout, she’s gone,” cried Murdoch, as his end of the blanket slipped
altogether, and Rory was rolled on the floor.
Though Rory had slept, his mind had been so fully possessed with the
action he had prepared himself to expect, that he had dreamt of nothing
else. He was no sooner rudely awakened by the shock of his fall than
his mind became full of his duty.
“Ha, villains,” cried he, starting to his legs in a moment, and roaring
to the full extent of his rough voice, as he flourished his gaud-clip
around him in the dark like a flail; “ha, caitiffs, have I caught ye?
What, would ye dare to lay impure hands on the tender form of a lady of
sike high degree? By St. Lowry, but I’ll settle ye, knaves.”
All was now confusion. The knight and his instruments sought for the
door with a haste that almost defeated their object. Precedence was by
no means attended to; and Sir Andrew Stewart, being jostled aside,
received a chance blow from Rory’s gaud-clip that prostrated him
senseless on the floor. The squire and the two men rushed down stairs,
with Rory hard at their heels, and were making towards the door of the
tower when it suddenly opened, and a party of horsemen appeared
without.
“Halt!” cried a voice like thunder, that instantly arrested the flight
of the fugitives, and sent them, crouching like chidden curs, into the
kitchen. The light that was there showed the terror and dismay of their
countenance, and it also explained the cause, for he who entered was
the Wolfe of Badenoch.
“What rabble and uproar is this in the lone peel-tower of Duncriddel?”
demanded he. “Ha, Alister MacCraw, what guests be these thou hast got?
Ha, Erick MacCormick and my son Andrew’s people! What a murrain hath
brought thee here, Master Esquire? Ha—speak. Where is the worthy knight
thy master?”
“My Lord—my master, Sir Andrew—my Lord—” replied MacCormick, hesitating
from very fear.
“Ha! and Rory Spears too,” continued the Wolfe; “what dost thou make
here, old ottercap? Speak, and expound the cause of this uproar, if
thou canst.”
“I will, my Lord,” said Rory, “and that in sike short speech as I well
ken thou lovest to have a tale dished up to thee. Sir Andrew Stewart,
thy son, did covenant wi’ my leddy the Countess o’ Moray, thy sister,
to convoy ane Englisher leddy safe frae Tarnawa to Norham, and sure
enew he brought her here, being sae muckle o’ the gate; but having no
fear o’ God or the Saunts afore his eyne, he did basely try to betray
her, just the noo, afore I cam doon the stairs there.”
“Ha, hypocritical villain! cried the Wolfe. “By Saint Barnabas, but I
have long had a thought that his affected purity was but a cloak for
his incontinence.”
“’Tis all a fabrication,” cried MacCormick, who had now recovered his
presence of mind so far as to endeavour to defend his master, though at
the expense of truth; “’tis fearful to hear sike wicked falsehoods
against thy son Sir Andrew Stewart.”
“My Lord Yearl,” cried Rory, taking Sir Andrew’s purse of gold from his
pouch, “an thou believest that I do lie, here is a soothfast witness to
what I have uttered.”
“Ha! my son Andrew’s purse, with his cipher on it,” cried the Wolfe,
casting a hasty glance at it. “How camest thou by this, Master Spears?”
Rory quickly told the Wolfe of the attempt made by Sir Andrew Stewart
to bribe him from his duty, and shortly explained how he had watched
his opportunity to creep up stairs unobserved, and to secrete himself
in his daughter’s apartment, together with the result.
“Foul shame on the sleeky viper,” cried the Wolfe indignantly, after he
had listened to Rory’s abridgement: “But where hath the reptile hidden
himself all this while? By my beard, but he shall be punished for this
coulpe.” And so saying he seized upon a lamp, and rushing up stairs in
a fury, beheld his son stretched on the pavement senseless, with a
stream of blood pouring from his temple and cheek, which bore the deep
impression of the hooked head of Rory Spears’ gaud-clip.
“Hey, ha!” exclaimed the Wolfe, with a changed aspect, produced by the
spectacle which his son presented: “by’r Lady, but Andrew hath got it.
Fool that he was, he hath already been paid, I wot, for his wicked
device. Ha! the saints grant that he may not be past all leechcraft.
Would that thou hadst hit less hard, old man. Though he be but the
craven cock-chick of my brood, yet would I not choose to have his green
grave to walk over.”
“So please thee, my Lord, it was dark, and I had no choice where to
strike,” said Rory, with much simplicity of manner. “But fear not,”
added he, after carelessly stooping down to examine the wound, “trust
me, ’tis no deadly blow; moreover, ’tis rare that ill weeds do perish
by the gateside. I’se warrant me he’ll come to; his breath is going
like a blacksmith’s bellows. But is’t not a marvel, after all, to
behold how clean I did put my seal upon his chafts, and it sae dark at
the time? I’se warrant he’ll bear the mark o’t till’s dying day. Here,
MacCormy, help me down the stair wi’ him. Thou and I will carry his
worship’s body wi’ mair ease than thou and thy loons wad hae carried
mine, I rauckon. But hear ye, lad; give not the lie again to any true
man like me, or that brain-pan of thine may lack clampering.”
The Wolfe of Badenoch was relieved by discovering, on examination, that
there was good hope of his son’s recovery; and he employed himself and
his people in using every means to bring it about. The whole night was
spent in this way, but it was only towards morning that Sir Andrew
Stewart began to show less equivocal signs of returning life, and even
then he still remained in a state of unconsciousness as to what was
passing near him. The circumstance of the sleepy potion they had drank
accounted for the lady and her damsel having remained undisturbed amid
all the confusion that had prevailed. But the Wolfe of Badenoch, having
occupied the morning in superintending the preparation of a litter to
transport his wounded son to his Castle in Badenoch, when all was
ready, became impatient to depart, and desirous to see the lady ere he
did so. Rory Spears was accordingly despatched to awake her, and in a
short time she and Katherine appeared, with eyes still loaded with the
soporiferous drug they had swallowed.
“Ha, what!” cried the Wolfe with astonishment, the moment the lady
appeared; “by the beard of my grandfather, but I am petrified. Who
could have dreamt that it was thou, my beauteous damosel? By’r Lady,
but it is strange, that whether thou dost appear in the hauqueton or in
the kirtle thou shouldst still be harnessed by importunate love-suit.
But,” continued he, courteously taking her hand and kissing it, “it
erketh me sore to think that wrong so foul should have been attempted
against thee by a son of mine. Thou hadst a claim for something better
at our hands, both for thine own sake and for that of Sir Patrick
Hepborne, a knight of whom the remembrance shall ever be grateful to
me. Trust me, it giveth me pleasure to behold lealty where tyrant
Church hath tied no bands. Thou hast been basely deceived by him who
undertook for thine honourable escort to Norham, and albeit I have
reasons to think that the proud Priest of Moray hath secretly obtained
a power of Royal troops to repossess him in his Badenoch lands, yet
shall not this knowledge hinder me from fulfilling for thee that
service which my traitor son hath so shamefully abused. I shall be
myself thy convoy. Let the croaking carrion-crow of Elgin come if he
dares; I have hardy heads, I trow, to meet him, who will fight whether
I am there or not. Ha! by my grandfather’s beard, an he had not flown
from Aberdeen with the wings of the raven, he mought have been e’en now
past giving me trouble.”
“My noble Earl of Buchan, I do give thee thanks for thy kind courtesy,”
replied the lady; “but I may in no wise suffer it to lead thee to make
sacrifice so great. Trust me, I fear not for the journey whilst I have
this good man Rory Spears as mine escort. Under the guardance of one so
prudent, brave, and faithful as he has proved himself to be, I should
nothing dread to wander over the world.”
“And I wad defend thee, my leddy, frae skaith, were it but frae the
tining o’ a single hair o’ thy bonny head, yea, to the last drap o’
bluid in my auld veins,” cried Rory with great enthusiasm, being
delighted to observe that his worth was at last fairly appreciated.
“Ha! by my troth, but ’tis bravely spoken in both,” cried the Wolfe.
“Depardieux, I shall not venture to interfere where there is so great
store of confidence on one side and fidelity on the other. But yet thou
must take some pairs of my lances with thee, Rory, for thou art but
slenderly backed, me thinks.”
Even this much both the lady and Master Spears were disposed to refuse;
but on learning that the mountain range through which they must pass
was at that time more than ordinarily infested with wolves, Rory
changed his mind, and consented to take four able lances with him, to
be returned when he should consider their services no longer necessary.
All being now arranged for the departure of the two parties, the Wolfe
of Badenoch became impatient. He courteously assisted the lady to mount
her palfrey, and, kissing her hand, bid her a kind adieu. He was about
to leap into his own saddle, when he was accosted by Rory Spears.
“My Lord Yearl o’ Buchan, seeing that thy son Sir Andrew, i’ the litter
yonder, hath not yet gathered his senses anew to tak the charge o’ his
ain cunzie, I here deliver up to thee, his father, this purse o’ gowd
he did gi’e me, the which my conscience wull at no rate let me keep,
seeing that it wad in nowise let me do that the which was covenanted
for the yearning o’t.”
“Nay, by St. Barnabas, honest Rory, but thou shalt keep the purse and
the coin,” cried the Wolfe, delighted with Rory’s honesty; “thou hast
rightly earned it by thy good service to thy lady. I will be answerable
to my son Andrew for this thy well-won guerdon, so make thyself easy on
that score.”
“Thanks, most noble Yearl,” cried Rory as he pouched the purse, and
mounted his ragged nag to ride after the lady, his countenance shining
with glee. “By’r lackins, but this is as good as the plunder of a whole
campaign against the Englishers.”
CHAPTER LV.
Travelling through the Wild Forest—A Dreadful Spectacle—Arrival at
the River Tweed.
The English damsel and her attendants travelled slowly by a different
route through the wild forest scenery of those mountains with which the
reader is already sufficiently familiar. So much of the morning had
been expended ere they set out, that the length of their day’s journey
was considerably curtailed, and the heaviness that still hung on the
eyelids of the lady and Katherine, from the drugged draughts they had
swallowed, so overcame them, that they were well contented to look for
a place of rest at a much earlier hour in the evening than they would
have otherwise done. The information that Rory Spears had gathered
about the wolves made him also very ready to halt betimes, that he
might have sufficient leisure to fortify the party against any chance
of nocturnal attack from these ravenous animals, in a region where no
human dwelling was to be expected.
It still wanted nearly two hours of sunset when the cavalcade was
winding gently up the narrow bottom of a wild pass, that, like a vast
rent or cut in the mountains, divided the chain from its very summit to
its base. From the close defile below, the eye could hardly ascend the
steep and even slope of the rocky precipices to half their height, so
closely did they approach on either hand. The pine forest, though still
continuous, began to grow thinner as they advanced, and Rory Spears,
like an able leader, was carefully scanning every point where he might
hope to discover a strong and convenient position for encampment. At
length one of the Earl of Buchan’s troopers, well acquainted with these
wilds, showed him the upright face of a tall projecting crag, at a
great height above, where there was a small natural cavern, and,
accordingly, thither it was resolved that they should ascend.
The ascent was long and arduous, but when they did reach the spot, it
was discovered to be admirably fitted for their purpose. The rock rose
smooth and perpendicular as a wall, and in the centre of it was the
mouth of the cavern, opening from a little level spot of ground in
front. Rory began to take immediate measures for their security. Broken
wood was collected in abundance, and a semi-circular chain of fires
kindled, so as fully to embrace the level ground, and touch the rock on
either side of the cavern. Heather beds were prepared for the lady and
her damsel under the dry arch of the cliff; and their hasty meal being
despatched, they wrapped themselves up in their mantles, and prepared
themselves with good-will to sleep off the stupifying effects of the
narcotic. Rory meanwhile drew his cavalry within his defences, and
having posted and arranged his watches so as to ensure the keeping up
of the fires, he sat down with the rest to recreate himself with what
store of provisions they had carried along with them.
The lady’s sleep was so very sound for some hours that it bid defiance
to all the merriment, the talking, and the music, that successively
prevailed without. But at last it yielded to the continued twanging of
the minstrel’s harp, and she awaked to hear him sing, with great
enthusiasm, the concluding stanzas of some tale, which he had been
rhyming to those around him:
If minstrel inspiration wells
From yonder star-besprinkled sky,
To which my heart so strangely swells,
As if it fain would thither fly;
Then on those mountain tops that rise
Far, far above the fogs of earth,
Thicker and purer from the skies
Must fall that dew of heavenly birth.
What marvel, then, my native land,
That heaves its breast to kiss high Heaven,
Hath fill’d my heart and nerved my hand,
And fresher inspiration given?
Then if my heart a spell hath wove
More potent than of erst it threw,
And ye have wept its tale of love,
With rifer tears than once it drew,
Think not thou mayest the song reward
With thine accustom’d dearth of praise,
It comes from no weak mortal bard—
’Tis Scotland’s spirit claims the lays!
Perfectly refreshed by her slumber, and cheered by the harper’s
strains, the lady arose from her couch, and stepped forth from the
cavern to join her applause to the rudely-expressed approbation of Rory
and his comrades. The air was balmy and refreshing, and she staid to
hold converse with the good old minstrel.
“’Tis a beautiful night, Adam,” said she; “see how the moonbeam sleeps
on the bosom of yonder little lake far up the pass. How dark do these
masses of pine appear when contrasted with the silver light that doth
play beyond them on those opposite steeps; how deep and impenetrable is
the shadow that hangeth over the bottom far below us, where all is
silent save the softened music of the stream murmuring among the rocks.
But hark, what yelling sounds are these that come borne on the breeze
as it sigheth up the pass?”
“’Tis the distant howling of the wolves, lady,” cried the harper;
“methinks the rout cometh this way. An I mistake not, ’tis a ravenous
pack of famished beasts that do pursue a deer or some other helpless
tenant of the woods. Hark, the sound doth now come full up the bottom
of the pass. List, I pray thee, how it doth grow upon the ear.”
“I do hear the galloping of a horse, methinks,” cried Rory Spears, who
stood by.
“Holy Virgin, what dreadful screams were these?” cried the lady,
starting with affright.
“St. Andrew defend us,” said the minstrel, shrinking at the thought;
“it may be some fiend o’ the forest that doth urge his hellish midnight
chase through these salvage wilds.”
“Na, na, na,” replied Rory Spears, gravely; “troth, I hae mair fear
that it may be some wildered wanderer hunted by a rout o’ thae gaunt
and famished wolves. St. Lowry be wi’ us, is’t not awful?”
“Holy St. Cuthbert protect us,” exclaimed the lady, after a pause, and
shuddering as she spoke; “that cry, oh, that cry was dreadful; ’twas a
shriek of terror unspeakable; fear of an instant, of a most cruel
death, could have alone awakened it. Gracious Heaven, have mercy on the
wretch who did give it utterance!”
“Hear, hear; holy St. Giles, how he doth cry for help!” said Rory
Spears. “Hear again; ’tis awsome. St. Hubert be his aid, for weel I do
trow nae mortal man can help him.”
“Oh, say not so,” cried the lady, with agonizing energy; “oh, fly, fly
to his rescue; there may yet be time. Fly—save him—save him, and all
the gold I possess shall be thine.”
“Nay, lady,” replied Rory, “albeit the very attempt wad be risk enew,
yet wud I flee to obey thy wull withouten the bribe o’ thy gowd; and
the mair, that it wud be a merciful, a Christian, and a right joyful
wark to save a fellow-cretur frae sike ane awsome end. But man’s help
in this case is a’thegither vain. Dost thou no perceive that the
clatter o’ his horse’s heels is no longer to be heard? nay, even his
cries do already return but faintly from far up the pass? And noo,
listen—hush—hear hoo fast they do die away; and hark, hark—thou canst
hear them nae mair.”
“He hath indeed spurred on with the desperate speed of despair,” said
the lady; “but oh, surely thou mayest yet stop or turn his fell
pursuers. Oh, fly to the attempt. Nay, I will myself go with thee.
Hark, all the echoes of the glen around us are now awakened by their
fearful howlings. Quick, quick; let us fly downwards—’tis but a mere
step of way.”
“Alas, lady,” replied Rory, “to try to stop the accursed pack were now
hopeless as to think to gar the raging winds tarry on the mountain
side. These hideous howls do indeed arise from the shades beneath us;
but had we the legs and the feet o’ the raebuck, the ravening rout wad
be a mile ayont us ere we could reach the bottom. Hark, hoo they hae
already swept on. Already the cruel din frae their salvage throats doth
become weaker; and noo—hist, hist!—it is lost far up the bosom of the
mountains. May the Virgin and the good St. Lawrence defend the puir
sinner, for his speed maun be mair than mortal gif he ’scapeth frae the
jaws o’ thae gruesome and true-nosed hounds. By my troth, an we hadna
taken the due caution we might hae been a supper to them oursels at
this precious moment—the Virgin protect us!”
“Oh, ’tis most horrible,” cried the lady, as she rushed into the
cavern, her mind distracted, and her feelings harrowed up with the
thoughts of the probable fate of the unhappy traveller. She sunk on her
knees to implore mercy for him from Heaven, after which she threw
herself on her couch; but her repose was unsettled; and when she did
sleep it was only to dream of the horrors her fancy had painted.
By the time the sun had begun to gild the tops of the mountains, Rory
Spears was in action. The lady arose unrefreshed; and, after she and
her attendants had partaken of a slight repast, they were again in
motion. Descending by a steep and difficult, though slanting path, they
gradually regained the bottom of the pass, and proceeded to trace it
upwards in a southern direction. As they obtained a higher elevation
the pine trees became thinner, and at length they reached to a little
mossy plain, where they almost entirely disappeared. In the middle of
this was the small sheet of water which had been rendered so
resplendent in the eyes of the lady the night before by the moonbeams.
It was a deep inky-looking pool, surrounded by treacherous banks of
black turf.
“Is this what distance and moonlight made so bewitchingly beautiful to
our eyes?” said the lady to the minstrel.
“Thus it doth ever chance with all our worldly views, lady,” replied
the old man. “Hope doth gild that which is yet at a distance, but all
is dark and cheerless when the object is reached.”
As they spoke the approach of the party disturbed a flight of kites and
ravens, which arose with hoarse screams and croakings from something
that lay extended amid the long heath near the water’s edge. It was the
skeleton of a horse. The flesh had been so completely eaten from the
bones by the wolves that but little was left for the birds of prey. The
furniture, half torn off, showed that the creature had had a rider. A
few yards farther on a single wolf started away from a broken part of
the bog. Rory Spears’ gaud-clip was launched after him with powerful
and unerring aim, and its iron head buried in the side of the animal,
while at the same moment the quick-eyed Oscar seized the caitiff by the
throat, and he was finally despatched by several lances plunged into
him at once. They sought the spot whence the gaunt animal had been
roused, and their blood was frozen by the horrid spectacle of the
half-consumed carcase of a man.
It was of size gigantic; and although the limbs and body had been in a
great measure devoured, yet enough of evidence still remained in the
rent clothes and in the lacerated features of the face to establish
beyond a doubt to the lady and the minstrel, who had known him, that he
who had thus perished by so miserable a fate was the wizard Ancient
Haggerstone Fenwick.
A leathern purse, with a few gold coins in it, was found in his pouch;
and, among other articles of no note, there was a small manuscript book
of necromancy, full of cabalistic signs.
The spectacle was too horrible and revolting for the lady to bear. She
therefore besought her attendants to cover the wretched remains, and
with Katherine Spears retired to some distance until this duty was
performed and a huge monumental cairn of stones heaped over them, after
which they again proceeded on their way.
The troopers belonging to the Wolfe of Badenoch were sent back as soon
as Rory Spears judged they might be spared with safety, and nothing
occurred during the remainder of the journey to make him regret having
so parted with them. As the party travelled through the fertile Merse
they found that which should have been a smiling scene converted into a
wilderness of desolation. The storm of England’s wrath had swept over
it, and the rifled and devastated fields, the blackened heaps of
half-consumed houses and cottages, around which some few human beings
were still creeping and shivering, like ghosts unwilling to leave the
earthly tenements to which they had been linked in life, brought the
horrors of war fresh before them. The aged man and the boy were the
only male figures that were mingled with those groups of wailing women
that appeared. All who could draw a sword or a bow, or wield a lance,
were already on their way to join the Scottish host, their bosoms
burning with a thirst of vengeance.
As they were lamenting over the melancholy scene they were passing
through—for even the English damosel deplored the ravages committed by
her countrymen—their way was crossed by a troop of well-armed and
bravely-appointed horsemen, which halted, as if to wait until their
party should come up. Rory advanced to reconnoitre.
“Ha, Sir Squire Oliver,” said he to the leader, whom he immediately
recognized as belonging to the Lord of Dirleton, “can that in very deed
be thee? Whither art thou bound in array so gallant?”
“Master Rory Spears,” replied the squire with a look of surprise—“what,
art thou too bound for the host?”
“Nay,” replied Rory, mournfully, “I hae other emprise on hand just at
this time. Goest thou thither?”
“Yea,” replied the esquire, “I go with my Lord’s service of lances to
join the collected Scottish armies on their way to Jedworth. There will
be rare work anon, I ween. Some English horses have been dancing over
these fields, I see, but, by’r Lady, the riders shall pay for the sport
they have had.”
“Ha, their backs shall be well paid, I warrant me,” cried Rory,
flourishing his gaud-clip around his head, while his eyes sparkled with
enthusiasm.
“Nay, fear not,” replied the esquire; “the rogues shall feel the rod,
else I am no true man. But St. Andrew be with thee, good Master Rory, I
have no further time to bestow.” And as he said so he gave the word to
his men to move forward; the bugles sounded, their horses’ heels
spurned the ground, and their armour rang as they galloped briskly
away, to make up for the time lost in the halt.
The lady and her attendants rode slowly on, but Rory lingered behind,
to follow the rapid movement of the warlike files with an anxious eye;
and when they wheeled from his view he heaved a sigh so deep that it
was heard by the foremost of his own party.
“What aileth thee, Rory?” demanded Adam of Gordon.
“Heard ye not their bugles as they went?” replied Rory to him. “Was not
the very routing o’them enew to rouse the spirit o’ a dead destrier,
and dost thou ask what aileth me? Is’t not hard to be sae near the
Yearl and yet to see as little o’ him or his men as gif they war in ane
ither warld? is’t not cruel for a man like me to be keepit back frae
the wark that best beseemeth him whan his very heart is in’t?”
“And why shouldst thou be kept back from it, Rory, now that thy duty to
the lady is performed?” demanded the harper.
“Dost thou no see Kate yonder?” replied Rory sullenly. “What is to be
done with the wench, think ye? Sure I maun e’en yede me back again to
convoy the puir lassie safely to her mother.”
“If the care of Katherine be all thy difficulty, Rory,” said the lady
eagerly, “thou mayest easily provide for her safety by confiding her to
me, on whom thy doing so will moreover be conferring an especial
gratification. Let her, I pray thee, abide with me at Norham, whilst
thou goest to the wars; and when peace, yea, or truce doth happily come
again, thou mayest forthwith reclaim her of me. Let me entreat thee,
oppose not my wishes.”
Rory’s rough but warm heart had been long ere this entirely gained by
the kindness, condescension, and beauty of the English damosel. He
could not have refused her request, whatever difficulties it might have
involved; but her present proposal was too congenial with his own
wishes, and her offer altogether too tempting to be resisted.
“Troth, my leddy,” replied he, with a tear glistening in his eye, “when
we first forgathered at Tarnawa, and when the Yearl tell’d me that I
was to be buckled till thy tail, I maun e’en confess I was in a sair
cross tune at the news, for thou mayest see it’s no i’ my nature to be
governed by women-fouk, and gin the truth maun be tell’d, it was wi’
sair ill-wull I cam wi’ thee. But noo, by St. Lowry, I wad follow thee
to the very warld’s end; troth, thou mayest e’en whirl me round and
round with thy pirlywinky; and so, though I am no just confidently
sicker that what I am doing is a’thegither that the which may be
approven by my good dame at hame yonder, yet will I yield me to thy
wishes and mine ain. Kate shall wi’ thee to Norham, and I’ll just tak a
bit stride after the Yearl to see what he and the lave are a-doing.”
“But thou shalt thyself with me to Norham first, that I may thank thee
properly for the protection thou hast afforded me,” said the lady.
“Nay, that may in nowise be, leddy,” replied Rory; “I shall see thee
safe to the northern bank of Tweed; but I wot nae Southern stronghold
shall see me within its bounds, save as ane enemy, to do it a’ the
skaith a foeman can, and that I would fain shun doing to ony place that
mought have thy good wishes.”
After some farther travel the broad walls and massive towers of Norham
Castle appeared before them, glowing with the slanting rays of the
declining sun. A few steps more brought the Tweed in sight, and Rory
Spears instantly halted.
“And noo I fear I maun leave thee, my leddy,” said he, with an
afflicted countenance, “for yonder’s the Tweed.”
The lady approached him, and, kindly taking his horny hand, gave
utterance to the most gratifying expression of her strong sense of the
services he had rendered her, and at the same time attempted to force a
purse upon him.
“Na, na, my leddy, I’se hae nae gowd frae thee,” said he; “besides, I
hae naething ado wi’ gowd whare I’m gaun; I’se get meat, drink, and
quarters withouten cunzie, an’ I’m no mista’en.—Na, na,” continued he,
as she pressed the purse upon him, “an ye wull hae it sae, keep it for
Kate yonder; she may want it, puir thing. May the blessed Virgin be thy
protection, my bonnie bit lassie,” said he to Katherine, as he turned
about to her and pressed her to his breast.—“Hoot toot, this ’ll no
do—ye maunna greet, bairn,” added he, as the tears were breaking over
his own eye-lids. “Fear ye na I’ll be back wi’ thee ere lang, an I be
spared. By St. Lowry, that’s true, my leddy, ye maun promise me that if
onything sould happen to hinder me frae coming back, ye’ll see that
somebody conveys her as safe to Tarnawa as I hae brought thee to
Norham.”
Katherine sobbed bitterly at the idea which her father had awakened.
The lady readily promised him what he wished. Rory again pressed his
daughter to his bosom, and, striking the side of his garron two or
three successive blows with the shaft of his gaud-clip, he darted off,
and was out of sight in a moment.
The lady, accompanied by Katherine Spears and the minstrel, slowly
sought the bank of the Tweed. A signal was made for the ferry-boat, and
they were wafted into England. At the gates of Norham Castle the lady
was speedily known, and its friendly walls received her and her two
companions.
CHAPTER LVI.
Old Acquaintances at the Hostel of Norham Tower—Great Gathering at
Jedworth—The Council of War.
It was some days after the lady’s arrival that five horsemen knocked at
the gate of the hostel of the Norham Tower. They were clad rather as
pilgrims than as warriors, and, arriving by the English side of the
river, were judged to have come from the south. Matters had undergone a
change since we had last occasion to notice the hall of Norham. Old
Kyle had been gathered to his fathers, his buxom wife had wept her fair
number of days, and, beginning to recover her spirits by the reflection
that she was a well-looking and wealthy widow, her heart was already
besieged by numerous lovers. Though under a woman’s government, the
police of the Norham Tower was at this moment more strict than usual.
The war had made its mistress careful to rid it at an early hour every
night of all straggling topers. There were certain privileged
customers, indeed, to whom a more liberal license was granted, and of
this number was Mr. Thomas Turnberry, the squire equerry.
As two of the strangers, of nobler mien than the rest, entered the
common room, they found the esquire in the act of rising from table,
with another man in whose company he had been drinking.
“A-well,” said the latter; “I bid thee good e’en, Sir Squire. I’ll
warrant thou shalt not find better steeds between Tweed and Tyne than
the two I have sold thee.”
“Ay, ay, Master Truckthwaite,” replied Turnberry with a sarcastic
smile, “thy word is all well; yet would I rather trust the half of mine
own eye than the whole of thy tongue in such matters. Good e’en, good
e’en. A precious knave, I wot,” added he, after the man was gone.
“Doth that varlet sell thee good cattle, Sir Squire?” said one of the
strangers who had entered.
“Nay, in truth, he is a proper cheat,” replied Turnberry. “But the
villain had to do with a man who hath lived all his life in a stable,
and one, moreover, who hath sober, steady, habits. Your drunkard hath
ever but poor chance in a bargain with your sober man.”
“Most true,” replied the stranger. “Here, tapster; a flagon of Rhynwyn.
Wilt thou stay, Sir Squire, and help us to drain it?”
“Rhynwyn!” exclaimed Turnberry; “by St. Cuthbert, but there is music in
the very clink of the word. Nay, Sir Pilgrim, I care not an I taste
with thee ere I go; I am but a poor drinker, yet hath honest Rhynwyn
its charms.”
“Ha,” said Tom, after deeply returning the stranger’s pledge, “this is
right wholesome stuff, I promise ye, my masters. ’Tis another
guess-liquor than old Mother Rowlandson’s i’ the Castle.”
“Thou art of the Castle, then?” said he who had always spoken. “I drink
to the health of thy gallant old captain, Sir Walter de Selby.”
“Thank ye, thank ye,” replied Tom, taking the flagon. “Well, here’s to
old Wat. Many is the ride we have had over the Border together; and
many is the hard knock we have both ta’en and given, side by side.
Trust me, there breathes not a better man. His health, God wot, hath
been none of the best of late; so, with thy good leave, Sir Pilgrim,
I’ll drink to it again.”
“Hath he not a daughter?” demanded the pilgrim.
“Yea, that he hath,” replied Tom—“an only daughter, whose beauty hath
been the talk of all Northumberland.”
“Let us drink to her health, then,” said the pilgrim.
“Here’s to the Lady de Vere, then,” said Turnberry, lifting the flagon
to his head to do justice to the health.
“The Lady de Vere!” said the pilgrim who had not yet spoken, betraying
an emotion that escaped Tom Turnberry, in the long draught he was
taking.
“Ay, the Lady de Vere,” said Tom, taking the flagon from his head. “The
Lady Eleanore de Selby is now the Lady de Vere, as we have all heard at
the Castle since two or three days have gone by. Sir Walter would have
fain had her marry Sir Rafe Piersie, who courted her, but his
haughtiness sorted ill with her high and untameable spirit; so she was
contrarisome, and ran away with a love of her own choosing some time
ago.”
“And who might the lover be who bore away so rich a prize?” demanded
the pilgrim.
“Why, one of the Court lordlings, as we now learn, a Sir something de
Vere, a kinsman to the King’s favourite, the banished Duke of Ireland.
He is but lately come from abroad, it seems, for he is a foreign knight
born, and being suspected as coming on some secret mission to the King,
it is thought that he will rise high in his good graces. The poor ould
soul, Sir Walter, did live in grievous case until these few days
bygone, for he knew not until then what had befallen his daughter. But
now that he hath learned who his son-in-law is, he hath somewhat raised
his head. But fie on me,” added the squire, after a long draught, that
enabled him to see the bottom of the flagon, “I must hie me to the
Castle; and so good night, and many thanks, my civil masters. Trust me,
I shall right willingly bestow a can upon you when ye do come this way
again, if ye will but ask for old Thomas Turnberry, the esquire
equerry.”
The dialogue between Tom Turnberry and the two strangers had been over
for a good hour, when another conversation took place a few steps from
the gate of the inn, between Mrs. Kyle and one who considered himself a
favourite lover.
“These be plaguy cunning knaves,” said Mrs. Kyle; “they thinks, I’se
warrant me, that no one doth know ’em; yet—but I shall say nothing, not
I.”
“I dare swear a man would need to be no fool who should strive to
deceive thee, Mrs. Kyle,” replied her companion, willing to draw her on
a little.
“Me!” replied she; “trust me, the old Fiend himself would not cheat me;
for instance, now, that saucy Sang there did no sooner show his face
within the four walls o’ the Norham Tower than I did straightway know
him through all his disguises; and so, having once nosed him, I did
quickly smell out his fellow-esquire, and the two knights their
masters.”
“That was clever in thee, i’ faith, Mrs. Kyle,” replied her companion.
“Yea, but my name be not Margaret Kyle an I make no more out by my
cleverness,” said the dame. “But mum for that.”
“Nay, thou knowest thou canst not be Margaret Kyle long, my bonny
dame,” replied the man.
“Fie thee now,” replied she, “sure it will be long ere I do trust me to
men again, after honest Sylvester, my poor dear husband that was.”
“And what didst thou say they were here for?” demanded her companion.
“Ye may trow they are here for no good,” replied the dame. “I’ll
warrant me the seizing o’ them will be a right brave turn; but mum
again, for he who is to take them this night did say as how none should
ken nothing on’t till the stroke should be strucken; yea, and by the
same token he did gie me kisses enow to seal up my mouth.”
“And when did Sir Miers tell thee this?” demanded the man.
“Sir Miers!” replied Mrs. Kyle; “laucker-daisey, did I tell thee that
it was Sir Miers? St. Mary, I had nae will tae hae done that. Hoot,
toot, my lips hae no been half glued.”
“And so thou dost say that Sir Miers is to surround the house to-night,
and to take these same strangers?” observed the man.
“Yea, but of a truth I shouldna hae tell’d thee a’ that; may my tongue
be blistered for’t,” replied Mrs. Kyle; “for he bid me take especial
care, aboon a’ things, to let thee know nought on’t.”
“Nay, Mrs. Kyle,” said the man, “but thou knowest thou dost love me
over much to hide anything from me.”
“O ay, for a matter o’ that. I do love thee well enow,” replied Mrs.
Kyle; “but Sir Miers hath such pleasant ways with him.”
“Hath he?” replied the man carelessly. “Thou didst say, I think, that
the attempt is to be made at midnight, and that thou art to be on the
watch to let them in?”
“Nay, then,” said Mrs. Kyle, “I did verily say no sike thing, I wot.
What I did say was this, that Sir Miers is to be here an hour after
midnight, and that John Hosteler is to let them in.”
“Ay, ay, I see I did mistake thy words,” replied the man. “Why, holy
St. Cuthbert, thou wilt get a power of money for thine information.”
“So Sir Miers hath promised me,” replied Mrs. Kyle; “but what doth
chiefly season the matter to my stomach is the spicy revenge I shall
hae against that flouting knave Sang, and the very thought o’ this doth
keenly edge me to aid the gallant Sir Miers in his enterprise; yet, to
tell thee the truth, the handsome knight might rauckon on as much
service at my hands, yea, or more, when it mought please him bid me.”
“So,” replied her companion; “but come, I will see thee into the house,
drink one cup of thine ale with thee, and so speed me to the other end
of the village to Sir Miers. Who knows but I may be wanted after all to
bear the brunt of this business.”
By this time the two knights and their three attendants were the sole
tenants of the common room, and this circumstance, coupled with the
disguises they wore, led them to imagine that they ran no risk of
discovery.
Robert Lindsay, who was the fifth man, took up a lamp, and sallied
forth to look at the horses ere he should seek repose. All was quiet in
the court-yard, as well as in the various buildings surrounding it. He
entered the stable, but, though there were wain horses enow there
belonging to the hostel, he saw, with utter dismay, that the five
steeds belonging to his party were gone. He turned to rush out of the
stable to tell the knights of this treacherous robbery, when the light
of the lamp in his hand flashed on the figure of a man, who was
determinedly posted in the doorway, as if resolved to oppose his
passage.
“Ralpho Proudfoot!” exclaimed Lindsay in astonishment; and then
observing that he was fully armed, and that he carried a lance in his
hand, whilst he himself had not even his sword, he gave himself up for
lost; but resolving to sell his life as dearly as possible, he wrenched
a rung from one of the stalls, and planted himself in a posture of
defence.
“Nay, thou needest look for no injury at my hands,” said Proudfoot;
“this haughty spirit of mine, the which did once make me thy determined
foe because thou wert promoted above me, doth now prompt me not to be
outdone by thee in a generous deed. I come to warn thee that an attempt
on the liberty, if not on the lives, of thee and those that be with
thee, is to be made, within less than an hour hence, by Sir Miers de
Willoughby and a strong force. The reward for taking prisoners of sike
note, together with the gold to be gotten for their ransom, is the
temptation to this enterprise. Lose not a moment then in rousing the
knights, and warning them of their danger.”
“But what hath become of our horses?” demanded Lindsay, not yet
recovered from his surprise.
“It was I who removed them,” replied Proudfoot. “I took them from the
stable, after leaving the hosteller to sleep off the heavy draughts of
ale I made him swallow; they stand ready caparisoned under the trees a
few yards behind the inn. Quick, bring me to the knights, that I may
show them their danger, and teach them how to avoid it; not a moment is
to be lost.”
Without farther question, Lindsay led the way to the common room where
the knights were lying. They were soon roused, and listened to
Proudfoot’s account of the plot against them with considerable
surprise; but they hesitated to believe him, and were in doubt what to
do.
“Nay, then, Sir Knights,” said Proudfoot, “an ye will hesitate, certain
captivity must befall ye. Captivity, did I say? yea, something worse; a
base and black thirst of vengeance doth move this treacherous knight
against thee, Sir John Assueton. I have reason to know that he hath
ever cherished it sith thy last encounter.”
“’Twere better to plant ourselves here, and fight to the death with
what weapons we may have about us,” said Sir Patrick Hepborne.
“Right, my friend,” said Sir John Assueton, “we at least know and can
be true to one another, and that of itself will give us victory.”
“We shall be prepared for them,” said Mortimer Sang, “and we shall make
them fly before us by the very suddenness of our assault.”
“How many De Willoughby spears are of them?” demanded the taciturn
Roger Riddel, with extreme composure.
“Some two dozen at the least, I warrant me,” replied Proudfoot, “and
all fully appointed.”
“Bring they Norham Castle on their backs?” demanded Riddel again.
“Nay,” replied Proudfoot, “their leader hath kept his scheme to
himself, that he may have the greater share of booty and ransom money.”
“But Norham Castle hath ears,” said Riddel again.
“Thou sayest true, friend,” replied Proudfoot. “Were resistance to be
made, the din of arms and the noise of the assault would soon bring out
the garrison upon ye. Quickly resolve, Sir Knights, for the hour wanes,
and they will be here anon. What can ye fear of traiterie from me?
Could I not have left ye to fall easy victims to Sir Miers de
Willoughby’s snare?”
“So please ye, gallant knights, I will answer with my life for the
truth of Ralpho Proudfoot in this matter,” said Lindsay confidently.
“Nay, an ye fear me, ye shall all stand about me,” said Proudfoot; “and
if ye do find me a traitor, your five daggers may drink my blood at
once.”
The minds of the two knights were at last made up, and they resolved to
trust themselves to the guidance of Ralpho Proudfoot. Armed with their
daggers alone, they stole silently out in the dark, and were so planted
by him behind the gate as to be prepared to rush out when the time for
doing so should come. Ralpho Proudfoot cautioned them to keep perfectly
quiet. To attempt to escape along the street of the village at that
moment would have subjected them to certain observation: they were
therefore to wait his signal, and to follow him. He placed himself, as
he had said, in the midst of them, and set himself to listen for a
sound from the outside.
They had not been long posted, when footsteps were heard approaching
very gently. There was then some whispering, and a slight cough.
Proudfoot immediately answered it.
“Art there, John?” said a voice in an under tone.
“Yea,” replied Proudfoot, imitating the language of the hosteller, “but
they be’s still astir; so when the yate be opened, ye maun rush in like
fiends on them, for the hinge do creak, and they will start to their
arms wi’ the noise. Are ye a’ ready?”
“We are,” replied the voice without.
“Noo, then, in on them and at them,” cried Proudfoot, throwing the gate
wide open, so as to conceal himself and his companions behind it.
In rushed Sir Miers de Willoughby, at the head of a large party of his
men; and out went Ralpho Proudfoot, with the two Scottish knights and
their attendants. The gate was hastily locked externally; the horses
were quickly gained, and mounted in the twinkling of an eye; and Ralpho
Proudfoot, who had taken the precaution to have his steed placed with
the rest, got to saddle along with them. As they rode past the gate of
the hostel of the Norham Tower, the loud voices, and the execrations of
Sir Miers de Willoughby and his people, and the shrill screams of Mrs.
Kyle, told them that the failure of the plot had been already
discovered by the actors in it.
“So,” said Ralpho, in half soliloquy, as he guided the knights down the
village street at a canter—“so, thou didst cease to trust me, Sir
Miers, me who hath been faithful to thee to the peril of my salvation.
By St. Benedict, thou shalt now find that it would have been well for
thee to have trusted me still; yea and thou didst tamper with her whom
I would have espoused. By the bones of St. Baldrid, but thou mayest
mate thee with her now an thou listest, for I am done for ever with
her, with thee, and with England, except as a foeman.”
The two knights made the best of their way until they had got beyond
the English march, and were fairly on what might be termed Scottish
ground. Armed men were still crowding in greater or lesser bodies to
Jedworth, where those who had by this time assembled formed a large
army. They were encamped on what was then called the High Forest; and
thither the two friends were hastening, and were already but a little
way from the position of the troops, when Sir Patrick Hepborne halted,
and thus addressed his companion—
“Canst thou tell me, Assueton, what may cause the mingled crowd of
squires, lacqueys, grooms, and horses, that doth surround the gates of
yonder church? Meseems it some convocation, and those varlets do wait
the pleasure of some personages of greater note who are within.”
“Thou art right,” replied Assueton; “for to-day was fixed for a council
of war to be held within that church, and it would seem that at least
some, if not all, of the nobles and knights of the host are already
met. Let us hasten thither, I beseech thee. I long to learn what is to
be the plan of our warfare.”
“I shall at least meet my father there,” said Sir Patrick listlessly,
and as if he cared for little else. “Do thou follow us, Lindsay, to
take our horses, and then wait for us, with the esquires, under the
spreading oaks of yonder swelling knoll.”
On entering the church the two knights learned that they had arrived
just in time for the opening of the business. The Earls of Fife,
Douglas, Dunbar, and Moray were there, and indeed all the leading
nobles and knights of Scottish chivalry; and the doors being closed,
the assembly were soon deeply engaged in the gravest deliberations.
Whilst the council of war was so employed within the church, Mortimer
Sang was lying at the root of an aged oak, holding conversation to,
rather than with, Roger Riddel. Near them were the horses tethered and
feeding, under the eyes of Robert Lindsay, and his old, though
newly-recovered comrade, Ralpho Proudfoot, who were earnestly engaged
in talking over many a story of their boyhood.
“What dost thou stare at so, friend Riddel?” demanded Sang, who
observed his comrade stretching his neck so as to throw his eyes up the
trough of a ravine down which stole a little rill, that murmured around
the knoll where they were sitting; “what dost thou see, I say, friend
Roger, that thou dost so stretch thy neck like a heron, when disturbed
in her solitary fishing?”
Roger replied not, but nodded significantly, and pointed with his
finger.
“Nay, I see nought,” replied Sang, “save, indeed, a swinking churl, who
doth untie and lead away a gallant and bravely caparisoned steed from
yonder willow that weepeth over the stream.”
Roger looked grave, and nodded again, and looked as much as to say,
“A-well, and dost thou see nothing in that?”
“Nay, now that the knave hath mounted,” said Sang, “he seemeth to ride
like one who would make his horse’s speed keep his neck from the
halter. By’r Lady, he’s gone already. Is the rogue a thief, thinkest
thou, Roger?”
“Notour, I’ll warrant me,” replied Squire Riddel.
“By St. Baldrid, had we but thought of that sooner, we might have
frayed the malfaitor, yea, or taken him in the very fact,” said Sang.
“But now we are too late to meddle in the matter.”
“We are no thief-takers,” replied Roger Riddel, with great
indifference.
“Nay, now I think on’t, he who would hang up his horse so in the
Borders may be his own thief-taker for me,” replied Sang; “but look ye,
friend Roger,” continued he, after a pause, “who may that stranger be
who cometh forth from the crowd armed and spurred, yea, as a squire
ought, yet who walketh away as if neither groom nor horse tarried for
him? Stay—methinks he cometh this way.”
The stranger looked around him, after getting rid of the embarrassment
of the crowd about the church, and then moved quickly towards the knoll
where the two esquires were sitting, and, passing quietly under it,
without either looking at or speaking to them, made his way up the
ravine in the direction of the willow-trees, where the horse had been
tethered. The path he followed was so much lower than the ground whence
they had observed the actions of the man who took the horse, that the
stranger walked smartly on for more than a bow-shot, ere he came within
view of the willow-trees. Then it was that he began to betray great
confusion. He hastened to the spot whence the horse had been so lately
removed, and finding that he was irrecoverably gone, he clasped his
hands, looked up to heaven, and seemed to be lost in despair.
“Dost thou mark yonder man who did walk by here alone?” demanded Sang
eagerly. “Behold how he doth show signs of distress, that would mark
him to be the master of the horse which the thief took. I ween he be no
Scottish squire, for he knew no one, and seemed to covet concealment as
he did pass us by. An I mistake not, he will prove better worth
catching than the thief would have done. Let’s after him, Roger, that
we may prove my saying.”
Roger, though slow to speak, was quick to act. The two esquires seized
their steeds, and throwing themselves into their saddles, galloped at
full speed after the stranger. Startled by the sound of pursuit, he at
first made an effort to escape, but, seeing how hotly he was chased, he
lost spirit, and, shortening his pace, allowed them to come up with
him.
“Whither wouldst thou, comrade? and whence hast thou come? and what
dost thou, a spurred esquire, without a horse?” demanded Sang, in a
string of interrogations.
“I do but breathe the air here,” replied the man in great confusion.
“As for my horse, I do verily believe some villain hath stolen him from
those willow trees where I had tied him.”
“But why didst thou tie thy horse in this lone place? and how comest
thou thus unattended?” demanded Sang again. “But, hey, holy St.
Baldrid, is it thou, my gentle Clerk-Squire Barton? When, I pray thee,
didst thou leave the peaceful following of the godly Bishop of Durham,
to mell thee with dangerous matters like these thou art now in? By the
blessed Rood, it had been well for thee, methinks, an thou couldst but
have aped somewhat of the loutish Scot in thy gait, peraunter thou
mightest have better escaped remark? So, thou hast become a spy on
these our Eastern Marches, hast thou? By the mass, but thou must with
us to the conclave. It doth erke me to speak it, mine excellent friend,
but, by’r Lady, I do fear me that thou mayest hang for it.”
“Talk not so, Squire Sang,” replied Barton, with a face of alarm.
“Trust me, I have seen nought—I know nought. Thou knowest we did drink
together in good fellowship at Norham. Let me go, I do beseech thee,
and put not an innocent man’s life to peril, seeing that appearances do
happen to be so sore against me.”
“Sore against thee, indeed, pot-companion,” said Roger Riddel,
portentously shaking his head.
“Yea, appearances are sore against thee, Master Barton,” reechoed Sang.
“Verily, we did behold thee as thou didst come forth from yonder
church, where thou didst doubtless possess thyself of much important
matter that did there transpire, the which it will be by no means
convenient that thou shouldst carry in safety to those who may have
sent thee hither. Better that thou hadst chanted thirty trentals of
masses in the goodly pile of Durham for the soul of thy grandmother,
ay, and that fasting, too, than that thou shouldst have set thy foot
for a minute’s space of time within yonder church this day.”
“Let me go, good gentlemen, I do beseech ye,” said Barton. “Squire
Riddel, hast thou no compassion for me?”
“Much,” replied Roger. “Natheless, thou must with us, Squire Barton.”
“Nay, in truth thou must with us without more ado,” said Sang; “yet
make thyself as easy as may be; for, in consideration of our meeting at
Norham, I shall do thee all the kindness I may consistent with duty,
both now and when thou shalt be sent to the fatal tree, to the which I
do fear thy passage will be short and speedy.”
The English esquire shuddered, but he was compelled to submit; and he
was accordingly led by his captors to the church, where the council of
war was assembled. The news of his capture excited great interest and
commotion among the knights; and the Earl of Fife, who presided over
their deliberations, had no sooner learned the particulars of his
taking than he ordered him into his presence. Barton came, guarded by
Mortimer Sang and Roger Riddel. He had put on the best countenance he
could, but judging by the working of his features, all his resolution
was required to keep it up.
“Bring forward the prisoner,” said the Earl of Fife. “What hast thou to
say for thyself, Sir Squire? Thou hast been taken in arms within the
Scottish bounds—thou hast been seen of several who did note thine
appearance at this our secret meeting—and there be knights here, as
well as those worthy esquires who took thee, who can speak to thy name
and country. Whence art thou come? and who did send thee hither to espy
out our force, and to possess thyself of our schemes?”
“Trusting to the sacred office of my Lord the Bishop of Durham, I came
but as a pious traveller to visit certain shrines,” replied Barton.
“Being in these parts, I wot it was no marvel in me, the servant of a
churchman so dignified, to look into the church, and——”
“Nay, nay—so flimsy a response as this will by no means serve,”
interrupted the Earl of Fife, who, though cool, calm, and soft in
manner, was in reality much more cruel of heart than his brother the
Wolfe of Badenoch himself, albeit devoid of the furious passion so
ungovernable in that Earl. “He doth but trifle with our patience. Let a
rack be instantly prepared, and let a tree be erected without loss of
time, whereon his tortured limbs, whilst their fibres shall yet have
hardly ceased to feel, may be hung as tender food for the ravens. His
throat shall be squeezed by the hangman’s rope, until all he hath
gained by his espial be disgorged or closed up for ever within it.”
Barton shook from head to foot at this terrible sentence, uttered with
a mildness and composure that might have suited well with a homily. His
face grew deadly pale, despair grappled at his breath, and he gasped as
if already under the hands of the executioner. His eyes, restless and
protruded, seemed as if anxious to shun the picture of the horrible
death that so soon awaited him. His lips moved, but they were dry as
ashes, and they gave forth no sound. Sang and Roger Riddel almost
regretted that they had been instrumental in bringing the wretch there,
though by doing so they had so well served their country. They looked
at each other with horror; but in such a presence, and at such a time,
Sang was condemned to remain as dumb as Squire Riddel. The good Earl of
Moray had more liberty of speech, and he failed not to use it.
“Be not too hasty with him, my Lord,” said he; “he may yet peraunter be
brought to give us tidings of the enemy. Let him but give us what
information he can, under promise, that if it be found soothfast, he
shall have no evil. Meanwhile, after he shall have effunded all that it
may concern us to know, let him be delivered into the custody of the
Constable of Jedworth, with him to liggen in strict durance, until we
shall have certiorated ourselves by our own experience, whether the
things which he may tell be true or false, with certification that his
life shall be the forfeit of the minutest breach of verity. If he doth
refuse these terms, then, in the name of St. Andrew, let him
incontinent lose his head.”
A hum of approbation ran around the meeting, and the Earl of Fife,
though in secret half-chagrined that he had not had his own will, saw
that in this point he must give way to the general voice.
“Thou dost hear thy destiny,” said he to the prisoner; “what is thine
election?”
“My Lord, seeing that I have no alternative but to yield me to dire
necessity,” answered the English esquire, with an expression of
infinite relief in his countenance, “verily, I do most gladly accept
your terms. As God is my judge, I shall tell thee all I know, without
alteration, addition, or curtailment.”
“Who sent thee hither, then?” demanded the Earl of Fife.
“Being one to whom these Marches be well known, I was chosen by the
Lords of Northumberland, and sent hither to learn the state of your
enterprise; as alswa to gather which way ye do propose to draw.”
“Where, then, be these English Lords?” demanded the Earl of Douglas.
“Sirs,” replied the captive squire, “sith it behoveth me to say the
truth, ye shall surely have it. I be come straight hither from
Newcastle, where be Sir Henry Piersie, surnamed Hotspur, from his
frequent pricking; and his brother Sir Rafe Piersie, yea, and divers
other nobles and knights, flowers of English chivalry, all in readiness
to depart thence as soon as they may know that ye have set forward into
England; for, hearing of the strength of your host, they do not choose
to come to meet you.”
“Why, what number do they repute us at?” demanded the Earl of Moray.
“Sir,” replied the esquire, “it is said how ye be forty thousand men
and twelve hundred spears.”
“What then may be their plan?” demanded the Earl of Fife.
“This be their plan, my Lord,” replied the esquire: “If ye do invade
England by Carlisle, then will they straightway force a passage for
themselves by Dunbar to Edinburgh; and if ye do hold through
Northumberland, then will they enter Scotland by the Western Marches.”
As the English esquire Barton was thus delivering himself, the Scottish
lords threw significant glances towards each other. Some further
questions of less moment were put to him, and after he had answered to
all with every appearance of perfect candour—
“Let him be removed into the strict keeping of the Constable of
Jedworth,” said the Earl of Fife. “His life and liberty shall be safe,
provided his report shall in all things prove true, and for this I do
gage my word in name of myself and all these noble lords and knights
here present. Should he be found to have spoken falsely in the veriest
tittle, he knoweth his fate.”
After the prisoner was withdrawn under the charge of a guard, the Earl
of Fife conveyed thanks to the two esquires for having so well
fulfilled their duty to Scotland. The assembled lords and knights were
overjoyed that the intent of their enemies should have been thus made
so surely known to them, and a buzz of congratulation arose.
“This is all well, my Lords,” said the Earl of Fife, after having again
procured silence; “but let us now to council, I entreat you, that we
may straightway devise how best to avail ourselves of the tidings we
have gained. For mine own part I do opine that we should break our host
into two armies. Let the most part, together with all our carriage, go
by the Cumberland Marches and Carlisle, and let a smaller body draw
towards Newcastle-upon-Tyne, to fill up and occupy the attention of the
enemy assembled there. I speak under the correction of wiser heads,”
continued the Earl, bowing around him with great condescension, so as
to excite a burst of approbation from those weaker spirits whom he
daily flattered until he made them his staunch partisans—“I speak, I
say, under the correction of wiser heads; yet meseems, from those
unanimous applauses, my Lords, that you do honour my scheme of warfare
with your universal support; and such being the case, I may now say,
that whilst I do myself propose to lead the main army by the Western
Marches, I shall commit the command of the smaller body to the brave
Earls of Douglas, Dunbar, and Moray. For this last service, methinks,
three hundred lances, and three thousand crossbows and axemen, may well
enow suffice.”
“By St. Andrew, but ’tis a fine thing to know how to keep one’s head
safe,” whispered Sir William de Dalzell ironically to Sir Patrick
Hepborne the younger; “what thinkest thou of him who shall shoulder ye
a catapult to crush a swarm of dung flies, whilst he doth send out
others to war on lions and bearded pards with a handful of hazel nuts.
Depardieux, he who goeth by Carlisle may march boldly from one end of
Cumberland to the other, with a single clump of spears at his back, ay,
and take the fattest spoil too; but he who shall march to Newcastle
will want all the hardy hearts and well-strung thewes and muscles he
can muster around him, and is like after all to get nought but a broken
head for his journey. Holy St. Giles, but ’tis well to take care of
one’s self.”
By a little management, the opinion of the council of war was easily
brought perfectly to coincide with the views of the Earl of Fife. But
so great was the name of James Earl of Douglas, that it was in itself a
host. The two brothers, George Dunbar Earl of Dunbar and March, and
John Dunbar Earl of Moray, too, were so much beloved, that a puissant
band of knights voluntarily mustered under their banners. Among these
were Sir Patrick Hepborne, his son, and Sir John Assueton. Ere the
assembly dissolved, it was determined that the armies should divide,
and march on their respective routes early on the ensuing morning; and
all was bustle and preparation accordingly.
CHAPTER LVII.
The Scots besieging Newcastle—The Fight on the Walls.
The smaller force, under the Douglas, broke up from Jedworth, and set
forward in high spirits, cheered by the good countenance and presence
of their renowned commander. Their parting shouts were re-echoed from
the sides of the surrounding hills, and were replied to with yet louder
bursts of acclamation by the large army of which they had been so
lately a portion. Their route lay through the wilderness of the forest
which at that time covered the country, and they soon lost even the
cheers of their departing comrades, that, mellowing by degrees, at last
died away among the hollow valleys. On entering Northumberland, the
Earl of Douglas allowed little time for pillaging the country, but
stretched forward with the utmost expedition, so that he might carry on
the war directly into the heart of the Bishoprick of Durham, before his
movements could be made known to the Earl of Northumberland, who was at
Alnwick, or to his two sons, who were at that moment patiently waiting
at Newcastle, with the other English lords, for the return of their
spy.
The Douglas was by no means one who could endure to make a mere empty
show of invasion, for the purpose of creating a diversion that might
smooth the way of his politic brother-in-law the Earl of Fife. His
force was small indeed, but he resolved that it should do England as
much harm as he could effect with it. Passing the River Tyne,
therefore, at some distance above Newcastle, he spread his troops over
the fair County of Durham, and began taking an awful, nay, a tenfold
revenge, for the miseries which the Merse had so lately endured, at the
hands of the English, by carrying devastation far and wide.
The news that the Scots were abroad at last reached Newcastle and
Durham, and their numbers being exaggerated, these towns were filled
with great consternation. They now learned the tale, indeed, from the
evidence of their senses, for the smoke of the continued conflagration,
creeping heavily over the country, and, carrying the smell of
combustion along with it, poisoned the very air of both these places.
Having reached the gates of Durham, the Douglas found them firmly
closed against him; so, after skirmishing there for some days, he
pushed on, destroying everything in his way, even to the very gates of
York, and leaving no town unburnt that was not sufficiently walled to
require a regular siege.
Having thus more than made good a chivalric vow with which he had
started, that he should see Durham ere he returned, and having already
ventured farther into a hostile country than his small force warranted,
he returned towards Newcastle, industriously perfecting any destruction
that he had before left unfinished; and having re-crossed the Tyne, at
the same spot where he had passed it in his way southwards, he set
himself down before the town on the side lying towards Scotland. The
place was strongly garrisoned, and contained the flower of the chivalry
of the counties of York, Durham, and Northumberland; for as soon as it
was fully known that the Scots were abroad, and that they had already
passed onwards into Yorkshire, a general rising of the country took
place, under the influence of Harry Piersie, lately appointed Keeper of
the Northumbrian Marches; and orders were even despatched to the
governors of Berwick, Norham, and the other fortresses now in rear of
the enemy, to join the general muster with what force they could spare
without too much weakening their garrisons.
Sir Rafe Piersie had long ceased to think of Eleanore de Selby. His
passion was like the summer-storm, violent in character, but short in
duration. His father, the haughty old Earl of Northumberland, had heard
of it, and had signified his unqualified displeasure that his son
should have even thought of a marriage with the daughter of a mere
soldier; while his elder brother, the lively and peppery Hotspur, had
laughed and railed at him till he became tired of the very name of De
Selby. Part of this feeling arose from an honourable cause. His
conscience told him that he had permitted his violent temper to make
him forget what was due to the courtesy of knighthood, and he now so
deeply repented him of his conduct at Norham, where he had so grossly
insulted his host, that the scene never occurred to his mind without
bringing the blush of shame to his cheek. He longed for an opportunity,
where, without debasing himself, he might prove these feelings to Sir
Walter; and the issuing of the order for the Border Captains to appear
at Newcastle being the first that presented itself, he immediately
availed himself of it.
“Brother,” said he to Hotspur, “as for Sir Matthew Redman of Berwick,
he is a stout and able Captain, and in his own person a powerful aid.
But what wouldst thou, I pray thee, with bringing the old Captain of
Norham so far from home?”
“Dost thou fear to meet him, Rafe?” cried Hotspur, with a sarcastic
smile; “or wouldst thou rather that I should send for his dark-eyed
daughter hither?”
“Nay, nay, brother,” replied Sir Rafe; “but methinks he is of years
somewhat beyond the battle-field.”
“Thou mayest do with him as thou listest, brother Rafe,” replied
Hotspur, who was too busy to waste time on such a matter; “but we must
have his men.”
Armed with Sir Henry Piersie’s authority to do so, Sir Rafe despatched
an especial messenger to Sir Walter de Selby, to assure him that it
rejoiced him much to be the instrument of procuring his exemption from
personal attendance at Newcastle, which to one who had already seen so
many fields, must be rather irksome. The messenger found Sir Walter de
Selby lately recovered from his bodily malady; for the death of the
wizard Ancient and his villainy being now known to him, he again
enjoyed comparative peace of mind. But he was much enfeebled by the
shocks he had received. He heard the courier to an end; and the
moisture in his eye, with the nervous motion in his closed lips, showed
how much he was affected by it.
“Am I then deemed to be so old and worthless?” said he, after a pause.
“The time was when the Marches, neither East nor West, could have
turned out a starker pricker; yet was it kind in Sir Rafe Piersie,
after what hath passed between us, and tell him, I beseech thee, that I
so felt and received his message. But it shall never be said that I am
behind when others are in the field; it shall never be said of old Sir
Walter de Selby, who hath worn the hauberk and morion from his cradle,
that he was afraid to die in knightly harness. No, no; let Tom
Turnberry prepare my war steed; I’ll lead mine own spears to Newcastle.
To thee, my good Lieutenant Oglethorpe, do I commit the keeping of old
Norham. It is King Richard’s now. See that it hath no other master when
I or King Richard demand it of thee.”
With these words, the brave old warrior gave orders for his men to
assemble immediately, and mounting, with the aid of his esquires, he
rode from the court-yard at the head of his force, on a mettlesome
horse, the fiery paces of which but ill suited with his years; as he
went, he joined feebly in the parting cheer with which his brave bowmen
and lances took leave of their comrades.
It was the daring spirit of chivalry, more than any great hope of
taking the town, that induced the gallant Douglas to tarry for two days
before Newcastle. The most powerful thirst of heroic adventure then
prevailed, and those within the town were as eager to rush beyond their
ramparts to meet the assailants, as the Scottish knights were to
assault them. Both days, therefore, were occupied in a succession of
skirmishes; and it was a remarkable feature of this warfare, that it
seemed to be more regulated by the courtesy of the tournament, than
guided by the brutal and remorseless rage of battle. No sooner did a
body of lances show itself from within the Scottish lines, than another
of equal numbers appeared from behind the barriers of the town,
prepared to give it a meeting. Spurring from opposite sides, the
combatants encountered each other midway, as if they had been in the
lists. A desperate shock took place, followed by a melée, in which
prodigious feats of arms were done, whilst the English from their
walls, and the Scottish troops from their temporary entrenchments,
alternately cheered their friends, as one or other side gained the
advantage. But, what was most wonderful, everything resembling atrocity
appeared to be banished from the field, and mercy and generosity so
tempered victory, that it was difficult to say whether the contest was
greatest for glory in the skirmish, or for superiority in clemency, and
every other noble feeling, after it was over.
On the evening of the first day, the Lord Douglas, to give the troops a
breathing, ordered the place to be assaulted by means of scaling
ladders, with the hopes of perhaps surprising it by a coup-de-main. The
Scottish troops rushed to the walls with their usual hardihood, and Sir
Patrick Hepborne and Sir John Assueton were found in the very front of
the attack made by the Earl of Moray’s division. Although they were
provided with fascines and trusses of straw to throw into the ditch,
yet the ladders were in general found to be too short for surmounting
the walls. At one place, however, they were successfully applied; and
the two knights, followed by their esquires and some few others,
gallantly mounted in the teeth of the enemy, and fought their way into
the town, driving the English before them; but being unsupported, owing
to the failure of the escalade in other quarters, they were unwillingly
compelled to retreat, which they and their followers did, bravely
fighting with their faces to the enemy. Having gained the spot where
they had climbed, the two friends planted themselves side by side
firmly in front of it, to cover the retreat of those who were with
them, and gallantly kept a whole host of foes at bay, until all who had
entered the place with them had descended, except their trusty
esquires, and two other individuals whom they had not leisure to note.
The ladders had all been broken or thrown down in the confusion except
one, and the English so pressed upon the little knot of Scotchmen that
it appeared impossible for so many of them to escape.
“One desperate charge at them, Assueton,” cried Hepborne. “Our safety
depends on driving them back for a brief space’s breathing. On them,
brave Scots!”
The two knights raised a shout, in which they were joined by their
fellow-combatants, and with one accord rushed furiously against the
dense circle of English. The effect was tremendous. Many were
overthrown by the vigorous blows of the knights and their assistants,
but more by the press and confusion occasioned by the panic, excited by
the belief that they were backed by a fresh assault of troops from
without the walls. There was a momentary dispersion of them; but the
individuals of the Scottish party were also separated from each other,
and as Sir Patrick Hepborne returned to the rallying point, he was
grieved to discover his friend Assueton lying wounded and helpless on
the ground. He immediately stooped, to endeavour to set him on his
legs, but he was unable to support himself.
“Leave me, dear Hepborne,” said Assueton faintly; “thine own safety
depends on thy doing so.”
“Leave thee, Assueton!” cried Hepborne with energy; “nay, by St.
Baldrid, if I cannot bear thee hence, I will perish with thee. Clasp
thine arms round my neck, my friend,” added he, as he lifted him up
from the ground, and began carrying him towards the walls. “Be of good
cheer, and tighten thy grasp; thou dost thereby lighten my burden.”
As he moved off, the English returned, shouting upon his heels, with
Sang sullenly retreating before them.
“Succour, succour, my trusty esquire,” cried Hepborne; “I have a life
here to preserve dearer to me a thousand times than mine own.”
Sang came up to him as he reached the top of the only remaining ladder.
To the esquire he hastily confided the care of Assueton, and, turning
on the foe, again drove them before him, so as to give Sang leisure to
descend with his burden; and then hastily returning to the spot where
the ladder was, he discovered that it was broken, and saw Sang in the
ditch beneath, endeavouring to extricate himself and the wounded knight
from the bundles of straw and fascines among which they had fallen. The
enemy were fast gathering behind, and he had no alternative. Selecting
a place where the heaps in the ditch were highest, he sprang from the
wall, and happily alighted almost uninjured.
Whilst he and his squire were busily employed in lifting Sir John
Assueton from the ditch, their attention was attracted to the walls
above them, where a desperate struggle was going on between two figures
distinctly seen against the sky. But it was of short duration.
“Uve, uve! an she wonnot let her go, by St. Giles, but she shall go wi’
her,” cried Duncan MacErchar, who was one of them; and griping his
enemy fast, he sprang with him over the battlements.
Duncan had by no means time to be so select in the choice of the spot
where he was to alight as Sir Patrick Hepborne had been. But he took
care to leap with his antagonist before him, and his doing so was the
saving of his life, his fall being broken by the body of the wretch who
participated in it, and who was crushed to death against the very
bottom of the ditch, whilst Duncan, though stunned, escaped with some
considerable bruises, and immediately regaining his legs, assisted Sir
Patrick and his esquire to carry off Sir John Assueton to the Scottish
camp.
We have already apprised the reader that the brave knights were
supported by two other individuals besides their esquires. One of
these, it may be guessed, was the brave MacErchar. The other, when the
little party was dispersed after their bold onset, unfortunately missed
his way in attempting to return to the rallying point, and, being
assailed by a crowd of his foes, was compelled to retreat before them,
until he was stopped by a wall, under which he took shelter, and
prepared himself for a desperate resistance.
“Yield thee, Scot,” cried some of the first who came up to him. “On
him—Seize him,” cried a dozen of them at once.
“By St. Lowry, ’tis right well for ye Southrons to cry yield to ane
honest Scotchman. But troth, I’ll tell ye it’s easier to say so to ane
o’ my country than to gar him do it, and mair, when ye speak to the
henchman o’ the Yearl o’ Moray himsel’,” cried Rory Spears; for it was
he, no longer clad, indeed, in his fishing coat and otterskin cap, but
armed as became the Earl of Moray’s henchman, and wielding a long
pole-axe instead of his gaud-clip.
“Take him alive,” cried an officer who was present; “let not his life
be taken, as you value your own. If he be of the Earl of Moray’s
household, we may be the better for knowing some of his secrets.”
“Troth, ye’ll hae ill taking o’ me without taking my life too, my
lads,” said Rory, swinging his pole-axe so cleverly around him that no
one was disposed to risk approaching him.
“In on him and take him, his ransom will be great,” cried the officer;
and thus encouraged, one or two of the hardiest did venture to attempt
to close on him, but they paid dearly for their daring, being
prostrated to right and left like so many nine-pins. The rest were so
scared that they scrupled to approach him; and he might have kept them
off long enough had not a man who had climbed on the wall behind him
suddenly dropped down on his shoulders à califourchon, and brought him
headlong to the ground.
“Well done, Tom Turnberry,” cried a dozen voices at once, and in an
instant Rory was overpowered, and hastily dragged down a stair and
thrust into a dark dungeon under the ramparts, where he was left to his
own reflections.
“Is there ony ither poor deevil like mysel’ here?” demanded Rory aloud,
after he had in some measure recovered his breath; but finding that no
one answered, he went to talk to himself. “Na—nae answer. A-weel,
Maister Spears, thou art here, art thou, amang the foundations o’
Newcastle? This is seeing merry England wi’ a vengeance. Troth, after
a’, if this is to be the upshot, thou mightest as weel hae turned back
frae Norham yonder. Thou canst be of nae satisfaction to the Yearl
whiles thou art liggen here, I trow. And as to ony mair comfort or
consolation in the wars, thou mayest e’en bid them good day, for
thou’lt hae nae mair o’ them, I’ll promise thee. By my troth, an thou
hadst not seen this day’s fighting, thou mightest hae been as well
liggen on the rocks at the Ess. A-weel, a-weel—it is most surprising
how a man o’ sense wull gae wrang at times. Hadst thou no been a fool,
ye might hae let thae wud chields climb the wa’s o’ Newcastle
themlanes, that is, takin’ thy time o’ life into consideration. By holy
St. Mary, what wull become o’ poor Kate? Hoot, the Leddy o’ Norham wull
surely see her sent safe back to Tarnawa; though in conscience I had
rather been her guide mysel. I was a fool to leave the damosel. And
then, St. Lawrence protect me, how I wull be missed at hame.” The
thought of his daughter, of his wife, and of his home, grappled Rory by
the heart, so that he did nothing but sigh for some moments. “A-weel,”
continued he at length, “I maun say, after a’, that albeit there is a
great pleasure in fighting, it is but a fool-thing for God’s rational
creatures to be cutting ane anither’s throats as if they war wild cats
or wolf-beasts. What for sould I come a’ the gate frae Findhorn-side to
cleave the skull o’ some poor honest deevil o’ the Tyne here, against
whom, as I hope for mercy mysel, I hae no decent or wiselike cause o’
quarrel? War is a fool-thing; but I wull say there is some pleasure
in’t, after a’.”
“Ay!” said a long yawning voice from a deep recess in the dungeon.
“St. Lowry defend us, wha’s that!” cried Rory.
“One Roger Riddel,” replied the voice.
“What hast thou been doing, that thou hast been so long silent?”
demanded Rory.
“Sleeping,” answered Roger.
“Thou art esquire to that brave knight Sir John Assueton, if I err
not?” said Rory.
“Thou art right,” replied Roger.
“And how, in the name of St. Andrew, camest thou here?” demanded Rory.
“By being taken,” replied Roger.
“Thou wert on the ramparts with us to the last,” said Rory.
“I was,” replied Roger.
“By St. Giles, but it was a noble escalade, comrade, an we had only
been well backed,” cried Spears with enthusiasm.
“Noble,” cried Roger in the same tone.
“Didst thou mark how the knaves fled afore sax o’ us?” cried Rory. “Sax
against twa hundred o’ them at least.”
“Nay, three hundred, brother,” replied Roger.
“Ay, faith, that may be,” said Rory; “I’ll no dispute as to that. There
might be three, ay, or four hundred o’ them, for I had no great leisure
to count them. But this I ken, neebour, that an it hadna been bigget
ground, thou and I souldna hae been here.”
“No, that I’ll promise thee,” replied Roger.
“Where art thou, comrade? Gi’es thy hand; we fought like brave chields
thegither,” cried Rory in great glee, and groping about for Squire
Riddel. “Thou art a prince of brave fellows.”
“And thou art a very king,” replied Roger, shaking him heartily by the
hand.
“’Tis a pleasure to meet thee, though it be in this dungeon,” cried
Rory. “Would we had but some yill to wet our friendship. St. Lowry
grant that we had but a wee sup yill.”
“Ay, would indeed we had a drop of ale,” re-echoed Roger with a deep
sigh.
At this moment steps were heard descending, a light glimmered faintly
for a moment through a chink beneath the door, and the key being
turned, the round, rosy visage of Master Thomas Turnberry, the squire
equerry of Norham, appeared within it. He entered, bearing a lamp in
his hand, and was followed by an attendant, who carried an enormous
pasty, that had been just broken upon, and a huge stoup of ale.
“So!” said Master Turnberry; “put thee down these things, and let the
gentlemen eat and drink. Having put a man into captivity by mine own
hard riding, I do think it but consistent with charity to see that he
starveth not. Yea, and albeit I am but a soberish man myself, yet do I
know that there be others who love ale; and having mortal bowels of
compassion in me, I have pity for the frailties of my fellow-men.”
“Sir,” said Rory, lifting the vessel with great readiness from the
ground, “an thou hadst been St. Lowry himsel, thou couldst not have
ministered to my present wants more cheeringly. I drink to thee from
the bottom o’ my soul——Hech!” cried he, after having swallowed half the
contents of the vessel, with the nicest measurement, and most
scrupulous justice to him who was to come after him; “hech, ’tis most
invigorating to the very spinal marrow. It must be allowed that ye do
brew most excellent nut-brown to the south o’ the Tweed.”
“Excellent, indeed, judging by its good sale,” cried Roger Riddel,
looking into the flagon before he put it to his head; then nodding to
Master Turnberry, he drained it to the bottom.
“By’r lackins, but ye have good go-downs, my masters,” cried Turnberry,
taking the flagon, and raising the bottom of it, so as to show that it
was empty, and at the same time betraying some disappointment.
“Methinks I could ha’e ta’en a drop of ale myself. But there be more
where this came from. See that the gentlemen lack for nothing,” said
he, turning to the attendant. “And so, good night, my merry masters.”
It was about the middle of the ensuing day that Rory Spears was sitting
indulging in soliloquy, Roger Riddel having retired to the farther part
of the vault, where he had thrown himself down, and buried himself
among the straw, to sleep away the time.
“I hae sat for days by mysel, as a relay to watch for the deer,” said
Rory—“ay, and I hae lien for weeks by my lane, watching the saumonts
loupin’, without hearing voice save the water-kelpy roarin’ in the
Ess—yet was I never sae tired as I am at this precious moment, sitting
in this hole, wi’ a bit chink yonder aboon just enew to let a poor
deevil ken that it’s daylight, and that he mought be happy thereout i’
the sun. As for that chield, Roger Riddel there, my ain Oscar would be
mair companionable, I wot. He lies rucking and snorting there as
composed as if he were in the best hostel in a’ bonny Scotland. As St.
Lowry kens, I wad be content to be in its warst, rather than whaur I
am. Holy St. Mungo, the chield hath buried himsel like a very
mouldiwort; I can see nought but his nose. A-weel, an I could only gie
owre thinking o’ Alice, and Kate, and the Yearl o’ Moray, I mought
peraunter sleep mysel.”
As he was stretching himself along the bench where he had been sitting,
with the resolution of trying the experiment, he was disturbed by a
coming step. The door opened, and an officer entered in great seeming
haste.
“Thou art a body attendant of the Earl of Moray, art thou not?” said
he, glancing at Spears.
“Yea, I am the noble Yearl’s henchman, as I mought say,” replied Rory.
“Doubtless thou knowest well the person of the Lord Douglas?” said the
officer.
“Ay, weel do I that,” replied Rory; “and mair, he hath a great
good-wull to me, for mony is the time we hae hunted thegither. Is he
not my master the Yearl’s brother-in-law?”
“Follow me then without loss of time,” said the officer; “Sir Henry
Piersie would have conference with thee.”
Rory said no more, but joyfully obeyed; and the officer, too much
occupied with his errand to investigate things closely, and having no
suspicion that the place contained two prisoners, tripped up the stair
that led from the dungeon, leaving the door open behind him.
Master Roger Riddel was not asleep; he had only dosed, to save himself
the trouble of forming replies to the incessant talk which Rory had
carried on; on peeping out from his straw after the officer and his
fellow-prisoner had left him, and seeing the door of the dungeon wide
open, he slowly raised himself up, walked out of the place, and
ascended the short winding stair, from the top of which he quietly
emerged into the pure air. With the utmost composure, he then struck
into one of the lanes that led from the walls, and walked coolly down a
street, through crowds of anxious individuals, all of whom were too
busily occupied with anticipations of glory or defeat, to notice a man
in the attire of a squire, of whom there were many. Following a crowd
that was pressing forwards, he reached the gate. There was a muster at
the barriers.
“Where are thy weapons, Sir Squire?” demanded a spearman as he passed
by.
“Lend me thy lance, good fellow,” said Roger; “I am in haste—here be
money to get thee another.”
The man gave him the spear, took the money, and thanked him; and Roger
went on. At the gate stood three horses held by a single groom. Roger
went boldly up to him.
“Thou waitest thy master, friend?” said he in a tone of inquiry.
“Yea; and what be that to thee?” replied the fellow surlily.
“Because I have got an angel for thee, and I would know if thou be’st
the right man,” replied Riddel.
“Give it me straight, then, good master,” said the man, eagerly.
“Nay, that will I not, neither straight nor crooked,” replied Riddel;
“that is, not till I know thy master’s name from thee, that I may know
whether in very deed thou be’st the man I do look for.”
“’Tis Sir Robert Ogill that be my master,” replied the man.
“Then art thou the very good fellow I would speak with,” said Roger.
“Give me that roan as fast as may be, and this angel here is the token
thy master Sir Robert sent thee. I ride on business of his to the
barrier.”
Without more ado, and without interruption from the groom, he leaped
into the saddle, and riding by the guards at a careless pace, got
beyond the barriers, and put his horse to speed for the Scottish camp.
A shout was raised among a party of spearmen who were forming without,
and some dozen or two of them spurred after him; but he had gained so
much start of them, and his horse was so good, that he escaped in spite
of all their exertions, and got fairly within the lines occupied by his
countrymen.
CHAPTER LVIII.
Combat between Douglas and Hotspur—The Fight for the Pennon.
As the Earl of Douglas was sitting in his pavilion, in conversation
with his chaplain, Richard Lundie, on the second day of his being
before Newcastle, a squire in waiting announced to him that one of Lord
Moray’s men wished to have a private interview with him.
“Give him entrance speedily,” said the Douglas, “his business may be of
moment. He seeth me in private when he seeth me alone with him who
knoweth mine inmost soul.”
The squire bowed and retired, and immediately returned to
introduce—Rory Spears.
“Rory Spears!” exclaimed the Douglas; “what hath brought thee hither,
and what hath my brother of Moray to tell my private ear through thy
mouth? Thou art not the messenger he is used to send between us for
such affairs. Were it a matter of wood or river craft, indeed, we might
both recognize thee as a right trusty and merry ambassador; but at this
time we have other game upon our hands. What hath Lord Moray to say?”
“My Lord Yearl o’ Douglas, naebody kens whaur gowd lies till it be
howkit out,” replied Rory, with an obeisance. “Albeit that thou and the
Yearl o’ Moray, my noble master, have never yet discovered my talents
that way, it proveth not that I do lack them. He who is stranger to the
soil may chance to divine that, the which he who owneth it hath never
dreamt of; and he——”
“What doth all this tend to, Rory Spears?” demanded the Earl of
Douglas, interrupting him rather impatiently. “Trust me, though I may
have trifled with thee at Tarnawa, this is no time for such idlesse.”
“Bide a wee, my Lord Yearl, bide a wee,” said Rory, with great
composure; “call it not trifling till thou art possessed of the value
of what I have to effunde unto thee. I was going to tell thee that he
who doth own a man like me, ay, or a horse beast, for instance, may ken
less o’ his qualifications than he who doth see him but for a gliff.”
“But what hath all this to do with thy message from Moray to me?” cried
the Douglas.
“Nought at all, my Lord Yearl,” replied Rory, “for I hae no message
frae him. But,” added he, assuming an air of unusual importance, “it
hath much to do, I rauckon, with the embassage the which I am at this
moment charged with by the Hotspur.”
“The Hotspur—thou charged with a message from the Hotspur!—How can that
be? Quick—try not my patience longer; where hast thou encountered the
Hotspur?” exclaimed the Douglas eagerly.
Rory proceeded to give the Earl a sketch of the history of his capture,
as well as of his being sent for by Sir Harry Piersie.
“He telled me, my Lord Yearl o’ Douglas,” continued he, “that he heard
I confessed mysel to be ane esquire o’ the Yearl o’ Moray’s. I didna
daur to contradick Hotspur, the mair because I am in a manner the
Yearl’s henchman. ‘I hae made yelection o’ thee,’ said he to me, ‘as
the fittest man for my job amang a’ the Scottish prisoners in
Newcastle. Thou art to bear a message of importance frae me to the
gallant Douglas. Tell him Hotspur hath had the renommie o’ his prowess
rung in his lugs till the din hath stirred up his inmost soul and made
his very heart yearn to encounter sae mokell bravery. Yet hath my evil
fortune so willed it,’ quoth he, ‘that though I have sought him
unceasing for these two days, yet have I never had the chance to meet
him hand to hand.’”
“Nay, and God wot, I have not been wanting in my search after the noble
Hotspur,” replied Douglas with energy. “But what said he more?”
“‘Get thee to the Douglas, Sir Squire,’ said he to me. ‘Tell him that I
do entreat him, for the love he bears to chivalry, that he may so order
his next assault that I may not fail to meet him in person. Be the
manner and terms of our encounter of his own fixing, and let him trust
to the word of a Piersie for their fulfilment on this side, as I shall
to the unbroken faith of a Douglas. Bear this to him, Sir Squire, and
take thy liberty and this golden chain for thy guerdon.’”
“Bravo, Harry Hotspur!” cried the Douglas, rising from his seat, whilst
his eyes flashed fire from the joyous tumult of his heroic spirit;
“bravo, brave heart! trust me thou shalt not lack thy desire. Quick—let
me hasten to reply to the gallant Piersie’s challenge with that
promptness the which it doth so well merit. My most faithful and
attached Lundie,” continued he, addressing his chaplain,—“get thee to
the provost, if thou lovest me, and use thy good judgment to choose me
out from among our English prisoners one who may be best fitted for
being the bearer of mine answer. Let him be an esquire, for we would
rather surpass than fall short of Hotspur’s courtesy.”
“Nay, an ye would surpass the courtesy of the gallant Hotspur,” said
Rory, who stood by, “ye maun e’en send him a knight, for he did send
thee ane esquire,—ay, and ane esquire with a golden chain round his
craig.”
“Right,” cried the Douglas in the fulness of his joy—“right, Squire
Rory Spears; for esquire thou shalt hereafter be, sith it hath pleased
Harry Piersie to make thee so. And if a knight is not to be had, by St.
Andrew I’ll make one for the purpose of this embassage.”
“Hear ye, Maister Ritchie Lundie,” cried Rory; “I take thee witness
that my Lord the Yearl o’ Douglas hath allowed me the rank the which
the noble Hotspur did confer on me when I did act as his ambassador.
Let not this escape thy memory”.
“Fear thee not, Rory Spears,” said the Douglas; “I shall myself see
that thine honours shall be duly recognized.”
Lundie soon returned with an English esquire, selected from among the
prisoners. The Earl of Douglas made Rory repeat over in his presence
the message of which he had been the bearer from Hotspur.
“And now, Sir Squire,” said Douglas, “thou hast heard the wish of that
gallant leader, the noble Hotspur. Be thou the bearer of mine answer.
Tell Sir Harry Piersie that for a man to have oped his eyes at noon-day
without beholding the light of heaven would have been as easy as to
have had ears without their being filled with the renowned achievements
of the flower of English chivalry. The Douglas burns to meet him; and
that time may in no wise be lost, but each forthwith have his desire,
tell him that the Douglas will be on the field anon with fifty lances.
Let Sir Harry Piersie come forth with a like number at his back, and
let this be the understanding between the parties, that both escorts
halt within view of each other, and that both knights singly run a
career with grounden spears at the outrance, the knights to be left to
themselves. Be thou, I say, the bearer of these terms and conditions;
but ere thou goest vouchsafe me thy name.”
“My name is Thomas Scrope, so please thee, my Lord,” replied the
esquire.
“Within there,” said the Douglas; “call in my knights and officers. And
now, Sir Squire,” said he, after the pavilion was filled, and he had
given some necessary orders, “kneel down on this cushion, that before
this brilliant knot of Scottish chivalry I may do due honour to him who
is to bear my message to the Hotspur.” The English esquire obeyed. The
Douglas ordered a pair of golden spurs to be buckled on his heels by
the hands of the two eldest Scottish knights present. They then belted
him with a magnificent sword, a gift from the Earl, who immediately
bestowed on him the accolade, saying—
“I dub thee Knight, in the name of God and St. Michael; be faithful,
bold, and fortunate. And now rise up, Sir Thomas Scrope.”
Astounded and confused with this unlooked-for honour, the newly-created
knight but awkwardly received the congratulations which poured in on
him from those present. The Douglas himself conducted him to the door,
where a noble horse, fully caparisoned, awaited him.
“Get thee to saddle, then, Sir Thomas Scrope,” cried he, “and tarry not
till thou hast possessed the Hotspur of our reply to his message. Say
more—that if he liketh not the terms let him name conditions of his
own, to the which I do hereby agree par avance; and let me have them
forthwith, for in an hour hence I shall be in the field in front of
these lines. God speed thee, Sir Thomas.”
“Might it not have been better, my Lord,” said Richard Lundie, after
they were again alone, “might it not have been better to have taken a
new sun to gild so glorious a combat? The day is already far spent.”
“Yea, it is so,” replied the Douglas; “but to-morrow we move hence from
this idle warfare, and I would not willingly go without proving the
metal of the gallant Hotspur, so ’tis as well that his impatience be
gratified.”
The bruit of the coming encounter spread like wild-fire through the
camp, and the whole chivalry within its circuit pressed forward to be
admitted of the chosen band who were to witness the onset of the two
bravest knights in Christendom. Lord Douglas’s difficulty was how to
select so as to avoid giving offence, and he required all his judgment
to manage this. Sir Patrick Hepborne had the good fortune to be one of
those who were admitted into the honourable ranks.
When the gay little cohort of mounted lances were drawn forth in array,
and the Douglas’s banner was displayed, the stout Earl sprang on a
powerful black war-horse, that had neighed and pranced whilst he was
held by two esquires, but that became quiet and gentle as a lamb when
backed by his heroic master. The whole Scottish line turned out to
gaze, and shouts of applause arose that re-echoed from the walls of
Newcastle. Immediately afterwards Sir Harry Piersie appeared before the
barriers of the town, mounted on a milk-white steed, and as Douglas,
even at that distance, could perceive that his escort was of similar
strength and description to his own, he had the satisfaction of
thinking that the terms he had proposed had been accepted. The
fortifications were soon covered by the garrison, who crowded to behold
the combat, and the Scottish cheers were loudly returned by the
English. A trumpet call from the Piersie band was instantly returned by
one from that of Lord Douglas, who immediately gave the word for his
knights to advance, whilst he rode forward so as to gain a position
about fifty yards in front of them, that he might be the better seen by
the opposite party. Having brought up his escort to a point
sufficiently near (as he judged) for the arrangement agreed on, he
halted them, and ordered them to remain steady, whilst he continued to
approach until he came within a due distance for running his course
against Hotspur, who had also come forward a considerable way before
his attendants.
The trumpets from both bands sounded nearly at once, as if by mutual
consent—both knights couched their lances—their armed heels made the
blood spring from the sides of their coursers—and they flew like two
thunderbolts towards the shock. Anxious suspense hung on both sides as
they were stretching over the field, and the silence of the moment was
such that the full crash of the collision entered every listening ear,
however distant. Loud and exulting cheers from the Scottish lines,
which, though they came so far, altogether drowned the uncouth sounds
of dismay that ran along the walls of Newcastle, proclaimed the success
of the Douglas, whose resistless arm, nerved with a strength that few
men could boast, bore the no less gallant Hotspur clean out of his
saddle, though, owing to his adroitness in covering his person against
his adversary’s point, he was hardly if at all wounded.
The band of English knights who attended him, forgetting the nature of
the combat, as well as the express orders they had received from
Piersie, saw their adored leader on the green sward, and thinking only
of the jeopardy he lay in, began shouting—“Hotspur, Hotspur, to the
rescue!” and ere the bold Douglas could well check the furious career
of his horse, he was in the midst of a phalanx of his advancing foes.
Abandoning his ponderous lance, he grasped the enormous mace that hung
at his saddle-bow, and bestirred himself with it so lustily that three
or four of the English chevaliers were in as many seconds dashed from
their seats to the earth, in plight so grievous that there was but
little chance of their ever filling them again. But the throng about
the hero was so great, and their blows rained so thickly and heavily
upon him, that his destruction must have been inevitable long ere his
own band could have reached him, had not the noble Hotspur, whom some
of his people were by this time carrying hurriedly away, called out to
the knights of his party in a voice of command that was rarely
disobeyed—
“Touch not the Douglas—harm not a hair of his head, as ye would hope
for heaven. What, would ye assault at such odds the brave Douglas, who
hath relied on the word of a Piersie? Shame, shame on ye, gentlemen.
Your zeal for Hotspur’s safety came not well at this time for Hotspur’s
honour. Trust me, his life stood in no peril with so chivalric a foe.”
Awed and ashamed by these chiding words, the English knights fell back
abashed, and made way for the valiant Douglas, who emerged from among
them like a hunted lion from among the pack of puny hounds who have
vainly baited him.
“Halt! chevaliers,” cried he, rising in his saddle, and raising his
right arm, as he in his turn addressed his own band, who were pouring
furiously down on the English knights, shouting, “Douglas, Douglas, to
the rescue!” “Halt,” cried he again, “halt, in the name of St. Andrew!
Let the gallant Hotspur retreat in peace. I blame not him for this
small mistake of his trusty followers, the which, after all, was but an
excusable error of affection. And as for thee, Piersie, I thank thee
for thy courtesy. Depardieux, thou hast proved thyself to be brave as
honourable and honourable as brave. Can I say more? By the honour of
knighthood, thou hast proved thyself to be Harry Piersie, and in that
name all that is excellent in chivalry is centred. The chance hath been
mine now; it may be thine anon, if it do so please Heaven. Get thee to
refresh thyself then, for we shall forthwith beat up thy quarters with
a stiffer stoure than any thou hast yet endured.”
“Douglas,” cried Piersie, who was by this time remounted, “Douglas,
thou art all, and more than all that minstrels have called thee.
Farewell, till we again meet, and may our meeting be speedy.”
With these parting words, the two leaders wheeled off their respective
bands.
Immediately after the Earl of Douglas had returned to the camp, a
council of war was held, and, after a short deliberation, preparations
were made for instantly assaulting and scaling the fortifications. The
army was drawn out from its entrenchments and was led to the attack
arranged in three divisions. The Earl of Douglas, attended by the
little chosen band of knights who had that day vowed him their special
service, led on the central body directly against the barriers. The
right and left wings, commanded by the Earls of Dunbar and Moray,
marched on steadily, to attempt the storm of the walls at two several
points on each side of the gates, in defiance of a heavy shower of
arrows from the English bowmen, mingled with some weightier missiles
from the balistæ, which sorely galled them, and which they could but
ill return with their cross-bows. Each of these flanking divisions
covered the approach of a number of wains, laden with hay and straw
collected from the neighbouring country; and so soon as they had come
near enough to the fortifications, a signal was given, the wains were
brought suddenly forward, and hurled one over another into the ditch,
so as in many places to fill it up, and admit of the ladders being
raised against the wall with great success. The Scottish soldiers rent
the air with their shouts, and wielding their destructive battle-axes,
rushed like furies to the escalade. But the English were so well
prepared, and defended themselves so manfully that they beat back the
assailants at every point, and soon succeeded in setting fire to the
combustible materials in the ditch, by throwing down lighted brands, so
that all hope of forcing an entrance in that way was soon at an end.
Meanwhile the Douglas forcibly assaulted the wooden barriers that
defended the entrance to the town; and Piersie and his chivalry, who
were immediately within them, no sooner heard the war-cry of “Douglas,
Douglas! jamais arrière!” than, collecting themselves into one great
body, they rushed out on the Scottish forces with so resistless an
impetus, that nothing could withstand the fury of the stream. Douglas
and his troops were borne away like trees of the forest before some
bursting torrent. But no sooner had the English spread themselves out
upon the plain like exhausted waters, than the voice of the Scottish
hero was heard above all the clang of the battle, cheering his men to
the charge, and his superb figure, exalted on his black courser, was
seen towering onwards against the slackening foe, gathering the firmest
Scottish hearts around him as he went.
The English now in their turn gave back; but Harry Piersie, recovered
from his stunning fall, mounted on a fresh roan, and, surrounded by the
brave knights by whom he was formerly attended, restored their courage
both by his voice and example. Shouts of “Piersie, Piersie!” and
“Douglas, Douglas!” arose from different parts of the field, and were
re-echoed from the walls. At length the two leaders caught a glimpse of
each other amid the volumes of smoke that, tinged by the setting sun,
were rolling along the ground from the blazing straw, which the
descending damps of evening now hardly permitted to rise into the air.
“Ha, Douglas, have I found thee at last?” cried Piersie, turning
towards him.
“Trust me, ’twas no fault of mine that we met not sooner, Harry
Piersie,” cried Douglas, spurring to encounter him with his mace, his
lance having been shivered in the melee.
There was time for no more words. Piersie ran his lance at the Douglas
as he came on, who with wonderful dexterity turned it aside, and
catching it in his hand, endeavoured to wrench it from his owner.
Piersie’s embroidered pennon was waving from the spear head. Douglas
snatched at it, but his adversary disappointed him, by forcing up the
point, and each retaining his grasp, they were now drawn together into
close contact. The little silken trifle, utterly worthless in itself,
glittered like a child’s bauble over their heads; but if it had been a
kingdom they were contending for, they could not have been more eagerly
set on the contest. Each forgetful of the defence of his own life, put
forth all his strength and skill, the one to obtain what he considered
so glorious a prize, and the other to keep what he thought it would be
so disgraceful to lose, and what, moreover, he so much valued, for the
sake of her whose taper fingers had interwoven its golden threads. The
struggle was strong, but it was short in duration, for the iron hands
of Douglas snapt the slim ashen shaft in twain, and in an instant he
held up the broken lance, and waved the pennon triumphantly over his
head.
“The Piersie’s pennon! recover the Piersie’s pennon!” was the instant
cry, and the English crowded to assist Hotspur, led on by Sir Rafe
Piersie.
At that moment a body of Scottish lances, headed by Sir Patrick
Hepborne, came pouring down in tremendous charge, shouting “Douglas,
Douglas!” and dividing the two combatants as they swept onwards, they
bore away the Piersies and the English before them to the very
barriers, where the press of the combat was so hot, that they were soon
compelled to retreat within their palisadoes, and to close up their
defences. The partial breathing of an instant ensued, during which
Douglas looked eagerly for Hotspur, and at length having descried him
over the pales—
“By St. Andrew,” he cried, rising in his stirrups, and again waving the
captured pennon high in the air, “I have good reason, Harry Piersie, to
be thankful for the glorious issue of this bicker. Trust me, I value
this pennon of thine above all the spoil of Newcastle, nay, or of an
hundred such towns. I shall bear it with me into Scotland, fair Sir, in
token of our encounter; and in remembrance of thy prowess, I do promise
thee it shall grace the proudest pinnacle of my Castle of Dalkeith.”
“Be assured, Douglas,” replied Piersie courteously, though with
manifest signs of great vexation, “ye shall not bear it over the
Border; nay, ye shall not pass the bounds of this county till ye be met
withal in such wise that ye shall make none avaunte thereof.”
“Well, brave Sir,” replied the Earl of Douglas, “it shall be set up
before my pavilion this night; so come thither to seek for thy pennon,
and take it thence if thou canst; till then, farewell.”
The Lord Douglas turned away, proudly bearing his trophy; and the night
was now approaching, and all hopes of succeeding in the assault being
at an end, he ordered the retreat to be sounded, and collecting his
forces, he retired behind his trenches.
The Scottish troops were no sooner withdrawn than Hotspur, smarting
under the stinging disgrace of the loss of his pennon, summoned a
council of war, in which he bravely proposed to lead on the English
troops to a night attack against the Scottish entrenchments. This
proposition was warmly supported by Sir Rafe Piersie, who participated
largely in his brother’s injured feelings; but an opinion prevailing
among the English knights that the Earl of Douglas’s party was but the
Scottish vanguard, and that the large army, of which they had heard so
much, was hovering at no great distance, ready to avail itself of any
imprudent step they might take, very generally opposed his wishes.
“Sir,” said the prudent Seneschal of York, who was present, and who
seemed to speak as the organ of the rest, “there fortuneth in war
oftentimes many chances. Another day thou mayest gain greater advantage
of Earl Douglas than he hath this day won of thee. Let us not peril the
cause of England for a paltry pennon, when the power of Scotland is
abroad. Who knoweth but this empty skirmish of theirs may be a snare to
lure us out to destruction? Better is it to lose a pennon than two or
three hundred brave knights and squires, and to lay our country at the
mercy of these invading foemen.”
Though some of the young and impetuous, and even the old Sir Walter de
Selby, showed symptoms of being disposed to support the plan proposed
by the Hotspur, yet this prudent counsel was so generally applauded,
that, though boiling inwardly with indignation at their apathy, he was
compelled to yield with the best face he could, while his lip was
visibly curled with a smile of ineffable contempt for what he
considered their pusillanimity.
“What a hollow flock of craven pullets, brother Rafe!” said he, giving
way to a burst of passionate vexation after the council had broke up,
and they were left alone. “What, a paltry pennon, saidst thou, Sir
Seneschal? May thy tongue be blistered for the word! Depardieux, were
it not unwise to stir up evil blood among us at such a time, I would
make him eat it, old as he is, and difficult as he might find the
digestion of it. Oh, is’t not bitter penance, brother Rafe, for falcons
such as we are to be mewed up with such a set of grey geese? By Heaven,
it is enough to brutify the noble spirit we do inherit from our sires.
What will the Douglas, I pr’ythee, think of Harry Hotspur, now that
after all his vaunts he cometh not out to-night to give him the
camisado in his tent, and to pluck his pennon from the disgraceful soil
in the which it doth now grow so vilely? But, by St. George, though I
should be obliged to go with no more than our vassals, I will catch the
Douglas ere he quits Northumberland, and I will have my pennon again or
die in the taking of it.”
The Douglas was well prepared to give Harry Piersie a welcome had
circumstances enabled him to have paid his visit to the Scottish camp
before they broke up from Newcastle. The sentinels were so stationed
that the whole army would have been alarmed and under arms in a few
minutes. His sleep was therefore as sound as if he had been in his own
Castle of Dalkeith, though he slept in his armour, that he might be
ready to meet the foe on the first rouse.
“Well, my trusty esquires,” said he to Robert Hart and Simon
Glendinning, as they came to wait on him in the morning, “doth Harry
Piersie’s pennon still flutter where these hands did place it
yesternight?”
“Yea, my good Lord,” replied Glendinning, “thy challenge hath gone
unheeded.”
“Nay, then, we bide no longer for him here,” said Douglas; “an he will
have it now, he must come after us to take it. Are my Lords Moray and
Dunbar astir?”
“They are, my Lord,” replied Hart.
“Go to them, then, Robert, and tell them, that with their leave we
shall march anon. But, by St. Andrew, there shall be no appearance of
unseemly haste. Let the sun, that saw the Piersie’s pennon planted
yesternight ere he did go to bed, be suffered to look upon it for some
time after he be well risen again, so that we may not be accused of
being more dexterous in carrying off our prey than bold in defending
it.”
The little Scottish army broke up from their encampment with as much
composure as if they had been in a friendly country, and marched
leisurely off with loud cheers. Harry Piersie was on the wall, and his
blood boiled at the very sound.
“By the holy St. Cuthbert, they mock me,” cried he, his face flushing
with anger; “ay, an well may they too,” continued he, striking his
forehead. “Oh, I could leap over these walls from very despite. By the
mass, their numbers are naught; see how small their columns appear;
already the last of them are gone; oh, is it not enow to drive me to
madness!”—and, dashing his mailed foot to the ground, he turned away to
gnaw his nails with vexation.
After taking two or three turns with his brother along the rampart, he
suddenly called for an esquire, and ordered him to procure some
intelligent scouts; to these he gave orders to follow the Scottish line
of march, and to bring him frequent and accurate intelligence of their
numbers, their route, and all their actions; and, having taken this
precaution, he and Sir Rafe Piersie continued to pace the walls by
themselves, giving vent, from time to time, to their indignation and
disappointment, in abrupt sentences addressed to each other. During
that day and the evening following it, large reinforcements of troops
poured into Newcastle, from different quarters of the circumjacent
country; and the stronger Hotspur found himself, the more impatient he
became to make use of his strength.
“Ay, ay, see where they come; see where they come, brother Rafe,” said
he in a pettish tone. “But what come they for, an we have them not in
the field? Depardieux, from the careless guise and strutting gait of
some of these butter-headed burghers, and clod-pated churls, meseems as
if they came more to parade it in a fair than to fight.”
“If we can but get them once into the field,” said Sir Rafe Piersie,
“by all that is good, we shall teach the knaves another bearing and
another step.”
“Ay, marry, would that we but had them in the field, indeed,” replied
Hotspur; “the very smell of battle hath a marvellous virtue in it, and
doth oftentimes convert the veriest dolt into a hero. Of such fellows
as these men, one might make rare engines for recovering a lost pennon,
yea, as of finer clay. Would we but had them fit the proof. But a
plague upon these cautious seniors of the council, methinks my patience
was miraculous; nay, in truth, most miraculous, to hear that old
driveller talk of my paltry pennon, and not to dash my gauntlet in his
teeth for the word.”
“Nay, I could hardly keep my hands down,” cried Sir Rafe Piersie.
“Methinks our blood must be cooling, or else even his age should have
been no protection.”
“’Tis better as it is, Rafe,” replied Hotspur; “but why tarry these
scouts of mine? I shall fret me to death ere they return. Why are we
not blessed with the power of seeing what doth pass afar off? Had I
this faculty, how would mine eyes soar over the Douglas and my pennon!”
In such talk as this the brothers wasted great part of the night. The
impatient Hotspur was kept in suspense until next morning, when, much
to his relief, the arrival of the wearied scouts was announced to him.
He ordered them instantly into his presence, and having closely
interrogated them, he soon gathered from them all the intelligence he
wanted.
The Earl of Douglas had marched slowly and circumspectly, and although
his little army had sufficiently marked his course, by plundering and
burning whatever came in its way, the troops had not been suffered to
spread far to the right or left. They halted at Pontland, and took and
burnt the town and castle, making prisoner of Sir Aymer de Athele, who
defended it. Thence they marched to Otterbourne, where they encamped,
apparently with the intention of besieging the castle of that name next
day. The scouts also brought certain information that the Scots did not
amount to more than three thousand men-at-arms, and three or four
hundred lances, and that the main body of the army was nowhere in the
neighbourhood, but still lying indolently on the Western Marches. Full
of these particulars, Hotspur, with a bounding heart, again summoned
the council of war, and bringing in his scouts, he made them tell their
own story.
“What say ye now, gentlemen?” cried he with a triumphant air; “was I
right, or not? By the Rood, I was at least wrong to listen to the cold
caution of some few frozen heads here; for, an I mistake not the
general voice of the council yesterday was with me. We mought have
spared these Scots many a weary mile of march, I ween. By St. George,
they were a mere handful for us, a mere handful; not a man of them
should have escaped us; ay, and such a price should they have paid for
the ruin they have wrought on these fine counties, that Scotland should
have quaked for a century at the very thought of setting foot across
the Border.”
“Frozen heads, didst thou say, Sir Harry Piersie?” demanded the
Seneschal of York calmly; “methinks that thy meaning would be to accuse
those frozen heads of being leagued with frozen hearts; but let me tell
thee, Hotspur, where snow is shed on the poll we may look for a cool
judgment; and if a cool, then probably a wise judgment.”
“Pshaw!” said Hotspur, half aside to his brother; “this fusty utterer
of worn-out saws and everyday wisdom goadeth me beyond all bearing; yet
must I temper mine answer. Trust me, I meant not to impeach thine
ordinary judgment, Sir Seneschal,” continued he aloud, “though I do
think that it did for once err grievously in our yesterday’s council.
But let us not talk of this. I am now here to tell ye, gentlemen, that,
by the faith I owe to God, and to my Lord my father, go who list with
me, I shall now go seek for my pennon, and give Lord Douglas the
camisado this night at Otterbourne; yea, by St. George, though I should
do it without other aid than that of my brother Rafe, and the faithful
vassals of the Piersie. What, am I to put up, think ye, with the loss
of my pennon, and the disgrace of our house and name? By heaven, though
it were but a hair’s-breadth of the hem of my Lady’s mantle, the
Douglas should not carry it into Scotland. But if disgrace doth attend
the losing of Hotspur’s pennon, depardieux, let it be borne by those
who, calling themselves his friends, will not yield him their help to
retake it; for Hotspur is resolved to wipe off shame from himself—he
will follow his pennon to the Orcades, yea, pluck it from their most
northern cape, or fall in the attempt. Disgrace shall never cleave to
Hotspur.”
“No, nor to Rafe Piersie neither,” cried his brother. “Let those who
fear to follow stay at home. We shall on together, hand in hand, and
seize the pennon, though grim death held its shaft; yea, paltry as it
may be thought, it shall be the sun on whose beams our dying eyes shall
close. Let us on then.”
The loud murmurs of applause which arose from among the younger knights
manifested how much they sympathized with the feelings of the Piersies.
But the old Seneschal of York again put in his word of prudence.
“Gentlemen,” said he, “I see that, in speaking as I must do, I shall
have but few to agree with me, yet must I natheless freely speak my
mind, more especially as I do perceive that those knights who, like
myself, have seen more years of warfare than the rest, do seem disposed
to think with me. I must confess, that, albeit some potent reasons do
now cease to war with your opinion, mine is but little altered. Meseems
it still is an especial risk to move so far from garrison after an
uncertain enemy, for a mere shred of silk and gold.”
“A shred of silk and gold!” exclaimed Sir Walter de Selby. “What, dost
thou not think that all England is disgraced by this triumph of the
Scottish Douglas over the Hotspur? And dost thou regard nought but the
shred of silk and gold? Talk not of the old ones, I pray thee, Sir
Seneschal of York. Trust me, old as is Sir Walter de Selby, he shall
never rest idle whilst gallant deeds are adoing to wipe off a foul
stain from the name of England. Be it death or victory, he shall have
his share on’t.”
“Thy hand, my brave old soldier,” cried both the Piersies at once.
“Thou shalt go with us,” exclaimed Hotspur; “though thine years might
have well excused thee leaving thine own Castle of Norham, yet hast
thou come hither; yea, and thou shalt now forward with us to the field,
were it but to show how the noble fire of a warlike soul may burn
through the thickest snows of age.”
“Nay, then,” said the Seneschal of York, “thou shalt see, Sir Harry
Piersie, that albeit I do advise caution, yet shall I do my part as
well as others, when my words do cease to avail aught; yet would I fain
have thee tarry until thou art joined by the Bishop of Durham, who is
looked for with his force this night.”
“What, while we can muster eight thousand good soldiers without him,
and six hundred gallant lances? Shall we wait for the Bishop, and so
permit the Scots to ’scape from our vengeance? Nay, nay, let’s to
horse, my brave friends; my heart swells at the thought of reaping so
glorious a field. Let’s to horse without delay, if your blood be
English.”
Hotspur’s call was hailed with loud approval, and the brave though
cautious Seneschal, seeing that it was in vain to urge more, joined
heartily with the rest in getting the army under arms, and in hastening
the march.
The Scots had begun to sound their bugles at an early hour that
morning, and to assault the Castle of Otterbourne, and they wasted the
whole of the day in unsuccessful attempts against it. A council of war
being held in the evening, it was found that there were cautious heads
among the Scotch as well as among the English knights. Some of those
who spoke were of opinion that they should abandon all further attempts
against the Castle, and march forward towards Scotland. But the Earl of
Douglas opposed this.
“What, my brave Lords and Knights of Scotland,” cried he with energy,
“would ye give Harry Piersie cause to say that we have stolen this
pennon of his? Let us not creep away with it like thieves in the dark;
nay, rather let us show these Southerns that we do earnestly covet
their promised visit to us. Let us, I pray ye, tarry here for some two
or three days at least; we shall find occupation enough in beleaguering
and taking of this Castle hard by, the which is assuredly pregnable to
bold and persevering men, and will yield us the more honour that it be
strong. Then shall Hotspur have leisure to bethink himself how he may
best come to fetch his pennon; and if it should so list him to come,
depardieux, he may take my banner too, if he can.”
The old and the cautious hardly in secret approved this counsel; but so
much was the heroic Douglas the idol of all, that his wishes were of
themselves enough to determine the resolution of those who heard him.
Measures were accordingly taken for securing the army against surprise,
and for rendering their camp as strong as circumstances would allow;
and seeing that they were to remain for so much longer a time than they
at first imagined, the soldiers hastily threw up huts, composed of sods
and branches of trees, to give them better shelter. The baggage-wains
and baggage, with the wainmen, sutlers, and other followers of the
army, were stationed so as to block up the approach to the camp; and
their position was so defended by morasses and woods, flanking it on
either side, as to render it almost unassailable. At some distance from
this, the troops were encamped on the slope of a hill, and the wooded
rising grounds on either hand contributed to form defences which left
it open to attack nowhere but in front, and even there only after the
outwork formed by the baggage at a distance in the meadow below should
be broken through.
Earl Douglas said little to those around him, but made his various
dispositions with the cool and skilful eye of an expert commander. He
surveyed the ground with thoughtful attention, as the sun was setting
bright on the hill. It glanced upon Piersie’s pennon, that fluttered as
if idly impatient of its captivity beside the large banner of Scotland,
the heavy drapery of which, drooping to the ground in ample folds, hung
in silent and majestic dignity, unruffled by the gentle evening breeze.
He thought on the Hotspur and his threats—on the violence and impotence
of man’s passions—on the actual insignificance of the object which had
so stirred up himself and Harry Piersie, compared with the number and
value of the lives of those who might soon be called on to fight for it
to the death. He mused on the peaceful quiet that now hung over the
scene, and of the change that in a few short hours it might undergo; on
the change, above all, that might affect many of those brave hearts
which were now beating high with the pulses of life, eager to return to
their native soil, and to fulfil schemes of future happiness, never,
perhaps, to be realized.
“There is something solemn and grand in the stillness of this lovely
evening,” said the Douglas at last to the Earl of Moray, who was with
him. “The parting radiance of day in yonder western sky might make us
fancy that the earth was yblent with heaven. Why might we not pass to
that long-wished-for country on those slanting rays of glory, without
intervening death, or the penitential pains of purgatory?”
“’Tis a whimsical conceit, brother,” replied Moray with a smile; “but
why, I pray thee, are thy thoughts so employed at a time like this?”
“I will tell thee,” said Douglas gravely. “I know not why it is, but my
memory hath been at this time visited by the recollection of a strange
dream I once had, and which, long forgotten, doth now arise to me
afresh with all its circumstances. Methought I was sitting on a hill
side, when, all at once, I beheld a furious battle on the plain of the
valley below. One side was led by a figure the which I was conscious
bore striking resemblance to mine own. He rushed to the fight, but was
quickly pierced with three lances at once, and fell dead on the field.
Dismay began to fasten on his army, and defeat appeared certain, when
the dead corpse of the knight arose, and, towering to a height ten-fold
greater than it had when alive, moved with the solemn step of the grave
towards the foe. The shout of victory arose from those who were about
to yield, and their enemies were dispersed like chaff before the wind,
when the giant figure and all vanished from my fancy’s eye.”
“Strange!” cried Moray, his attention grappled by this singular
communication from the Douglas.
“Thou canst never believe me to be a driveller, Moray,” continued
Douglas, without noticing his brother-in-law’s interruption, “far less
one whom the approach of death may affright. Death must succeed life,
as the night doth follow the day, and we who can know little how much
of our day is gone, must be prepared to couch as decently when and
where the night doth overtake us.”
“Nay, Douglas,” said Moray, again interrupting him, “I well wot that
those grave sayings of thine are anything but the offspring of a
quailing heart; I know that they are begotten by thy dauntless and
well-grounded courage that doth accustom itself to survey death at all
times, in thought as well as in field, till thou has converted his grim
image into the familiar figure of a friend. Yet why should such
thoughts find harbour with thee now? Harry Piersie, if he do come at
all for his pennon, will hardly be here to-night.”
“I think not of the Piersie,” said Douglas, taking Moray’s hand, and
warmly pressing it between his, while a tear glistened in his manly
eye, “I think not of the Piersie or his pennon; but promise me now,
when mine hour hath come, and I shall have gloriously fallen in battle,
as I well trust may be my fate, that thou wilt yield thine especial
protection, and thy love and cherisaunce, to my widowed Margaret. I
need not tell thee what she hath been to me. Our brother-in-law Fife is
cold, and calculating, and politic, yea, and heartless. He doth aim at
the Regency, and he will doubtless gain his end. Margaret is his
much-loved sister while she is the proud wife of Douglas; but trust me,
little of her brother’s sunshine will fall upon her widow’s weeds. Be
it thine, then, to be her prop and comfort. I well know that the warmth
of thy Margery’s love will go hand in hand with thee. I am a man,
Moray—we are both men—why should we be ashamed of a few tears shed at a
moment like this?”
“Nay, but Douglas, why shouldst thou talk thus?” said Moray. “Fate may
call for my life first, and then thou wilt have those duties to perform
for Margery the which thou dost now claim from me for her sister.”
“Nay,” replied Douglas, with ominous seriousness of aspect. “Yet be it
so,” said he, after a pause; “do thou but listen to my sad humour. Mine
attached Lundie doth well deserve thy care; see that he do meet with
that advancement his piety to God and his devotion to me hath so well
merited. And then as for my gallant Archibald, my brave esquires Hart
and Glendinning, and my faithful shield-bearer Hop Pringle, they have
already carved out a shining reputation for themselves; yet do thou
never let it be forgotten that they have been faithful followers of the
Douglas.”
“Canst thou believe that the name of Douglas can ever lose its potent
charm?” exclaimed the Earl of Moray with energy, yet deeply affected;
“or canst thou doubt that to me thy will must ever be a sacred law? But
why should we now talk of matters so sad?” continued he, endeavouring
to rally his own spirits as well as those of Douglas; “the banquet doth
abide us in thy pavilion yonder, and the lords and knights of Scotland
do doubtless wait for thee there, in obedience to thine invitation.”
“I had forgotten,” said Douglas, resuming his usual cheerful
countenance. “Let us then attune our spirits to mirth and joyous manly
converse, sith we have discussed these melancholy themes. Allons, let
us to the banquet—such banquet as the rude cookery of the field may
furnish.”
It was at this time that Rory Spears, having collected a little knot of
friends about him, thus addressed them—
“Captain MacErchar, and you most worthy esquires, Masters Mortimer Sang
and Roger Riddel, yea, and you, brave Robin Lindsay and Ralpho
Proudfoot, and the rest, who are nobly ettling to rise by your deeds as
others hae done afore ye—ahem—panting after that most honourable honour
and dignified dignity of an esquire, I do hereby invite ye all to go
down wi’ me to the baggage-camp and sutlerages, whaur we may find
comfortable and cozy houf in a braw new bigget sodden hostel, yereckit
for the accommodation o’ Dame Margaret MacCleareye’s yill-barrels and
yill-customers, and there, at my proper expense, to eat the bit supper
I bid her prepare as I came up the hill, and to drink till ye hae weel
wet the honours, the which, descending on mine unworthy head from the
gallant Hotspur (whose health we shall not fail to drink, albeit we may
yet hope to hae the cleaving o’ his skull), have been approven of by
our noble Lord of Douglas, and by mine especial dear Lord of Moray, for
both of whom we are not only bound to drink to the dead, but to fight
to the dead.”
“Oich, hoich, Maister Spears, surely, surely—he, he, he!” cried
MacErchar.
“Bravo, Master Spears, I shall willingly go with thy squireship,” cried
Sang; “nay, and never trust me an I do not my best honour to thine
entertainment.”
“Squire Spears, I am thine,” cried Roger Riddel; and the rest all
heartily joining in ready acquiescence in his invitation, they followed
Rory joyously down the hill in a body.
CHAPTER LIX.
The Battle at Otterbourne.
Rory Spears was presiding with joyous countenance over the supper to
which he had invited his friends—the more solid part of the
entertainment had been discussed—and the ale jug had already performed
several revolutions, to the great refreshment and restoration of the
strength of those who partook of it, when the jovial companions were
suddenly disturbed in their revelry by a very unusual cry from some of
the sentinels posted along the line of entrenchment that protected the
baggage-camp. The hilarious esquires and men-at-arms were silenced in
the midst of their mirth, and sat looking at one another with eyes of
inquiry. But they sat not long so, for the cry was repeated, and ran
rapidly along the chain of sentinels.
“By St. Lowry, it’s the English, as I’m a Christian man!” cried Rory
Spears. “My troth, it was maist ceevil of the chields to wait till we
had souped; natheless, it erketh me to think that they carried not
their courtesy so far as to permit us to drink but ae ither can. Yet,
by the Rood, we shall have at it. Here, Mrs. MacCleareye—d’ye hear,
guidwife?”
“Phut, tut!—oich, hoich!—fye, fye, let us awa, Maister Spears,” cried
Duncan MacErchar. “Troth, she’ll no wait for us, the Southron loons.”
“Hark again,” cried Sang; “by all that is good, they will be in on us
in the twinkling of an eye.”
“Let’s out on them, then, without further talk,” cried Rory,
brandishing his battle-axe. “Troth, I wad maybe hae had mair mercy on
them an they had gi’en us but time for ae ither stoup; but as it is,
let’s at them, my friends, and let them take care o’ their heads.”
“Pay for the supper and yill, Master Spears,” cried Mrs. MacCleareye,
thrusting herself forward.
“This is no time, woman, to settle sike affairs,” cried Rory.
“Better now, I trow, than after thou art amortized by the sword o’ some
Southron thrust through thy stomach, Master Spears,” said Mrs.
MacCleareye. “Pay to-day, I pray thee, and have trust to-morrow.”
“Nay, of a truth, we have no time to stand talking to thee, good
woman,” cried Rory impatiently; “had it been to drink mair yill,
indeed, I mought hae tholed it; but, holy St. Barnabas, an thou dost
keep us much longer there will be guests in thy hut who will drain thy
casks without filling thy pockets. Let me past: Rory Spears’ word,
though that of ane esquire only, is as sicker as that o’ the best
knight in the land. Thou shalt be paid after the scrimmage. Nay, I’ll
no die, woman, till thou be’st paid, so fear thee not—and stand out o’
my gate, I tell thee.”
With a turn of his wrist, Rory shoved Mrs. MacCleareye aside. She was
jostled by Sang, who followed; and her round and rolling person was
fairly run down by MacErchar, who was pressing hastily after them. The
rest sprang impetuously over her. The cries now came more distinctly
upon them, mingled with the clash of weapons.
“The English, the English!—Piersie!—The English!” were the words now
distinguishable.
“To the trenches, my friends; not a moment is to be lost,” cried
Mortimer Sang.
“Blow, blow!” cried Roger Riddel; and Rory putting to his mouth an old
hunting bugle that hung from his shoulder, blew a shrill and potent
blast, that awakened the very echoes of the hills.
“Let us disperse ourselves through the baggage-lines, and rouse up the
wainmen and varlets, and the other camp followers,” cried Rory Spears,
after taking the bugle from his mouth.
“Thou art right, Rory,” said Sang; “we may do much to support the
guard. Let Riddel, and I, and some others, hasten to the entrenchments,
to keep up spirit among those who may now be fighting, with the hope of
speedy aid, and do thou and the rest quickly gather what force ye may,
and straightway bring them thither. The point of assault is narrow. If
we can keep back the foe, were it but until the main body of the army
be alarmed, should our lives be the forfeit, they would be bravely
spent, for we might be the saving of Scotland’s honour this night.”
“Ralpho Proudfoot, companion of my youth,” cried Robert Lindsay,
kindly, “we have striven together for many a prize; now let our
struggle be for glory.”
“Away, away,” cried Sang; and he and Riddel sprang off to the trenches,
followed by Lindsay and Proudfoot, whilst Rory hied him away at the
head of the others, all blowing their horns, and shouting loudly
through the lines, as if the whole Scottish array had been there, and
ready to turn out. The huts were soon deserted. Such as they met with
in their way they collected together, and armed as fast as they could
with whatever weapons lay nearest to hand; and in a very short time
these few intelligent and active heads had assembled a force, neither
very numerous nor very well appointed, it is true, but, when headed by
men so determined, amply sufficient to defend a narrow pass between
marches for a considerable time, especially against assailants who were
awed by the conviction, favoured by the darkness, that they were
attacking the camp where the whole Scottish army were lodged.
While things were in this state in the baggage camp, the banquet in the
pavilion of Lord Douglas was going on with all that quiet and elegant
cheerfulness of demeanour beseeming a party chiefly composed of the
very flower of Scottish chivalry. The talk was of the love of the
ladies, and the glories of tilts and tournaments. Sir Patrick Hepborne
was seated between Sir John Halyburton and Sir William de Dalzel. With
the former of these knights he recalled some of the circumstances of
their friendly meeting at Tarnawa, and the Lady Jane de Vaux was not
forgotten between them. Sir William de Dalzel changed the theme to that
of the challenge which had passed between the Lord Welles and Sir David
Lindsay. Then Sir David Lindsay himself and several others joining in
the conversation, it gradually became general around the board. Sir
William de Keith, the Marischal of Scotland, displayed his consummate
learning on the subject of such challenges between knights; and Sir
John de Gordon, Lord of Strathbolgy; Sir John Montgomery; Sir Malcolm
Drummond, brother-in-law to the Douglas, as well as to the Scottish
champion, who was the person most concerned in the debate; Sir
Alexander Fraser of Cowie, and many others, spoke each of them ably as
to particular points. The Douglas himself then delivered his judgment
with clearness and precision, and the attention with which his words
were listened to showed how valuable they were esteemed by those who
heard them. After this topic was exhausted, the Earl was indefatigable
in ministering to the entertainment of his guests by ingeniously
drawing forth the powers of those around him; and his deportment was in
every respect so much more than ordinarily felicitous, and so perfectly
seasoned by graceful condescension, that all at table agreed he never
had charmed them more, and that, as he was the hardiest warrior of all
in the field, and the most resistless lance in the lists, so was he by
far the most accomplished and witty chevalier at the festive board.
The rational happiness of the evening was approaching its height, and
the Douglas was occupying universal attention by something he was
saying, when, to the surprise of every one, he suddenly stopped in the
middle of his sentence, and turned up his ear to listen.
“Methought I heard a bugle-blast from the baggage lines,” cried he,
with a flash in his eye that denoted the utter extinction of every
other thought but that of the enemy.
“Perdie, I did hear it also,” cried the Earl of Moray; “nor was it
strange to me. Methought I did recognize it for one of Rory Spears’
hunting-mots. He doth feast his friends to-night at the sutlerage, in
honour of his newly-acquired squireship; so, peraunter, he doth give
them music with their ale.”
“Ha, heard ye that?” cried several of the knights at once.
“Nay, there be more performers than one there,” cried the Douglas,
rising quickly to gain the outside of the pavilion, whilst the whole of
the knights crowded after him.
“’Tis dark as a sightless pit,” cried some of them.
“Yea,” cried the Earl of Douglas; “but dost thou see those lights that
hurry about yonder? Trust me, there is some stirring cause for the
quickness of their motions.”
“Hark ye, I hear distant and repeated cries,” said the Earl of Dunbar.
“Hark, a horse comes galloping up the hill. Hear ye how he snorts and
blows? I’ll warrant the rider hath hot news to tell.”
“The English!—the English in the baggage-camp!—Piersie and the
English!” cried the rough voice of a wainman, who made towards the
light in the pavilion, mounted on a bare-backed and unharnessed
wain-horse, that heaved its great sides as if it would have burst them.
“Arm, arm, chevaliers,” cried the Douglas in a voice like thunder; “arm
ye in haste, and turn out your brave bands without a moment’s let. Mine
arms—mine arms, my faithful esquires. My horse, my horse!”
All was now hurry, bustle, and jostling; cries, orders, oaths, and
execrations arose everywhere. Horses were neighing, and steel was
clashing, and every one tried to buckle on his armour as fast as he
could. Meanwhile Douglas, with Moray near him, stood calm and
undismayed, putting one question after another rapidly to the varlet
who brought the alarm, until he had gained all the information he could
expect from him.
“By the Rood, but thy new esquire Rory Spears hath well demeaned
himself, brother Moray,” said Douglas. “He and those with him have done
that the which shall much avail us if we but bestir ourselves. Let us
arm then, and get the line formed. I did well mark the ground, my
friend. By skirting the woods upon our right, and if the moon will but
keep below the hill-tops long enow, we shall steal down unseen upon the
enemy, and pour out our vengeance on his defenceless flank. May St.
Andrew grant that thy gallant squire may but keep his own until then.
Haste, haste, Glendinning. Where is Robert Hop Pringle, my brave
shield-bearer? Haste thee, Hart, mine arms and my horse. Ha,
Archibald,” cried he to a young man of noble carriage who was passing
him at the moment; “get thee my standard, my son; thou shalt bear my
jamais arriere to-night. Part with it not for thy life; and bastard
though thou be’st, show thyself at least to be no counterfeit Douglas.
Quit it not even in death, boy.”
From time to time the shouts of the combatants now came faintly up the
hill-side, and hurried those hands that were busily engaged in arming,
so that many a buckle was put awry, and many a tag was left to hang
loose. The Douglas staid not to complete his harnessing, but sprang
into his saddle ere he was half armed, while Lord Moray rode away to
his post without discovering that he had forgotten to put his helmet
on.
The night still continued extremely dark, and had not Lord Douglas
taken accurate note of the ground below him whilst the light of the sun
had shone upon it, he must have found it almost impracticable to have
led his men on, notwithstanding that his ears were admonished by the
din of the distant skirmish, and the discordant braying of at least
five hundred bullocks’ horns, blown by the varlets and wainmen who were
not engaged; for such were in those days always carried by the Scottish
soldiers, and Rory Spears had taken care that all who could not fight
should at least blow, that the extent of their force might appear the
greater to the enemy.
The Douglas conducted his little army with great silence and
circumspection through the skirting brushwood; and it so happened, that
just as he approached the place of action, the full-orbed moon arose to
run her peaceful and majestic course through a clear and cloudless sky,
throwing a mimic day over the scene. Loud shouts arose from the
powerful army of the English, for now they began to comprehend the
actual situation of their affairs; and making one bold and determined
charge, they burst at once through the whole breadth of the
entrenchments, overwhelming all who attempted to stand before them. Now
it was that the Scottish Earl gave the word to his men, and just as the
English were pushing rapidly on towards the slope of the high ground
where the Scottish camp hung glittering in the moonbeam, driving a
handful of brave men before them, who were still fighting as they
retired, the shout of
“Douglas!—Douglas!—Scotland!—Scotland!—Douglas!—Jamais arriere?”
ascended to Heaven, and the determined Scots poured from their covert
out upon the open plain, and rushed against the troops of Piersie.
Confounded by this unexpected charge from an enemy whom they expected
to find asleep in their tents, the English army was driven back in
considerable dismay. Then might Harry Piersie and his brother Sir Rafe
have been seen flying from standard to standard vainly endeavouring to
rally their men; but it was not until they had been driven into the
open ground that they could succeed in stopping what almost amounted to
a flight.
“What, Englishmen—is this your mettle?” cried Hotspur with vehemence.
“Fly, then, cowards, and leave Harry Piersie to die. He may not outlive
this disgrace on the standards of St. George.”
These upbraiding words had the effect of checking their panic, and gave
them time to observe the comparatively small body to whom they were so
basely yielding. The two brothers quickly restored the battle by their
daring example. Deafening cheers arose, shouts of “Piersie” and “St.
George” being loudly mingled with them; and a fresh and very impetuous
onset was made, that drove the Scottish troops entirely through their
entrenchments. The struggle was now tremendous, and the clash of the
Scottish axes was terrific; but, although the success of the English
wavered a little now and then, yet the weight of their mass was so very
superior, that the Scottish army lost ground inch by inch, till, after
a long contest, the Piersie found himself almost at the Scottish tents.
“Piersie!—Piersie!—The pennon of the Piersie!” cried he, shrieking with
the wildest joy, and sanguine with the hope of success; while backed by
a band of his choicest warriors, he made a bold dash towards the
standard of Scotland, that stood before the pavilion of Douglas, with
the pennon beside it. The Douglas was at that time fighting in another
part of the field, where the press against his men was greatest. The
Earls of Moray and Dunbar were bravely striving to withstand the
numbers that came against the respective wings they commanded,
supported by Montgomery, Keith, Fraser, and many others. Assueton,
though but half recovered from the bruise he had received at Newcastle,
and Halyburton, Lindsay, and some others were doing their best to
resist the tide of the English in those parts of the battle where
fortune had thrown them. Sir William de Dalzel had been carried to his
tent grievously wounded to the loss of an eye; and already had the
brave Sir Malcolm Drummond, and the gallant Sir John de Gordon, Lord of
Strathbolgy, fallen, covered by glorious wounds. Yet was not the
standard of Scotland, nor the Piersie’s captive pennon, left altogether
undefended; for before them stood the dauntless Sir Patrick Hepborne of
Hailes the elder, with his son by his side, backed by a small but
resolute band of their own immediate dependents.
“My brave boy,” cried the elder knight, “trust me there is nowhere in
the field a more honourable spot of earth to die on than that where we
do now stand.”
“Then we quit it not with life, my father, save to drive the Piersie
before us,” cried his son.
“Piersie—Piersie!—Piersie’s pennon!—Hotspur’s pennon!” cried those who
came furiously on to attack them.
The father and the son, with their little phalanx, remained immovable,
and, receiving them on the point of their lances, an obstinate and
bloody contest took place. Harry Piersie and his brother fought for the
fame of their proud house, and their eager shouts were heard over all
the other battle cries, as well as above the clashing of the weapons
and the shrieking of the agonized wounded, as they were trodden under
foot and crushed to death by the press; but the bulwark of lion hearts
that defended the standard was too impregnable to be broken through.
Piersie’s men already began to slacken in their attack, and to present
a looser and wider circle to the Scottish band; and now the elder Sir
Patrick Hepborne, seeing his time, and eager to catch his advantage,
brandished a battle-axe, and his son following his example, they joined
in the cry of “A Hepborne, a Hepborne!” and charged the enemy so
furiously at the head of their men, that Piersie and his followers were
driven down the slope with immense slaughter. The axes of the bold
knight and his son never fell without the sacrifice of an English life.
“A Hepborne, a Hepborne!” they cried from time to time, and “A
Hepborne, a Hepborne!” was returned to them from those who ran together
to their banner; and yet more and more of the English line gave way
before the accumulating aid that crowded after Sir Patrick and his son,
who went on gradually recovering the lost ground, by working prodigies
of valour.
Whilst the Hepbornes were so manfully exerting their prowess in one
part of the field, the Douglas was toiling to support the battle where
it was most hopeless. The great force of the enemy had been
accidentally directed to the point where he fought, although they knew
not against whom they were moving. The dense body opposed to him so
encumbered him, that his men were unable to stand before it, and defeat
seemed to be inevitable. Finding himself hampered on horseback, he
retired a little back, and leaping from his horse, and summoning up his
gigantic strength, he seized an iron mace, so ponderous, that even to
have lifted it would have been a toil for almost any other individual
in the field, and, swinging it round his head, he threw himself amidst
the thickest of the foe, bearing ruin and death along with him. At
every stroke of the tremendous engine he whirled whole ranks of the
English were levelled before him, like grass by the scythe of the
mower; and he strode over the dead and dying, down a broad lane cleared
through the densest battalions that were opposed to him. Terror seized
upon the English, and they began to give back before him. On he rushed
after their receding steps, reaping a wide and terrible harvest of
death, and strewing the plain with the victims of his matchless courage
and Herculean strength. From time to time he was hardily opposed for a
few minutes by small bodies of the enemy, that closed together to meet
the coming storm, unconscious of its tremendous nature. But his
resistless arm bore away all before it, until, encountering a column of
great depth and impenetrability, the hero was transfixed by no less
than three spears at once.
One entered his shoulder between the plates of his epaulière; another,
striking on his breast-plate, glanced downwards, and pierced his belly;
and the third easily penetrated his thigh, which in his haste had been
left without the cuisse. For a moment did the wounded Douglas writhe
desperately on the lance shafts, to rid himself of their iron heads,
which had so suddenly arrested his destructive progress. But fate had
decreed that his glorious career should be terminated. He received a
severe blow on the head; his muscles, so lately full of strength and
energy of volition, now refused to obey his will, and he sank to the
ground borne down by those who had wounded him, and who knew not how
noble and how precious that life’s blood was, to which they had opened
so many yawning passages of escape.
His brother-in-law, Sir David Lindsay, and John and Walter
Saintclaires, ever the tried friends of the Douglas, and a few others
who had been fighting along with him before he thus plunged from their
sight into the midst of his foes, took advantage of the terror which
his onset had occasioned, and followed bravely in his course, until
accident led them to fall in with the stream of victorious Scots who
were pouring onwards under the triumphant Hepbornes. Recognizing each
other, and joining together with loud cheers they swept away all that
ventured to oppose them. They had cleared the plain ground of the enemy
for several bowshots before them; the English battalions had been
thinned and dispersed over the ground, and the Scottish troops were
urging after them without order, when Sir Patrick Hepborne the younger,
with Lindsay and the Saintclaires, who were pushing forward together,
saw before them the brave and good Richard Lundie, sorely wounded, yet
boldly bestriding the body of a warrior, and dealing death with a
battle-axe to every Englishman who ventured to approach within his
circle. Those who still contended with him quickly fled at their
approach, and then, to their great grief, they discovered that it was
the noble Douglas that lay weltering in his blood. He had not fallen
alone, for his faithful esquires, Simon Glendinning and Robert Hart,
lay near him both covered with mortal wounds, and already lifeless,
surrounded by heaps of the slaughtered foe. His gallant natural son,
too, the handsome Archibald Douglas, faithful to the trust reposed in
him, though severely wounded, and bleeding helplessly on the grass,
still held his banner with the grasp of death.
“How fares it with thee, Lord Douglas?” cried Sir John Saintclaire,
overwhelmed with grief at the sad spectacle before him, and hastening
to assist the others in raising him up.
“Well, right well, I trow, my good friends,” replied Douglas feebly,
“seeing that I die thus, like all my ancestors, in the field of fame.
But let not the death of Douglas be known, for ‘a dead man shall yet
gain a glorious field.’ Hide me, then, I pray thee, in yonder brake;
let some one rear my standard, the jamais arriere of the Douglas, and
let my war-cry be set up, and I promise that ye shall well revenge my
death.”
By this time the English, who had been driven for several bowshots
beyond that part of the field where the Earl of Douglas had fallen,
were now rallying under the heroic efforts of the Hotspur, who, aided
by his brother, was again cheering them on to the charge. The Scottish
troops began again to give ground before their superior force, and were
already retreating in numbers past the group who were occupied about
the dying hero. They saw the immediate necessity of conveying him away
while the ground was yet clear of the enemy, and Lundie, Lindsay, and
the two Saintclaires hastened to obey his injunctions. He uttered not a
word of complaint to tell of the agonizing tortures he felt whilst they
were removing him. They laid him on a mossy bank among the long ferns,
in the closest part of the thicket. Then he took their hands in
succession, squeezing them with affection, and when he had thus taken
leave of Lindsay and the two Saintclaires—
“Go,” said he faintly to them, “ye have done all for the Douglas that
humanity or friendship might require of ye; go, for Scotland lacketh
the aid of your arms. Leave me with Lundie; ’tis meeter for his hand to
close the eyes of his dying lord.”
The brave knights looked their last upon him, covered their eyes and
stole silently away from a scene that entirely unmanned them. Lundie
took out a silver crucifix, and, bending over the Douglas, held it up
under a stream of moonlight that broke downwards through an opening in
the thick foliage above them.
“I see it, Lundie,” said Douglas; “I see the image of my blessed
Redeemer. My sins have been many, but thou art already possessed of
them all. My soul doth fix herself on Him, in sincere repentance, and
in the strong hope of mercy through His merits.”
The affectionate Lundie knelt by the Earl’s side, and whilst his own
wounds bled copiously, his tears were dropping fast on his dying
master.
“I know thine inmost heart, Lord Douglas,” said he in a voice oppressed
by his grief; “thy hopes of Heaven may indeed be strong. Hast thou
aught of worldly import to command me?”
“Margaret,” said Douglas in a voice scarcely audible, “my dearest
Margaret! Tell Moray to forget not our last private converse; and do
thou—do thou tell my wife that my last thought, my last word
was—Margaret!”
His countenance began to change as Lundie gazed intently on it under
the moonbeam. The weeping chaplain hastily pronounced the absolution,
administered the consecrated wafer from a casket in his pocket, and
performed the last religious duties bestowed upon the dying, and the
heroic spirit of the Douglas took its flight to Heaven.
The grief of Lindsay and the Saintclaires subdued them only whilst they
beheld the noble Douglas dying. No sooner had they left the thicket
where he lay, than, burning with impatience to revenge his death, they
hurried to the field. The younger Sir Patrick Hepborne had already
reared his fallen standard, and shouts of “Douglas! Douglas! Jamais
arriere!—A Douglas! a Douglas!” cleft the very skies. At this moment
the English were gaining ground upon the Scottish centre, but this
animating cry not only checked their retreat, but brought aid to them
from all quarters. Believing that the Douglas was still fighting in
person, down came the Earl of Moray, with Montgomery, Keith, the Lord
Saltoun, Sir Thomas Erskine, Sir John Sandilands, and many others, and
the shouts of “Douglas, Douglas!” being repeated with tenfold
enthusiasm, the charge against the English was so resistless that they
yielded before Scotland in every direction. Bravely was the banner of
Douglas borne by the gallant Hepborne, who took care that it should be
always seen among the thickest of the foes, well aware that the respect
that was paid to it would always ensure it the close attendance of a
glorious band of knights as its defenders. As he was pressing furiously
on, he suddenly encountered an English knight, on whom his vigorous
arm, heated by indiscriminate slaughter, was about to descend. The
knight had lost his casque in the battle; the moon shed its radiance
over a head of snow-white hair, and an accidental demivolt of his horse
bringing his countenance suddenly into view, he beheld Sir Walter de
Selby.
“I thank God and the Virgin that thou art saved, old man,” cried
Hepborne, dropping his battle-axe “oh, why art thou here? Had I been
the innocent cause of thy death——”
He would have said more, and he would moreover have staid to see him in
safety. But the press came thick at the moment, and they were torn
asunder; so that Hepborne, losing all sight of him in the melée, was
compelled to look to himself.
And now, “A Douglas, a Douglas!” continued to run through the field,
and the English, thrown into complete confusion, were driven through
the baggage-camp at the place they had first entered, flying before the
Scottish forces. Hotspur alone stood to defend his brother, who was
lying on the ground grievously wounded. Harry Piersie had abandoned his
horse, and was standing over Sir Rafe, fighting bravely against a crowd
of Scottish men-at-arms, when Sir Hugh Montgomery, Sir John Maxwell,
and Sir William de Keith came up.
“Yield thee,” said Sir Hugh Montgomery, “yield thee, noble Hotspur. God
wot, it were bitter grief to see so brave a heart made cold.”
“And who art thou who would have the Hotspur yield?” cried Piersie.
“I trust, Sir Harry Piersie, that to yield thee to Sir Hugh Montgomery
will do thee as little dishonour as may be,” replied the Scottish
Knight; “yield thee, then, rescue or no rescue.”
“I do so yield to thee and fate, Sir Hugh Montgomery,” said Hotspur;
“but let my brother Rafe here have quick attendance, his wounds do well
out sorely, and his steel boots run over with his blood.”
“Let him be prisoner to these gentlemen,” said Sir Hugh, turning to
Keith and Maxwell, “and let us straightway convoy him to the Scottish
camp.”
The flying English were now driven far and wide, and day began to break
ere the pursuit slackened. Among those who followed the chase most
vehemently was Sir David Lindsay. Infuriated by the loss of the hero to
whom he was so devoted, he seemed to be insatiable in his vengeance.
Whilst he was galloping after the flying foe at sunrise, the rays, as
they shot over the eastern hill, were sent back with dazzling splendour
from the gold-embossed armour of a knight who had stopped at some
distance before him to slake his thirst at a fountain. He was in the
act of springing into the saddle as Lindsay approached; but the
Scottish warrior believing, from the richness of his armour, that he
was some one of noble blood, pushed after him so hard, and gained so
much upon him, that he was nearly within reach of him with his
lance-point.
“Turn, Sir Knight,” cried Lindsay. “It is a shame thus to flee. I am
Sir David Lindsay. By St. Andrew, an thou turn not, I must strike thee
through with my lance.”
But the English knight halted not; on the contrary, he only pricked on
the more furiously, and Lindsay’s keenness being but the more excited,
he followed him at full gallop for more than a league, until at last
the English knight’s horse, which had shot considerably ahead of his,
suddenly foundered under him. The rider instantly sprang to his legs,
and drew out his sword to defend himself.
“I scorn to take unfair vantage of thee, Sir Knight,” said Lindsay,
dismounting from his horse, when he came up to him, and throwing down
his lance and seizing a small battle-axe that hung at his sadle-bow, he
ran at the English knight, and a well-contested single combat ensued
between them. But the weight of Lindsay’s weapon was too much for the
sword of the Englishman; and after their strokes had rung on each
other’s arms for a time, and that the Scot had bestowed some blows so
heavy that the plates of the mail began to give way under them—
“I yield me, Sir David Lindsay,” cried the English knight, breathless
and ready to sink with fatigue; “I yield me, rescue or no rescue.”
“Ha,” replied Lindsay, “’tis well. And whom, I pray thee, mayest thou
be who has cost me so long a chase, and contest so tough, ere I could
master thee?”
“I am Sir Matthew Redman, Governor of Berwick,” replied the English
knight.
“Gramercy, Sir Governor,” said Sir David Lindsay; “sit thee down, then,
with me on this bank, and let us talk a while. We seem to be both of us
somewhat toil-spent with this encounter, yea, and thy grey destrier and
my roan do seem to have had enow on’t as well as their masters. Behold
how they feed most peaceably together.”
“Let us then imitate their example, good Sir Knight of Scotland,” said
Sir Matthew Redman. “I have a small wallet here, with some neat’s
tongue, and some delicate white bread; and this leathern bottle, though
it be small, hath a cordial in it that would put life into a dead man.”
The two foes, who had so lately endeavoured to work each other’s death,
sat down quietly together and silently partook of the refreshment, and
then alternately applying the little leathern flask to their lips, they
talked in friendly guise of the result of the battle.
“And now, Sir David of Lindsay,” said Redman, “I am thy prisoner, and
bound to obey thy will. But I have ever heard thee named as a courteous
knight, the which doth embolden me to make thee a proposal. I have a
certain lady at Newcastle, whom I do much love, and would fain see. If
thy generosity may extend so far, I shall be much beholden to thee if
thou wilt suffer me to go thither, to assure her of my safety, and to
bid her adieu; on which I do swear to thee, on the word of a knight,
that I will render myself to thee in Scotland within fifteen days
hence.”
“Nay, now I do see, Sir Matthew,” said Lindsay archly—“now I do see
right well why thou didst ride so hard from the field; but I am content
to grant thee thy request; nay, if thou dost promise me, on the faith
of a knight, to present thyself to me at Edinburgh within three weeks
from the present time, it is enow.”
“I do so promise,” replied Redman. And so shaking hands together, each
took his horse and mounted to pursue his own way.
By this time a thick morning mist had settled down on the face of the
country, and Lindsay had hardly well parted from the prisoner ere he
perceived that he had lost his way. As he was considering how he should
recover it, he beheld a considerable body of horsemen approaching, and
believing them to be some of the Scottish army who had pushed on thus
far in the pursuit, he rode up to them with very great joy; but what
was his surprise when he found himself in the midst of some three or
four hundred English lances!
“Who art thou, Sir Knight?” cried the leader, who, though clad in
armour, yet wore certain Episcopal badges about him that mightily
puzzled the Scottish knight.
“I am Sir David Lindsay,” replied he; “but whom mayest thou be, I pray
thee?”
“I am the Bishop of Durham,” replied the other; “thus far am I come to
give mine aid to the Piersie.”
“Thine aid cometh rather of the latest, Sir Bishop,” replied Lindsay;
“for, certes, his army is routed with great slaughter, and he and his
brother Sir Rafe are prisoners in the Scottish camp.”
“I have heard as much already from some of those who fled,” replied the
Bishop: “Quæ utilitas in sanguine meo? what good would my being killed
do my cousins the Piersie? Now I do haste me back again to Newcastle;
but thou must bear me company, Sir David.”
“Sith thou dost say so, my sacred Lord,” replied Sir David, “I must of
needscost obey thee, for, backed as thou art, I dare not say thee nay.
Such is the strange fortune of war.”
Sir David now rode towards Newcastle with the Bishop, and soon overtook
the large army which he commanded that was now returning thither. After
being fairly lodged within the walls of the town, the Bishop treated
him with the utmost kindness and hospitality, and left him to wander
about at his own discretion, rather like a guest than a prisoner. The
place was filled with mourning and lamentation, and every now and then
fresh stragglers, who had fled from the field of Otterbourne, were
dropping in to tell new tales of the grievous loss and mortifying
disgrace which had befallen the English arms. Murmurs began to rise
against the Bishop because he had not proceeded against the Scots, and
attempted the rescue of the Piersies. At all events, he might have
revenged their loss. The Bishop himself, too, began to be somewhat
ashamed that he should have retired so easily, and without so much as
looking on the Scottish army. At last he consented to summon a council
of war, and in it he was persuaded, by the importunity of the knights
and esquires who were present, to order immediate proclamation for the
assembling of his army, consisting of ten thousand men, to march long
before sunrise.
“Verily, our foes shall be consumed,” said the Bishop, his courage
rising. “Si consistent adversum me castra non timebit cor meum. Let the
whole Scottish force be there, yet will my heart be bold for the
encounter.”
After the council of war, the Bishop introduced Sir David Lindsay to
the guests who filled his house. The Scottish knight, so closely
connected with the Douglas, was courteously received by the English
chevaliers, who, though much cast down in reality by the failure of the
Piersies’ attempt, did their best to assume an air of gaiety before
him. They vied with one another who should show him greatest kindness.
Many were the questions put to him about the fate of the Douglas, but
he was too cautious to say anything that could lead them to believe
that he had fallen.
The ladies crowded around him to satisfy their curiosity about the
particulars of the battle, and he answered them with becoming
gallantry. Among those who so addressed him was a lady in a veil, who
hung pensively on the arm of the Bishop, and whose figure bespoke her
young and handsome. After some general conversation with him, during
which she endeavoured to ascertain from him all that he knew as to what
English knights had been killed or taken—
“Sir Knight,” said she, with a half-suppressed sigh, “I have heard of a
certain brave chevalier of Scotland who did distinguish himself in
France, Sir Patrick Hepborne, the younger of that name. Was he in the
bloody field? and hath he escaped unhurt, I pray thee?”
“I do well know him, lady,” replied Sir David Lindsay. “To him, and to
his gallant father, was chiefly due the gaining of the glorious victory
the Scots did yesternight achieve over the bravest army that did ever
take the field. I saw him safe ere I left the fight. Proud might he be,
I ween, to be so inquired after by one so lovely as thou art.”
“Nay,” said the lady, in some confusion, “I do but inquire to satisfy
the curiosity of a friend.” And so saying, she retreated towards the
protection of the Bishop of Durham, who seemed to take an especial
charge of her.
Sir David Lindsay, for his part, to avoid being annoyed by further
questions, retired within the deep recess of a Gothic window, where he
sat brooding over the untimely fate of the Douglas, and weeping
inwardly at the blow that Scotland had sustained by his loss. He was
awakened from his reverie by a friendly tap on the shoulder.
“Ha, Sir Matthew Redman!” said Lindsay, looking up with surprise.
“Sir David de Lindsay!” cried Redman, with signs of still greater
astonishment; “what, in the name of the holy St. Cuthbert, dost thou
make here at Newcastle? Hath my cordial bottle bewildered thy brain so,
that thou hast fancied that it was I who took thee, not thou who took
me? Did I not promise thee, on the word of a knight, to go to thee at
Edinburgh? and thinkest thou that I would not have kept my word?”
“Yea, Sir Matthew,” replied Lindsay, “I have full faith in thine
honour; but I believe there may now be little need that thou shouldst
journey so far, or make to me any fynaunce; for no sooner hadst thou
parted from me than I did fall into the hands of His Grace the Lord
Bishop of Durham, who hath brought me hither as his prisoner; and if ye
be so content, I do rather think we shall make an exchange, one for the
other, if it may so please the Bishop.”
“God wot how gladly I shall do so,” replied Redman, shaking him
cordially by the hand; “but, by my troth, thou shalt not go hence until
thou hast partaken of my hospitality; so thou shalt dine with me
to-day, yea, and to-morrow alswa; and then we shall talk anon with the
Bishop, after which thou shalt have good safe-conduct for Scotland;
nay, I shall myself be thy guard over the Marches, yea, and moreover,
give thee hearty cheer in mine own good town of Berwick as thou dost
pass thither.”
CHAPTER LX.
The Bishop’s Army—Sorrow for the Fate of the Heroic Douglas.
The two brothers, the Earls of Dunbar and Moray, were now left to
command the Scottish army after the afflicting death of the Earl of
Douglas. Deeply as they grieved for him, they had but little leisure
for mourning, since every succeeding moment brought them in harassing
rumours that the Bishop of Durham was coming against them with a great
army. During the whole of the day succeeding the battle, and of the
night which followed it, they were so kept on the alert that they could
even do but little to succour the wounded or bury the dead. The
prisoners, however, among whom were many renowned knights, besides the
two Piersies, were treated with all that chivalric courtesy and
hospitality for which the age was so remarkable. Sir Rafe was
immediately despatched in a litter to Alnwick, that he might have the
benefit of such careful treatment as might be most likely to cure the
many and severe wounds he had received.
After various false alarms, the second morning after the battle brought
back the scouts, who had been sent to follow the flying enemy, and to
gather what intelligence they might in the neighbourhood of Newcastle.
By these men they were informed of the proclamation which had been made
in the town, and of the proposed march of the Bishop of Durham’s large
army. A council of war was immediately held, and the opinion was
unanimous that they should remain where they were to receive the Bishop
in their present position, which they had already proved to be so
favourable for successful defence against superior numbers, rather than
march harassed as they were with a number of wounded and prisoners, and
with the risk of being overtaken in unfavourable ground. They
accordingly hastened to strengthen themselves in the best way they
could; and, as they had but little time for a choice of plans, they
piled up an abattis, formed of the dead bodies of the slain, on the top
of the broken rampart that stretched across between the flanking
marches, and defended the entrance to their position.
Before the enemy appeared, a very serious question arose for the
consideration of the leaders. Their prisoners amounted to above a
thousand, and what was to be done with them? To have put them to death
would have been so barbarous that such an idea could not be entertained
for a moment in such times; yet, as their number was nearly equal to
half their little army, the danger they ran from their breaking loose
upon them during the fight, and even turning the tide of battle against
them, was sufficiently apparent to every one. At length, after much
debate and deliberation, it was generally resolved to trust them. They
were accordingly drawn up in the centre of the camp, and an oath
administered to them that they should not stir from the spot during the
ensuing battle, and that, be the result what it might, they should
still consider themselves as prisoners to Scotland. After this
solemnity, they left them slenderly guarded by some of the varlets and
wainmen, with perfect confidence that they would keep their oath.
Then it was that the Earl of Dunbar thus encouraged his soldiers, after
having drawn them up behind their lines.
“My brave Scots,” said he, “ye who have hardly yet well breathed sith
that ye did conquer the renowned Piersies of Northumberland, can have
little fear, I trow, to encounter a mitred priest. Verily, though his
host be great, it will be but two strokes when both shepherd and sheep
will be dispersed, and we shall teach this pastoral knight that it were
better for him to be a scourger of schoolboy urchins with birchen rods
than to essay thus, with the sword, to do battle against bearded
soldiers.”
This speech was received with shouts by the little army to which it was
addressed, and, “Douglas, Douglas! revenge our brave, our beloved
Douglas!” was heard to break from every part of the line. The two Earls
had hardly completed their preparations, when the approach of the
Bishop of Durham’s army was announced. Orders were immediately issued
for each soldier to blow the horn he carried, and the loud and
discordant sound of these rude and variously-toned instruments being
re-echoed and multiplied from the hills, was distinctly audible at
several miles’ distance. It rung in the ears of the Bishop, and very
much appalled him. Had it not been for a spice of shame he felt, he
would have been disposed to have gone no farther; but the knights and
esquires who were with him were still sanguine in their hopes of
successfully attacking, with so large a force, the small army of the
Scots, wasted as it was by the recent bloody engagement.
“Verily, it is a sinful thing to trust in the arm of flesh,” said the
Bishop, growing paler and paler. “Who knoweth what may be the issue of
the battle? Trust not in numbers. Non salvatur rex per multam virtutem;
even the bravery of a Bishop shall not always win the fight. Gigas non
salvabitur in multitudine virtutis suæ; even the courage of the
greatest of Churchmen shall not always prevail. Fallax equus ad
salutem; a horse is counted but a vain thing to save a man. St.
Cuthbert grant,” ejaculated he in a lower tone—“St. Cuthbert grant that
our steeds may be preserved.”
The Bishop, however, dissembling his feelings as well as he could,
continued to advance in good order until he came within sight of the
Scots; when, beholding the strength of their position, and the horrible
bulwark of defence they had constructed with the heaps of the dead
bodies of the English whom they had already sacrificed, and listening
to their wild shrieks of defiance, mingled with the increased sound of
their horns, his blood froze within him, and he halted to reason with
those who had been so prone to attack the foe. But opinions had been
mightily changed in the course of a mile’s march. The knights and
esquires, who had been lately so bold, now listened with becoming
patience to the prudent arguments of their reverend leader; and when,
after a considerable halt, and holding a communication with the Castle
of Otterbourne, the Bishop did at last give the word for his army to
retreat, there was not a single voice lifted in condemnation of the
movement.
When it was fully ascertained in the Scottish army that the retrograde
march of the English was no manœuvre, but a genuine retreat, a strong
guard of observation was planted, and orders were given to proceed with
the sad duty, already too long neglected, of collecting such of the
wounded as had lain miserably on the plain, without food or attention,
ever since they had fallen. Parties were also appointed to bury the
dead.
The body of the heroic Douglas had never been deserted by the
affectionate Lundie, who, though himself grievously wounded, sat
watching it by the thicket where he died, until the termination of the
battle and the break of day enabled the Saintclaires, the Earl of
Moray, and the Hepbornes, to come to his aid. Then was his honoured
corpse carried to the camp; but it was not till after the departure of
the Bishop of Durham, that the Earls of Moray and Dunbar, accompanied
by the whole chivalry of the Scottish army, met together at night in
the pavilion of the Douglas. There—sad contrast to the happy night
which they had so lately spent in the same place, under the cheering
influence of his large, mild, and benignant eye!—they came to behold
his body laid out in state. It was attended, even in death, by those
who had never abandoned him in life. By the side of his bier lay his
brave son Archibald, who had so well fulfilled his last injunctions. At
his feet were stretched his two faithful esquires, who had so nobly
perished with their master. Near them stood Robert Hop Pringle, leaning
on the Douglas’s shield, who, having been separated from him in the
thickest press, had fought like a lion, vainly searching for him
through the field, and who now looked with an eye of mingled grief and
envy on his comrades. Richard Lundie too was there, wounded as he was,
to perform a solemn service for that soul with which he had long held
the closest and dearest converse. The place was dimly illuminated by
the red glare of numerous torches, held by some hardy soldiers, who,
though formed of the coarsest human clay, were yet unable to look
towards the bier where lay the body of their brave commander, whose
fearless heart had so often led them on to glory, without the big tears
running down the furrows of their weather-beaten cheeks. Those who were
tempered of finer mould, and whose rank had brought them into closer
contact with the Douglas, and, above all, those whom strict friendship
had bound to him, though they struggled hard to bear up like men, were
forced to yield to the feelings that oppressed them. So overpowering
indeed was the scene that Harry Piersie himself, who had craved
permission to be present, wept tears of unfeigned sorrow over the
remains of him who had been so lately his noble rival in the field of
fame. “Douglas,” said he with a quivering lip that marked the intensity
of his feelings, “what would I not give to see that lofty brow of thine
again illumined with the radiant sunshine of thy godlike soul? Accursed
be my folly—accursed be my foolish pride! Would that the curtailment of
half the future life of Hotspur could be given to restore and eke out
thine! God wot how joyously he would now make the willing sacrifice.
Thou hast not left thy peer in chivalry, and even Hotspur’s glory must
wane for lack of thee to contend with.”
This generous speech of the noble Piersie deeply affected all present.
Sir Patrick Hepborne stole silently out of the tent to give way to his
emotions in private, and to breathe the invigorating breeze of the
evening, that sported among the dewy furze and the wild thyme that grew
on the side of the hill. The moon was by this time up. Hepborne looked
over the lower ground, that was now widely lighted up by her beams,
where the furious and deadly strife had so lately raged, and where all
was now comparatively still. The only signs of human life—and they
spoke volumes for its folly, its frailty, and its insignificance—were
the few torches that were here and there seen straggling about, carried
by those who were creeping silently to and fro, over the field of the
dead, looking for the bodies of their friends.
Hepborne’s heart was already sufficiently attuned to sadness; and it
led him to descend the slope before him, that he might be a spectator
of the melancholy scene. As he wandered about from one busy group to
another, he met his esquire, Mortimer Sang, who, so actively engaged at
the beginning of the battle, had fortunately escaped, covered indeed
with wounds of little importance in themselves. His friend Roger
Riddel, who had been a good deal hurt, but who had been also fortunate
enough to survive an attack where it appeared almost impossible that a
mouse could have escaped with life, was with him. They were employed in
the pious duty of looking for some of their friends who had not
appeared. After they had turned over many an unknown and nameless
corpse, and many a body whose face had been familiar to them, on each
of whom Roger Riddel had some short and pithy remark to bestow, they at
last discovered the well-set form of Ralpho Proudfoot.
“Good fellow, thy pride is laid low, I well wot,” cried Roger Riddel,
as he held up the head of the dead man to the light of the torch, and
discovered who he was.
The same haughty expression that always characterised him still sat
upon his forehead in death; his eyebrows were fiercely knit and his lip
curled. His battle-axe was firmly grasped with both his hands, and a
heap of English dead lay around him. He had fallen across the body of a
Scottish man-at-arms, and on turning him up, Hepborne was shocked to
behold the features of Robert Lindsay.
“Ah me!” cried Roger Riddel; “what will become of thine ould father,
Robin.”
“Robert Lindsay!” said Sang—“Blessed Virgin!—no—it cannot be—ay—there
is indeed that open countenance of truth the which was never moved with
human wrath or wickedness. This is indeed a bitter blow to us all; and
as for his poor father, as thou sayest, Roger, Heaven indeed knows how
the old man may stand it, for poor Robert here was the only hope and
comfort of his life. Let me but clip a lock of his hair, and take from
his person such little trinkets as may peraunter prove soothing, though
sad memorials, to the afflicted Gabriel.”
“Alas, poor Robert Lindsay!—alas for poor Gabriel!” was all that
Hepborne’s full heart could utter, as recollections of home, and of his
boyish days, crowded upon him until his eyes ran over.
The position in which their bodies were found sufficiently explained
that Lindsay and Proudfoot had been fighting side by side in the midst
of a cloud of foes. Lindsay had fallen first, and Proudfoot had stood
over him, defending his dying friend, until, overpowered by numbers, he
had been stretched across him, covered with mortal wounds. Near him lay
the body of an English knight, and some of those who knew him declared
him to be Sir Miers de Willoughby.
Hepborne saw that a grave was dug to contain the bodies of Lindsay and
Proudfoot, and he himself assisted the esquires in depositing them in
the earth, locked in each other’s embrace.
CHAPTER LXI.
The Field of Otterbourne after the Fight.
After Sir Patrick Hepborne had assisted to perform the last sad duties
to the remains of Robert Lindsay and Ralpho Proudfoot, his attention
was caught by the appearance of a solitary cluster of lights on the
distant part of the field, where the slaughter of the English had been
greatest. Curiosity led him to approach, when he perceived that they
were borne by a party who followed a bier, that was slowly carried in
the direction of Otterbourne Castle. Advancing to a point which they
must necessarily pass, he saw, as the procession drew nearer, that the
bier was supported by some English spearmen, and that it was followed
by a group of women.
Hepborne’s attention was particularly attracted by a lady in the midst
of them, who walked with her head veiled in the folds of her mantle,
and seemed to be deeply affected by that grief in which the others only
sympathised. She took her mantle from her head, and threw her eyes
upwards as if in inward ejaculation. Sir Patrick started, for he beheld
that very countenance the charms of which, though seen but by glimpses
at Norham, had made too deep an impression upon his heart ever to be
forgotten; but now they seemed to be more than ever familiar to him, as
he was disposed to believe, from their frequent presence to the eye of
his imagination. He gazed in silent rapture. The strong resemblance
between his page Maurice de Grey and the lady now struck him the more
powerfully, that he had a full opportunity of perusing every trait; he
was confounded; the mantle dropped over the alabaster forehead, and the
countenance was again shrouded from his eyes. The procession moved on,
and he followed, almost doubting whether it was not composed of
phantoms, until it approached the gate of the Castle of Otterbourne,
where the captain of the place, attended by his garrison, appeared to
receive it. Still Hepborne had difficulty in convincing himself that
the whole was not a waking vision—a belief warranted by the
superstition of his country. It slowly entered the gateway. The lady in
whom he felt so deep an interest was about to disappear. He could bear
suspense no longer.
“Lady Eleanore de Selby—Lady de Vere,” cried he, in a frantic voice.
The lady started at the sound of it, threw back the mantle from her
head, and cast her eyes around in strong agitation, until they glanced
on Hepborne’s face, when she uttered a faint scream, and fell back
senseless into the arms of her attendants, who crowded around her, and
hastily bore her within the gateway of the Castle, the defences of
which being immediately closed, she was shut from his straining sight.
Hepborne stood for some time in a state of stupefaction ere he could
muster sufficient self-command to return to his tent. The abrupt
termination of the scene, which still remained fresh on his mind,
almost convinced him of the accuracy of his conjecture as to its having
been some strange supernatural appearance he had beheld. He slowly
found his way to his friends, his soul vexed by a thousand contending
conjectures and perplexities, which he found it impossible to satisfy
or reconcile.
Meanwhile Mortimer Sang, who had been earnestly searching for the body
of Rory Spears, of whose death he had begun to entertain great
apprehensions, was surprised by the appearance of a damsel, whom he saw
bearing a torch and bitterly weeping.
“Holy St. Andrew!” exclaimed he; “Katherine Spears, can it be thee in
very body—or is it thy wraith I behold? Speak, if thou be’st flesh and
blood—for the love of the Holy Virgin, speak.”
“Oh, dear Master Sang,” cried Katherine, running to him and proving by
the gripe that she took of his arm, that she was indeed something
corporeal, “the blessed St. Mary be praised that I have met with thee;
thank Heaven, thou art safe at least. But, oh, tell me, tell me, hast
thou seen aught of my dear father? Hath he ’scaped this dreadful field
of death?”
“Thy father, I trust, is well,” replied Sang, much perplexed; “but how,
in the name of all that is wonderful, didst thou come here?”
“I came with an English lady, who is now at the Castle of Otterbourne,”
replied Katherine evasively. “But, oh, tell me, tell me, I entreat
thee,” said the poor girl, earnestly seizing his hand, “tell me, hast
thou seen my father sith the fight was over?”
“He hath not appeared since the battle,” said Sang in a half-choked
voice, and with considerable hesitation; “but we trust he may be
prisoner with the English, for as yet we have searched for him in vain
among the slain scattered over the field. Yes,” continued he, in a
firmer and more assured tone, as he observed the alarm that was taking
possession of her; “yes, he hath not been found—and as he hath not been
found, dear Katherine, it is clear that he must be a
prisoner—so—and—and so thou wilt soon see him again; for as there must
be a truce, the few prisoners ta’en by the English must speedily be
sent home again.”
“Nay, but do they seek him still, Sir Squire?” cried Katherine, but
little satisfied with this attempt of Sang’s to soothe her
apprehension. “Alas, I must seek for him.”
“Nay, this is no scene for thee, dear Katherine,” replied Sang; “return
I pray thee to the Castle, and I will search, and thou shalt quickly
know all.”
“Try not to hinder me, Sir Squire,” replied Katherine; “I will go seek
for my father. I have already seen enow of those grim and ghastly faces
not to fear in such a cause.”
“Then shall I go with thee, Katherine,” cried Sang, seeing her
determination. “Here, lean upon mine arm.”
When they came into the thickest part of the field of slaughter,
Katherine shuddered and shrank as they moved aside, from time to time,
to shun the heaps of slain. Sang looked everywhere for his comrade
Roger Riddel, and at last happily met him; but, alas! Riddel could give
no intelligence of him they sought for. By this time they had
approached the abattis of dead bodies which had been so hastily piled
up for defence against the expected attack of the Bishop of Durham.
“Come not this way, Katherine,” cried Sang; “this rampart of the dead
is horrible.”
Katherine’s heart was faint within her at the sight; she stopped and
turned away, when, just at that moment, her ear caught the whining of a
dog at a little distance.
“That voice was Oscar’s,” cried she eagerly. “Oh, let us hasten, my
father may be there.”
They followed her steps with the lights, and there she beheld her
father lying on the ground, grievously wounded, and half dead with want
and loss of blood. Luckily for him, poor Oscar had been accidentally
let out at the time that Sang and Riddel went forth to search among the
slain, and having sought more industriously for his master than all the
rest, he had discovered the unhappy Rory Spears built into the wall of
the dead. Rory had fallen before the tremendous charge made by the
English, when they burst through the line of entrenchment, where he had
fought like a lion himself, and inspired a something more than human
courage into those around him. Having lost his basinet, he had received
a severe cut on the head, besides many other wounds, which affected him
not. But the thrust of a lance through his thigh was that which brought
him to the ground; after which, he was nearly trampled to death by the
rush of English foot and horsemen that poured over him. During the time
that had passed since he was laid low, he had fainted repeatedly, and
had been for hours insensible to his sufferings. Whilst lying in one of
his mimic fits of death, he had been taken up by some of those who were
employed in heaping the slain into a rampart, and who, having little
leisure for minute examination, had made use of him as part of its
materials. Fortunately his head was placed outwards, so that when he
recovered he was enabled to breathe, and consequently was saved from
suffocation. Oscar had no sooner found him than, seizing the neck of
his haqueton with his teeth, he pulled him gently out upon the plain.
“My father, my dear father!” cried Katherine Spears, running to support
him, and much affected by the sight of his wan visage, the paleness of
which, together with his sunken eye, showed more ghastly from the blood
that had run down in such profusion from his wound, that the very
colour of his beard was changed, and the hairs of it matted together by
it.
“What dost thou here, Kate?” demanded Rory, in a firmer voice than his
appearance would have authorized the bystanders to have expected from
him; “sure this be no place for a silly maiden like thee.”
“Oh, father, father,” cried Katherine, embracing him, and doing her
best to assist Sang in raising him up by the shoulders; “the holy
Virgin be praised that thou art yet alive.”
“Alive!” answered Rory; “troth, I’m weel aware that I’m leevin, for
albeit that the agony o’ my head wad gi’e me peace enow to let me
believe that I had really depairted in real yearnest, the very hunger
that ruggeth so cruelly at my inside wad be enew to keep me in mind
that I was still belonging to this warld. For the sake o’ the gude
Saint Lawrence, Maister Sang, gar ane o’ them chields rin and see gif
Mrs. Margaret MacCleareye can gi’e me a bit o’ cauld mutton or sike
like, and a wee soup yill. Tell the woman I’ll pay her for the score o’
yestreen and a’ thegither. But, aboon a’ thing, see that they mak
haste, or I’ll die ere they come back. What sould I hae done an it
hadna been for the gude wife’s wee bit supper afore we fell to!”
Sang immediately despatched one of the camp followers who was standing
by, and who quickly returned with the melancholy intelligence that Mrs.
MacCleareye’s frail hut had been levelled with the earth by the
press—that her provender had been scattered and pillaged—that her ale
barrels had been rolled away and emptied—and that she herself had also
disappeared.
“Hech me,” cried Rory, altogether forgetful of his own craving stomach;
“poor woman, I’m sorry for her loss; aboon a’, it erketh me sair that I
paid her not her dues yestreen. But, an a’ live, she or her heirs shall
hae it, as I’m a true esquire. But, och, I’m faunt!”
“Take some of this, Master Spears,” cried Mortimer Sang, holding a
leathern bottle to Rory’s mouth, and pouring a few drops of a cordial
into it.
“Oich, Maister Sang, that is reveeving!” said Rory. “A wee drap mair,
for the love o’ St. Lowry. Mercy me! Weel, it’s an evil thing after a’
to be killed in battle (as I may be allowed to judge, I rauckon, wha
has been half killed), was it no for the glory that is to be gotten by
it. But to be cut down and then travelled ower like a mercat-causey,
and then to be biggit up like a lump o’ whinstane intil a dyke—ay, and
that, too, for the intent o’ haudin out the yenemy, and saving the
craven carcages o’ ither fouk, and a’ to keep the dastard sauls in
chields that ane is far frae liking as weel as ane’s sell—troth,
there’s onything but honour or pleasure in’t to my fancy.”
“Uve, uve! sore foolish speech, Maister Spears,” said a voice from the
heap of dead bodies. “Great pleasures and high honours in troth, sure,
sure.”
“Captain MacErchar!” cried Sang. “Run, Roger, and yield him relief.”
Squire Riddel hastened to the assistance of MacErchar, and drew forth
his great body from the place it had occupied in the bottom of the
fortification, where the skilful architect had, with much judgment,
made use of him as a substantial foundation. His history had been
something similar to that of Rory Spears, and he had not suffered less
from wounds. He was brought forward and placed on a bank beside Rory,
and a portion of Squire Sang’s life-inspiring bottle was given to him
with the happiest effect.
“Hech me,” cried Spears, looking round with great compassion on his
companion in glory and misfortune—“hech me, Captain MacErchar, wha
sould hae thought that thou wert sae near? Had we but kenn’d we mought
hae had a crack thegither, albeit hardly sae cosy as in Mrs.
MacCleareye’s. Troth, I was sair weary and lonesome wi’ lying, and even
the converse o’ the sagaciousome brute there was a comfort to me. This
is but ane evil way o’ weeting a squireship. We sould hae done it in
ane ither gate, I rauckon, had the English chields but defaured a wee.
But I trust that neither have you disgraced your captaincy nor I my
squireship. I saw you fighting like a very incarnate deevil, ay, and
sending the Southrons back frae the rampyre like raquet ba’s frae a
wa’, though it may be premeesed that nane o’ them ever stotted again.”
“Ouch ay, troth ay,” replied MacErchar, “it was a bonnie tuilzie,
Maister Spears. She did her pairts both—both, both. Ou ay; it was a
great pleasures, in troth, to see her chap the chields on the crown.”
“Poor Oscar, poor man,” said Rory, patting his dog’s head as he put his
nose towards his face to claim his share of his master’s attention;
“troth, I maun say that thou didst do me a good turn this blessed
night. I was just thinking as I lay here that as I must now bear the
proper armorial device of ane esquire, I sould take the effigy of ane
allounde couchant beside his master sejant, with this motto, ‘Fair fa’
the snout that pu’d me out.’”
“How couldst thou think of such things, my dear father, whilst thou
didst lie in plight so pitiful!” cried Katherine Spears.
“Troth, I had naething else to think o’, ye silly maiden, but that or
hunger,” said Rory; “and that last, I’ll promise thee, was a sair sharp
thought. And, by St. Lowry, it doth sore sting me at this precious
moment.”
“Uve, uve! sore hungry—sore hungry,” cried MacErchar.
“Nay, then, let us hasten to carry both of them to camp without further
let,” cried Sang.
“Come, bestir ye, varlets,” said he to a crowd of camp-followers who
were standing near; “lend us your aid.”
“Nay,” said Katherine, “my father must be carried to Otterbourne
Castle.”
“Otterbourne Castle!” cried Rory; “what mean ye, silly quean?”
Katherine bent over him, and put her mouth to his ear to whisper him.
“Ay—aweel—poor thing!—very right—an it maun be sae, it just maun,” said
he, after hearing what she had to say. “Aweel, Maister Sang, ye maun
just tell the Yearl that as I can be o’ nae mair service in fighting at
this present time, I may as weel gae till the Castle o’ Otterbourne as
ony ither gate to be leeched, mair especially as it is my belief that
kitchen physic will be the best physic for me. Tell him that I’m gaun
there wi’ my dochter Kate till a friend of his, and that he sall ken a’
about it afterhend.”
Rory was accordingly carried straight to Otterbourne Castle, whither
the gallant Mortimer Sang accompanied Katherine. Their parting at the
gate was tender—but he could wring nothing from her that could
elucidate the mystery of her present conduct.
CHAPTER LXII.
Withdrawal of the Scots Army—Obsequies of the Gallant Dead—The
Mystery solved.
Although the morning sun rose bright and cheerful upon Otterbourne, yet
were its rays incapable of giving gladness to those in the Scottish
camp. The little army of heroes had gained a great and glorious
victory, but they had dearly paid for it in the single death of
Douglas. There was, therefore, more of condolence than of exultation
among them, as they gave each other good morrow. They broke up their
encampment with silence and sorrow, and marched off towards Scotland,
under the united command of the Earls of Moray and Dunbar, with the
solemn pace and fixed eyes of men who followed some funeral pageant;
indeed, it was so in fact; for at the head of the main body of the army
was the car that carried the coffin of the Douglas. Before it was borne
his banner, that “Jamais Arriere” which, in the hands of Sir Patrick
Hepborne the younger, had so happily turned the fate of the battle;
and, in compliment to the gallant young knight, it was his esquire,
Mortimer Sang, to whom the honour of carrying it was assigned. Behind
it came the fatal pennon of Piersie, which had been the cause of so
much waste of human life, and around the machine were clustered all
those brave knights who had lately looked up to the hero for the
direction of their every movement—at whose least nod or sign they would
have spurred to achieve the most difficult and dangerous undertakings,
and whose applause was ever considered by them as their highest reward.
The life and soul of the army seemed now to have departed. They hung
their heads, and marched on, rarely breaking the silence that
prevailed, except to utter some sad remark calculated to heighten the
very sorrow that gave rise to it.
The last of their columns disappeared from the ground, and when
Katherine Spears and the lady on whom she attended cast their eyes over
it from the window of the tower in the Castle of Otterbourne, it was
again as much a scene of peace as if no such fierce warfare had ever
disturbed it. Huge heaps, and long lines, indeed, marked the places
under which hundreds of those who had merrily marched thither now
reposed, Scot and Englishman, in amity together. The ruined huts and
broken-down entrenchments too were still visible; but the daisies and
the other little flowers that enamelled the field, refreshed by the
morning dew, had again raised their crushed heads, and the timid flocks
and herds which had been scared by the din of arms, had again ventured
forth from the covert whither they had been driven, and were innocently
pasturing on the very spot where heroes had been so lately contending
in the mortal strife. The lady, however, suffered her attention to be
occupied with these objects for a brief space only ere she returned to
perform her melancholy task of watching by those beloved remains she
had so piously rescued from the promiscuous heaps of slaughter that
covered the battle-field. She again sought the Chapel of the Castle,
where lay the brave old knight Sir Walter de Selby, for it was he who,
having met with some less merciful foe than Sir Patrick Hepborne, had
been cut down in the melée. The mortal wound now gaped wide on his
venerable head, and the beauty of his silver hair was disfigured with
clotted gore. The tears of her who now seated herself by his bier fell
fast and silently, as she bent over that benignant countenance now no
longer animated by its generous spirit. Now it was she recalled all
that affection so largely exhibited towards her from her very
childhood. His faults had at this moment disappeared from her memory,
and as the more remarkable instances of his kindness arose in
succession, she gave way to that feeling natural to sensitive minds on
such occasions, and bitterly accused herself of having but ill requited
them.
The body of Sir Walter remained in the Castle of Otterbourne for
several days, until proper preparations were made there and at Norham
for doing it the honours due to the remains of so gallant a knight, and
one who had enjoyed so important a command. After the escort was ready,
the lady parted with much sorrow from Katherine Spears, whose father
was yet unable to bear the motion of a journey. She commended both to
the especial protection of the Captain of the Castle, and then hastily
seating herself in her horse-litter to hide her grief from observation,
the funeral procession moved away.
It was long after the sunset of the second day, that the troops of the
garrison of Norham, under the Lieutenant Oglethorpe, marched out in sad
array to meet the corpse of their late governor. Clad in all the
insignia of woe, and each soldier bearing a torch in his hand, they
halted on the high ground over the village, and rested in mute and
sorrowful expectation of the approach of the funeral train. Lights
appeared slowly advancing from a distance, and the dull chanting of
voices and the heavy measured tread of men were heard. The coffin had
already been removed from the car in which it had hitherto been
carried, and four priests who had gone to meet it, one of them bearing
a crucifix aloft, now appeared walking bareheaded before it, and
chanting a hymn. The coffin itself was sustained on the shoulders of a
band of men-at-arms, who accompanied it from Otterbourne; and after it
came the horse litter of the lady, attended by a train of horsemen who
rode with their lances reversed. Among these, alas! no man belonging to
the deceased was to be seen, for all had perished with him in the
field.
When the procession had reached the spot where the troops from Norham
were drawn up to receive it, those who formed it halted, and the
bearers, resigning their burden to the chief officers of the garrison,
fell back to join their fellows. One-half of the soldiers of the Castle
then moved on before the body, whilst the other half filed in behind
the lady’s litter, and the men of Otterbourne were left to close up the
rear of the pageant.
As they descended the hill, the inhabitants of the village turned out
to gaze on the imposing spectacle; and after it had passed by, they
followed to witness the last obsequies of one whose military pomp had
often delighted their eyes, and the hardy deeds of whose prime were
even now in every man’s mouth.
Having reached the entrance to the church, the soldiers formed a double
line up to the great door, each man leaning upon his lance, in grief
that required no acting. The lady descended from her litter. With her
head veiled, and her person enveloped in black drapery, she leaned upon
the arm of Lieutenant Oglethorpe, and followed the body with tottering
steps and streaming eyes into the holy fane. The church was soon filled
by the Norham soldiery, ranked up thickly around it, the blaze of the
torches pierced into the darkest nook of its Gothic interior, and the
solemn ceremony proceeded.
The lady had wound up her resolution to the utmost, that she might
undergo the trying scene without flinching. She stood wonderfully
composed, with her eyes cast upon the ground, endeavouring to fix her
thoughts on the service for the dead, which the priests were chanting;
when, chancing to look up, her attention was suddenly caught by the
figure of a Franciscan monk, who, elevated on the steps of the altar,
stood leaning earnestly forward from behind a Gothic pillar that half
concealed him, his keen eyes fixed upon her with a marked intensity of
gaze. Her heart was frozen within her by his very look, and, uttering a
faint scream, she swooned away, and would have fallen on the pavement
but for the timely aid of Oglethorpe and those who were present. Dismay
and confusion followed. The ceremonial was interrupted; and the
bystanders believing that her feelings had been too deeply affected by
the so sad and solemn spectacle, hastened to remove her from the scene,
so that she was quickly conveyed to her litter, and escorted to the
Castle.
The funeral rites were hurried over, and the body was committed to the
silent vault, with no other witnesses than the officiating priests, the
populace, and such of the officers and soldiers as had been bound to
the deceased by some strong individual feeling of affection, and who
now pressed around the coffin, to have the melancholy satisfaction of
assisting in its descent.
While the remains of Sir Walter de Selby were conveying from
Otterbourne Castle, the Scottish Nobles and Knights who had accompanied
the body of the Douglas were engaged in assisting at the obsequies of
that heroic Earl at Melrose. All that military or religious pomp could
devise or execute was done to honour his remains, and many a mass for
the peace of his soul was sung by the pious monks of its abbey. The
brave Scottish Knights surrounded his tomb in silence and sorrow, all
forgetting that they had gained a victory, and each feeling that he had
lost a private friend in him whose body they had consigned to the
grave.
It was only that morning that Sir Patrick Hepborne had heard
accidentally from his esquire the particulars of his unexpected meeting
with Katherine Spears; and this information, added to those
circumstances which had so strangely occurred to himself, determined
him to proceed to Norham the very next day, where he hoped to unravel
the mystery that had been gradually thickening around him. The truce
that had been already proclaimed ensured his safety, so that he entered
the court-yard of the Norham Tower Hostel with perfect confidence.
Although Hepborne and his esquire came after it was dark, the quick eye
of Mrs. Kyle immediately recognized them; and, conscious of the share
she had had in the treachery so lately attempted against them, she took
refuge in the innermost recesses of the kitchen part of the building.
But Sang was determined not to spare her, and, after searching
everywhere, he at last detected her in her concealment, from which he
led her forth in considerable confusion.
“So, beautiful Mrs. Kyle,” said he, “so thou wert minded to have done
our two noble knights and their humbler esquires a handsome favour,
truly, the last time they did honour thy house? By St. Andrew, we
should have made a pretty knot dangling from the ramparts of Norham.”
“Nay, talk not so, Sir Squire,” replied the hostess in a whining tone;
“it was the wicked Sir Miers de Willoughby who did bribe me to put ye
all in his power. And then he did never talk of aught else but the
ransom for thy liberty; and in truth, love did so blind me that I
thought no more of the matter. But I trow I am well enow punished for
my folly; for here he came, and by his blazons and blandishments, he
did so overmatch me that he hath ta’en from me, by way of borrow (a
borrow, I wis, that will never come laughing home again), many a
handful of the bonny broad pieces my poor husband Sylvester, that is
gone, did leave me. Yet natheless have I enow left to make any man
rich; and when Ralpho Proudfoot doth return frae the wars——”
“Poor Ralpho Proudfoot will never return,” said Sang, interrupting her,
in a melancholy tone; “these hands did help to lay him in the earth.”
“Poor Ralpho,” cried Mrs. Kyle, lifting her apron to a dry eye, “poor
Proudfoot! He was indeed a proper pretty man. But verily,” added she,
with a deep sigh, whilst at the same time she threw a half-reproachful,
half-loving glance at Sang, “verily, ’twere better, perhaps, for a poor
weak woman to think no more of man, seeing all are deceivers alike.
Wilt thou step this gate, Sir Squire, and taste my Malvoisie? Or wilt
thou—”
“What tramp of many feet is that I hear in the village?” demanded Sang,
interrupting her.
“’Tis nought but the burying o’ our auld Captain o’ Norham,” replied
Mrs. Kyle; “I trust that we sall have some right gay and jolly knight
to fill his boots. Auld de Selby was grown useless, I wot. Gi’e me some
young rattling blade that will take pleasure in chatting to a bonny
buxom quean when she comes in his way. I haena had a word frae the auld
man for this I kenna how lang, but a rebuke now and then for the
deboshing o’ his men-at-arms, the which was more the fault o’ my good
ale than o’ me. But where are ye running till, Master Sang?—Fye on him,
he’s away.”
Sang did indeed hasten to tell his master of the passing funeral
procession, and Hepborne ran out to follow it. It had already reached
the church, and by the time he got to the door the interior was so
filled that it was only by immense bodily exertion that he squeezed
himself in at a small side door. His eyes immediately caught the figure
of the lady, and there they rested, unconscious of all else. The moment
she lifted her head he recognized the features of Maurice de Grey and
of her whom he had seen on the battle-field of Otterbourne. But her
fainting allowed him not a moment for thought. The crowd of men-at-arms
between him and the object of his solicitude bid defiance to all his
efforts to reach her, and ere he could regain the open air her litter
was already almost out of sight.
“Poor soul,” said a compassionate billman, who had been looking
anxiously after it, “thou hast indeed good cause to be afflicted.
Verily, thou hast lost thy best friend.”
“Of whom dost thou speak, old man?” demanded Hepborne eagerly.
“Of the poor Lady Beatrice, who was carried to the Castle but now,”
replied the man.
“What saidst thou?” demanded Hepborne; “Lady Beatrice! Was not that the
daughter of thy deceased governor? was not that the Lady Eleanore de
Selby, now the Lady de Vere?”
“Nay, Sir Knight, that she be not,” replied the man, “nouther the one
nor the other, I wot; and if I might adventure to speak it, I would say
that there be those who do think that the Lady Eleanore de Selby, now
the Lady de Vere, hath no small spice of the devil in her composition,
whilst the Lady Beatrice is well known to all to be an angel upon
earth.”
“Who is she, and what is her history, my good fellow?” demanded
Hepborne, slipping money into his hand.
“Meseems thou art a stranger, Sir Knight, that thou knowest not the
Lady Beatrice,” said the man; “but I can well satisfy thy curiosity,
seeing I was with good Sir Walter in that very Border raid during which
she did become his. Our men had driven the herds and flocks from a hill
on the side of one of the streams of Lammermoor, when, as we passed by
the cottage of the shepherd who had fed them, his wife, with an infant
in her arms, and two or three other children around her, came furiously
out to attack Sir Walter with her tongue, as he rode at the head of his
lances. ‘My curse upon ye, ye English loons!’ cried she bitterly; ‘no
content wi’ the sweep o’ our master’s hill, ye hae ta’en the bit cow
that did feed my poor bairns. Better take my wee anes too, for what can
I do wi’ them?’ A soldier was about to quiet her evil tongue by a
stroke of his axe. ‘Fye on thee,’ said Sir Walter; ‘what, wouldst thou
murder the poor woman? Her rage is but natural. Verily, our prey is
large enow without her wretched cow.’ And then, turning to her with a
good-natured smile on his face, ‘My good dame, thou shalt have thy
cow.’ And the beast was restored to her accordingly. ‘The Virgin’s
blessing be on thee, Sir Knight,’ said the woman. ‘And now,’ said Sir
Walter, ‘by’r Lady, I warrant me thou wouldst have ill brooked my
taking thee at thy word. Marry, I promise thee,’ continued he, pointing
to a beautiful girl of five years, apparently her eldest child, ‘marry,
I’ll warrant me thou wouldst have grudged mightily to have parted with
that bonny face?’ ‘Nay, I do indeed love Beatrice almost as well as she
were mine own child, albeit I did only nurse her,’ replied the dame;
‘but of a’ the bairns, she, I wot, is the only one that I could part
with.’ ‘Is she not thy child, then?’ said Sir Walter; ‘whose, I
pr’ythee, may she be?’ ‘That is what I canna tell thee, Sir Knight,’
replied the woman. ‘It is now about four years and a-half sith that a
young lordling came riding down the glen. He was looking for a nurse,
and the folk did airt him to me, who had then lost my first-born babe.
He put this bairn, whom he called Beatrice, into my arms, and a purse
into my lap, and away he flew again, saying that he would soon be back
to see how the bairn throve. The baby was richly clad, so methought it
must be some fair lady’s stolen love-pledge. But I hae never seen him
sithence, nor need I ever look for him now. And troth, Robby and I hae
enew o’ hungry mouths to feed withouten hers, poor thing—ay, and maybe
a chance o’ mair.’ ‘Wilt thou part with the child to me, then?’ said
Sir Walter; ‘I have but one daughter, who is of her age, and I would
willingly take this beauteous Beatrice to be her companion.’ The poor
woman had many scruples, but her husband, who now ventured to show
himself, had none; and, insisting on his wife’s compliance, Beatrice
was brought home with us to Norham, adopted by the good Sir Walter, and
has ever been treated by him sithence as a second daughter. What
marvel, then, Sir Knight, that she should swoon at his burying?”
Light now broke in at once on Sir Patrick Hepborne. As we have seen in
the opening chapter of our story, he was struck, even in the twilight,
by the superior manner and attractions of the lady who had lost her
hawk, and whose gentle demeanour had led him to conclude that she was
the Lady Eleanore de Selby, of whose charms he had heard so much.
Having been thus mistaken at first, he naturally went on, from all he
heard and saw afterwards, and especially in the interviews he had at
Norham, with her who now turned out to have been the companion of the
Lady Eleanore de Selby, to mislead himself more and more. He returned
to his inn to ruminate on this strange discovery; but be the beautiful
Beatrice whom she might, he had loved her, and her alone, and he felt
that his passion now became stronger than ever. His mind ran hastily
over past events; he at once suspected that his inconsiderate jealousy
had been, in fact, awakened by accidentally beholding an interview
between the real Eleanore de Selby and her lover, and he cursed his
haste that had so foolishly hurried him away from Norham; he remembered
the fair hand that had waved the white scarf as he was crossing the
Tweed; he recalled the countenance, the behaviour, and the conversation
of his page, Maurice de Grey; he kissed the emerald ring which he wore
on his finger; and his heart was drowned in a rushing tide of wild
sensations, where hope and joy rose predominant. His generous soul
swelled with transport at the thought of being the protector of her
whom he now adored, and whom he now found, at the very moment she was
left, as he believed, in a state of utter destitution. His impatience
made him deplore that decency forbade his visiting the Lady Beatrice
that night, but he resolved to seek for an audience of her early the
next morning.
At such hour, then, as a lady could be approached with propriety, he
despatched his esquire on an embassy to the Castle. He had little fear
of the result, from what had already passed between them; but what was
his mortification to learn that the Lady Beatrice had been gone from
Norham for above five or six hours, having set out during the night on
some distant journey, whither no one in the Castle could divine.
It is impossible to paint the misery of Sir Patrick Hepborne. Hope had
been wound up to the highest pitch, and the most grievous
disappointment was the issue. He was so much beside himself that he was
little master of his actions, and Mortimer Sang was obliged to remind
him of the necessity of returning immediately to Melrose, to join his
father, who, with the other Scottish nobles and knights, had resolved
to stay there for the space of three days ere they should separate.
The warriors parted, with solemn vows uttered over the grave of the
Douglas; and Sir Patrick Hepborne and his son, accompanied by the Earl
of Moray, Assueton, Halyburton, and a number of other knights, set out
for Hailes Castle. The Lady Isabelle was ready to receive them on their
arrival. She sprang into the court-yard to clasp her father and her
brother to her bosom; and although modesty and maiden bashfulness
checked those manifestations of love towards her knight with which her
heart overflowed, yet, as he kissed her hand, her cheeks flushed, and
her eyes sparkled with a delight that could not be mistaken.
Among those who came out to welcome the war-like party was old Gabriel
Lindsay. Leaning on his staff on the threshold, he eagerly scanned each
face that came near him with his dim eyes.
“Where is my gallant boy?” cried he. “I trow he need seldom fear to
show his head where valorous deads hae been adoing; he hath had his
share o’ fame, I warrant me. Ha, Master Sang, welcome home. Where
loitereth my gallant boy Robin? he useth not to be so laggard in
meeting his old father, I wot. A plague on these burnt-out eyes of
mine, I canna see him nowhere.”
“Who can undertake the task of breaking poor Robert’s death to the old
man?” cried Sang, turning aside from him in the greatest distress.
“Sure I am that I would rather face the fierce phalanx of foes that did
work his brave son’s death than tell him of the doleful tidings.”
“Where hast thou left Robin, Master Sang?” said the doting old man
again. “Ah, there he is; nay, fye on my blindness, that be’s Richie
Morton. Sure, sure my boy was never wont to be laggard last; ’twas but
the last time he came home with Sir John Assueton that he had his arms
round my ould neck or ever I wist he was at hand; he thought, forsooth,
I would not have ken’d him: but, ah, ha, Robin, says I to him——”
“My worthy old friend,” said Sang, quite unable any longer to stand his
innocent garrulity, so ill befitting the reception of the bitter news
he had to tell him, and taking his withered arm to assist him into the
Castle, and leading him gently to his chamber—“my worthy friend, come
this way, and I will tell thee of thy son—we shall be better here in
private. Robert Lindsay’s wonted valour shone forth with sun-like glory
in the bloody field of Otterbourne; but——”
“Ah, full well did I know that he would bravely support the gallant
name of Lindsay,” cried the old man, interrupting him with a smile of
exultation. “Trust me, the boy hath ever showed that he hath some
slender streams of gentle blood in his veins; we are come of good kind,
Master Sang, and maybe my boy Robin shall yet win wealth and honours to
prove it. My great-great-grandfather—nay, my grandfather’s
great-great——”
“But, Robert,” said Sang, wishing to bring old Gabriel back to the sad
subject he was about to open.
“Ay, Robert, Master Sang,” replied the old man, “where tarrieth he?”
“At Otterbourne,” replied Sang, deeply affected. “Thy son, thy gallant
son, fell gloriously, whilst nobly withstanding the whole force of the
English line as they burst into our camp.”
“What sayest thou, Master Sang?” said the infirm old man, who perfectly
comprehended the speaker, but was so stunned by his fatal intelligence
that his feeble intellect was confused by the blow—“what sayest thou,
Master Sang?”
“Thy heroic son was slain,” replied Sang, half choked with his
emotions. “This lock of Robert Lindsay’s hair, and these trinkets taken
from his person ere we committed his body to the earth, are all that
thou canst ever see of him now, old man.”
The esquire sat down, covered his face with his hands, and wept; and
then endeavouring to command himself, he looked upward in the face of
Gabriel Lindsay, who was standing before him like the decayed trunk of
some mighty oak. The time-worn countenance of the old man was unmoved,
and his dull eyes were fixed as in vacancy. The wandering so common to
wasted age had come over his mind at that moment, sent, as it were, in
mercy by Providence to blunt his perception of the dire affliction that
had befallen him. Fitful smiles flashed at intervals across his
face—his lips moved without sound—and at last he spoke—
“And so thou sayest my boy will be here to-night, Master Sang, and that
this is a lock of his bride’s hair? It is golden like his own; my
blessing be on him, and that of St. Baldrid. But why feared he to bring
her to me attence? Ha, doubtless he thought that the joyful surprise
mought hae made my blood dance till it brast my ould heart. But no,
Master Sang, joy shall never do for me what sorrow hath failed to work.
I lost his mother—lost her in a’ her youth and beauty, and yet I bore
it, and humbled myself before Him who giveth and taketh away, and was
comforted; and shall I sink beneath the weight of joy? Nay, even had he
died in the midst of his glory, I trust I am soldier enow, though I
be’s ould, to have borne the news of my son having fallen with honour
to Scotland, and to the name of Lindsay; but doth he think that his
ould father may not be told, without risk, how he hath fought
bravely—how he was noticed by the gallant Douglas—and, aboon a’, how he
is coming hame in triumph with a bonny gentle bride? And didst thou say
they would be here to-night, Sir Squire? Fye, I must gang and tell Sir
Patrick—and the brave young knight—and my Lady Isabelle; they will all
rejoice in Gabriel’s glad tidings. A bonny bride, thou sayest, Master
Sang; and shall I yet have a babe o’ Robin’s on my knee ere I die? But
I must away to Sir Patrick.”
He made an effort to go. Sang rose gently to detain him. He
stopped—looked around him wildly—fastened his eyes vacantly for some
moments on the ceiling—reason and recollection returned to him, and his
dream of bliss passed away.
“Oh, merciful God!” he cried, clasping his hands together in agony of
woe. “Oh, my boy, my brave, my virtuous boy, and shall I never see thee
more?”
Nature with him was already spent; his failure was instantaneous; his
limbs yielded beneath him, and he sank down into the arms of the
esquire, who hastily laid him on the bed and ran for assistance. Sir
Patrick Hepborne, his son, and the Lady Isabelle, as well as many of
the domestics, quickly appeared in great consternation; but they came
only to weep over the good old Seneschal—He was gone for ever.
The death of this old and faithful domestic threw a gloom over the
Castle, so that Assueton felt that he could hardly press on his
marriage-day. At last, however, it was fixed. The preparations were
such as became the house of Hepborne; and the ceremony was performed in
presence of some of the first nobles and knights of Scotland.
The Countess of Moray had come from Tarnawa to meet her Lord. Sir
Patrick Hepborne, the younger, eagerly sought an opportunity of having
private conversation with her, hoping to have some explanation of the
strange disappearance of his page. But the noble lady, maintaining the
same distance towards him she had so mysteriously used, seemed rather
disposed to shun the subject; and it was not until Hepborne had
prefaced his inquiry with a full exposition of all he suspected, and
all he knew, regarding the Lady Eleanore de Selby and the Lady
Beatrice, and that she really saw where his heart was sincerely fixed,
that she would consent to betray the secret she possessed. Hepborne was
then assured that his page Maurice de Grey was no other than the Lady
Beatrice.
Believing that Hepborne loved her, she had looked with joy to other
meetings with him; she had been filled with anxiety when she heard of
the encounter between him and Sir Rafe Piersie; and she was exulting in
his triumph over that knight at the very moment they came to tell her
of his departure. She hastened to a window overlooking the Tweed, where
she beheld the boat that was wafting him to Scotland. It was then, when
she thought herself deserted, that she really felt that she loved.
Almost unconscious of what she did, she waved her scarf. He replied not
to the signal. Again and again she waved, and in vain she stretched her
eyeballs to catch a return of the sign. The boat touched the strand; he
sprang on shore, and leaped into his saddle. Again in despair she
waved; the signal was returned, and that faint sign from the Scottish
shore was to her as the twig of hope. So intense had been her feelings
that she sank down overpowered by them. Recovering herself, she again
gazed from the window. The ferry-boat had returned, and was again
moored on the English side. She cast her eyes across to the spot where
she had last beheld Sir Patrick. The animating figures were now
gone—some yellow gravel, a green bank, a few furze bushes, and a
solitary willow, its slender melancholy spray waving in the breeze,
were all that appeared, and her chilled and forsaken heart was left as
desolate as the scene.
It was at this time that she was called on by friendship to dismiss her
own griefs, that she might actively assist the high-spirited Eleanore
de Selby. By the result of Sir Rafe Piersie’s visit, that lady was
relieved from his addresses; but they were immediately succeeded by the
strange proposals of her infatuated father, when deluded by the
machinations of the Wizard Ancient. All her tears and all her eloquence
were thrown away, and so perfect was Sir Walter’s subjection to the
will of the impostor that even his temper was changed, and his
affection for his daughter swallowed up, by his anxiety to avert the
fate that threatened. Such coercion to a union so disgusting might have
roused the spirit of resistance in the most timid female bosom; but
Eleanore de Selby, who was high and hot tempered, resolved at once to
fly from such persecution; and, taking a solemn vow of secrecy from the
Lady Beatrice, she made her the confidant of a recent attachment which
had arisen between her and a certain knight whom she had met at a
tilting match held at Newcastle a short time before, when she was on a
visit to an aunt who resided there. The Lady Eleanore informed her
friend that her lover was Sir Hans de Vere, a knight of Zealand,
kinsman to the King’s banished favourite the Duke of Ireland, who had
lately come from abroad, and who looked to gain the same high place in
King Richard’s affections which the Duke himself had filled. From him
she had received a visit unknown to her father, and it was the parting
of the lovers after that meeting which had so filled Hepborne with
jealousy. In the urgency of her affairs she implored her friend to aid
her schemes, which were immediately carried into effect by means of the
Minstrel.
Having thus been gradually, though unwillingly, drawn to be an
accomplice in the Lady Eleanore’s plans, Beatrice felt that she could
not stay behind to expose herself to the rage of the bereft father.
Having assisted her friend, therefore, to escape, she accompanied her,
in male attire, to the place where her lover waited for her at some
distance from Norham. There she parted, with many tears, from the
companion of her youth, having received from her the emerald ring which
Sir Patrick Hepborne afterwards became possessed of. Her own depression
of spirits, occasioned by Sir Patrick’s unaccountable desertion of her,
had determined her to seek out some convent, where she might find a
temporary, if not a permanent retreat. Under the protection of old Adam
of Gordon, therefore, she crossed the Tweed into Scotland. There he
procured her a Scottish guide to conduct her to North Berwick, where he
had a relation among the Cistertian nuns, and thither she was
proceeding at the time she met Hepborne in the grove by the side of the
Tyne.
When Sir Patrick addressed her she felt so much fluttered that it was
some time before she could invent a plausible account of herself; and
when he proposed to her to become his page, love triumphed over her
better judgment, and she could not resist the temptation of an offer
that held out so fair an opportunity of knowing more of him, and of
trying the state of his heart. As to the latter she became convinced,
by some of those conversations we have detailed, that she had been
cruelly deceived, and that she had in reality no share in it. She heard
him passionately declare his inextinguishable love for the Lady
Eleanore de Selby, and when he said that he had seen too much of her
for his peace of mind, she naturally enough concluded that they had met
together on some former occasion. She became unhappy at her own
imprudence in so rashly joining his party, and was anxious to avail
herself of the first opportunity of escaping from one whose heart never
could be hers. The Countess of Moray’s kindness to her as Maurice de
Grey induced her to discover herself to that lady. She earnestly
entreated that she might remain concealed, and that Sir Patrick might
not be informed. It was the Lady Jane de Vaux who laid the plan for
deceiving him about the departure of his page, and she and the Countess
of Moray could not resist indulging in tormenting one whom they
believed to have wantonly sported with the affections of the Lady
Beatrice, and who had consequently suffered deeply in the good opinion
of both.
The Minstrel, who, to do away suspicion, had returned to Norham
immediately after the escape of the ladies, no sooner learned from the
guide the change which had taken place in Beatrice’s plans, and that
she had gone to Tarnawa, than he determined to follow her thither,
under pretence of going to the tournament. Having learned from him that
her benefactor, Sir Walter de Selby, had been overwhelmed with
affliction for the loss of his daughter, of whose fate he was yet
ignorant, and that he had also grievously complained of her own
desertion of him, she was filled with remorse, and determined to return
to him immediately, and to brave all his reproaches; but indisposition,
arising from the trying fatigue of body and the mental misery she had
undergone, prevented her setting out until several days after the
departure of the Earl of Moray and his knights for Aberdeen. Hepborne
could now no longer doubt of the attachment of the Lady Beatrice. The
thought that he had ignorantly thrown away a heart so valuable as that
which his intercourse with his page had given him ample opportunity to
know, was a source of bitter distress to him. His spirits fled, he
loathed society, and he industriously shunned the huntings, hawkings,
dancings, and masquings that were going merrily forward in honour of
his friend’s nuptials with his sister the Lady Isabelle.
But Assueton was not so selfishly occupied in his own joys as not to be
struck with the change in his beloved Hepborne. He besought him to
unbosom the secret sorrow that was so evidently preying on his mind,
and Sir Patrick, who had hitherto generously concealed it, that he
might not poison the happiness in which he could not participate, at
last yielded to the entreaty, and told him all. Sir John had but little
of comfort to offer: the subject was one that hardly admitted of any.
He saw that the only way in which friendship could be useful was by
rousing him to do something that might actively divert his melancholy.
Sir David de Lindsay having returned from his captivity in England, had
lately arrived at Hailes, where Sir William de Dalzel and Sir John
Halyburton had remained, to witness Assueton’s marriage. They were now
about to proceed to London, to make good the pledge given to Lord
Welles. Hepborne would have fain excused himself from the engagement he
had so cheerfully made with them at Tarnawa, but Assueton contrived to
pique his chivalric spirit, and at length succeeded in inducing him to
become one of the party. Sir John even offered to accompany his friend,
but Hepborne would by no means permit him to leave his newly-married
Lady.
CHAPTER LXIII.
The Scottish Knights at the English Court—The wealthy London
Merchant—Combat on London Bridge.
Everything that art could achieve, by means of steel, gold, embossing,
embroidery, and emblazoning, was done to give splendour to the array of
Sir David Lindsay, and his companions and attendants, that Scotland
should, if possible, be in no whit behind England upon this occasion. A
safe-conduct was readily granted them by the English court, and they
departed, all high in spirits, save Hepborne alone, who seemed to
suffer the journey rather than to enjoy it. They travelled very
leisurely, and frequently halted by the way, that their horses might
not be oppressed; and they were everywhere received with marked
respect.
It was towards the end of the third week that they found themselves
crossing a wide glade among those immense forests which then covered
the country, lying immediately to the north of the English metropolis,
when they were attracted by an encampment of gay pavilions, pitched
among the thin skirting trees. A strong guard of archers and
well-mounted lances, that patrolled around the place, proved that there
was some one there of no mean consequence. Within the circle was a vast
and motley crowd of people, moving about in all the rich and varied
costumes which then prevailed. There could be descried many nobles,
knights, and esquires, some equipt in fanciful hunting-garbs, and
others in all the foppery of golden circlets, flowing robes,
party-coloured hose, and long-pointed shoes, attached to knee-chains of
gold and silver; and these were mingled with groups of huntsmen,
falconers, pages, grooms, lacqueys, and even hosts of cooks and
scullions. Many were on horseback, and whole rows of beautiful horses
were picketted in different places, and their neighing mingled cheerily
with the baying of tied-up hounds and the hum of many merry voices.
It was a spectacle well calculated to arrest the attention of the
Scottish knights, and accordingly they halted to enjoy it, and to
listen to the trumpets and timbrels that now began to sound. In a
little time they observed a party of horsemen leave the encampment, and
they were soon aware that it came to meet them. At the head was a
knight clad in a white hunting-coif richly flowered with gold, and a
sky-blue gippon of the most costly materials, thickly wrought with
embroidery, while the toes of his tawny boots, being released from
their knee-chains, hung down nearly a yard from his stirrup-irons. On
his wrist sat a falcon, the badge of a knight. He rode a superb horse,
and his housings corresponded in grandeur with everything else
belonging to him.
“Ha!” exclaimed he, as he reined up his steed affectedly in front of
the group, raised himself in his high-peaked saddle, and, standing in
his stirrups, put his bridle-hand to his side, as if selecting the
attitude best calculated to show off his uncommonly handsome person;
“ha! so I see that my divination doth prove to have been true to most
miraculous exactitude. My Lord of Welles must forfeit an hundred
pieces, in compliment to my superior accuracy of vision and of
judgment. Sir David de Lindsay, I knew thy banner. I do give thee
welcome to England, beausir; nay, I may add, welcome to London too,
seeing thou art barely two leagues from its walls, and that the very
spirit of its greatness is here in these sylvan solitudes, in the
person of the Royal Richard, attended as he is by his chivalrous
Court.”
“Sir Piers Courtenay,” exclaimed Sir David de Lindsay, “perdie, it doth
rejoice me to behold thee, strangers as we are, in these parts.”
“Trust me, ye shall be strangers no longer, gentle sir,” replied Sir
Piers, with a condescending inclination of body, that he now deigned to
continue round, with his eyes directed to the other knights severally,
whom he had not noticed until now. “When I, with singularly fortunate
instinct, did assert that it was thee and thy bandon we beheld, the
Lord Welles did wager me an hundred pieces that I did err in sagacity;
but as I parted from him to ride hither, to bring mine accuracy to the
proof, he charged me, if I were right, to invite thee and thy company
to the Royal camp.”
“Travel-worn and dust-begrimed as we are,” said Sir William de Dalzel,
“meseems we shall be but sorry sights for the eyes of Royalty,
especially amid a crowd of gallants so glittering as the sample thou
hast brought us in thine own sweet and perfumed person, beausir.”
“Nay, nay,” replied Sir Piers Courtenay, glancing with contempt at
Dalzel’s war-worn surcoat, and taking his ironical remark as an actual
compliment, “we are but accoutred, as thou seest, for rustic sport; we
are shorn of our beams among the shades of these forests. But let us
not tarry, I pray thee; the sports of the morning are already over; the
sylvan meal is about to be spread in the grand pavilion, and rude
though it be, it may not come amiss to those who have already travelled
since dawn. Let us hasten thither, then, for the King doth return to
London after feeding.”
Under the guidance of this pink of fashion, the Scottish knights
advanced towards the Royal hunting-encampment; and long ere they
reached it, the Lord Welles, who already saw that he had lost his
wager, came forth to meet them, and received them with all that warmth
of hospitality which characterized the English people of all ranks even
in those early days, and for which they were already famed among
foreign nations. He led them through a mass of guards, who, though they
appeared but to form a part of the pageantry of the Royal sports, were
yet so completely armed, both men and horses, that it was manifest
security from sudden surprise was the chief object of their being
placed there.
Sir David Lindsay and his companions, after quitting their saddles,
were led by the Lord Welles to his own tent, where they soon rendered
themselves fit to appear before Royal eyes. They were then conducted to
the King’s pavilion, which they found surrounded by a strong body of
archers, and they had no sooner entered the outer part of it than they
were introduced to the Earls of Kent and Huntingdon, half-brothers to
the King, who were in waiting. These were now Richard’s chief
favourites since the late banishment of De Vere, Duke of Ireland, and
others. By these noblemen they were immediately introduced into the
Royal presence.
The young Richard was not deficient in that manly beauty possessed by
his heroic father, the nation’s idol, Edward the Black Prince, but his
countenance was softened by many of those delicate traits which gave to
his lovely mother the appellation of the Fair Maid of Kent. His eyes,
though fine and full, were of unsteady expression, frequently
displaying a certain confidence in self-opinion, that suddenly gave way
to doubt and hesitation. Though the dress he had on was of the same
shape as that worn by his courtiers, being that generally used by
noblemen of the period when hunting, yet, costly as was the attire of
those around him, his was most conspicuous among them all, by the rich
nature of the materials of which it was composed, as well as by the
massive and glittering ornaments he wore. The gorgeous furniture of his
temporary residence too, with the endless numbers of splendidly habited
domestics who waited, might have been enough of themselves to have
explained to the Scottish knights whence that dissatisfaction arose
among his subjects, who were compelled to contribute to expenditure so
profuse.
The King’s natural disposition to be familiar with all who approached
him would of itself have secured a gracious reception to Sir David de
Lindsay and his companions, but the cause of their visit made them
doubly welcome. Their coming ensured him an idle show and an empty
pageant which would furnish him with an apology for making fresh
draughts on his already over-drained people. Every honour, therefore,
was paid them, as if they had been public ambassadors from the nation
to which they belonged, and the most conspicuous places were assigned
them at that luxurious board where the Royal collation was spread, and
where, much as they had seen, their eyes were utterly confounded by the
profusion of rarities that appeared.
The King had been hunting for nearly a week in these suburban wilds,
and he was now about to return to his palace in the Tower, which he at
this time preferred as a residence to that of Westminster. But the
pleasures of the table, seasoned by dissolute conversation with the
profligate knights and loose ladies, who were most encouraged at his
Court, together with that indolence into which he was so apt to sink,
had at all times too great charms for him to permit him easily to move
from them. He therefore allowed the hours to pass in epicurean
indulgence, whilst he gazed on the wanton attitudes of the women who
danced before him, or on the feats of jugglers and tumblers.
At length the camp was ordered to be broken up, and then the whole
Royal attention became occupied in the arrangement of the cavalcade, so
that it might produce the most imposing effect, and the humblest
individuals were not considered as unworthy of a King’s notice on so
important an occasion. All were soon put into the wished-for order, and
Richard himself figured most prominently of all, proudly mounted on a
magnificently-caparisoned horse, having housings that swept the ground.
A canopy was borne over him by twelve esquires, and he was surrounded
by his archers. Sir David de Lindsay and his companions formed a part
of this pageant, which they failed not to remark was carefully defended
on all sides by well-armed horsemen.
From the summit of an eminence the Scottish knights caught their first
view of London, then clustered into a small space within its confined
walls. It seemed to be tied like a knot, as it were, on the winding
thread of the majestic Thames, which, after washing the walls of the
Palace of Westminster, flowed thence gently along its banks, fringed by
the gardens and scattered country-dwellings of the nobility and richer
citizens, until it was lost for a time amid the smoke arising from the
dusky mass of the city, to appear farther down with yet greater
brilliancy. The sun was already getting low, and was shooting its rays
aslant through the thick atmosphere that hung over the town. They
caught on its most prominent points, and brought fully into notice the
venerable tower and spire of the then Gothic St. Paul’s, and the
steeples of the few churches and monasteries which the city contained,
together with its turreted walls and its castles. All between the
partially wooded slope they stood on and the gates, was one wild
pasture, partly covered with heath, interspersed with thickets, and
partly by swamps, and a large lake.
As they drew nearer to the city, they passed by crowds of young
citizens engaged in athletic exercises. Some were wrestling; others,
mounted on spirited horses and armed with lances, were tilting at the
quintaine, or jousting with wooden points against each other. In one
place they were shooting with bows at a mark; and in another, groups of
young men and damsels were seen dancing under the shade of trees, to
the gratification of many a father and mother who looked on. Besides
these, the ground was peopled by vendors of refreshments; and, in
diverse corners, jugglers and posture-masters were busy with their
tricks before knots of wondering mechanics. So keenly were all engaged,
that the Royal hunting party, carefully as the order of its march had
been prepared, passed by unheeded, or, if noticed at all, it was by a
secret curse from some of the disaffected, who grudged to see that
Richard had been hunting in that part of the forest which it was more
particularly the privilege of the citizens of London to use. Nor did
the haughty courtiers regard these humbler people, except to indulge in
many a cutting jest at their expense, which Richard’s ready laugh of
approbation showed they were thoroughly licensed to do.
“We have seen some such jousting as this before,” said Courtenay, with
a sly toss of his head, immediately after an awkward exhibition that
had accidentally attracted notice.
“Yea, so have I too,” observed Dalzel calmly; “I did once see ane
English knight tilt so on the Mead of St. John’s.”
Crossing the broad ditch of the city by a drawbridge, they made their
entry between the towers of Cripplegate, having its name from the
swarms of beggars by which it was generally infested, and they
immediately found themselves in narrow streets of wooden houses,
uncouthly projecting as they rose upwards, and detached shops, which
were already shut up for the day. Here and there the windows were
decorated with coloured cloth or carpets, and some few idle vagabonds
ran after the cavalcade crying out, “Long live King Richard!” looking
to be recompensed for their mercenary loyalty by liberal largess. But
the respectable citizens were already enjoying their own recreation in
the Moorfields, those who did remain having little inclination to join
in the cry where the Monarch was so unpopular; and many a sturdy black
muzzled mechanic went scowling off the street to hide in some dark lane
as he saw the procession approaching, bestowing his malediction on that
heartless prodigality and luxury which robbed him and his infants to
supply its diseased appetite. Hepborne and Halyburton, who rode
together, could not help remarking this want of loyal feeling towards
the young English Monarch; and, calling to mind the enthusiasm with
which they had seen the aged King Robert of Scotland, in his grey
woollen hose, greeted by his people, they began to suspect that there
must be faults of no trifling sort in a Prince to whom nature had given
so pleasing an exterior.
Having got within the fortifications of the Tower, the Scottish knights
were astonished with the immense army of the minions of luxury who
filled its courts. The King himself signified his pleasure to Sir David
Lindsay and his friends that they should enter the Royal apartments,
where they partook of wine and spices, handed about in rich golden
cups; after which a banquet followed in a style of magnificence
calculated to make everything they had before seen to be altogether
forgotten in comparison with it. The King honoured them with his
peculiar attention, and even deigned to attend to making provision for
their proper accommodation. For this purpose, he called for the Lord
Welles, and gave him a list of those persons who were to be honoured
with the expense of lodging and entertaining these strangers and their
people. With singular contradiction to his own wish that they should be
treated with exemplary hospitality, he chose to select as their hosts
certain persons who had offended him, and whom he had a desire to
punish, by thus exposing them to great expense; and so the strangers
were thrown into situations where anything but voluntary kindness might
be looked for.
When the King gave them their leave, they found their esquires in
waiting for them. Mortimer Sang led Hepborne into the Vintry, to the
house of a certain Lawrence Ratcliffe, a wine merchant. His dwelling
was within a gateway and courtyard, on each side of which there were
long rows of warehouses and vaults extending nearly quite down to the
river wall.
It was dark when Sir Patrick entered the court-yard, and as he passed
onwards to where he saw a lamp burning within the doorway of the
dwelling house, he heard the voice of a man issuing from an
outbuilding.
“Jehan Petit,” said the person, who spoke to some one who followed him,
“see that thou dost give out no wine to this Scot but of that cargo,
the which did ship the sea water, and that tastes brackish. An the King
will make us maintain all his strange cattle, by St. Paul, but as far
as I have to do with them they shall content themselves with such
feeding as it may please me to bestow. Let the esquire and the other
trash have sour ale, ’tis good enow for the knaves; and I promise thee
it will well enow match the rest of their fare, and the herborow they
shall have. Alas, poor England! ay, and above all, alas, poor London!
for an we have not a change soon, we shall be eaten up by the King’s
cormorants—a plague rot ’em!”
By this time Hepborne and his landlord met in the stream of light that
issued from the open doorway. Hepborne made a courteous though
dignified obeisance to Master Ratcliffe, a stout elderly man, whose
face showed that he had not been at all negligent during his life in
tasting, that he might have personal knowledge of what was really good
before he ventured to give it to his friends. The wine merchant was
taken somewhat unawares. He had made up his mind to be as cross and as
rude as he well could to the guest that had been thus forced upon him.
But Hepborne’s polite deportment commanded a return from a man who had
been in France, and he bent to the stranger with a much better grace
than he could have wished to have bestowed on him.
“I do address myself to Master Lawrence Ratcliffe, if I err not?” said
Hepborne, in a civil tone.
“Yea, I am that man,” replied the other, recovering something of his
sulky humour.
“Master Ratcliffe,” said Hepborne, with great civility of manner, “I
understand that His Majesty the King of England’s hospitality to
strangers hath been the cause of throwing me to thy lot. But I cannot
suffer his kindness to a Scottish knight to do injury to a worthy
citizen of his own good city of London. To keep me and my people in thy
house, would run thee into much trouble, not to talk of the expense,
the which no man of trade can well bear. I come, therefore, to entreat
thee to permit me to rid thee and thy house of unbidden guests, who
cannot choose but give thee great annoy, and to crave thine advice as
to what inn or hostel I should find it most convenient to remove to. By
granting me this, thou wilt make me much beholden to thee.”
Master Lawrence Ratcliffe looked at Hepborne with no small
astonishment. This was a sort of behaviour to which he had been but
little used, and for which he was by no means prepared.
“Nay, by St. Stephen, Sir Knight, thou shalt not move,” said he at
last; “by all the blessed saints, thou shalt have the best bed and the
best food that London can furnish; yea, and wine, too, the which let me
tell thee, the King himself cannot command. Go, get the key of the trap
cellar, Jehan Petit,” said he, turning briskly to his attendant; “bring
up some flasks of the right Bourdeaux and Malvoisie. Thou dost well
know their marks, I wot.”
“Nay, send him not for wine, I pray thee, good Master Ratcliffe,” cried
Hepborne; “I trow I have already drank as much as may be seemly for
this night.”
“Chut,” cried the wine merchant, with a face of glee, “all that may be;
yet shall we drain a flask to our better acquaintance. Fly, sirrah
Jehan! This way, Sir Knight. Would that Heaven mought send us a flight
of such rare birds as thou art; thine ensample mought peraunter work a
change on these all-devouring vultures of King Richard’s Court. This
way, Sir Knight. Have a care, there be an evil step there.”
Master Lawrence Ratcliffe ushered Hepborne into a very handsomely
furnished apartment, the walls of which were hung round with costly
cloths. It was largely supplied with velvet and silk covered chairs,
and with many an ancient cabinet, and it was lighted by a small silver
lamp. They were hardly seated, when a lacquey brought in a silver
basket of sweetmeats and dried fruits, and soon afterwards Jehan Petit
appeared with the venerable flasks for which Master Ratcliffe had
despatched him. It was with some difficulty that Hepborne could prevent
the liberal Englishman from ordering a sumptuous banquet to be
prepared, by declaring that repose, not food, was what he now required;
but he made up for this check on his hospitality by giving ample
directions for the comfort of all the members of Hepborne’s retinue,
quadrupeds as well as bipeds. The wine was nectar, yet Hepborne drank
but little of it; but Master Ratcliffe did ample duty for both.
“I fear, Sir Knight, that thy people were but scurvily treated ere thou
camest,” said he to Hepborne; “but, in good verity, I have too much of
this free quartering thrust upon me by the Court. I promise thee, King
Richard is not always content with his two tuns out of each of my wine
ships. By’r Lady, he doth often help himself to ten tuns at a time from
these cellars of mine, and that, too, as if he were doing me high
honour all the while. It did so happen lately that he lacked some
hundred of broad pieces for his immediate necessities. Down came my
Lord of Huntingdon with his bows and fair words. ‘Master Lawrence
Ratcliffe,’ said he, ‘it is His Majesty’s Royal pleasure to do thee an
especial honour.’ ‘What,’ cried I, ‘my Lord of Huntingdon, doth the
King purpose to make an Earl of me?’ ‘Nay, not quite that,’ replied his
Lordship, somewhat offended at my boldness, ‘not quite that, Master
Ratcliffe, but, knowing that thou art one of the richest merchants of
his good city of London, he hath resolved to prefer thee to be his
creditor rather than any other. Lend him, therefore, five hundred
pieces for a present necessity. And seeing it was I who did bring this
high honour upon thy shoulders, by frequently enlarging to the King of
thy princely wealth, thou mayest at same time lend me fifty pieces from
thine endless hoards, for mine own private use.’ ‘My Lord,’ replied I,
‘seeing that thou thyself hast been altogether misinformed as to my
wealth, thou mayest hie thee back speedily to undeceive the King, else
may the Royal wrath peradventure be poured out upon thee, for filling
his ear with that which lacketh foundation. I have no money hoards to
play the Jew withal.’ ‘Nay, then,’ replied Huntingdon, with a
threatening aspect, ‘thou mayest look for the King’s wrath falling on
thine own head, not on mine. By St. Paul, thou shalt repent thee of
this thy discourteous conduct to the King.’ The profligate Earl was
hardly gone when I felt that I had permitted my indignation to carry me
too far, and that it would have been wiser to have paid five times the
demand, and I soon had proof of this. I judged it best to pay the
money; yet hardly hath a week elapsed sithence that I have not been
tormented in a thousand ways by orders from the Court. But, by’r Lady,
such a state of things may not last,” said he, after a pause; and then
starting, as if he thought he had perhaps said too much, “for what poor
merchant’s coffers may stand out against such drafts as these? And now,
Sir Knight, thou mayest judge why I was resolved to receive thee so
vilely. But thou mayest thank thine own courtesy for so speedily
disarming my resolution.”
On the ensuing morning the Lord Welles came, by the King’s order, to
wait on Sir David Lindsay, and to invite him and his companions to a
Royal banquet, to be given that day at the Palace of Westminster,
whither they were to go in grand procession by land, and to return by
water to the Tower at night. The Scottish knights, therefore, joined
the Royal party, and leaving the city by Ludgate, descended into the
beautiful country which bordered the Thames, their eyes delighted, as
they rode along, by the appearance of the suburban palaces and gardens
which lay scattered along the river’s bank. Passing through the village
of Charing, they approached the venerable Abbey and Palace of
Westminster, and were received within the fortified walls of the
latter. The entertainment given in the magnificent hall was on a scale
of extravagance perfectly appalling, both as to number of dishes and
rarity of the viands; and the aquatic pageant of painted boats was no
less wonderful. It was impossible for the poor commons to behold the
money wrenched from their industry thus scattered in a useless luxury
that but little nourished their trade or manufactures, or at least
could not appear to their ignorance to have such a tendency, without
their becoming disaffected; and, accordingly, every new pageant of this
kind only added to the mass of the malcontents.
The handsome Courtenay had this day outshone all his former splendour
of attire.
“Didst thou mark that popinjay Sir Piers Courtenay?” demanded Sir
William de Dalzel, as they were returning in the boat; “didst thou mark
the bragging device on his azure silk surcoat?”
“I did note it,” replied Halyburton; “a falcon embroidered in divers
silks, that did cunningly ape the natural colours of the bird.”
“Yea, but didst thou note the legend, too?” continued Sir William de
Dalzel. “It ran thus, methinks—
I bear a falcon fairest of flight:
Whoso pinches at her his death is dight,
In graith.”
“Ha,” said Hepborne, “by St. Andrew, a fair challenge to us all; the
more, too, that it doth come after the many taunts he did slyly throw
out against Scottish chivalry at Tarnawa. But he shall not lack a hand
to pinch at his falcon, for I shall do it this night, lest the braggart
shall change his attire.”
“Nay, nay, leave him to me, I entreat thee,” said Sir William de
Dalzel. “He is mine by right, seeing I did first note his arrogant
motto. Trust me, I shall not leave London without bringing down this
empty peacock, so that he shall be the laughing-stock of his own
companions.”
On the plea of giving sufficient repose to the Scottish champion,
Richard ordained that yet three more days should pass ere the joust
should take place between Sir David Lindsay and the Lord Welles; and
the time was spent in divers amusements, and in balls, masquings, and
feastings.
At length the day of the tilting arrived, and everything had been done
to make the exhibition a splendid one. Triumphal arches had been
erected in several parts of Thames Street; and the inhabitants were
compelled by Royal proclamation to garnish their windows with flowers
and boughs, and to hang out cloths and carpets; while many of those who
had houses on London Bridge were forced by an edict to vacate their
dwellings, for the use of the King and such of his courtiers and
attendants as he chose to carry thither with him. These houses were
wretched enough in themselves, being frail wooden tenements, arising
from each side of the Bridge, partly founded on it, so as to narrow its
street to about twenty-three feet, and partly resting on posts driven
in to the bed of the stream, so that they hung half over the water, and
were, in some cases, only saved from falling backwards into it by
strong wooden arches that crossed the street from one house to another,
and bound them together.
The Royal procession was to be arranged in the Tower-yard, and in
obedience to the commands of King Richard, the Scottish knights
repaired thither to take their place in it. The banner of Sir David
Lindsay, bearing gules, a fess cheque argent and azure, with his crest
an ostrich proper, holding in his beak a key or, appeared conspicuous;
and his whole party, esquires as well as knights, were mounted and
armed in a style that was by no means disgraceful to poor Scotland,
though in costliness of material and external glitter they were much
eclipsed by the English knights. Of these Sir Piers Courtenay, who was
to perform the part of second to the Lord Welles, seemed resolved to be
second to none in outward show. His tilting-helmet was surmounted by a
plume that was perfectly matchless, and there the falcon, which on this
occasion he had chosen as his crest, was proudly nestled. His coat of
mail was covered with azure silk. The belt for his shield, and the
girdle-stead for his sword, were of crimson velvet, richly ornamented
with golden studs and precious stones. The roundels on his shoulders
and elbows were, or at least appeared to be, of gold. His mamillieres
were of wrought gold ornamented with gems, and heavy golden chains, of
sufficient length not to impede his full action when using the weapon,
depended from them, so as to attach the hilt of his sword to his right
breast, and the scabbard of it to his left. His sword and his dagger
were exquisite both as to materials and workmanship; but what most
attracted attention was the azure silken surcoat embroidered with the
falcon upon it, and the vaunting motto—
I bear a falcon fairest of flight:
Whoso pinches at her his death is dight,
In graith.
Courtenay rode about, making his horse perform many a fanciful curvet,
full of self-approbation, and throwing many a significant glance
towards the Scottish party, as he capered by them, evidently with the
desire of provoking some one among them to accept the mute and general
challenge he gave, and winking to his friends at the same time, as if
he believed that there was little chance of its being noticed. The
sagacious Sir John Constable and some others said all they could to
check his impertinent foolery, but their friendly advices were thrown
away on the coxcomb.
All being prepared, King Richard was becoming impatient to move off,
when it was signified to him that Sir William de Dalzel, who was to be
second to Sir David de Lindsay, had not yet appeared. The King ordered
an esquire to hasten to his lodgings to tell him he was waited for,
when just at that moment a knight appeared attired in a style of
splendour that was only to be equalled by Sir Piers Courtenay himself;
but what was more wonderful, he seemed to be in every respect the very
double of that magnificent cavalier. All eyes were directed towards
him, and when he came nearer, the King himself gave way to immoderate
fits of laughter, in which he was heartily joined by every one in the
court-yard, down to the lowest groom; in short, by all save one, and
that was Sir Piers Courtenay.
This second edition of the English exquisite was Sir William de Dalzel,
who, having found out beforehand what Courtenay was to appear in, had
contrived, with great exertion, pains, and expense, to fit himself with
a surcoat and appendages exactly resembling those of the coxcomb; with
this difference only, that his azure silk surcoat had on it a magpie,
embroidered with divers coloured threads, with this motto—
I bear a pyet pykkand at ane piece:
Whasa pykes at her I sall pyke at his nese,
In faith.
The laugh continued, whilst the square-built Dalzel rode about with his
vizor up, wearing a well-dissembled air of astonishment, as if he could
by no means divine what it was that gave rise to so much merriment. But
Courtenay could bear it no longer. He even forgot the Royal presence of
Richard, which, however, was but seldom wont to throw much awe over
those with whom he was in the habit of being familiar.
“By the body of Saint George,” exclaimed Courtenay, riding up to
Dalzel, “thou hast attired thyself, Sir Scot, but in mockery of me. By
the Holy St. Erkenwold, thou shalt speedily answer for thine unknightly
rudeness.”
“Nay, by the body of St. Andrew, Sir Englishman, the which I do take to
be an oath that ought to match thine,” said Dalzel, with great
coolness, seasoned with an air of waggery, “I do in nowise insult thee
by mine attire more than thine attire doth insult me. Perdie, on the
contrarie, I do but give thee infinite honour, in the strict observance
of thine excellent fashion. Didst thou not, with great condescension,
bestow upon the Scottish chivauncie at Tarnawa, myself being one, full
many a wise saw on the supereminent judgment of English knights, or
rather of thyself, the cream of all English knighthood, in matters of
dress and arming? Didst thou not discuss it, buckle by buckle? Hither
then am I come, in all my clownishness, to profit by thy wisdom; and
such being mine errand, how, I pray thee, can I do better than copy
thee to the nail—thou, I say, who canst so well teach me to put on a
brave golden outside, where peradventure the inner metal may be but
leaden?”
“By the rood of St. Paul,” cried Courtenay, “thine evil chosen
attirement was but small offence, compared to that thou hast now heaped
on me by thy sarcastic commentary on it. I will hear no more. There!”
said he, dashing down his gauntlet on the pavement. “With permission of
the Royal presence, in which I now am, I do hereby challenge thee to
combat of outrance, to be fought after the tilting-match.”
“Nay, sith that thou wilt fly thy fair falcon at my poor pie,” said
Dalzel, “and run his head into my very talons with thy eagerness, by
the blessed bones of St. Dunstan, I will pinch her as well as ever the
monk did the beak of the Evil One;” and saying so, he leaped from his
saddle, and taking up the gauntlet stuck it in his helmet.
The procession being now formed, moved off in order and with sound of
trumpet by the Tower-gate, and so along Thames Street, towards the
bridge, where the Royal party were accommodated in the balconies and
windows of the central houses, close to where the shock of the
encounter was expected to take place. The bridge was then cleared of
all obstacles, and the gates at either end were shut so as to act as
barriers to keep out all but the combatants or those who waited on
them.
The scene was now very imposing. The antique wooden fronts of the
houses, of different projections and altitudes, approaching nearer and
nearer to each other, as they rose storey above storey, till they came
so close at top as to leave but a mere riband’s breadth of sky visible;
the endless variety of windows and balconies, decorated with webs of
various-coloured cloths, tapestry, and painted emblazonments; the
arches that crossed from one side of the way to the other, hung with
pennons and streamers of every possible shade; the Gothic tower that
rose from one part of the bridge, where the banner of England waved
from a flag-staff set among the grizzly heads of many a victim of
tyranny, as well as many a traitor, among which last that of Wat Tyler
was then conspicuous; and these, contrasted with the crowds of gay
knights and ladies who shone within the lattices and balconies, the
gorgeous band of heralds, the grotesque trumpeters, and musicians of
all kinds, and the whimsical attire of the numerous attendants on the
lists were objects singularly romantic in themselves, and the effect of
them was heightened by the courtly-subdued whisper that murmured along
on both sides, mingling with the deafened sound of the river dashing
against the sterlings of the bridge underneath.
It being signified to the King that the knights were ready, he ordered
the speaker of the lists to give the word, “Hors, chevaliers!” and the
heralds’ trumpets blew. The barriers at both ends of the bridge were
then opened, and Sir David Lindsay entered from the north, attended by
Sir William de Dalzel. The Lord Welles and Sir Piers Courtenay, who had
purposely crossed into what is now Southwark, appeared from that
direction. The trumpets then sounded from both ends of the lists, and
the challenge was proclaimed by one herald on the part of the Lord
Welles, and accepted by another on the part of Sir David de Lindsay,
while the articles of agreement as to the terms of combat, which had
been regularly drawn up and signed by both parties at Tarnawa, were
read from the balcony of the heralds. The combatants then rode slowly
from each end until they met and measured lances, when their arms were
examined by the marshal, and their persons searched to ascertain that
neither carried charms or enchantments about him. The knights then
crossed each other, and each attended by his companion and one esquire,
rode slowly along to the opposite end of the bridge, and then returned
each to his own place, by this means showing themselves fully to the
spectators. The Lord Welles was mounted on a bright bay horse, and Sir
David Lindsay rode a chestnut, both of great powers. But the figures,
and still more the colours, of the noble animals, were hid beneath
their barbed chamfronts and their sweeping silken housings.
The King now gave his Royal signal for the joust to begin by the usual
words, “Laissez les aller,” and the heralds having repeated them aloud,
the trumpets sounded, and they flew towards each other with furious
impetus, the fire flashing from the stones as they came on. An anxious
murmur rushed along the line of spectators, eagerly were their heads
thrust forward to watch the result. The combatants met, and both lances
were shivered. That of Sir David Lindsay took his opponent in the
shield, and had nearly unseated him, whilst he received the point of
the Lord Welles’ right in the midst of his ostrich-crested casque; but
although the concussion was so great as to make both horses reel
backwards, yet the Scottish knight sat firm as a rock. The seconds now
came up, and new lances being given to the combatants, each rode slowly
away to his own barrier to await the signal for the next course.
It was given, and again the two knights rushed to the encounter, and
again were the lances shivered with a similar result. Sir David Lindsay
received his adversary’s point full in the bars of his vizor, yet he
sat unmoved as if he had been but the human half of a Centaur. A murmur
ran along among the spectators; with some it was applause for his
steadiness of seat, but with by far the greater number it was
dissatisfaction. It grew in strength, and at length loud murmurs arose.
“He is tied to his saddle—Sir David de Lindsay is tied to his saddle.
Never had mortal man a seat so firm without the aid of trick or fallas.
Prove him, prove him—let him dismount if he can!”
Sir David Lindsay soon satisfied them. He sprung to the ground, making
the bridge ring again with the weight of his harness, and walking up
opposite to the balcony where the King sat, he made his obeisance to
Majesty. His well-managed horse followed him like a dog, and the
knight, after thus satisfying the Monarch and every one of the
falsehood of the charge that had been made against him, leaped again
into his saddle, armed as he was. Hitherto the choice breeding of those
who were present had confined the applause to the mere courtly clapping
of hands. But now they forgot that they were nobles, knights, and
ladies of high degree, and the continued shout that arose might have
done honour to the most plebeian lungs.
The combatants now again returned each to his barrier. The trumpets
again sounded, and again the generous steeds sprang to their full
speed. But now it was manifest that Sir David Lindsay was in earnest,
and that he had hardly been so before, was proved by the tremendous
violence of the shock with which his blunt lance head came in contact
with the neck-piece of the Lord Welles, who was lifted as it were from
his saddle, and tossed some yards beyond his horse. So terrific was the
effect of Sir David Lindsay’s weapon that the operation of the lance
borne by the Lord Welles was so absolutely overlooked that no one could
tell what it had been, and so admirably was Lindsay’s skill and
strength displayed by this sudden and terrible overthrow of his
opponent, that the spectators, with all the honest impartiality of
Englishmen and Englishwomen, shouted as loudly as if the triumph had
been with their own champion, when the trumpets proclaimed the victory
of the Scottish Knight.
The gallant Lindsay leaped from his horse, and, altogether unheeding
the praises that were showering upon him, ran to lift up his opponent,
who lay without motion. With the assistance of the seconds and
esquires, he raised him, and his helmet being unlaced, he was
discovered to be in a swoon, and it was judged that he was severely
bruised. A litter was immediately brought, and the discomfited knight
speedily carried off to his lodgings in the Tower. Meanwhile Lindsay’s
attention was called by the voice of the King.
“Sir David de Lindsay,” said he, addressing him from his balcony, “we
do heartily give thee joy of thy victory. Thou hast acquitted thyself
like a true and valiant knight. Come up hither that we may bestow our
Royal guerdon on thee.”
Lindsay ran up stairs to the balcony where the King sat, and kneeling
on one knee before him—
“Accept this gemmed golden chain, in token of Richard’s approbation of
thy prowess,” said the Monarch, throwing the chain over his neck; “and
now thou hast full leave to return to thine own country when thou
mayest be pleased so to do, bearing with thee safe-conduct through the
realm of England.”
“Most Royal Sir,” said Lindsay, “I shall bear this thy gift as my
proudest badge; but may I crave thy gracious leave to tarry at thy
Court until I do see that the Lord Welles is restored to health by the
leeches? Verily, I should return but sadly into Scotland did I believe
that I had caused aught of serious evil to so brave a lord.”
“Nay, that at thy discretion, Sir Knight,” replied Richard; “our Court
shall be but the prouder while graced by such a flower of chivalry as
thyself.”
Lindsay bowed his thanks, and then retreated from the applauses which
rang in his ears, that he might hasten to follow the Lord Welles to his
lodgings, where he took his place by his bed-side, and began to execute
the duties of a nurse, rarely quitting him for many days, that is,
until his cure was perfected.
Lindsay was no sooner gone than the gay Sir Piers Courtenay, who had by
this time mounted, and who had been all along writhing under the
ridicule which Sir William de Dalzel had thrown upon him, now prepared
to give his challenge in form. Bringing his horse’s head round to front
the Royal balcony, and backing him with the most perfect skill, he rose
in his stirrups, and made a most graceful obeisance to his King.
“What wouldst thou with us, Courtenay?” said Richard, with a smile
playing about his mouth.
“My liege,” replied Courtenay, bowing again with peculiar grace, “I
have to ask a boon of your Royal favour.”
“Speak, then, we give thee license,” replied the King.
“So please your Majesty, I do conceive myself grossly insulted by a
Scottish knight; in such wise, indeed, that the blood of one of us must
wash out the stain. May we then have thy Royal leave to fight before
thee even now, to the outrance?”
“Name the Scottish knight of whom thou dost so complain,” said the
King, with difficulty composing his features; “thou hast our full
license to give him thy darreigne.”
“’Tis he who now rideth this way,” replied Courtenay, “Sir William de
Dalzel.”
“Ha! what wouldst thou with me, most puissant Sir Piers?” said Dalzel,
who just then returned from riding slowly along the whole length of the
bridge, with his vizor up, a grave face, and a burlesque attitude, so
as to show his pie off to the greatest advantage, bringing a roar of
laughter along with him from the balconies and open lattices on both
sides of the way, and who now approached Courtenay with a bow so
ridiculous, that it entirely upset the small portion of gravity that
the young King was blessed with; “what wouldst thou with me, I say,
most potent paragon of knighthood?”
“I would that thou shouldst redeem thy pledge,” replied Courtenay, with
very unusual brevity.
“What, then, Sir Piers,” replied Dalzel, “must it then be pie against
popinjay? Nay, cry you mercy, I forgot. Thy bird, I do believe, is
called a falcon, though, by St. Luke, an ’twere not for the legend,
few, I wis, would take it for aught but an owl, being that it is of
portraiture so villanous.”
“By the blessed St. Erkenwold, but thy bantering doth pass all
bearing,” cried Courtenay impatiently, and perhaps more nettled at this
attack on the merits of his embroidery than he had been with anything
that had yet passed. “Depardieux, my falcon was the admiration of the
Westminster feast. By the holy St. Paul, it was the work of the most
eminent artists the metropolis can boast.”
“Perdie, I am right glad to hear thy character of them,” replied
Dalzel, “for my pie is here by the same hands; nay, and now I look at
it again, ’tis most marvellously fashioned. By the Rood, but it pecks
an ’twere alive.”
“Thou hast contrived to turn all eyes upon me by thy clownish mockery,”
cried Courtenay, getting still more angry, as the laugh rose higher at
every word uttered by his adversary.
“Nay, then,” replied Dalzel, with affected gravity, “methinks thou
shouldst give me good store of thanks, Sir Knight, for having brought
so many bright and so many brave eyes to look upon the high perfections
of thee and thy buzzard.”
“My liege,” replied Courtenay, no longer able to stand the laugh that
ran around from window to window at his expense, “am I to have thy
Royal license?”
“Go, then, without further let,” said the King; “let the heralds of the
lists proclaim the challenge.”
The usual ceremonies were now gone through, and Sir Piers Courtenay
rode off to the barrier lately tenanted by the Lord Welles. Dalzel sat
looking after him for some seconds, until he was master of his
attitude, and then turning his horse, cantered off to his own barrier,
so perfectly caricaturing the proud and indignant seat of the raging
Courtenay, that he carried a peal of laughter along with him. But the
universal merriment was much increased when the banner of the falcon
was contrasted with that of the pie, which was raised in opposition to
it. It was silenced, however, by the trumpets of warning, that now
brayed loudly from either side of the bridge.
A second and a third time they sounded, and Courtenay flew against his
opponent with a fury equal to the rage he felt. Even the serious nature
of the combat could not tame the waggery of the roguish Dalzel, who,
though he failed not to give due attention to the manner in which he
bore his shield, as well as to the firmness of his seat, rode his
career in a manner so ludicrous as altogether to overcome that solemn
silence of expectation that generally awaited the issue of a combat
where death might ensue. The spectators, indeed, were made to forget
the probability of such a consequence, and Courtenay’s ears continued
to be mortified by the loud laugh which, though it followed his
adversary, fell with all its blistering effect upon him. Though much
disconcerted, the English knight bore his lance’s point bravely and
truly against Dalzel’s helmet; but the cunning Scot had left it
unlaced, so that it gave way as it was touched, and fell back on his
shoulders without his feeling the shock; whilst his own lance passed
high over the head of his antagonist.
This appeared to be the result of accident, and they prepared to run
again. The signal was given, the encounter came, Dalzel’s helmet gave
way a second time, whilst he with great adroitness pierced the silken
wreath supporting the falcon that soared over Courtenay’s casque, and
bore it off in triumph.
“Ha!” exclaimed he, “by St. Andrew, but I have the popinjay!” And so
saying, he waited not for further talk, but rode off along the bridge
with pompous air, and returned bearing it on high, to the great
mortification of Courtenay, and the no small amusement of the
spectators.
Courtenay’s ire was now excited to the utmost. The trumpet sounded for
the third career, and he ran to Dalzel with the fullest determination
to unhorse him; but again the treacherous helmet defeated him, while he
received the point of his adversary’s lance so rudely on the bars of
the vizor, that they gave way before it.
“Come hither, come hither quickly,” cried Courtenay to his esquire. “By
the blessed St. George, I have suffered most fatal damage, the which
the clownish life of that caitiff Scot would but poorly compensate.”
All eyes were now turned towards him; and his esquire having released
him from his helmet, showed his mouth bleeding so profusely, that those
who were near him began seriously to fear that he had really suffered
some fatal injury.
“As I am a true knight, my liege, I shall never lift my head again,”
said Courtenay. “I have lost the most precious ornaments of my face,
two pearls from my upper jaw—see here they are,” said he, holding them
out, “fresh, oriental, and shaped by nature with an elegance so
surprisingly and scrupulously accurate, that they were the admiration
of all who saw them. What shall I do without them?”
“Nay, in truth, thou must even make war on thy food with the wings of
thine army, instead of nibbling at it with the centre, as I did remark
thou were wont to do,” said Sir William Dalzel, looking over his
shoulder.
“Dost thou sit there, my liege, to see one of thy native knights made a
mock of? Had not the traitor’s helmet been left unclosed, by the holy
shrine of St. Erkenwold, but he should have bit the dust ere now. I
demand justice.”
“Nay, of a truth I did greatly err, most valiant sir,” said Sir William
Dalzel, with mock penitence. “It was that hawk-shaped nese of thine
that my pie would have pyked at.”
“Give me but one course all fair, and thou mayest pick as it may please
thee,” replied Courtenay.
“Nay, I am willing to pleasure thee with six courses, if thou wouldst
have them, good Sir Knight of the Howlet,” replied Dalzel; “but then,
mark me, it must be on equal terms. Hitherto thou hast fought me with a
secret vantage on thy side.”
“Vantage!” cried Courtenay with indignation; “nay, methinks the vantage
hath been all thine own, Sir Scot.”
“In truth, it must be owned I have had the best of it, Sir Englishman,”
said Dalzel with a sarcastic leer; “natheless, ’tis thou who hast had
the secret vantage.”
“Let us be judged then by the Royal Richard,” said Courtenay.
“Agreed,” said Dalzel. “But let each of us first pledge in the Royal
hands two hundred pieces of gold, to be incontinently forfaulted by him
who shall be found to have borne the secret vantage.”
“Agreed,” cried Courtenay confidently.
A murmur of highly-excited curiosity now ran along the lists, and the
knights despatched their esquires for the money. Dalzel gave a private
hint to his as he went. In a short time the two esquires returned, each
carrying a purse on a pole, both of which were put up in the balcony
where the King sat. But what surprised every one was the appearance of
a farrier, who followed Dalzel’s squire, bearing a burning brand in his
hand.
“And now,” said Dalzel aloud, “I do boldly accuse Sir Piers Courtenay,
the knight of the How——, nay, he of the Falcon, I mean, of having
fought against me with two eyes, whilst one of mine was scooped out at
Otterbourne, doubtless by one of the hot-spurring sons of
Northumberland’s Earl. I do therefore claim his forfaulted purse. But
as I do fully admit the bravery of the said Sir Piers, the goodness of
whose metal is sufficiently apparent, though it be besprent with so
much vain tinsel, I am willing to do further battle with him, yea, for
as many as six courses, or sixty times six, if he be so inclined, but
this on condition that he doth resign that unfair vantage the which he
hath hitherto had of me, and cheerfully submit to have one of his eyes
extinguished by the brand of this sooty operator.”
“Sir Piers Courtenay,” said Richard, laughing heartily at a joke so
well suited to the times, and which had renewed the convulsions of
laughter so severely felt by Dalzel’s antagonist, “art thou prepared to
agree to this so reasonable proposal?”
But Sir Piers Courtenay was so chagrined that he wanted words. He hung
his head, and was silent.
“Then must we of needscost forbid all further duel, and forthwith
decide incontinently against thee. The purses are thine, Sir William de
Dalzel, for, sooth to say, thou hast well earned them by thy merry
wit.”
“Nay, then, Sir Piers Courtenay,” said Dalzel, riding up to his
opponent, “let not this waggery of mine cause me to tyne thy good will.
Trust me, I will have none of thy money; but if thou art disposed to
confess that thou hast no longer that contempt for Scottish knights the
which thou hast been hitherto so much inclined to manifest, let it be
laid out in some merry masquing party of entertainment, the which shall
be thine only penance. When all else, from the Royal Richard downwards,
have been so hospitable, why should we have to complain of the despisal
of one English knight? Let us shake hands, then, I pray thee.”
“Sir William de Dalzel, though thou hast worked me a grievous loss, the
which can never be made good,” replied Courtenay, laying his hand on
his mouth, “verily I do bear thee no unchristian ill-will; and sith
that his Majesty hath absolved us of our duel, I do hereby cheerfully
give thee the right hand of good fellowship.”
“’Tis well,” said Dalzel. “Instead of fighting thee, I will strive with
thee in that for the which neither eyes nor teeth may be much needed. I
will dance a bargaret with thee, yea, or a fandango, if that may please
thee better, and there I shall ask for no favour.”
CHAPTER LXIV.
Lady de Vere and her Lovely Guest. Innocence and Purity endangered.
The King’s Confessor and the Franciscan Friar.
After the spectacle was over, and whilst the homeward procession was
forming, Sir Patrick Hepborne was surprised by the wave of a fair hand,
accompanied by a smiling bow of acknowledgment from a very beautiful
woman in one of the balconies close to that of the King. From the
richness of her attire, and the place that had been allotted to her,
she was evidently a lady of some consequence. He returned the
compliment, but, whilst he did so, he felt unconscious of having ever
spoken to her, although, upon re-perusing her face, he remembered her
as one whom he had seen at the King’s banquets, where he had observed
that she was particularly noticed by the Sovereign. Turning to Sir
Miles Stapleton, who stood by him, he besought him to tell her name.
“What,” exclaimed Sir Miles in reply, “hast thou been at our English
Court for so many days, Sir Patrick, and yet knowest thou not the Lady
de Vere? Depardieux, it doth much surprise me that she hath not sooner
sought thine acquaintance, for, by the Rood, she is a merry madam, and
fond of variety. She hath been married but a short space, yet she
already changeth her lovers as she doth her fancy robes.”
“Is it possible?” cried Hepborne, in astonishment.
“Possible, Sir Patrick!” returned the English knight; “perdie, I am
surprised at thy seeming wonder. Are Scottish ladies then so constant
to their lords that thou shouldst think this fickleness so great a
marvel in the Lady de Vere? She hath been for some time an especial
favourite of Majesty; that is, I would have thee to understand me, in
friendship, not par amours, though there be evil tongues that do say as
much.”
“Indeed?” cried Hepborne.
“Yea, they scruple not to say so,” continued Sir Miles; “but I, who
better know the King, do verily believe that, albeit he is much given
to idle dalliance with these free ladies of this licentious Court,
there be but little else to accuse him of. Thou needst have no fear,
therefore, Sir Patrick, that the dread of Majesty will interfere with
thy happiness, if it be her will to receive thee as a lover; so I wish
thee joy of thy conquest. Trust me, I do more envy thee than I do the
brave conqueror of the Lord Welles, much glory as he hath gained.”
Sir Patrick turned away, at once confounded and disgusted. What! the
Lady Eleanore de Selby, of whose excellence he had heard so much, the
friend of the Lady Beatrice—was it possible that the contamination of a
Court could have already rendered her a person of character so loose?
He was shocked at the thought. He turned again to watch her motions,
when he observed the King himself advance towards her as she was
preparing to get into her saddle, and a private conversation pass
between them, that drew the eyes of all the courtiers upon them; but
Sir Patrick being called away to join the Scottish party, lost the
opportunity of observing the conclusion of their conference.
Whilst the procession was dispersing in the court-yard of the Tower,
the Lady de Vere entered, riding on a piebald palfry, richly
caparisoned. She was surrounded by a group of gay chevaliers, with whom
she was talking and laughing loudly; but she no sooner espied Hepborne
than she broke from among them and advanced to meet him.
“Sir Patrick Hepborne,” said she, smiling, “it erketh me that mine evil
fortune hath hitherto yielded me no better than public opportunity to
know him, who, by consent of all, is acknowledged to be the flower of
Scottish chivalry. Trust me, my private apartments shall be ever open
to so peerless a knight.”
“Nay, Lady,” replied Sir Patrick, “the title thou hast been pleased to
bestow on me belongeth not to me but to Sir David Lindsay and Sir
William Dalzel, who have this day so nobly supported the honour of
Scotland.”
“They are brave knights, ’tis true,” replied the lady; “yet be there
other qualifications in knighthood than mere brute strength or brute
courage. That thou hast enow of both of these to the full as well as
they, we who have heard of Otterbourne do well know. But in the graces
of knightly deportment there be few who admit them to be thine equal,
and of that few I do confess myself not to be one.”
Hepborne bowed; but, disgusted alike with her freedom and flattery, he
gave token of approval neither by manner nor words.
“These are my apartments, Sir Knight,” continued the lady, pointing to
a range of windows in a wing of the palace. “If thou canst quit the
banquet to spend some merry hours with me this evening, trust me, thou
shalt meet with no cold reception from the Lady de Vere.”
This invitation was seasoned by some warm glances, that spoke even more
than her words; but Sir Patrick received both the one and the other
with a silent and formal obeisance. The lady turned towards a flight of
steps, and being assisted to dismount by an esquire, she tripped up
stairs and along a covered terrace. A door opened at its farther
extremity, and a lady appeared for a moment. It was the Lady Beatrice;
he could not be mistaken; her image was now too deeply engraven on his
heart. The blood bounded for a moment within his bosom, rushed through
each artery with the heat and velocity of lightning, and then, as the
thought of the Lady de Vere’s character arose within his mind, it
returned cold as ice to its fountain-head, and froze up every warm
feeling there. He felt faint, and his head grew giddy. He looked
towards the door where the ladies were saluting each other with every
mark of kindness, and his eyes grew dim as they vanished within the
entrance.
Almost unconscious of what he was doing, Sir Patrick turned his horse
to go to his lodgings. As he recovered from the stunning effect of the
spectacle he beheld, his mind began to be agonized by the most
distressing thoughts. It was impossible that the Lady Beatrice, whom he
believed to be so pure, could be the willing guest of so vile a woman,
knowing her to be such. Yet, though such was his impression, he knew
not well what to think. It was most strange that the Lady de Vere
should have thus urged him to visit her while Beatrice was with her;
unless, indeed, the latter were privy to it, and that it was on her
account. But be this as it might, he liked not the complexion of
matters; and, in a state of great perplexity and unhappiness, he
reached the wine merchant’s, where, having given his horse to a groom,
he slowly sought his chamber, unwillingly to prepare for the banquet.
In going along the passage which led to his apartments, thinking of
what so much occupied him, he, in a fit of absence, opened a door,
believing it to be his own; and, to his great surprise, he found
himself in a room, where some dozen or twenty persons were seated at a
long table, on which lay some papers. His host was there among the
rest, and the appearance of the knight threw the whole party into
dismay and confusion. Hepborne drew back with an apology, and hastily
shut the door; but he had hardly reached his own, when he heard the
steps of his host coming hurrying after him.
“Sir Knight,” said Master Ratcliffe, “’twas but some of those with whom
I have had money dealings, come to settle interest with me.”
As Hepborne looked in his face, he was surprised to notice that it had
exchanged its generous ruby red for a deadly paleness; the wine
merchant was evidently disturbed; but neither this observation, nor the
confusion he had occasioned among the party whom he had seen
surrounding the table, could then find room in his mind for a moment’s
thought. He therefore hastily explained that the interruption had been
quite accidental on his part, and the wine merchant left him apparently
satisfied. It will be easily believed that Sir Patrick Hepborne was but
ill attuned for the revelry of the Royal banquet. He sat silent and
abstracted, ruminating on the monstrous and afflicting conjunction he
had that day witnessed, and perplexing himself with inventing
explanations of the cruel doubts that were perpetually arising in his
mind. The King broke up the feast at an earlier hour than usual, and
Sir Patrick, glad to escape from the crowd, stole away by himself.
As he was leaving the palace, he turned his eyes towards the casements
of the Lady de Vere. They were eminently conspicuous, for they were
open, and lighted up with great brilliancy, while the sound of the harp
came from them. He thought of the invitation he had received, and hung
about for some time, weighing circumstances, and hesitating whether he
should immediately avail himself of it, that he might ascertain the
truth, or whether he should, in the first place, endeavour to gather it
by some other means. Passion argued for the first, as the most decided
step, and prudence urged the second as the wisest plan; but whilst he
was tossed between them, he was gradually drawn towards the windows by
the unseen magnet within. As he got nearer, he ascertained that it was
a man’s voice that sung the melody and words, to which the instrument
was an accompaniment; and by the time he reached the bottom of the
flight of steps, he could catch the remaining verses of a ballad, part
of which had been already sung. They were nearly as follows:—
“And wilt thou break thy faith with me,
And dare our vows to rend?”
“Hence!” cried the angry sire; “with thee
My Eda ne’er shall wend.
“Her name doth prouder match demand;
Lord Henry comes to-night;
He comes to take her promised hand,
And claim a husband’s right.
“Then hence!”—The knight, in woful guise,
Turned from the perjured gate;
The maiden heard her lover’s sighs,
All weeping where she sate.
“Now up and run, my bonnie page,
Fly with the falcon’s wing,
Fly swiftly to Sir Armitage,
And give to him this ring.
“And tell him, when the rippling ford
Shall catch the moonbeams light,
I’ll leave the hated bridal board,
To meet him there to-night.”
The boy he found Sir Armitage
In greenwood all so sad;
But when he spied his lady’s page,
His weeping eyne grew glad.
And up leaped he for very joy,
And kissed his lady’s ring,
And much he praised the bonny boy
Who did such message bring.
“I’ll meet my lady by the stream,
So, boy, now hie thee home;
I’ll meet her when the moon’s broad beam
Comes dancing over the foam.”
And now to grace the wedding-feast
The demoiselles prepare;
There were the bridegroom, sire, and priest,
But Eda was not there.
She left her tyrant father’s tower,
To seek her own true knight;
She met him at the trysted hour,
Prepared to aid her flight.
“Sir Armitage, with thee I’ll ride
Through flood, o’er fell so steep;
Though destined for another’s bride,
My vow to thee I’ll keep.”
“Oh bless thee, bless thee, lady mine,
That true thy heart doth prove;
Before yon moon hath ceased to shine,
The priest shall bless our love.”
He raised her on his gallant steed,
And sprang him to his selle;
“Keep, keep thy seat, my love, with heed,
And grasp my baldrick well.”
Beneath the moon the wavelets flash’d,
Struck by the courser’s heel,
And through the ford he boldly dash’d,
Spurr’d by the pointed steel.
High up his sides the surges rose,
And washed the blood away;
They lav’d fair Eda’s bridal-clothes,
And fill’d her with dismay.
“Alas, the stream is strong,” she cried.
“Fear not, my love,” said he;
“’Tis here the waters deepest glide,
Anon we shall be free.”
Behind them rung a wild alarm,
And torches gleam’d on high;
Forth from the Castle came a swarm,
With yells that rent the sky.
Again the knight his iron heel
Dash’d in his courser’s side.
He plung’d—his powerful limbs did reel—
He yielded to the tide.
Down went both mailed horse and knight;
The maid was borne away,
And flash’d the moonbeam’s silver light
Amid the sparkling spray.
His daughter’s shriek the father heard,
Far on the moonlit wave;
A moment Eda’s form appear’d,
Then sunk in watery grave.
Peace never blest the sire again;
He curst ambitious pride,
That made him hold his promise vain,
And sacred oaths deride.
Still in his eye his sinking child,
Her shriek still in his ear,
Reft of his mind, he wanders wild
Midst rocks and forests drear.
But where that cross in yonder shade
Oft bends the pilgrim’s knee,
There sleep the gentle knight and maid
Beneath their trysting tree.
When the musician had finished, Sir Patrick Hepborne still continued to
loiter with his arm on the balustrade of the stair, when the door
opened, and he heard a feeble step on the terrace above. He looked
upwards, and the light of a lamp that was burning in a niche fell on
the aged countenance of a man who was descending. It was Adam of
Gordon.
“Adam of Gordon!” exclaimed Sir Patrick.
“And who is he, I pray, who doth know Adam of Gordon so far from home?”
demanded the minstrel. “Ah, Sir Patrick Hepborne; holy St. Cuthbert, I
do rejoice to see thee. Trust me, the ready help thou didst yield me at
Forres hath not been forgotten; though thou didst sorely mar my verses
by thine interruption. Full many sithes have I tried to awaken that
noble subject, but the witchery of inspiration is past, and——”
“But how camest thou here?” demanded Hepborne, impatiently interrupting
him.
“Sir Knight, I came hither with a lady from the Borders,” said Adam,
hesitatingly; “a lady that——”
“Nay, speak not so mystically, old man,” replied Hepborne; “I am
already well aware of the story of the Lady Beatrice, and heartily do I
curse mine own folly for permitting jealousy so to hoodwink mine eyes
as to make me run blindly away from mine own happiness. I already guess
that it was she whom thou didst accompany hither, and I know that she
is now an inmate of those apartments, with the Lady de Vere, the
daughter of the late Sir Walter de Selby.”
“Nay, nay, so far thou art wrong, Sir Knight,” replied the Minstrel.
“She to whom these apartments do belong is not the daughter of Sir
Walter de Selby. True it is, indeed, that when the Lady Eleanore did
leave Norham Castle, she did call the companion of her flight by the
name of Sir Hans de Vere, a Zealand knight, kinsman to the Duke of
Ireland; but some strange mystery doth yet hang over this affair, for
he who doth own these gay lodgings, and who is the husband of this gay
madam, is the identical Sir Hans de Vere I have just described, and yet
he knoweth nought of the Lady Eleanore de Selby.”
“Thy speech is one continued riddle, good Adam,” said Hepborne; “canst
thou not explain to me?”
“Nay, of a truth, Sir Knight, thou dost know as much as I do,” said the
minstrel. “What hath become of the Lady Eleanore de Selby no one can
tell. If he that she married be indeed a De Vere, he is at least no kin
to the Duke of Ireland, as he or she would have us believe. There have
been De Veres enow about the English Court since this King Richard
began his reign, albeit that the day may be gone by with many of them,
sith that their chief, the Duke of Ireland, hath been forced to flee
into Zealand, where his race had its origin. But of all the De Veres,
none doth answer the description of him whom the Lady Beatrice and I
did see carry off the Lady Eleanore de Selby from Norham.”
“Strange, most strange,” said Sir Patrick Hepborne; “but knowest thou
aught of this Lady de Vere? Men’s tongues do talk but lightly of her.”
“Nay, in good truth, I have begun to entertain strange notions of her
myself,” replied Adam. “By’r Lady, she would have had me sing some
virelays to-night that were light and warm enow, I promise thee, had I
not feigned that I knew them not; and, by my troth, she spared not to
chide me for my sober minstrelsy, the which she did tauntingly compare
to the chanting of monks. My Lady, quoth I, consider I am but a rude
Border——”
“But say, old man,” cried Hepborne, impatiently interrupting him, “how
did the Lady Beatrice seek shelter with such a woman? Quick, tell me, I
beseech thee, for I must hasten to rescue the poor and spotless dove
from the clutch of this foul howlet.”
“In the name of the Virgin, then, let us lose no time in thinking how
it may best be done,” said Adam of Gordon earnestly; “St. Andrew be
praised that thou, Sir Knight, art so willing to become the protector
of an angel, who——Yet I dare not say how much thou art beloved. But,
hush! we may be overheard here in the open air. Let us retreat to my
garret yonder, where I will tell thee all I can, and then we may, with
secrecy and expedition, concert what steps thou hadst best take.”
Hepborne readily followed the minstrel to his small chamber, and there
he learned the following particulars.
The Lady Beatrice had no sooner recovered from the swoon into which she
had been thrown by the appearance of the Franciscan at Sir Walter de
Selby’s funeral, than she sent for the Minstrel, of whose attachment
and fidelity she had already had many a proof, and imparted to him her
design of quitting Norham Castle immediately. Without communicating her
intention to any one else, she mounted that milk-white palfrey which
had been the gift of Hepborne, and travelled with all speed to
Newcastle, where she sought shelter in the house of a widowed sister of
Sir Walter de Selby. There she lived for a short time in retirement,
until at last she adopted the resolution of visiting London in search
of her friend the Lady Eleanore, whom she believed now to be the Lady
de Vere, that she might communicate to her the death of her father, if
she had not already heard of that event, and entreat from her a
continuance of that protection which she had so long afforded her. She
and the Minstrel, therefore, went on board a ship sailing for the
Thames; but having been tossed about by contrary winds, and even
compelled to seek safety more than once in harbours by the way, they
had only arrived in the metropolis three days before that of which we
are now speaking.
The Minstrel was immediately employed by the Lady Beatrice to make
inquiry for the Lady de Vere, and he was readily directed to the
lodgings of the lady of that name in the Tower. But he was no sooner
introduced into her presence and that of her husband, Sir Hans de Vere,
than he discovered that there was some strange mistake. To exculpate
himself for his seeming intrusion on a knight and lady to whom he was
an utter stranger, he explained the cause of his coming, and told whom
he sought for, when, to his great dismay, he learned that no such
persons as those he described were known about the Court. Filled with
chagrin, he returned to the Lady Beatrice, whose vexation may be more
easily conceived than described. She was a stranger in London, in a
wretched hostel, without a friend but old Adam to advise her, and
severed for ever, as she feared, from the only human being on whom she
could say that she had the least claim for protection. Despair came
upon her, and hiding her face in her hands, she gave full way to her
grief.
Whilst she sat in this wretched situation, in which Adam in vain
exerted himself to comfort her, a page arrived, with a kind message
from Sir Hans and Lady de Vere, in which they offered her their house
as a home, until she should have time to determine as to her future
conduct. So friendly, so seasonable a proposal, was not to be rejected
in her circumstances, even coming as it did from strangers, and the
Lady Beatrice gladly became the guest of the Lady de Vere.
So far went the Minstrel’s knowledge; but leaving Sir Patrick to
question him as he pleases, we shall ourselves more deeply investigate
the circumstances, as well as the secret springs of action which
produced this event. It happened that just after the Minstrel’s
interview with the Lady de Vere, King Richard came to idle an hour with
her as he was often wont to do to gather the gossip of the Court. The
lady told him what had passed, and the Monarch joined with her in the
laugh it occasioned. The Lady de Vere had extracted enough of
Beatrice’s history from the Minstrel to be able to answer the King’s
questions.
“And who may this Beatrice be?” demanded Richard.
“A damsel, I believe, whom old De Selby picked up at the door of a
Scottish peasant, and whom he fancied to educate as a companion to his
daughter Eleanore,” replied Lady de Vere; “doubtless, now that he is
dead, she seeks to hang herself about the neck of the heiress of her
patron.”
“And sith that she hath so come, might we not find some other neck for
her to hang about?” said the King laughing. “Pr’ythee, send for her
hither; we should be well contented to see this stray bird.”
The Lady de Vere well knew her advantage in humouring all the wild
fancies that entered the King’s head, and accordingly gave immediate
obedience to his wishes, by sending to Beatrice the message we have
already noticed. Fatigued to death by her voyage, Beatrice had no
sooner complied with the invitation she had received, than she was
compelled to retire to the apartment the Lady de Vere had prepared for
her; and she continued so long indisposed that she was unable to be
present at the tilting.
Towards the evening of that day, however, she was so far recovered as
to quit her room; and, accordingly, when the procession returned from
London Bridge, she hastened to pour out her gratitude to the Lady de
Vere for the hospitable reception she had given her.
Sir Hans went to the King’s banquet, but his lady remained with
Beatrice; and the Minstrel was sent for to amuse them with his ballads.
There was something free and bold in the manner of the Lady de Vere
that was by no means agreeable to Beatrice; but believing that there
was nothing worse in it than an unfortunate manner, she endeavoured to
reconcile herself to it, in one who had shown her so much apparent
friendship.
They were seated in a luxuriously-furnished apartment, hung with
tapestry of the richest hues, and lighted up by silver lamps, when the
door opened, and Sir Hans de Vere entered, ushering in a young man,
whom he introduced as the Earl of Westminster. The Lady de Vere smiled
on the young nobleman, and Beatrice, though she had never heard of such
a title, was aware that new lords were created so frequently, that
there was little wonder she should be ignorant of it. The young Earl,
who was very handsome, seemed to be on habits of great intimacy with
Sir Hans de Vere and his lady. He seated himself by the Lady Beatrice,
and began to trifle pleasantly with her, mixing up a thousand courtly
compliments with the agreeable nothings that he uttered. Spiced wine
and sweetmeats were handed round, and soon afterwards a small, but very
tasteful and exquisitely cooked supper appeared, with wines of the
richest flavour. The Lady Beatrice ate little, and refused to touch
wine. The night wore apace. The young Earl of Westminster became more
and more earnest in his endeavours to make himself agreeable to
Beatrice, who began to find considerable amusement in his conversation,
and insensibly permitted him to absorb her whole attention. Suddenly he
began, in a sort of half-serious manner, to address her in a strain of
tenderness that by no means pleased her. She prepared to shift her
place; but what was her astonishment, when, on looking up, she saw that
she and the young Earl were alone. Sir Hans de Vere and his lady had
stolen unnoticed from the apartment. Beatrice started up to follow
them.
“Nay, stay to hear me, lovely Beatrice,” cried the Earl, endeavouring
to detain her.
“Unhand me, my Lord,” cried she boldly, and at the same time tearing
herself from him.
“Hear me, only hear me,” cried the Earl, springing to the door, so as
to cut off her retreat.
This action still more alarmed her. She screamed aloud for help, and
flying to the casement, threw it open; but the Earl dragged her from it
by gentle force, and having shut it, he was vainly endeavouring to
compose her, when the chamber door was burst open by a furious kick,
and Sir Patrick Hepborne appeared, with his drawn sword in his hand.
“King Richard!” cried the knight, starting back with astonishment:
“Doth England’s King so far forget the duty of the high office he doth
hold, as to become the destroyer instead of the protector of innocence?
Yet, by St. Andrew, wert thou fifty times a king, thou shouldst answer
to me for thine insult to that lady. Defend thyself.”
The cool presence of mind exhibited by Richard whilst yet a stripling,
on the memorable occasion of Wat Tyler being struck down by Walworth
the Lord Mayor, showed that he was not constitutionally deficient in
courage; but in this, as in everything else, he was wavering and
uncertain, and no one was more liable than he to yield to sudden panic.
Seeing Hepborne about to spring on him, he darted into an inner room,
the door of which stood ajar.
“Sir Patrick Hepborne!” cried the Lady Beatrice, her lovely face
flushing with the mingled emotions of surprise, joy, gratitude, and
love.
“Yes,” cried the knight, throwing himself on one knee before her, “yes,
Lady Beatrice, he who may now dare to call himself thine own faithful
and true knight—he who hath now had his eyes cleared from the errors
which blinded him—he who, whilst deeply smitten by those matchless
charms, believed that in his adoration of them he was worshipping the
Lady Eleanore de Selby—he who thus believing himself to be deceived and
rejected, did yet continue to nourish the pure and enduring flame in
his bosom after all hope had fled, and who now feels it glow with
tenfold warmth, sith that hope’s gentle gales have again sprung up to
fan it—he who will——But whither is my passion leading me?” cried he,
starting up, and taking Beatrice’s hand; “this is no time for indulging
myself in such a theme, dear as it may be to me. Lady, thou art
betrayed. This is no fit place of sojournance for spotless virtue such
as thine. The false Lady de Vere is one who doth foully minister to the
King’s pleasures. Lose not a moment, I beseech you. I have seen Adam of
Gordon, who waits for us without. Fly then,” cried he, leading her
towards the door, “fly with me; I will be thy protector. Let us haste
from the impure den of this wicked woman, who would have——”
Sir Patrick threw open the door as he pronounced these words, and in an
instant he was prostrated on the floor by the blow of a halbert.
“Seize him and drag him to a dungeon,” cried the Lady de Vere, with
eyes flashing like those of an enraged tigress; “I accuse him of a
treasonable attack on the sacred person of the King of England. He
shall die the death of traitor.” The guards obeyed her, and lifting up
the inanimate body of the knight, bore him away.
“So,” cried the fury, “so perish those who shall dare to insult the
love of the Lady de Vere; and as for thee, minion,” she said, turning
round, “thou art a prisoner there during my pleasure.” And saying so,
she pushed Beatrice into the room, and locked and bolted the door on
the wretched damsel, who fell from her violence, and instantly swooned
away.
When the Lady Beatrice recovered, and began to recollect what had
passed, she arose in a tremor, and tottering to a seat, rested herself
for some moments, throwing her eyes fearfully around the apartment.
Everything in it remained as it was. No one seemed to have entered
since. The lamps had begun to burn so faintly, that they appeared to
tell of the approach of midnight, and this idea was strengthened by the
silence that prevailed everywhere both without and within the palace.
She tried the bolts of the door, but, to her great horror, she found
them fast. A faint hope of escape arose, when she remembered that the
King had disappeared by the inner apartment, whence there might be a
passage leading to other chambers. She snatched up an expiring hand
lamp, and hastened to explore it. But there was no visible mode of exit
from the room, and she now became convinced that the King must have
returned through the apartment whilst she lay insensible, and that some
one had liberated him from without. The recollection of the cruel
wound, which she almost feared might have been Sir Patrick’s death
blow, together with the certainty of his captivity, and the probable
issue of it, now filled her mind with horror; and this, added to the
perplexity of her present situation, so overcame her, that she sat down
and wept bitterly.
The lamps now, one after another, expired, until she was left in total
darkness. She groped her way into the inner apartment, and, having
fastened the door within, threw herself upon the couch, and abandoned
herself to all her wretchedness.
Whilst the Lady Beatrice was lying in this distressing situation, she
was startled by a noise. Suddenly a glare of light flashed upon her
eyes; she rubbed them, and looked towards the spot whence it proceeded.
A man in a friar’s habit stood near the wall; he held a lamp high, that
its light might the better fill the room. Immediately behind him was an
opening in the tapestry, the folds of which being held aside by a hand
and arm, admitted the entrance of another shaven crowned head. To the
terror of the Lady Beatrice, she recognized in this second monk the
piercing eyes and powerful features of the very Franciscan whose dagger
had so alarmed her at Lochyndorbe, and the sight of whom had so
affected her at Sir Walter de Selby’s funeral. She attempted to scream,
but fear so overcame her, that, like one who labours under a nightmare,
her lips moved, but her tongue refused to do its office, and she lay
with her eyes wide open, staring on the object of her dread, in mute
expectation of immediate murder.
“Is she there, Friar Rushak?” said he whom we have known by the name of
the Franciscan.
“She is here,” said the first monk, who bore the lamp; “all is quiet
too—thou mayest safely enter.”
The Franciscan who followed now stepped into the apartment, and came
stealing forward with soft, barefooted tread.
“Give me the light, Friar Rushak, that there may be no mistake,” said
he, taking the lamp from his companion.
The blood grew chill in the Lady Beatrice’s veins as the Franciscan
approached the couch where she lay. He held the lamp so as to throw its
light strongly upon her face.
“It is she indeed,” said he, in a muttering voice, while his features
were lighted up by a grim smile of satisfaction, which gradually faded
away, leaving a severe expression in his lightning eye.
“She trembles,” said Friar Rushak, advancing towards the couch with a
terrible look; “conscious of her own depravity, she is guilt-stricken.”
“Ay, she may well be guilt-stricken,” said the Franciscan.
“Alas, of what am I accused, mysterious man?” cried the Lady Beatrice,
clasping her hands together, and throwing herself on her knees before
them. “Murder me not—murder me not. Let not the holy garments you wear
be stained with the blood of innocence.”
“Innocence!” cried Friar Rushak, “talk not thou of innocence! Why art
thou in these apartments if thou be’st innocent?”
“So help me the pure and immaculate Virgin, I am not here by mine own
consent,” said the unhappy lady. “Murder me not without inquiry—I am a
prisoner here—I was eager to escape—I should have escaped with Sir
Patrick Hepborne, had not——”
“Sir Patrick Hepborne,” said the Franciscan, with a ferocious look.
“Ay, so! The curse of St. Francis be upon him!”
“Nay, nay, curse him not—oh, curse him not!” cried Beatrice, embracing
the Franciscan’s knees. “Murder me if thou wilt, but, oh, curse not
him, who at peril of his noble life would have rescued me from these
hated walls.”
“Yea, again I do say, may he be accursed,” cried the Franciscan, with
increased energy and ferocity of aspect. “Full well do we know thy love
for this infamous knight—full well do we know why he would have
liberated thee.”
“But to find thee here as a toil spread by the Devil to catch the
tottering virtue of King Richard!” cried Friar Rushak.
“Yea,” said the Franciscan, striking his forehead with the semblance of
intense inward feeling, “to find thee a monster so utterly depraved, is
indeed even more than my worst suspicions.”
“What couldst thou hope, minion!” said Friar Rushak sternly; “what
couldst thou hope from fixing thine impure affections on the Royal
Richard.”
“Blessed Virgin,” cried the tortured Beatrice, clasping her hands and
throwing her eyes solemnly upwards, “Holy Mother of God, thou who art
truth itself, and who canst well search out the truth in others, if I
do speak aught else than truth now, let thy just indignation strike me
down an inanimate corpse. I am here as an innocent victim to the
treachery of the Lady de Vere. She it was who inveigled me into these
apartments by pretended friendship, that she might make a sacrifice of
me. I knew not even the person of King Richard; and had it not been for
Sir Patrick Hepborne, who so bravely rescued me from his hand——”
“Um,” said Friar Rushak, somewhat moved by what she had uttered; “thine
appeal is so solemn, and it must be confessed that the evidence of
those who did accuse thee of plotting against the King’s heart is
indeed but questionable. It may be—But, be it as it may, it mattereth
not, for thou shalt soon be put beyond the reach of weaving snares for
Richard. Yet shall we try thee anon, for thou shalt see the King, and
if by word or look thou dost betray thyself, this dagger shall search
thy heart, yea, even in the presence of Richard himself.”
“King Richard!” cried Beatrice, with distraction in her looks. “Take me
not before the King; let me not again behold the King. Where have they
carried Sir Patrick Hepborne? In charity let me fly to him; he may now
want that aid which I am bound to yield him.”
“Nay, thou shalt never see him more.” said the Franciscan.
“Oh, say not so, say not so—tell me not that he is dead,” cried the
Lady Beatrice, forgetting everything else in her apprehension for Sir
Patrick; “oh, if a spark of charity burns within your bosoms, let me
hasten to him. I saw him bleeding, and on the ground—I heard him
cruelly condemned to a dungeon—oh, let me be the companion of his
captivity—let me watch by his pillow—let me soothe his sorrows—let me
be his physician. If my warm life’s-blood were a healing balm, this
gushing heart would yield it all for his minutest wound.” Her feelings
overcame her, and she fell back, half fainting, on the floor.
“Raise her head,” said Friar Rushak to the Franciscan, who was bending
over her with some anxiety; and he applied to her nostrils a small
golden box, containing some refreshing odour, which speedily began to
revive her.
“Alas!” said the Franciscan, “however innocently she may be here, as
affects the King, her abandoned love for her seducer hath been too
clearly confessed.”
“She reviveth,” said Friar Rushak; “raise her to her feet. And now let
us hasten, brother; the moments fly fast, and we have yet to effect our
perilous passage through the——”
“Is there no other way?” demanded the Franciscan.
“None,” replied the Friar Rushak; “and if the King should——”
“The King!” repeated Beatrice, with a thrill of dread.
“Ay, Lady, the King,” replied the Friar Rushak, with a strong emphasis
and a desperate expression; “but thou must wear this disguise to
conceal thee,” continued he, opening out a bundle containing a
Franciscan’s habit. “Draw the cowl over thy head and face; follow me
with caution; and whatever thou mayest see, utter no word, or give no
sign, else——Nay, let not thy breath he heard, or——Come on.”
The Friar Rushak now led the way with the lamp, and the Lady Beatrice,
shaking from a dread that even her loose disguise could not conceal,
stepped after him through a spring door behind the tapestry, that led
into a passage in the centre of the wall. The Franciscan followed, and
shut the door behind him. The passage was so narrow, that one person
only could advance at a time. It was strangely crooked also, frequently
bending at right angles, so as to defy all Beatrice’s speculation as to
where they might be leading her. A dead silence was preserved by both
her attendants, and they moved with a caution that allowed not a step
to be heard. Friar Rushak halted suddenly, and turned round; the lamp
flashed upon his face, and showed his angry eye; the Lady Beatrice fell
back in terror into the arms of the Franciscan behind her. Friar Rushak
put his finger to his open mouth, and then told her, in a whisper, to
suppress the high breathing which her fears had created. The Lady
Beatrice endeavoured to obey. Friar Rushak motioned to her and the
Franciscan to remain where they were; he advanced three or four paces
with great caution, and, slowly opening a concealed door, listened for
a moment; then gently pushing aside the tapestry within, he thrust
forward his head, and again withdrawing it, motioned to Beatrice and
the Franciscan to advance.
“They sleep,” whispered he. “Follow me—but no word, sign, or breath, as
thou dost value thy life.”
Friar Rushak entered within the tapestry, and the Lady Beatrice
followed him into a magnificent chamber, lighted by a single lamp. A
gorgeous bed occupied one end of the apartment. Over it, attached to
the heavy Gothic ceiling, was a gilded crown, whence descended a
crimson drapery, richly emblazoned with the Royal Arms of England,
under which lay a young man, his head only appearing above the
bed-clothes. She hastily glanced at his features, which the lamp but
dimly illuminated. It was King Richard. His dark eye-lashes were
closed, but she trembled lest he should awaken. Around the room were
several couches, where his pages ought to have watched, but where they
lay as sound as their Royal master.
They had hardly stepped into the room, when a little dog came growling
from under the King’s bed. The Lady Beatrice had nearly sunk on the
floor, but the little favourite of the monarch instantly recognized
Friar Rushak as a well-known friend, and quietly retreated to his place
of repose. The pages showed no symptom of alarm, but the King turned in
bed, and exposed his head more fully to view. The Lady Beatrice shook
from head to foot as she looked towards him; but her apprehension was
excited yet more immediately, when she beheld Friar Rushak at her side,
with a menacing eye, and a dagger in his grasp. A sign at once conveyed
to her that it was silence he wanted; and though she ventured not to
breathe, her heart beat so against her side as she stood, that she felt
as if the very sound of its pulsations would break the slumbers of all
around her. Again the King was quiet, and Friar Rushak moved on towards
the opposite door. The Lady Beatrice drew the cowl more over her face,
and, without daring to repeat her glance at the King, followed with as
much caution as her sinking knees would permit her to use.
The door was opened by Friar Rushak with the utmost gentleness, and
they found themselves at one extremity of a suite of apartments, the
long perspective of which was seen running onwards from one to another,
and where they could perceive groups of dozing domestics lying on
chairs, and stretched on benches, in every possible position. Through
one of these rooms they passed, and then retreated by a side-door into
a narrow circular stair, by which they descended to the hall of
entrance, where they found about a dozen archers sitting slumbering by
a great fire. These men roused themselves on their approach, and,
starting up, sprang forward to bar their passage with their halberts.
The Lady Beatrice became alarmed, and, in the trepidation that seized
her, dropped the friar’s habit that had hitherto concealed her.
“Ha!” exclaimed one of the soldiers, “a woman and two monks! Who may
that considerate lord have been who hath thus taken the shrift with the
sin?”
“Silence, Barnaby,” cried another man; “that is the holy Father Rushak,
the King’s Confessor.”
“Let me pass, knaves,” cried Rushak.
“Ay, ay, let him pass,” said another man; “he hath right of entrance
and outgoing at all hours. I would not have thee try to stop him, an
thou wouldst sleep in a whole skin to-morrow night.”
The passage was cleared in a moment. The Lady Beatrice, overpowered
with apprehension, was supported by the Franciscan.
“Come on, brother,” cried Friar Rushak.
“She faints,” cried the Franciscan.
“Lift her in thine arms, then,” cried Rushak.
The Franciscan raised her from the ground, and carried her half
senseless to the door. At that moment a man entered, and brushed by
them in breathless haste. He looked behind him at the group.
“The Lady Beatrice!” cried he. “Ha, whither do ye carry her, villains?”
“Answer him not, but run,” said Rushak, flying off at full speed across
the court, followed by the sturdy Franciscan, who carried his fair
burden as if he felt not her weight. The steps of many people were
heard following them. All at once the noise of a desperate scuffle
ensued behind them, and the two monks, who stayed not to inquire the
nature of it, pressed on towards a low archway that ran under the
river-wall. The air blew fresh from the river on Beatrice’s cheek. She
revived, and found that he who carried her was standing near an iron
gate of ponderous strength, which Friar Rushak was making vain attempts
to open.
“Holy St. Francis assist us!” cried he, “I fear that my hands have
erred, and that I have unluckily possessed myself of the wrong key.”
“Hush,” said the Franciscan, “and keep close. The step of the sentinel
on the wall above falls louder. He cometh this way.”
They drew themselves closer to the wall. The sentinel’s step passed
onward to the extremity of his walk, and then slowly returning, it
again moved by, and the sound of it sank along the wall.
“Try the key again, brother,” said the Franciscan; “the man is beyond
hearing.”
Friar Rushak again applied the key; the great bolt yielded before it;
the gate creaked upon its hinges, and the Franciscan deposited his
trembling burden, more dead than alive, in a little skiff that lay in
the creek of the river running under the vault.
“Thanks, kind brother,” said the Franciscan in a low tone of voice, to
Friar Rushak; “a thousand thanks for thy friendly aid.”
“Hush! the sentinel comes again,” whispered Friar Rushak.
They remained perfectly still until the man had completed his turn, and
was gone beyond hearing.
“Now thou mayest venture to depart,” said Friar Rushak—“away, and St.
Francis be with thee!” And so saying, he waved his hand, shut the gate,
and quickly disappeared.
The Franciscan got into the boat. A little crooked man, who had
hitherto lain like a bundle of clothes in the bottom of it, started up,
and began pushing it along by putting his hands against the side-walls
until he got beyond the vault. Then he sat down and pulled the oars.
“Who goes there?” cried the sentinel, “who goes there?—Answer me, an
thou wouldst not have a quarrel-bolt in thy brain.”
The Franciscan minded not, and the little figure went on, pulling with
all his might. Beatrice sat trembling with affright. It was dark, but
she heard the sentinel’s step running along the wall, as if following
the sound of the oars. He halted; the click of the spring of his
arbaleste reached her ear, and the bolt that it gave wings to had
nearly reached her too, for it struck with great force on the inside of
the boat that was opposite to the man who shot it. The rower pulled off
farther into the stream. The sentinel’s cry for raising the guard was
heard; but the tide was now running down, and it bore the little boat
on its bosom with so much swiftness that they soon lost all sound of
the alarm.
“Tell me, oh, tell me who art thou, and whither dost thou carry me?”
cried Beatrice, her heart sinking with alarm as she beheld the walls of
the city left behind them.
“Daughter, this is neither the time nor the place for the explanation
thou dost lack,” replied the Franciscan; “methinks I do hear the sound
of oars behind us. Let me aid thee, Bobbin,” cried he, taking one of
the oars, and beginning to pull desperately.
The united strength of the two rowers now made the little boat fly like
an arrow, and in a short time the eyes of the Lady Beatrice were
attracted by five lights that burned bright in the middle of the river,
and hung in the form of St. Andrew’s cross.
“St. Francis be praised,” cried the Franciscan; “we are now near the
bark that is to give us safety. Pull, Bobbin, my brave heart.”
The lights grew in magnitude in the Lady Beatrice’s eyes, and the water
beneath the shadowy hull blazed with the bright reflection.
“Hoy, the skiff!” cried a stern voice in a north-country accent.
“St. Andrew!” replied the Franciscan.
“Welcome, St. Andrew,” said the voice from the vessel. “Hast thou sped,
holy father?”
“Yea, by the blessing of St. Francis and the Virgin,” replied the
Franciscan.
The lights, which were suspended to a frame attached to the round top
of the short thick mast, were at once extinguished. The skiff came
alongside, and the Lady Beatrice was lifted, unresisting, into the
vessel, and carried directly into the cabin, and in a few minutes the
anchor was weighed.
“So, my brave men,” cried the master to his sailors, after they had got
the anchor on board, “now, hoise up the mainsail. Take the helm,
Bobbin; we shall drop slowly down till daylight doth appear.”
“Art thou sure of shaping thy course safely through all these intricate
windings?” demanded the Franciscan.
“Yea,” replied the commander, “as sure as thou hast thyself seen me
when running between the Bass and the May. What, dost thou think that I
have been herrying these English loons so long without gathering
sea-craft as well as plunder? And then, have I not crooked Bobbin here
as my pilot, who was bred and born in this serpent of a river? By St.
Rule, but he knoweth every sweep and turn, yea, and every sand and
shoal bank, blindfold. Had I not had some such hands on board, how dost
thou think I could have carried off that spice-ship so cunningly,
having to steer her through so many villainous eel-knots?”
“I see thou art not a whit less daring than thy sire,” said the
Franciscan.
“Nay, an I were, I should ill deserve the gallant name of Mercer,”
replied the other. “Thou didst witness enow of his exploits, I ween,
the while that thou wert aboard of him, to remember thee well that he
did neither want head to conceive, boldness to dare, nor coolness to
execute. Trust me, I lack not my father’s spirit; and though I have not
the fortune to sail with a fleet of stout barks at my back, as he was
wont to do, yet, while the timbers of the tough old Trueman do hold
together beneath me, I shall work these Southrons some cruel evil, to
revenge the loss of my father and his ships. Haul from the land,
Bobbin; haul off, to weather that point. Climb the forecastle and look
out there, he who hath the watch.”
CHAPTER LXV.
In the Dungeons of the Tower of London.
Let us now return to Sir Patrick Hepborne, and inquire into his fate,
as well as endeavour to explain how he was enabled to render so speedy
aid to the Lady Beatrice.
After having heard everything from the Minstrel, he resolved to avail
himself of the invitation he had received from the Lady de Vere; by
doing which immediately, he hoped to have some happy accidental
opportunity of seeing and conversing with the Lady Beatrice. He had no
sooner presented himself at the door of her apartments, than a page,
who seemed to have been on the watch for him, sprang forward, and
ushered him into a small chamber, voluptuously furnished, and
moderately lighted by a single lamp. In his way thither he heard voices
and laughing in another place. The page left him, and in a very short
time he heard the light trip of a woman’s foot. The door opened, and
the Lady de Vere entered alone. She accosted him with an easy gaiety of
manner, and, ordering her page to bring in spiced wine, she began to
assail his heart with all the allurements of which she was mistress.
Sir Patrick, still hoping for an opportunity of seeing her whom he so
much loved, mustered up all his ingenuity to keep the lady in play, but
his mind was so much employed in thinking of the Lady Beatrice, that he
ministered but awkwardly to the coquetry of the Lady de Vere, and met
her warm advances so coldly, that she began to think in her own mind
that this phœnix of Scottish chivalry was little better than a frigid
fool.
It was whilst he was engaged in playing this truly difficult game that
the shrieks of the Lady Beatrice reached his ear. He started up at once
from the Lady de Vere’s side, and, drawing his sword, made his way with
the speed of lightning towards the chamber whence the screams
proceeded, and, with the force of a thunderbolt centred in his foot,
burst open the door as we have already seen. The Lady de Vere, boiling
with indignation at being so abandoned by him, called for some of the
King’s guards, and, arriving with them just in time to hear the
language in which he was talking of her to Beatrice, her rage knew no
bounds, and the reader is already aware to what a cruel extremity it
carried her against the hapless lovers.
The blow which Sir Patrick received, though it effectually stunned him,
was by no means fatal. When he recovered from the swoon into which it
had thrown him, he found himself stretched on a heap of straw, on the
floor of a dungeon. The grey twilight that peeped through a small
grated window placed high in the wall, told him that morning was
approaching. He arose, with a head giddy from the blow it had received,
and found that the axe-wound in his scalp had bled so profusely as to
have deluged his hair, and so clotted it together that it had of itself
stopped the effusion. The knight then began to examine the place of his
confinement, when, to his surprise, he beheld another prisoner in the
vault, who seemed to sleep soundly. Sir Patrick approached to look upon
him, and he was not a little astonished to discover that it was no
other than his landlord, Master Lawrence Ratcliffe. He hesitated for a
time to disturb so sound a repose; but at length curiosity to know how
he came there got the better of everything else, and he gently shook
him from his slumbers. The wine merchant started up—rubbed his eyes,
and betrayed, by his look of terror, that he was awakened to a full
recollection of his situation, and that he feared he was called to meet
his doom; till, seeing that it was his Scottish guest whose countenance
he beheld, his expression changed.
“So thou hast come to look upon the victim of thy traiterie,” said he,
with a reproachful tone.
“What meanest thou, my good friend?” replied Hepborne; “I am a prisoner
here, as well as thyself.”
“Ha, ha! So then, whilst they listened to thy tale, they did begin to
suspect thee of having had some share in the treason,” said Ratcliffe.
“What treason?” demanded Hepborne; “I protest, on the honour of a
knight, that I am altogether ignorant of what thou dost mean. Believe
me, I am here for no matter connected with aught that thou mayest have
done. My crime is the having dared to rescue a virtuous demoiselle from
the wicked assault of King Richard. I was on the eve of springing
forward to punish him on the spot for his villainy, when he fled. I was
suddenly rendered senseless by a blow from the halberd of one of his
guards, and I recovered not from my swoon until I found myself on
yonder straw. But what, I pr’ythee, hath made thee the tenant of this
gloomy dungeon?”
“And art thou really innocent of betraying me then?” demanded
Ratcliffe, with a strong remnant of doubt in his countenance.
“I have already declared, on the faith of knighthood, that I know not
what I could have betrayed thee in,” replied Hepborne, a little
displeased that his truth should be thus questioned; “Depardieux, I am
not wont to be thus interrogated and suspected.”
“Nay, pardon me, good Sir Knight,” cried Master Ratcliffe, starting up,
and stretching out his hand to Hepborne; “by St. Paul, I do now most
readily believe thee, and I am heartily ashamed of having ever doubted
thee for a moment. But thou camest in on us so strangely, as we were in
secret conclave assembled, that when my arrest came at midnight, I
could not but believe that thou hadst betrayed me.”
“What could I have betrayed thee in?” said Sir Patrick. “I came in on
thee and thy friends by an accident, and I neither did know, nor did I
seek to know, the subject of your deliberation.”
“Nay, trust me, it was matter of no weight, Sir Knight,” cried
Ratcliffe eagerly; “simple traffic, I promise thee. Yet men’s most
innocent dealings be cruelly perverted in these slippery times; and
some one, I trow, hath sorely misrepresented mine, else had I not been
here. But right glad am I to find that thou art free from such
suspicion; for verily the disappointment I felt in discovering that
thou wert, as I did then think, a traitor, was even more bitter to me
than the effect of the traiterie of the which I did suppose thee
guilty. But tell me, Sir Knight,” said he, rapidly changing the
subject, and speaking with an air of eagerness, “tell me how did King
Richard escape thine arm? Methought that arm of thine mought have
crushed him like a gnat. Ha! trust me, thou needst have no fear that
England should have lacked a monarch, if thou hadst chanced to have rid
her of him who now reigns. But, blessed St. Erkenwold, what noise is
that I hear? Holy St. Mary, grant that there be not spies about us!”
The door of the dungeon opened, a man entered, and the guards who
brought him retreated, after again locking the door.
“Mortimer Sang!” cried Sir Patrick Hepborne; “what, I pray thee, hath
brought thee hither? There was at least some spark of kindness in their
thus admitting thee to visit thy master.”
“Nay, not a whit, Sir Knight,” replied Sang; “for albeit I am right
glad to have the good fortune thus to share thy captivity, by St.
Baldrid, I came thither as no matter of favour, seeing I am a prisoner
like thyself.”
“A prisoner!” cried Hepborne; “and what canst thou have done to merit
imprisonment?”
“I sat up for thee yesternight, until I did become alarmed for thy
safety, Sir Knight,” replied Sang; “and knowing those who had the guard
at the Tower gate, I made my way in, and was in the act of entering the
Palace to inquire about thee, when, as I crossed the threshold, I was
met by two friars, one of whom bore a lady in his arms. She was
disguised in a monk’s habit; but my recollection of Maurice de Grey,
together with what your worship hath told me, made me recognize her at
once as the Lady Beatrice. The Franciscan who carried her——”
“Franciscan!” cried Hepborne. “What! he who came to Lochyndorbe to
denounce the Bishop of Moray’s threatened excommunication against Lord
Badenoch?”
“The same,” replied Sang.
“Then,” cried Hepborne in distraction, “then hath the hapless lady’s
murder been made the consummation of their guilt. That friar was an
assassin. He did once attempt her life at midnight. Ah, would I could
break through these walls, to sacrifice him who hath been the author of
a deed so foul; would I were led forth to death, for that alone can now
give relief to my misery. But,” continued he, turning reproachfully to
his esquire, “how couldst thou behold her whom my soul adores thus
borne to her death, and not strike one blow for her deliverance?”
“Nay, verily I did rush to her rescue, Sir Knight,” replied Sang; “but
ere I could reach her, I was beset by some dozen of the guards from the
Palace, and, ere I wist, I was beaten to the earth, captured, and
thrown into a vault, where I lay for the remainder of the night, and
whence I have been this moment brought hither, being accused of
treason, in attempting to enter the Royal Palace at midnight, with
intent to kill the King.”
Hepborne threw himself down on his straw, and yielded himself up to the
full flood of the affliction that came on him with the thought of the
Lady Beatrice’s fate. He reproached himself in a thousand ways for not
having prevented that over which he could have had no control; and
neither his esquire nor Master Lawrence Ratcliffe could succeed in
giving him the smallest consolation.
CHAPTER LXVI.
A Ship of Olden Times—Tempest Tossed—Arrival at the Maison Dieu in
Elgin.
The bark which we left threading its way down the mazes of the Thames
made a tedious and difficult passage northwards along the coast of
England. It was sometimes borne on by favouring breezes, but it often
encountered furious contrary blasts that compelled the dauntless
Mercer, its commander, to yield before them, and to submit to be driven
back for many a league. We must not forget that naval architecture and
nautical science were then, comparatively speaking, in their infancy.
The hull of this Scottish privateer, or pirate, as she was called by
the English, was awkwardly encumbered by two enormous erections. One of
these, over the stern, is still recognized in some degree in the poop
of our larger ships. Of the other, called the forecastle, although
nothing now remains but the name, it was then in reality a tower of
considerable height, manned during an engagement by cross-bow men, who
were enabled to gall the enemy very severely from that elevated
position. The masts were three, one rising from the middle of the
vessel, and the others from the two extremities, each formed of one
thick short tree, the mainmast being the largest. At the upper end of
each mast was fixed a circular stage, walled strongly in with wood;
these were called the round-tops, and were large enough to admit of
several warriors being stationed in them. Each mast had but one sail
hanging from its yard, and that attached to the mainmast was the only
sheet of magnitude.
“Ha! what sayest thou now, Barnard?” exclaimed Mercer, slapping on the
shoulder his steersman, an old sailor, who had served him and his
father before him for some fifty years in the same capacity, and whose
back was bent by his constant position at the helm; “methinks this is
the only breeze that hath promised to be steady during these fourteen
days of our wearisome voyage. An it do but last for some good hour or
twain, we may hope to see the other side of St. Abb’s yonder.”
“Ay,” replied Barnard, casting his eye over his left shoulder, “but I
like not yonder wide-flaming cloud that doth heave itself up so i’ the
sou’-west, Master Mercer. I’m no sailor an it be not big with something
worse than aught we have had yet to deal with.”
“Come, come, no evil-omened croaking, Master Barnard,” replied Mercer;
“should the breeze freshen, we shall speed but the faster.”
“Nay, but I do tell thee, there is some cruel ill-nature yonder,” said
Barnard, sticking testily to his point.
“By St. Rule, but it doth look somewhat angry,” replied Mercer. “We
must get more under the lee of the land ere the mischief cometh.”
“By St. Paul, but it doth come already,” cried Barnard; “seest thou not
yonder white-topped waves tripping after us?”
“By the mass, but it doth come indeed,” cried Mercer, jumping forward.
“Ha, there goeth the foresail flying through the air like a sea-mew.
Down with the mainsail. Come, stir ye, stir ye, my hearts. Out with
your long-sweeps, my brave spirits—put her head to the land, Barnard.
Pull yarely now, my gallants. There is a lull yonder beneath the
rocks.”
“’Tis a lull thou wilt never reach, I’ll promise thee, Master Mercer,
pull as thou wilt,” said old Barnard gruffly. “Better let her drive to
the open sea before the storm. See how angry yonder sinking sun doth
look. Trust me, no human power may force her against the tempest. But
thou art ever for working impossibilities.”
“Tush, old man,” cried Mercer; “time enow to give in when we shall have
tried and failed. I have no fancy for a run to Norway, if by any means
we may reach the bonny Frith o’ Forth. So put her head more to the
land, I say.”
In obedience to the command of his resolute master, the old helmsman,
grumbling like a bear, put the bark into the course he had ordered, and
the mariners, aided by the pike and cross-bow men, put their hands
steadily to the long oars. The brave Mercer moved actively about,
giving life and spirit to their exertions. The storm rapidly increased,
and he climbed the forecastle to look out ahead.
“Mercy on us,” cried old Barnard, “there burneth a blue flame at the
foremast head. ’Tis gone. Some one is near his end, I trow. Run, boy,
and tell the master to come down. He is, as it were, mine own son, and
I like not to see him yonder after that dismal warning.”
The ship-boy carried the steersman’s message, but Mercer laughed and
heeded it not.
“Here, Peter Patullo, do thou take the helm a bit,” cried the old man,
becoming anxious. “He is so wilful, I must go to him myself.”
Barnard had hardly spoken, when a tremendous wave came rolling on
against the head of the ship, and striking the forecastle, a dreadful
crash followed, the huge timber tower being swept away like a cobweb.
“Holy Mother of God, he is gone,” cried Barnard. “My master—Oh! the boy
I nursed, as I may say. Ha, see’st thou nought of Him?” cried the
distracted old man, running to the lee-side of the ship, which was
drifting broadside on, from the sudden cessation of the panic-struck
rowers. “Ha, he’s there; I see him; I saw him as he was heaved up on
the bosom of the billow. I’ll save him, or I’ll perish with him.”
“Stop him,” cried the Franciscan, who had rushed from the cabin on
hearing the confused cry; “stop him, he plunges to certain
destruction.”
But old Barnard was too alert for them all. He was overboard ere any of
them could reach him.
“Madman,” cried the Franciscan, hastily picking up a rope; and as the
sea lifted up the bulky form of the old skipper, who hung for some
moments poised as it were on the crest of the wave, he, with great
dexterity, threw a coil over him, and Barnard was dragged most
miraculously on board, being unwillingly saved from his rash, though
generous, but utterly hopeless attempt.
Meanwhile the brave Mercer was borne away, seemingly to certain
destruction. Everything was done by the active Franciscan to bring the
bark near him. He was seen, now tossed on the high top of a mountainous
surge, and now far down in the gulf out of which it had swelled itself.
Sometimes he was thrown violently towards them, and again he was
whirled far away with the velocity of thought; yet amidst all the
horrors of the apparently inevitable death that surrounded him, he
struggled with a calmness that showed his undaunted soul, and seemed
determined to husband his strength as long as hope remained. A rope
with a noose upon it was thrown to him. He had watched the endeavours
his friends were making to save him, and he now exerted all his
strength and skill to aid them. After many an unsuccessful effort, he
at last caught the rope, and, with great adroitness, passed the noose
over his head and arms. The Franciscan and the half-frantic helmsman,
aided by some of the crew, began to pull him gently towards the vessel.
A long rolling wave came and dashed him against the ship’s side. He was
hastily pulled up—but life was for ever extinct.
The deepest grief fell upon the crew when they beheld their beloved
commander thus stretched inanimate before them; and they forgot their
own safety and that of the vessel in their affliction for his loss.
Poor old Barnard hung over the dripping corpse of his master, and
seemed to be utterly unconscious of all that was passing around him.
“Alas!” he cried, looking in his face, and putting back his drenched
locks with his rough hand as he said so, “would I had but sunk ere I
had beheld thee so. I had never the blessing of wife or of children,
but I did esteem thy father as my son; yea, and thou wert as the
grandchild of mine old age. Thou didst grow to be a man under mine own
especial nurture. I had pride and pleasure in thy gallantry and in thy
success. Right cheerfully did I work for thee; ay, and would have
worked for thee whiles my old timbers did hang together; but now, sith
thou art gone, I have but little tie to this world. I care not how soon
I weigh anchor for the land of souls; for what have I, a poor old
lonesome man, to do here without thee? Let fresher hands take the
watch, for—I—I—” his feelings overcame his hardy nature for a moment,
but he recovered himself. “Take care no harm comes over his corpse,”
cried he, looking sternly round upon his shipmates. “Let it be laid
decently out in his own berth—and—and——” His voice again became
choked—he coughed—he put his hands to his eyes—and turning hastily
away, disappeared into the hole that was his usual place of repose, to
bury his emotions in darkness and silence.
After the loss of Mercer, there was an utter confusion and want of
system among the under officers and crew, until the Franciscan monk
boldly assumed the command. Many of those on board had sailed with him
in the days of old Mercer, and being well acquainted with his resolute
mind, as well as with his nautical knowledge, they scrupled not to obey
him. He was indefatigable in his exertions; but nothing he could do
availed, and he was compelled to allow the bark, crazed as she was, to
drift before the wind with every fear of her foundering.
Dreadful was the night that ensued, and anxiously did every soul on
board long for morning, but when it came it was like a mimic night. The
clouds hung darkly over the sea, as if about to mingle with it.
Torrents of rain fell; and the waves arose like peaked mountains, their
whitened tops piercing the black vault of the clouds. The tempestuous
wind seemed to shift from one point to another; and they were so tossed
to and fro that they became bewildered, and could not even avail
themselves of the imperfect needle then in use. Land they could see
none; and when the second night fell upon them, each man gave his soul
to the care of the Virgin or his patron saint, persuaded that there was
but little chance of ever seeing another sun.
Meanwhile the hardy Franciscan never quailed, nor did he ever leave the
deck. Little could be done to aid the ship, but he ceased not to
encourage the mariners, both by his voice and his example.
At last the tempest seemed to yield. The wind became hushed, and
although the swell of the sea continued for some hours, yet it
diminished every moment, and went on gradually moderating until
daybreak. By this time the sky had cleared itself of the clouds that
had hitherto obscured it, the sun rose above the horizon in full
splendour, and a faint hope arose with it that the vessel might yet be
saved. But no land was yet visible. The needle was consulted, and it
was determined to hoist the mainsail, and to avail themselves of an
eastern breeze, to steer in that direction where they knew the British
coast must lie; and two men, who were placed in the round-top to look
out a-head, soon cheered them with the intelligence that the land was
visible; upon which they gave thanks to Heaven, and, as they scudded
gently before the breeze, the blue mountains began to appear in the
distant haze, and were swelling every moment upon their sight.
Now it was that some of the older men in the ship came to inform the
Franciscan that it had been the wish of Mercer, repeatedly expressed
during his life, that wherever he might die, he should, if possible, be
buried at sea; and, since the cessation of the storm permitted them to
have some leisure, the monk gave directions accordingly to prepare for
the solemn rite. Old Barnard had never appeared since the moment he
left the deck after the catastrophe that befel Mercer, and the struggle
the crew had been maintaining ever since with the angry elements had
hindered any one from visiting him where he had retreated. He was now
sent for; but the sailor who went for him speedily returned with a face
of alarm, to report that he could get no answer from him. The
Franciscan then lighted a lamp, and went below, followed by several
anxious faces. There lay the old man, wrapped up in a blanket, in his
berth. His head was turned from them. The Franciscan shook him gently,
but he stirred not. He then turned him round, and the light of the lamp
fell upon his face. It was ghastly—the eyes were glazed, and the rough
features fixed in death. He seemed to have died soon after he had lain
down; but whether he had suffered some fatal injury in his noble
attempt to save Mercer, or whether he had died of a broken heart for
the loss of the brave young man, to whom he was so much attached, it
was impossible to say.
Preparations were made for bestowing upon old Barnard the same funeral
rites as were contemplated for his master. The religious duties were
performed over both by the Franciscan, and both were consigned together
to the deep amidst the tears that fell from many a weather-beaten face.
The breeze continued, and the distant mountains grew every moment more
and more distinct; but long ere they had approached the land
sufficiently near to enable them to determine what part of the coast
they were borne towards, a thick fog arose, and put an end to every
speculation on the subject, by shutting it entirely from their eyes.
The vessel laboured exceedingly, from her shattered condition, and
there was no hope of safety left for them but to avail themselves to
the utmost of the favourable breeze that still continued to blow. It
lasted them bravely, and earned them cheerily on until sunset, but then
it fell calm; and the mist clearing away, the moon arose, and showed
them a bold coast some miles to the south. Farther on the land became
lower, and thither the Franciscan made the crew pull with all their
might. As they neared the land, the Lady Beatrice was brought out,
half-dead, upon the deck, to be prepared for disembarking immediately,
the frail vessel beginning every moment to show more alarming symptoms
of the shattered state to which the continued storm had reduced it.
They now beheld the lights in some fishermen’s huts on shore, and the
distant murmur of the waves, breaking gently on the beach, was the
cheering music of hope to them. All at once the vessel struck upon some
sunken rock or sand, and instantly began to fill. The confusion was
dreadful. The Franciscan approached Beatrice, and quickly made her
sensible of her danger. The boat was got out, but it was instantly
overloaded—sunk—and all were in the water.
“Hold fast by my cowl, and fear not,” cried the Franciscan, who had the
wisdom to stick to the vessel, and who now committed himself to the
waves, as it went down under them. Where all were men accustomed to the
sea, all were necessarily swimmers, and all made lustily for the shore.
Thither also did the bold monk press his way, the Lady Beatrice hanging
with the gripe of fate to his cowl; and the distance being but short,
and the sea smooth, she was soon placed in safety upon the beach,
whence he quickly carried her to the fishermen’s cottages.
The poor inhabitants of the fishing hamlet did all in their power to
cherish the unfortunate people who were thus shipwrecked amongst them,
but it was little they could do; and the comfort of a large fire was
the utmost that any of the hovels could furnish. The Franciscan eagerly
inquired what part of the coast they had been thrown on; and he
declared that, since it had pleased the saints to deny them an entrance
into the Frith of Forth, where lay their destination, he had reason to
rejoice that they had taken land on the eastern coast of Moray. The
Lady Beatrice, who had never held up her head during the tempestuous
voyage, was grievously weakened by sickness. She sank down exhausted on
the wretched pallet that was provided for her, and, eager as was the
Franciscan to proceed with her to Elgin, the following day was far
spent before she could gather strength enough to undertake even so
short a ride. Horses were then procured, and they arrived at the gates
of the Hospital of the Maison Dieu, where they were kindly received by
the pious brethren and the sisterhood, who administered the
hospitalities of the institutions to pilgrims and strangers of the
better sort, as well as its charities to the poor.
CHAPTER LXVII.
The Wolfe of Badenoch again—The Burning of Elgin Cathedral.
The Franciscan left the Lady Beatrice with the nuns of the
establishment, and hastened to present himself before the Bishop of
Moray, who was then at his Palace of Spynie, at some distance from the
town. He found the good man in deep conference with some of his canons,
and he received him joyfully.
“Blessed be St. Francis that thou art arrived, Friar John,” said the
Bishop aloud, after they had whispered together apart. “Thou comest
right seasonably, seeing we do discuss the endless theme of the Wolfe
of Badenoch.”
“What! my Lord Bishop of Moray,” cried the Franciscan, “hath that
destroying angel been again let loose, to invade the holy territory of
the Church?—to burn and to devastate?”
“Nay, nay, Friar John,” replied the Bishop, “for this time the news we
have to tell thee are good. The King hath sent a body of troops to
dispossess his sacrilegious son from our Badenoch lands, and they are
now again in the hands of the tenants of the Church. What sayest thou
to this?”
“Um,” replied the Franciscan, doubtfully shaking his head—“and do the
King’s troops tarry in Badenoch, to guard the possessions of the
Church?”
“Nay, that I do not believe,” replied the Bishop, “but methinks he will
hardly try so daring an attempt again.”
“Hast thou brought down his proud spirit, then, to entreat on his knees
for the removal of thine anathema?” demanded the Friar.
“Nay, as well hope to make the eagle stoop to the earth, and quail
before me,” replied the Bishop.
“In truth, then, my Lord Bishop,” said the Franciscan, “thou mayest as
well hope to reclaim the eagle, so that he shall sit on thy wrist like
a falcon, as look for a peace from the Wolfe of Badenoch.”
“Dost thou indeed think so?” demanded the Bishop. “Methought that after
his Royal father’s reproof, and this his late signal interference
against him, we might have looked for peace. Something must be tried,
then. To thee, Friar John, we shall look for counsel, and the sooner we
do have it the better. So shall we straightway ride with thee to Elgin,
and summon a Chapter, that we may consider of this weighty matter.”
The Franciscan accordingly returned to the town with the Bishop and his
attendants, and such of the canons as were within call were immediately
summoned. The Bishop then occupied his stall within the Chapter-House,
supported by his Dean, Archdean, Chancellor, and Chanter; and the other
members having taken their places, they remained some hours in council.
When the Chapter broke up, the Bishop held some private conference with
the Franciscan, and then permitted him to go to his lodging in the
Maison Dieu, whither he was happy to retire, being overpowered by
exhaustion from his late fatigues, and glad to be at last allowed to
seek the needful refreshment of a few hours’ rest.
The vesper hymn had died away through the lengthened aisles of the
venerable Cathedral; every note of labour or of mirth was silenced
within the town. The weary burghers were sunk in sleep, and even the
members of the various holy fraternities had retired to their repose.
No eye was awake, save those of a few individuals among the religious,
who, having habits of more than ordinary severity of discipline, had
doomed themselves to wear the hard pavement with their bare knees, and
the hours in endless repetition of penitential prayers before the
shrine of the Virgin, or the image of some favourite saint. Not even a
dog was heard to stir in the streets. They were as dark, too, as they
were silent; for, with the exception of a feeble lamp or two, that
burned in niches, before the little figures set up here and there for
Popish worship, there was nothing to interrupt the deep obscurity that
prevailed.
Suddenly the sound of a large body of horsemen was heard entering the
town from the west. The dreams of the burghers were broken, and they
were roused from their slumbers; the casements were opened, one after
another, as the band passed along, and many a curious head was thrust
out. They moved on alertly, without talking; but although they uttered
no sounds, and were but dimly seen, the clank of their weapons, and of
their steel harness, told well enough that they were no band of vulgar,
peace-loving merchants, but a troop of stirring men-at-arms; and many
was the cheek that blenched, and many was the ejaculation that escaped
the shuddering lips of the timid burghers, as they shrunk within their
houses at the alarming conviction. They crossed and blessed themselves
after the warriors had passed by, and each again sought his bed.
But the repose of the inhabitants was for that night doomed to be
short. Distant shrieks of despair, mingled with shouts of exultation,
began to arise in the neighbourhood of the Cathedral and the College,
in which all the houses of the canons were clustered; and soon the town
was alarmed from its centre to its suburbs by the confused cries of
half-naked fugitives, who hurried along into the country, as if rushing
from some dreadful danger.
“Fire, fire!—murder!—fire, fire!—the Wolfe of Badenoch!”
The terrible name of the fell Earl of Buchan was enough, of itself, to
have spread universal panic through the town, even in the midst of
broad sunshine. But darkness now magnified their fears. Every one
hastened to huddle on what garments might be at hand, and to seize what
things were most valuable and portable; and all, without exception—men,
women, and children—hurried out into the streets, to seek immediate
safety in flight. As the crowd pressed onwards, scarcely daring to look
behind them, they beheld the intense darkness of the night invaded by
flames that began to shoot upwards in fitful jets. The screams and the
shouts rang in their ears, and they quickened their trembling speed;
their voices subdued by fear, as they went, into indistinct whispers of
horror. No one dared to stop; but, urging on his own steps, he dragged
after him those of his feeble parents, or tottering wife, or helpless
children.
Those who were most timorous, halted not until they had hid themselves
in the neighbouring woods; but those whose curiosity was in some degree
an equipoise to their fears, stopped to look behind them whenever a
view of the town could be obtained, that they might judge of, and
lament over, the devastation that was going forward. Already they could
see that the College, the Church of St. Giles, and the Hospital of the
Maison Dieu, were burning; but these were all forgotten, as they beheld
the dire spectacle of the Cathedral, illuminated throughout all the
rich tracery of its Gothic windows by a furious fire, that was already
raging high within it. Groans and lamentations burst from their hearts,
and loud curses were poured out on the impious heads of those whose
fury had led them to destroy so glorious a fabric, an edifice which
they had been taught to venerate from their earliest infancy, and to
which they were attached by every association, divine and human, that
could possibly bind the heart of man. In the midst of their wailings,
the pitchy vault of heaven began to be reddened by the glare of the
spreading conflagration; and the loud and triumphant shouts that now
arose, unmingled with those cries of terror which had at first blended
with them, too plainly told that the power of the destroyer was
resistless.
As the Lady Beatrice and the Franciscan were the last comers among the
crowd of pilgrims and travellers who that night filled the charitable
caravansera of the Maison Dieu, they had been put to lodge in the very
uppermost storey of the antique and straggling building. The lady
occupied a chamber at the extremity of a long passage, running through
one wing that was dedicated to the use of the few sisters who inhabited
the Hospital, and their female guests. The Franciscan was thrust into a
little turret room that hung from one angle of a gable at the very
opposite end of the edifice, being connected with the garrets that lay
over that wing occupied by the preaching brethren and the guests of
their own sex. There was no direct communication between the opposite
parts of the building where the lady and the friar were lodged. The
main stair, that opened from the doorway of the Hospital, arose within
the body of the house, and several narrow passages branched off from
it, having separate stairs leading to the different parts of the higher
regions.
The brethren and sisters of the institution, as well as the numerous
temporary inmates of its various chambers, were alarmed by the shrieks
that arose when the firebrands were at first applied to the Cathedral,
and the houses of the clergy connected with it. Neither the permanent
nor the accidental tenants of the house had much personal property to
remove, and what they had was instantly carried out by a general rush
into the courtyard, whence they hastily escaped, each prompted by a
desire of self-preservation. Not so the Lady Beatrice and the
Franciscan. Both of them had suffered so much from want of natural
rest, and the monk especially had undergone fatigue of body so
lengthened and so severe during the protracted storm they had lately
had to struggle with, that they lay as unconscious of the noise as if
their senses had been locked up by the influence of some powerful
opiate. The Lady Beatrice, indeed, was half awakened by the din
occasioned by the escape of those who were in the house. But she had
been dreaming of the ship and of the sea, and the hurry of the
retreating steps and the confused voice of alarm having speedily
subsided within the Hospital, she turned again to enjoy a more profound
repose, believing it was her fancy that had made her imagine she had
heard the sound of the waves and the winds, and the bustling tread of
the mariners.
Again a noise came that increased and jarred in her ears, and a vivid
light arose that flickered through the casement into the place where
she lay, and falling strongly on her face, her silken eyelashes were
gradually opened, and, terror seizing upon her, she sprang at once from
her couch to the window. Then it was that she beheld the court of the
Hospital below filled with mounted men-at-arms, together with numbers
on foot, who seemed to be active agents in kindling combustibles, by
the employment of which the whole main body of the building was already
in flames—as she could easily guess from the suffocating smoke that
arose, and the red glare that was thrown over the features of those
who, with their faces turned upwards, were watching the progress of the
devouring element with a fiendish expression of satisfaction.
Half-dead with fear, the Lady Beatrice began to hurry on her garments,
doubtful, in the state of distraction she was thrown into, whether she
might or ought to hope to escape from the fire, since she could not
possibly do so without exposing herself to the fury of a savage band,
whose present occupation was enough to proclaim them enemies of the
most reckless description. She was bewildered, and knew not what to do.
The towers and spires of the Cathedral were blazing like gigantic
torches. The darkness of night seemed to be put to flight, and distant
yells arising from time to time, proclaimed the multitude who were
actors in this scene of ruin.
But the more pressing danger brought her at last to recollection, and
she rushed from her chamber to make an effort to escape. Already were
the narrow passages filled with a stifling smoke, which she made some
faint efforts to penetrate; but finding it impossible to proceed, she
returned to her chamber, and, throwing herself upon her knees, grew
faint from despair. Recovering herself in some degree, she grasped her
croslet, and began offering up her prayers for that mercy in the next
world of which she believed she had now no hope in this; and, as she
was so employed, she thought she felt the very boards heating beneath
her. She sprang to her feet, and again approached the open casement,
that she might breathe more freely. At that moment a loud murmur,
rather than a cry, arose in the court below.
“He cometh—’tis he—’tis he himself.—The Earl—the Earl of Buchan—the
Wolfe of Badenoch!—Hush!”—And their clamour was instantly silenced.
“Out o’ my way,” cried the Wolfe of Badenoch, as, armed cap-a-pie, and
with his vizor up, he came galloping furiously in at the Gothic
gateway, followed by his four younger sons, and some forty or fifty
mounted spearmen and axemen. The pavement rattled under the clatter of
their iron shod hooves, and their polished mail flashed back the blaze
of the flaming edifice.
“Ha, ha, ha! by all the fiends, but the mischief doth work well here
too,” shouted he laughing wildly as he reined up his steed, with a
check that threw him backwards on his haunches; “yet this is but baby’s
work compared to the blazing towers yonder—ha, ha, ha! The haughty pile
on the which the pride of that scurvy Priest-Bishop hath heretofore
been so loftily perched, will soon be prostrate amidst its own dust and
ashes. Ha! by the beard of my grandfather, but it is a glorious
vengeance. What was the brenning of Forres to this?—ha, ha, ha! Not a
hole shall these corbies have to hide their heads in. Every nest
polluted by these stinking carrions shall be levelled. Such be the fate
of those who dare to contend with the Wolfe of Badenoch! But have all
escaped from this burning house? I would not have the hair of a human
head singed—not a hair of a head, I tell ye. Didst thou see all escape
them hence?”
“I did, my noble Lord,” replied one of his esquires, who had
superintended the execution of this part of his commands; “with our own
eyes did we see them, as we arrived, scour from the walls, like an army
of mice from a hollow cheese.”
“Ha! by my faith, but thou liest, villain,” cried the Wolfe, turning
hastily round, and levelling the speaker to the earth with one blow of
his truncheon; “thou dost lie black as hell. By all that is unlucky, I
did even now behold a female form at yonder window. Nay, now the smoke
doth hide it; but—see, see—ha! why hath it been so, knaves? Did I not
warn ye all that not a life should be tint?”
“Help, help, Lord Badenoch,” cried the Lady Beatrice—“help, help, or I
perish! The boards burn.—Help, help, for the love of mercy—for the love
of the blessed Virgin, save me, save me!”
“By the holy mass, I should know that voice,” cried the Wolfe of
Badenoch; “nay, ’tis she indeed, or ’tis her wraith I do behold.”
“’Tis some evil spirit, father,” said Sir Andrew Stewart, who had
accompanied his father in this expedition, not willingly, but because
the Wolfe of Badenoch had resolved that he should have a share in it.
“Evil spirit!” cried the Wolfe, turning angrily around on him; “ha!
’tis thou who art the evil spirit, son Andrew. Thou darest not to look
on her whom thou wouldst have injured. But, by this hand, thou shalt.
The damsel shall not perish, if I can help her. I will go rescue her,
and thou, son Andrew, shalt follow me.”
“Nay, try not anything so rash, father,” exclaimed Sir Andrew Stewart,
dreadfully alarmed to find that he was expected to participate in an
attempt so desperate; “the whole body of the house is in flames.”
“What, villain,” cried the Wolfe indignantly; “so, thou couldst love
the damsel to do her violence, and yet art base enow to shrink from the
glorious achievement of saving her life, or perishing in the attempt.
Unworthy whelp of the Wolfe of Badenoch! Dastard, dismount and in with
me, or, by the blood of the Bruce, the spears of my men-at-arms shall
goad thee to it.” And saying so, he sprang from his horse, while Sir
Andrew Stewart, though half-dead with fear, was compelled to follow him
with all the alertness that might have befitted a hero well stomached
for the desperate undertaking.
“What, Andrew going thither!” cried Walter Stewart, leaping from his
horse; “by this hand, but I shall in too, then.”
“And so shall I,” cried James, following his brother’s example.
“And by my beard that is to grow,” cried the boy Duncan, “but I shall
not be left behind.”
“Nay, stay, Sir Duncan,” cried an esquire. “By the mass, but he is in
after the others; and what will my Lord say if anything doth befall
him? He loveth the boy more than all the rest put together. I’ll in
after him.” Upon which the man rushed in, followed by a crowd of the
others, who were equally afraid of the rage that might fall upon their
heads for having permitted the boy to escape from them.
And now a terrible scene ensued. The crowd who entered soon wedged
themselves in the narrow passages just within the doorway, so that they
could neither advance nor retreat. The smoke accumulated about them
from the stoppage of its vent. They struggled and crushed, and poured
out half-choked curses. Some fell, and were trampled under foot; and at
length the voice of the Wolfe was heard from within—
“Ha! clear the passage, or I am suffocated; clear the passage,
villains, or I will murder ye all.”
The fear of their violent master did for them what they could not
before accomplish. An unusual exertion on the part of those who were
outermost extricated them from the doorway, and the passage being now
less wedged, the force from within sent them all out headlong into the
court, and out rushed the Wolfe, nearly spent by the continued
suffocation he had endured.
“By all that is miraculous, I do believe that it was a spirit after
all,” said the Wolfe, half in soliloquy, as soon as he had gathered
breath to speak; “I did make my way to the chamber where she did
appear, and she was not there; nor was she anywhere else to be seen.
Such tricks of fancy are often played by sprites. And how, after all,
could she have been there—she who must be even now in Norham? But, ha!”
cried he aloud, “what figure is that I do now behold in yonder hanging
towernet that doth blaze so fiercely?”
All eyes were now directed towards the spot he had indicated, and
there, to the astonishment of every one, appeared the form of the
Franciscan, brightly illumined by the jets of flame that surrounded it.
“Holy Virgin!” cried his followers, crossing themselves, “’tis a
sprite—’tis a devil. Mercy on us, ’tis no monk, but something unholy,”
cried half-a-dozen voices.
The teeth of the stern Wolfe himself were heard to chatter as he gazed
on his old enemy, of the reality of whose present appearance he almost
doubted. The keen eyes and strongly expressive countenance of the Friar
were now wildly distorted by the alarm which had seized him, on
suddenly awaking from the deep sleep he had been plunged in, and
finding himself surrounded by all the horrors of the most dreadful of
deaths. A red and unearthly light was thrown on his features, and
broadly illumined his tonsure, giving him a most terrific and ghastly
look. It was, therefore, little to be wondered that even the
hardy-minded Wolfe of Badenoch should have for an instant believed that
it was the Devil he beheld.
“By all the fiends of hell, ’tis wonderful!” cried he, as he stood
fixed in a kind of stupor.
“Help, help!” cried the Franciscan.
“Ha!” cried the Wolfe, recovering himself, “if thou be’st in very deed
the chough Friar, bren, bren, and welcome. But if thou be’st the Devil,
thou mayest well enow help thyself.”
“Help, in mercy help!” cried the Franciscan; “a ladder, a ladder.”
“A ladder!” cried the Wolfe, now sufficiently reassured, and becoming
convinced that it really was the very Franciscan in true flesh who had
so bearded him at Lochyndorbe, and no phantom nor demon. “Ha! prating
chough, is it thee, in troth? A ladder, saidst thou? Thou couldst have
lacked a ladder but for thy hanging, and now thou needst it not, seeing
thou art in the way of dying a better death.”
“Help, help!” cried the unfortunate wretch, who seemed hardly to have
yet gained a knowledge of those who were below.
“Help!” repeated the Wolfe; “by my trusty burlybrand, but I shall hew
down the first villain who doth but move to give thee help. What, did I
say that no hair of life should be touched? By the blessed bones of
mine ancestors, but there lacked only this accident to make my revenge
complete. Ha, ha, ha! did I not swear, thou grey-hooded crow, that as
thou didst escape from the pit of water, thou shouldst be tried next by
the fire? By my head, I did little imagine that I should thus so soon
see thee bren before mine eyes; and bren thou shalt, for no man of mine
shall risk the singeing of his beard to pluck thee from the destruction
thine atrocious tongue has so well merited.”
The monk disappeared for some moments, and soon afterwards, to the
astonishment of all, was seen making his way along the roof through
volumes of flame and smoke. Every eye in the court below was turned
towards him. It seemed impossible that anything but a demon could have
clambered where he went. Again he was lost to their eyes, and anon he
appeared in the very room which had been lately occupied by the Lady
Beatrice. He shrieked out her name; was again invisible; and then,
again, was seen in all the upper apartments, one after another. At last
they saw him no longer.
“He is either the Devil himself, or he is brent by this time,”
whispered some of the awe-stricken followers of the Wolfe.
In an instant he again appeared on the top of the turret in which he
had been first seen; the flames arose everywhere around him; terrible
was his aspect, and an involuntary shudder crept through the silent
crowd.
“Alexander Stewart, Earl of Buchan, and Lord of Badenoch,” cried he
with an appalling voice, whilst he threw his arms abroad, in an
attitude befitting the denunciation he was about to pour out—“the red
hand of thine iniquity hath again lifted the firebrand of destruction,
but as thou hast kindled these holy piles dedicated to God, so shall
the wrath of the Almighty be kindled against thee. The measure of thine
iniquity is now full, and yonder flaming heavens do bear witness to thy
crimes. Seest thou yonder fiery cloud that doth now float over thy
devoted head? There sitteth the Angel of Vengeance, ready to descend on
thee and thine. Prepare—for instant and direful punishment doth await
thee.”
The monk again disappeared. The Wolfe of Badenoch looked upwards to the
sky, and beheld the fiery cloud that hung as it were over him. Fancy
depicted in it a countenance that looked down upon him in terrible ire.
He gnashed his teeth, and his features blackened. At that moment
shrieks arose from the higher chambers of the building.
“Ha, ha, ha, ha!—let him die,” cried the Wolfe, clenching his fists and
laughing wildly; “let the villain die, I say.”
The shrieks came again, and louder.
“Ha! what voice was that?” exclaimed the Wolfe, in an altered tone, and
in considerable agitation.
“Help, help!” cried a voice, and a figure appeared at an upper window,
in the midst of the flames.
“Oh God!” cried the Wolfe, in an agony, “my son, my son!—my dearest
boy, Duncan? Save him, save him—save my child!”
With the fury of a maniac he rushed fearlessly towards the burning
building. His people sprang after him. He had already reached the
doorway, when the central stair fell with a tremendous crash within;
and had not his followers dragged him back the instant before, he must
have been crushed beneath the descending ruin.
“Father, father!” cried a piteous voice from the ground.
“Walter,” cried the unhappy Wolfe of Badenoch, running to lift up his
son, “what hath befallen thee?—Speak.”
“I was knocked down and crushed by the men-at-arms as they rushed
outwards,” said the youth faintly; “I do feel as if I had tane some
sore inward bruises.”
“Merciful God!” cried the miserable father, removing his son farther
from the danger. “But where is James?” demanded he, looking wildly
about him.
“He also fell near me,” said Walter.
The attendants now ran forward, and amongst several wounded people who
lay on the pavement they found and raised James Stewart, who was only
known to be alive by his quick breathing. But the distracted father had
little leisure to attend to either of these his wounded sons, and in an
instant they were abandoned to the care of those about him; for the boy
Duncan, his youngest and his darling child, the pride of his heart, was
again heard to shriek from an upper window. The flames were rioting
triumphantly within, and every possible approach to him was cut off.
“Ladders, ladders!” cried he, in a frenzy; and his people set off in a
hopeless search of what he called for.
“Ladders!” cried the Franciscan, with a voice like thunder, as he
unexpectedly appeared behind the boy; “ladders! how dost thou dare to
call for that help which thou didst refuse to yield to others? Now doth
thy fiendish joy begin to be transmewed into mourning, thou accursed
instrument in the hands of an incensed God. Already do two of thy
lawless brood lie on that pavement, to be carried home with thee to
linger and die; and now this child, thy youngest and dearest, shall be
lost to thee by a more speedy fate.” He caught up the boy in his sinewy
arms with a savage laugh of triumph, and held him aloft with a gripe so
powerful, that his puny efforts to escape were utterly hopeless. “Ha,
ha, ha! now may I laugh in my turn,” cried the Franciscan, with a yell
that struck to the heart of the Wolfe of Badenoch, and subdued him at
once.
“Mercy!” cried he, clasping his hands and wringing them together, and
his breath came thick and laborious, so that he could hardly find
utterance, as he looked up with stretched eyeballs, expecting every
instant to behold the horrible spectacle of his best beloved son’s
destruction. “Mercy!—fiend!—ha!—Ladders, ladders!—Oh, mercy, mercy!—Oh,
spare my boy!—Oh, mercy, mercy—mercy on my boy!” He sank down on his
knees, his broad chest heaving to his very cuirass with its labouring
respiration, and his lips moving, even after all power of utterance was
denied him.
“Ha! mercy, saidst thou?” cried the Franciscan, with a contemptuous
smile and a glaring eye; “what, mercy to thee—to thee, who hath no
mercy!—mercy to thee, who hath incurred God’s highest wrath!—mercy to
thee, who hath wrapped all these holy buildings, and these dwellings of
God’s peaceful servants and people, in impious flames!—thou, who wert
but now revelling in the hellish joy of thy daring sacrilege—mercy to
thee!—mercy meanly begged, too, from him whom thou didst but this
moment doom to the most cruel death! Ha, ha, ha! But my life or death
is not in thy weak power to withhold. My life will be preserved by Him
who gave it, that it may yet fulfil the purpose for which He did bestow
it. Thy fate doth hang in my grasp, and the gripe which I do now hold
of this frail fragment of thyself,” continued he, lifting up the
trembling boy in a terrific manner, “is but a symbol of the power which
God hath given me over thee to force thee to repentance.”
“Oh, spare, spare, spare!” cried the miserable Lord of Badenoch, bereft
of all thought but of his son’s fate.
The boy screamed for help, but the ruthless Franciscan laughed
savagely, and then sprang backwards with him through the flames.
The wretched Lord of Badenoch remained fixed on his knees, his face
still turned upwards, and his eyes fastened on the casement so lately
occupied by the figures of the Franciscan and his lost boy. It was now
filled by a sheet of brilliant flame. His lips muttered, and “Mercy—oh,
mercy!” were still the only words that escaped them. His followers
crowded around him in dismay, the whole group being broadly illuminated
by the fire, which had now gained complete mastery over the interior of
the building.
CHAPTER LXVIII.
The Bishop’s Palace at Spynie—The Wolfe gets a Surprise.
The wretched Wolfe of Badenoch was slowly raised by those who were
about him; and he submitted, as if altogether unconscious of what they
were doing. His features were immoveable, and his eyes vacant, until
they rested on his two sons, Walter and James, who lay wounded in the
arms of his servants.
“Where is my son Andrew?” cried he, suddenly recovering the use of
speech.
The attendants muttered to one another, but no one answered him.
“Speak, ye knaves,” cried he, grinding his teeth, and at the same time
springing on them, and seizing one of them in each hand by the throat;
“villains, I will choke ye both with my grasp if ye answer me not.”
“My noble Lord,” cried the men, terrified by his rage and his threats,
“we saw him enter the burning building with thee, but none of us saw
him issue thence.”
“Villains, villains, tell me not so!” cried the Wolfe, shaking the two
men from him, and sending them reeling away with such force that both
were prostrated on the earth. “What, hath he too perished?—And it was I
who did myself compel him thither!” and, saying so, he struck his
breast, and moved about rapidly through the court, giving vent to a
frenzy of self accusation.
“Ha!” cried he, halting suddenly, as he heard the clang of horses’
heels approaching; “who comes there?—Alexander—my son—thou art all that
is left to me now;” and springing forward, he clasped the knees of Sir
Alexander Stewart, who at that moment appeared, followed by the whole
of his force.
“Why tarriest thou here, father?” demanded his son; “depardieux, but I
have sought thee around all the glorious fires we have kindled. Little
did I think to find thee here in this by-corner, looking on so paltry a
glede as this, when the towers of the Cathedral do shoot out flames
that pierce the heavens, and proclaim thy red vengeance on the Bishop
of Moray, yea, even to his brother-mitred priest of Ross, even across
the broad friths that do sunder them.—Come with me, I pray, and ride
triumphant through the flaming streets, that our shouts may ring
terribly in the craven corbie’s ears, and reach him even where he doth
hide him in his Palace of Spynie.—But what aileth thee, father, that
thou seemest so unmanned.”
“Alexander,” cried the afflicted father, embracing his son, who stooped
over him, “thy brethren have perished; Walter and James are there dying
from their bruises, and Andrew and Duncan—my beloved boy Duncan—have
perished in these flames.”
“How, what! how hath this happened?” cried Sir Alexander, leaping from
his horse and running to question the attendants who supported his two
wounded brothers. From them he gathered a brief account of the events
that had occurred, and for some moments gave way to the sorrow that
afflicted his father.
“But why grieve we here, my Lord?” cried he suddenly; “of a truth,
whatever woe hath befallen us, hath but come by reason of that
ill-starred enemy of our house, Bishop Barr, who has driven us to the
desperation out of which all these evils have arisen. He and his
accursed flock of ill-omened crows have flown to the refuge of his
Palace of Spynie. Rouse, my noble father, and let us gallop thither and
seek a sweet revenge by pulling the choughs from their nests.”
“Right, son Alexander,” cried the Wolfe, his native temper being so far
roused for the moment by this speech that he shook off the torpor that
had come upon him, and sprang into his saddle; “by this beard, but thou
dost say right. ’Tis indeed that accursed Priest-Bishop who hath
embittered the whole stream of my life, and hath now been the cause of
hurling all this misery upon me. Alas, my poor boys!—But, by the blood
of the Bruce, they shall be avenged.—I shall take thy counsel, my
son—My son, said I?—Alas, Alexander, thou wilt soon, I fear, be mine
only son.—Dost hear, Sir Squire?” said he, turning fiercely to one of
his attendants, “See that thou dost take care of my wounded boys. Take
people enow with thee, and see that they be promptly and tenderly
carried on men’s shoulders to Lochyndorbe—Dost thou mark me?—Thy head
shall pay the forfeit of thy neglect of the smallest tittle of thy
duty.”
“Ay,” cried Sir Alexander Stewart, “our business, I trow, will soon be
sped, and we shall overtake them before they shall have gone many miles
of the way.”
“Come, then, Alexander, let’s to Spynie,” cried the Wolfe; and then
turning again to the esquire—“But take care of my boys, and see that
they be gently borne.”
“On, brave spears,” cried Sir Alexander; “ye shall have work peraunter
to do anon.”
Out dashed the Wolfe of Badenoch, gnashing his teeth, as if to wind
himself up to desperation, yet rather led than followed by Sir
Alexander Stewart, and away rattled about two hundred well-armed and
well-mounted men-at-arms at their backs, leaving behind them a
sufficient force to escort the wounded youths homeward in safety. There
were but few among the troops that would not have willingly stayed
behind. They liked not this ungodly warfare, and although they
witnessed the execution of the Wolfe of Badenoch’s fell fury on the
holy edifices, done by a few of the less scrupulous ministers of his
vengeance, they felt conscience-stricken at the sight, and this feeling
had not been diminished by the denunciations of the Franciscan, the
direful fate of the boy Duncan Stewart, and of his brother Sir Andrew,
and that which had befallen the youths Walter and James, of whose
recovery there seemed to be but little hope.
The Palace of Spynie offered them but a wretched defence against any
assailant who might choose to attack it, for it was not till the
following century that it was so strengthened as to enable Bishop David
Stuart [1] to defy the proud Earl of Huntly. The buildings, indeed,
were surrounded by a wall; but, trusting to that awe which the sacred
dignity of the possessor was calculated to inspire, the wooden gate was
left unprotected by any portcullis of iron. It therefore promised to be
easily assailable by the sledge-hammers which had been found so useful
in furthering the work of destruction they had already accomplished.
The Wolfe of Badenoch, hurried on by his son, swept over the gentle
eminence lying between the town and the palace, and as the distance was
but a mile, his excitement had had hardly time to expend itself ere he
found himself approaching the walls. The lurid red vault of the sky
reflected a dim light, which might have been sufficient to enable them
to discover the building before them. But, independently of this, the
summit of the outer walls was lined by a number of torches, which began
to flit about hastily, as soon as the thundering sound of the horses’
feet reached those who carried them.
“The place doth seem to be already alarmed,” cried the Wolfe of
Badenoch, as they advanced, his resolute soul shaken by his recent
calamities. “These lights are not wont to appear on the grass-grown
walls of these mass-ensconced priests. Thou shalt halt here, son
Alexander, and let me advance alone to reconnoitre. I cannot, I wis,
afford to peril the life of thee, whom my fears do tell me I may now
call mine only son.”
“Peril my life?” cried Sir Alexander indignantly; “what, talkest thou
of peril, when we have but these carrion crows to deal with? I trow
there be garrison enow of them, sith that all their rookeries, grey,
black, and hooded, have doubtless gathered there to-night. By my
knighthood, but it doth almost shame me to attack them with harness on
my back, or men-at-arms at my heels. And see, the lights have
disappeared. Never trust me, but those who did flourish them have fled
into the deepest cellar of the place, at the very tramp of our
war-steeds.”
“Nay, but, son Alexander,” repeated the Wolfe, “I do command thee to
halt; thou shalt not advance until I shall have first——Where hath he
vanished?” cried the Wolfe, losing sight of him for a moment in the
dark. “Ha! there he speeds him to the gate,” and, leaping from his
saddle, he launched himself after his son. Sir Alexander had snatched a
sledge-hammer from some one near him, and was already raising it to
strike the first blow at the gate, when his right arm fell shattered
and nerveless by his side, and he was crushed to the earth by some
unseen power. The Wolfe of Badenoch reached his son but to raise him up
in his arms. At that moment a broad blaze arose on the top of the wall,
immediately over the gateway, in front of which the Wolfe of Badenoch
stood appalled by the apparition it illumined, and he grew deadly pale
when he beheld the figure of the Franciscan, of that very friar whom he
believed nothing but superhuman power could have saved from the flames
of the Maison Dieu, again presented before his eyes. The attitude of
the monk was fearfully commanding. He reared a large crucifix in his
left hand, whilst the other was stretched out before him. The light by
which he was encircled shot around him to a great distance, showing the
walls thickly manned with crossbow-men prepared to shoot upon the
assailants, and exhibiting these assailants themselves with their faces
turned to what they believed to be a miraculous vision, which filled
them with a terror that no merely human array could have awakened.
“Alexander Stewart, Earl of Buchan, and Lord of Badenoch,” cried the
Franciscan, in his wonted clear but solemn voice, “have I not told thee
that the Omnipotent hath resigned thee and thine into my grasp for
penance or for punishment? Go, take thy wounded son with thee, sith
that thou hast sought this fresh affliction. His life and the lives of
those who are now borne to thy den hang on thy repentance.”
A hissing sound was heard—a dense vapour arose—and all was again dark
as before. Some of the Wolfe of Badenoch’s terrified attendants
ventured to approach the gate to assist him. They carried Sir Alexander
away; and the ferocious Earl, again subdued from the high wrath to
which his son’s sudden excitation had for a moment raised his native
temper, relapsed into that apathetical stupor from which he had been
roused. He seemed to know not what he was doing, or where he was; but,
mechanically mounting his horse, he retired from the walls of Spynie,
and took his way slowly homewards. As the distant conflagration flashed
from time to time on his face, he started and looked towards it with
wild expression—and then elevated his eye towards his son, who was
carried on a bier formed of crossed lances, by some men on foot; but
excepting when he was so moved, his features were like those of the
stone effigy which now lies stretched upon his tomb.
The Bishop and the dignitaries of the Cathedral who composed his
Chapter, had assembled in fear and trembling in the Chapel of the
Palace, where they offered up prayers for deliverance from their
scourge; and the Wolfe of Badenoch and his formidable party were no
sooner ascertained to have permanently withdrawn, than they issued
forth, bearing some of the most holy of their images, with the most
precious relics of saints, which had been hastily snatched from their
shrines on the first alarm of the enemy’s approach, and began to move
in melancholy procession towards Elgin, guarded by the armed vassals of
the Church, who had been summoned to man the Palace walls. As they rose
over the hill, they beheld the flames still raging in all their fury.
The sun was by this time rising over the horizon, but his rays added
little to the artificial day that already possessed the scene. The
smiling morning, indeed, served to show the extent of the devastation
which the flames had already occasioned; but the cheerful matin song of
the birds accorded ill with the wailings that burst from those who
beheld this dismal spectacle. The pride of the Bishop, if the good man
ever had any, was indeed effectually humbled. As he rode on his palfrey
at the head of the sad procession, the reins held by two attendants,
one of whom walked on each side of him, he wept when he came within
view of the town; and, ordering them to halt, he crossed his hands
meekly over his breast, and looked up in silent ejaculation to Heaven.
“O speculum patriæ et decus regni,” cried he, turning his eyes again
towards the Cathedral, whilst the tears rolled over his cheeks. “Oh,
glory and honour of Scotland—thou holy fane, which we, poor wretched
mortals, did fondly believe to be a habitation worthy of the omnipotent
and mysterious Trinity, to whom thou wast dedicated—behold thee, for
the sins of us the guilty servants of a just God, behold thee yielded
up a prey to the destroyer! Oh, holy Father, and do thou, blessed
Virgin Mother, cause our prayers to find acceptance at the Almighty
throne, through the merits of thy beloved Son—may we, thy sinful
creatures, be humbled before this thine avenging arm; and may the
fasts, penances, and mortifications we shall impose be the means of
bringing us down, both body and soul, unto the dust, that thy just
wrath against us may be assuaged; for surely some great sin hath beset
us, seeing it hath pleased thee to destroy thine own holy temple, that
our evil condition might be made manifest to us.”
Those who formed the procession bent reverently to the ground as the
venerable prelate uttered these words.
“And now, my sons,” said he with a sigh, “let us hasten onwards, and do
what we can to preserve what may yet have escaped from the general
destruction.”
The first care of the good Bishop was to collect the scattered
townsmen, who had already begun to cluster in the streets; and every
exertion was immediately used to put a stop to the conflagration. The
Franciscan was there, but his attention was occupied with something
very different from that which so painfully interested every one else.
The Lady Beatrice—was she safe? At the risk of his life he had
clambered over the blazing roof of the Maison Dieu to seek her in her
chamber. She was gone from thence. He had searched anxiously through
all the upper apartments of the building, and yet he had seen no trace
of her. Full of alarm, he had been compelled to rest on the hope that
she might have escaped with others from the flames; and, with an
unspeakable anxiety to have that hope confirmed, he went about
inquiring impatiently of every one he met, whether any damsel,
answering to the description of the Lady Beatrice, had been seen; but
of all those to whom he addressed himself, there was no one who could
say that she was known to have escaped.
“Miserable wretch that I am,” said he, “have her sins then been
punished by so terrible a death—sins for the which I myself must be
called to dread account both here and hereafter—I who deprived her of
the blessing of a virtuous mother’s counsel, and of a father’s powerful
protection? Holy St. Francis forgive me, the thought is agony.”
He sat him down on a stone in the court of the Maison Dieu, and he was
soon joined by sister Marion, the lame housekeeper of the Hospital, who
came to mourn over its smouldering ruins.
“Oh, dear heart and alas!” cried the withered matron—“the blessed St.
Mary defend, protect, and be good unto us—and there is a dole sight to
be sure. Under that very roof hae I been housed and sheltered, come the
feast of Our Lady, full forty——nay, I should hae said fourteen years
and upwards, and now I am to be turned out amidst the snares and
temptations of this wicked world, to be the sport and the pastime of
the profligate and ungodly. What will become of us, to whose lot beauty
hath fallen as a snare, and fair countenance as an aid to the Evil One?
Where, alas! shall we hide our heads that we fall not in the way of
sinners? Where——”
“Tell me, sister!” cried the Franciscan, impatiently interrupting
her—“tell me, didst thou see the Lady Beatrice, whom I escorted hither
yesterday?”
“Yea, in good verity, did I that, brother,” replied Marion.
“Where?—where and when?” cried the anxious Franciscan.
“Nay, be not in such a flurry, brother,” replied she. “I did first see
her in the refectory when thou didst bring her there, and a pretty
damsel she be, I trow.”
“Nay, but didst thou see her after the fire?” demanded the Franciscan.
“In very deed, nay, brother,” replied the literal sister, Marion.
“Wretch that I am,” cried the Franciscan, in an agony of suspense,
“hath then no one seen her escape?”
“St. Katherine help us, an thou dost talk of her escape, indeed, thou
comest to the right hand in me,” replied she, “sith that it was I
myself who did show her how to escape; but that was neither before nor
after the fire, I promise thee, but in the very height of the brenning,
when the flames were bursting here, and crackling there—and the
rafters——”
“Nay, tell me, I entreat thee, sister,” cried the Franciscan,
interrupting her, though greatly relieved—“tell me how and where she
did save herself?”
“But I do tell thee thou art wrong, brother,” cried the peevish old
woman, “for it was in no such ways, seeing, as I said before, it was I
myself that did save her. But thou art so flustrificacious; an thou
wouldst but let me tell mine own tale——”
“Go on then, I pray thee, sister Marion,” cried the monk, curbing his
ire, and patiently resuming his seat upon the stone; “take thine own
way.”
“In good troth, my way is the right way,” replied sister Marion. “Well,
as I was a-saying, I was sound asleep in my bed, in the back turret at
the end of the passage, when cometh the Lady Beatrice to my room, and
did shake, shake at me; and up did I start, for luckily for me I had
taken an opiate, tincture, or balsam, the which the good cellarer doth
give me ofttimes for the shooting toothache pain (but, alas! I doubt it
be all burnt now), and so I had somehow lain down in my clothes; and
then came the cries of the people, and the smoke and flame—and so I did
bethink me straightway of the nun’s private stair to the Chapel, the
which did lead down from my very door. This I did enter, and bid the
Lady Beatrice follow me. But I being rather lame, and the stair being
fit only for one at a time, she did sorely hurry and hasten me; and
methought we should never hae gotten down to the Chapel. A-weel, as we
were crossing the Chapel to make our way out at the door that doth lead
into the garden, who should I see coming down the steps of the
main-stair that doth lead from yonder passage on the ground floor into
the Chapel, but Sir Andrew Stewart, the son of the Wolfe of Badenoch
himself. Trust me, I stayed not long. But if the Lady Beatrice did
complain of my delay in the way down thither, I trow she had reason in
sooth to think me liard enow in leaving it. I was gone in a trice ere
she did miss me; for of a truth I had no fancy to fall into such hands,
since who doth know what——”
“And the Lady Beatrice?” interrupted the Franciscan.
“Nay, I must confess I did see him lay his hands on her,” answered
Marion; “and I did see him behind me as I did flee through the garden.
But——”
“Then all is well,” interrupted the Franciscan, turning away from the
fatiguing old woman, and finishing the rest of his speech in grateful
soliloquy. “It doth rejoice me much that she hath fallen into the hands
of Sir Andrew Stewart; for albeit the Wolfe of Badenoch hath wrought so
much evil, verily I have myself seen that he is no enemy to the Lady
Beatrice. And then, Sir Andrew Stewart hath the reputation of being the
best of his family—one who is a mirror of virtue and of peaceful
gentleness; a perfect lamb of patience in that ferocious litter of wild
beasts. Even our holy Bishop hath him in favourable estimation. He
could not choose but take especial care of her. Praised be the Virgin,
I may now go about the Bishop’s affairs withouten care, being sure that
I shall hear good tidings of her anon.”
All that day and night, and all the following day, had passed away—the
flames had been partly extinguished by active exertion, and had partly
expired from lack of further food, and much had doubtless been done by
the influence of images and relics. Measures also had been taken to
preserve the quiet and peace of the town, as well as to ensure the
immediate accommodation and support of such of its inhabitants as had
suffered in the general calamity. Penitential prayers had been offered
up, and hymns chanted in the conventual churches and chapels which had
not suffered. A general penance and solemn fast had been ordered, after
all which the Bishop sent for the Franciscan, and held a long
conference with him on the subject of the affairs of the Church, which
we shall leave them to discuss together, that we may now follow the
humbled Wolfe of Badenoch to Lochyndorbe.
CHAPTER LXIX.
Changes at the Castle of Lochyndorbe—The Wolfe tamed—Alarm for the
Lady Beatrice.
The scene within that fortress was materially changed since our last
visit to it. The boys, Walter and James Stewart, were laid in beds from
which there was but small hope of their ever rising. Sir Alexander
Stewart also lay in a very dangerous and distressing state, with a
shattered arm and a bruised body, resulting from the heap of heavy
stones which had been thrown down upon him from the wall of Spynie; and
the hitherto hardy and impregnable mind and body of the Wolfe of
Badenoch himself, yielding before the storm of calamity that had so
suddenly assailed him, had sunk into a state of torpor, and he was now
confined to a sick bed by a low, yet rapidly consuming fever. In so
short a time as two days his gigantic strength was reduced to the
weakness of a child. His impatience of temper had not been entirely
conquered by the disease, but its effects were sufficiently moderated
by his prostration, to render him no longer a terror to any one; and
this feeling was heightened in all around him, by the conviction that
his malady was of a nature so fatal that his existence must soon be
terminated.
The Lady Mariota was one of the first who became aware of this, and she
prudently regulated her conduct accordingly. Yes, she for whose illicit
love he had sacrificed so much—she who had ever affected so devoted an
attachment to him—she who was the mother of his five boys—she on whose
account he had so resolutely braved so many tempests, and who had been
the original cause of the very feud with the Bishop of Moray which had
led to the commission of excesses so outrageous, and now produced so
much fatal affliction—she it was who, now beginning to show herself in
her true character, sorrowed not for him, but as her own importance and
high estate must inevitably sink in his deathbed. Even her grief for
her lost sons, and her anxiety for those whom she feared to lose, arose
more from the thought that in them perished so many supporters and
protectors who might yet have enabled her to hold her head proudly,
than from any of that warm and perfectly unselfish feeling, which, if
it anywhere exists, must be found to throb in the bosom of a mother.
Instead of flying in distraction from couch to couch, administering all
that imagination could think of, to heal, to support, or to soothe, she
wisely remembered that, in her situation, time was precious; and,
accordingly, she employed every minute of it in rummaging through the
secret repositories of many a curious antique cabinet, and in making up
many a neat and portable package, to be carried off the moment that the
soul of the Wolfe of Badenoch should quit his body. Nor were her active
thoughts bestowed on things inanimate, or within doors only; her tender
care soared even beyond the Castle walls and the Loch that encircled
them; and by means of a chosen few of her own servants whom she had
managed to secure by large bribes to her especial interest, the
surrounding country was raised, and the cattle and sheep that fed in
the lawndes of the forests for many a mile round, were seen pouring in
large bodies towards the land-sconce, to be ready to accompany her, and
to unite their lowings and bleatings to her wailings, when she should
be compelled to take her sad departure from Lochyndorbe.
Nor was the knowledge of this base ingratitude spared to the dying man.
She had not visited him for the greater part of the day. He called, but
the hirelings, who were wont to fly to him ere the words had well
passed his lips, were now glad to keep out of his sight, and each
abandoning to the rest the unwelcome task of waiting on him, he was
left altogether without help. He was parched with a thirst which he
felt persuaded the Loch itself would have hardly quenched; and in the
disturbed state of his nerves he was haunted with the eternal torture
of the idea of its waves murmuring gently and invitingly around him. It
was night. A light step entered his room cautiously, and the rays of a
lamp were seen. He entreated for a cup of water, but no answer was
returned to his request. At length his impatience gave him a momentary
command over his muscles, and throwing down the bed-clothes, he sprang
on his knees, and opened wide the curtains that shaded the lower end of
his bed. By the light of the lamp he beheld the Lady Mariota occupied
in searching through his private cabinet, whence she had already taken
many a valuable, the table being covered with rich chains of gold, and
sparkling gems of every variety of water and colour, set in massive
rings, buckles, brooches, collars, and head-circlets; and so intently
was she busied that she heard not his motion.
“Ha, wretch,” cried the Wolfe of Badenoch, in a hollow and sepulchral
voice of wasted disease; “the curse of my spirit upon thee, what dost
thou there?”
The Lady Mariota gave him not time to add more, for, looking fearfully
round, she beheld the gaunt visage of the Wolfe of Badenoch, with his
eyes glaring fiercely upon her; and believing that he had already died,
and that it was indeed his spirit which cursed her, she uttered a loud
scream, and rushed in terror from the apartment. The Wolfe, exhausted
by the unnatural exertion he had made, sank backwards in his bed, and
lay for some time motionless and unable to speak.
“Oh, for a cup of water,” moaned the miserable man at length, the
excruciating torture of his thirst banishing even that which his mind
had experienced in beholding so unequivocal a proof of the Lady
Mariota’s selfish and unfeeling heart; “oh, will no one bring me a cup
of water? And hath it then come so soon to this, that I, the son of a
King, am left to suffer this foretaste of hell’s torments, and no one
hand to help me? Oh, water, water, water, for mercy’s sake! Alas!
Heaven’s curse hath indeed fallen upon me. My dead and dying sons
cannot help me; and Mariota—ha! fiends, fiends! Ay, there is
bitterness—venom—black poison. Was it for this,” said he, casting his
eyes towards the glittering jewels on the distant table; “was it for a
heart so worthless that I did so brave the curse of the Church? Was it
for such a viper that I did incur my father’s anger? Was it for a
poisoned-puffed spider like this that I did do deeds that made men’s
hair bristle on their heads, and their very eyes grow dim? Did I bear
her fiercely up before a chiding world, that she might turn and sting
me at an hour like this? Ha! punishment, dread punishment was indeed
promised me; but I looked not that it should come from her whom I did
so long love and cherish—from her for whom I have sacrificed peace in
this life, and oh, worse than all, mercy in that to which I am
hastening.” He shuddered at the thoughts which now crowded on his mind,
and buried his head for some moments under the bed-clothes.
It now approached midnight, and the solitary lamp left by the Lady
Mariota was still burning, when his ear caught a rustling noise.
“Ha, Mariota, art there again?” cried the Wolfe of Badenoch,
impatiently lifting up his head.
He looked, and through the drapery of the bed, that still remained wide
open, he beheld the Franciscan standing before him.
“Ha, what! merciful St. Andrew,” cried the Wolfe; “ha, is it thou,
fiend, from whom hath sprung all mine affliction? Devil or monk, thou
shalt die in my grasp.” He made a desperate effort to rise, and
repeated it again and again; but he sank down nerveless, his breast
heaving with agitation, and his eyes starting wildly from their
sockets. “Speak, demon, what further vengeance dost thou come to
execute on this devoted head? Speak, for what fiendish torment canst
thou invent that shall more excruciate the body than racking and
unsatisfied thirst? or what that shall tear the soul more cruelly than
the barbed arrows of ingratitude? Hence, then, to thy native hell, and
leave me to mine.”
“Alexander Stewart, Earl of Buchan, and Lord of Badenoch,” said the
Franciscan, “I do come to thee as no tormenting fiend. The seal of
death doth seem to be set on thy forehead; thou art fast sinking into
his fleshless arms. The damps of the grave do gather on thy brow. ’Tis
not for mortal man as I am, to push vengeance at such an hour. When
thou wert in thy full strength and power I did boldly face thy
wickedness; but now thou art feeble and drivelling as the child that
was born yesterday, or as the helpless crone over whose worn head and
wasted brain an hundred winters have rolled, I come not to denounce
aught of punishment against thee; for already hast thou enow here, and
thou wilt soon be plunged for endless ages in that burning sea to which
it were bootless for me to add one drop of anguish. Forgetting all thy
cruelty against myself, I do come to thee as the hand of Mercy to the
drowning wretch. I come to offer myself as the leech of thy soul as
well as of thy body; and, as an offering of peace, and a pledge of my
sincerity, behold thy beloved son!”
The Franciscan threw aside the folds of his habit, with which he had
hitherto concealed something, and he held up the smiling boy, Duncan
Stewart.
“Mock me not, foul fiend,” cried the frantic father, believing that
what he saw was a phantom; “hence, and disturb not my brain.”
“Again I repeat, I am no fiend,” said the Franciscan mildly. “I come to
tell thee that repentance may yet ensure thee salvation in the next
world; nay, even life in this; yea, and life also to thy sons; and as a
gracious earnest of God’s infinite mercy, behold, I here restore thee
thy best beloved boy, the Benjamin of thy heart, whose life mine hand
did save from that raging fire thyself did so impiously kindle.”
The Wolfe of Badenoch devoured the very words of the Franciscan as he
spake. He gazed wildly on him and on his boy alternately, as if he yet
doubted the reality of the scene; and it was not until the little
Duncan’s joyous laugh rang in his ears, and he felt the boy’s arms
fondly entwining his neck, that he became satisfied of the truth of
what he heard and saw. He was no longer the iron-framed and
stern-souled Wolfe of Badenoch; his body was weak and his mind shaken,
and he sank backwards in the bed, giving way to an hysterical laugh.
“Oh, my boy, my boy,” cried he at length, smothering the youth with his
caresses; “my beloved Duncan, what can I do for so great a mercy!
What—what—but—Oh, mercy, one cup of water, in mercy!—I burn—my tongue
cleaveth—Oh, water, water, in mercy!”
The Franciscan hastened to give him water; and the thirsty wretch
snatched the cup of life from the hand of him whom his unbridled rage
had so wantonly consigned to the cruellest of deaths.
“More, more,” cried the impatient Wolfe of Badenoch; “mine entrails do
crack with the scorching heat within me.”
“Drink this, then,” said the Franciscan, taking a phial from his bosom,
and pouring part of its contents into the cup; “drink this, and thou
shalt have water.”
“Ha!” cried the Wolfe, darting a glance of suspicion towards the monk.
“Yet why should I hesitate?” continued he, as his eyes fell upon
Duncan. “He who hath restored my son, can have little wish to hasten
the end of a dying wretch.”
“And he who might have used the dagger against thee,” said the
Franciscan calmly, “would never have thought of giving thee a death so
tedious as that of poison. Drink; there is health in the cup.”
The Wolfe hesitated no longer.
“Now water, oh, water, in mercy!” cried he again, after he had
swallowed the drug.
“Thy thirst must be moderately ministered unto for a time,” said the
Franciscan; “yet shalt thou have one cup more,” and he poured one for
him accordingly.
“Why art thou thus alone, father,” demanded the boy Duncan; “why is not
my mother here? she who doth ever so caress and soothe thee, if that
the pulses of thy temples do but throb unreasonably. I’ll go and fetch
her hither straightway.”
“Fetch her not hither, Duncan, if thou wouldst not have me curse her,”
cried the Wolfe of Badenoch, dashing away the half-consumed cup of
water, in defiance of his thirst “Oh, that I might yet be myself again,
were it but for a day, that I might deal justice upon her. Then,
indeed, should I die contented.”
“Hush,” said the Franciscan; “such is not the temper that doth best
befit a dying man; yea, and one, too, who hath so much for the which to
ask forgiveness. It doth more behove thee to think of thine own sins
than of those of others. If it may so please Heaven, I shall be the
leech of thy body; but it were well that thou didst suffer me to give
blessed medicine to thy diseased soul, for thy life or thy death
hangeth in the Almighty hand, and no one can tell how soon thou mayest
be called to thy great account. Say, dost thou repent thee of all the
evil thou hast wrought against the Holy Church and her sacred
ministers?”
“I do, I do; most bitterly do I repent me,” cried the Wolfe of
Badenoch, grinding his teeth ferociously, and with an expression of
countenance very different from that becoming an humble penitent. “I do
repent me, I say, in gall and bitterness; for verily she for whom I did
these deeds——”
“Nay, talk not of her,” said the Franciscan, interrupting him; “mix not
up thine angry passions with thine abasement before thine offended
Maker. Repent thee of thy sins—make instant reparation to the Church
from the abundance of thy wealth—resolve to put away all thine
abominations from thee—and, finally, make a solemn vow, that, if it
should please Heaven to restore thee to health, thou wilt do such
penance as it may seem fitting for the injured Bishop of Moray to
impose upon thee—do these things, and all may yet be well with thee. If
thou art willing to vow solemnly to do these things, if Heaven in its
mercy shall yet spare thee, verily I will receive and be witness to thy
serment; and I do beseech thee to speak quickly, for I would fain leave
thee to that healing repose, for the which my medicine hath prepared
thee, that I may go to give healthful balsams to thy three sons, that
they may yet be snatched from an early grave.”
“Yea, most merciful and beneficent monk,” cried the Wolfe of Badenoch,
“thou whom I did believe to be a fiend, but whom I do now find to be
saint upon earth, most gladly do I yield me to thee. I here most
solemnly vow to the Virgin and the Holy Trinity, that I do heartily
repent me of mine outrages against the Holy Church of God and His holy
ministers; that I am ready to make what reparation I may; and that, if
it so please Heaven to rescue me from the jaws of death, I shall do
penance in such wise as to the Bishop and the King, my father, may seem
best.”
“Be thy vow registered in Heaven,” said the Franciscan, solemnly
crossing himself. “And now, with the blessing of St. Francis, thou
shalt soon be in a state for fulfilling it. But let me entreat thee to
yield thyself to that repose, the which the healing draught thou hast
taken must speedily ensure to thee; when thou dost again awake, thy
consuming fever will have left thee, and in two or three days at most
thou mayest be again in thy saddle. Let me now hasten to help thy
sons.”
The boy Duncan Stewart had already paved the way for the Franciscan’s
favourable reception with his brothers, who gladly submitted themselves
to his directions, and he speedily administered to their respective
cases. The domestics now began to be re-assured of the probable
recovery of the invalids, and they already quaked for the returning
wrath of the Wolfe of Badenoch. The Lady Mariota, sat trembling in her
apartment. The Franciscan, who had formerly disappeared so
miraculously, and who now re-appeared so strangely among them, was eyed
with fear by every one within the Castle, and his orders were obeyed as
implicitly and as promptly as the Wolfe himself, so that he lacked for
nothing that his patient required. Having done all for them that art
could effect, he had time to think of the Lady Beatrice, whom he
believed to be an inmate of the Castle, seeing he had no doubt that Sir
Andrew Stewart must have brought her thither. But he found, on inquiry,
that the knight had not appeared. He was vexed at the disappointment,
but taking it for granted that her protector had carried her to some
other fastness belonging to his father, he felt no uneasiness, trusting
that he should soon have tidings of her.
Dismissing all thoughts of the Lady Beatrice, therefore, from his mind,
he devoted himself eagerly to the restoration of the sick, being filled
with the idea of the signal service he was about to perform to the
Church, the extent of which would much depend on the recovery of those
who now lay in so precarious a state, that they might appear before the
world as living instances of penitence. For two days, then, he was
indefatigable in his attentions; and the effect of his care and skill
was, that the Wolfe of Badenoch’s cure was rapid. His disease had been
chiefly caused by sudden affliction, operating on an impatient temper,
and a conscience ill at ease. The Franciscan’s words, therefore, had
happily combined with his medicines to produce an almost miraculous
effect; and, ere the time promised by the monk was expired, he appeared
in the great hall, haggard and disease-worn indeed, but perfectly ready
to fill his saddle. The recovery of his sons, though there was now
little to be feared for them, promised to be more tedious; and it was
well for the peace of the Castle of Lochyndorbe that it was so, for
they might have made some objections to the decided step which their
father took the moment he again showed himself.
“Ha, villains,” cried he as he came stalking through the opening crowd
of domestics that shrunk from him on either hand—“so the Earl of
Buchan, the son of a King, mought have died for all ye cared. Ha!
whither did ye all hide, knaves, that I was nearly perishing of thirst,
and no one to give me a cup of water? But ’tis no marvel that ye should
have forgotten your master when—Ha! Bruce—send Bruce, the old esquire,
hither. What mighty lowing of cattle, and bleating of sheep, is that I
do hear?”
The domestics looked at each other, but no one dared to speak. The
impatient Wolfe hurried up a little turret-stair, from the top of which
he had a view over the outer walls of the Castle, and the narrow strait
that divided that from the mainland. There he beheld the whole of the
flocks and herds which the Lady Mariota had so prudently collected
together, and which her trepidation had made her forget to order to be
driven again to their native hills and forests. He wanted no further
information, for the truth flashed on him at once. His eye reddened,
his cheek grew paler than even the disease had left it, his lip
quivered, and he rushed precipitately down to the hall.
“Where, in the fiend’s name, is Bruce?” cried he. “Ha! thou art there,
old man. Get thee quickly together some dozen or twain of mounted
spears, with palfreys for the Lady Mariota and her women, and
sumpter-horses needful for the carriage of their raiment; and let her
know that it is my will she do forthwith depart hence with thee for my
Castle of Cocklecraig, the which is to be her future place of
sojournance.”
The esquire bowed obediently, and hastened to execute the command of
his impatient Lord. In a little time a page appeared, with an humble
message from the Lady Mariota, to know whether the Earl was to
accompany her into Buchan.
“Tell her no,” replied the Wolfe, turning round on the frightened page,
and speaking with a voice that shook the Gothic hall, which he was
rapidly measuring backwards and forward with his paces.
Again a woman came to him from the Lady Mariota, most submissively
entreating for an interview.
“Nay, the red fiend catch me then!” cried the furious Wolfe, his eyes
flashing fire; “I do already know too much of her baseness, ever to
trust myself with a sight of her again. ’Twere better, for her sake,
that she urge me not to see her. Ha! tell her I have sworn by my
knighthood that the threads that hath bound my heart to her
worthlessness shall be for ever snapped. Let not the poisonous toad
cross my path, lest I crush her in mine ire, and give to my conscience
another sin to be repented of.—Away!”
The Wolfe again paced the hall, very much moved. The neighing of horses
and the noise of preparation were heard in the court-yard; the warder’s
call for the boats sounded across the lake; and a wailing of women’s
voices soon afterwards succeeded. The Wolfe paced the hall with a yet
more rapid step; he became much moved, and hid his face from the
Franciscan, who was the only witness of his agitation. But at last it
became too strong to be concealed, and he rushed up the turret-stair,
whence he had before looked out towards the land-sconce. He remained
absent for a considerable time; and when he returned, his face was
deeply marked with the traces of the strong contending emotions he had
undergone.
“How doth thy leech-craft prosper, good Sir Friar?” demanded he at
length, evidently from no other desire than to talk away his present
feelings, seeing that he had already put the same question more than
half-a-dozen times before.
“I do trust that, under God, thy sons will yet be well,” replied the
Franciscan. “But be not impatient, my Lord; their cure must be the work
of time. Meanwhile, be thankful to a merciful Providence, who doth thus
restore to thee all those of whom thou didst fear thou wert bereft.”
“All!” cried the Wolfe, shuddering, “nay, not all; all but Andrew, and
he did perish horribly in the flames of the Maison Dieu, whither I did
myself enforce him. Heaven in its mercy pardon me!”
“Andrew!” cried the Franciscan, with surprise; “trust me, my Lord, Sir
Andrew Stewart is safe.”
“Safe!” cried the Wolfe, clasping his hands together in an
ecstacy—“then thanks be to a merciful God, who hath saved me from the
torturing thought of having been the cause of working my son’s death.
But where, I pray thee, was he seen?” demanded the Wolfe eagerly.
“He was seen in the Chapel of the Maison Dieu with a lady, whom he did
thereafter lead through the garden of the Hospital,” replied the
Franciscan.
“What, the Lady Beatrice!” demanded the Wolfe; “for that is all the
name I did ever know her to bear as a woman, albeit I do well recollect
her masculine appellation of Maurice de Grey.”
“The same,” replied the Franciscan.
“Then hath Andrew preserved her life,” replied the Wolfe. “By the beard
of my grandfather, but I do greatly rejoice to hear it. There is still
some virtue in the caitiff after all. My efforts to save the lady were
vain; I did even gain her chamber, but I found her gone; from which I
was compelled with grief to believe that she had surely perished. But
whither hath my son Andrew conveyed her?”
“Nay, that I have not yet discovered,” replied the Franciscan; “but Sir
Andrew Stewart saved not the Lady Beatrice from the flames. One of the
sisters of the Hospital did teach her how to escape; and as they
crossed the Chapel together, Sir Andrew Stewart, who had fled thither
for safety——”
“Ah, coward,” cried the Wolfe; “so, after all, he was the craven
kestrel. By my beard, I thought as much. And so thou sayest that thou
art yet ignorant where the Lady Beatrice hath been bestowed.”
“Nay, my good Lord,” replied the Franciscan; “but with a knight of his
good report she is sure of protection, and——”
“What sayest thou?—good report, sayest thou?” interrupted the Wolfe.
“Though he be a brauncher from mine own nest, yet must I, in honesty,
tell thee, Sir Friar, that a greater hypocrite presseth not the surface
of the earth. Protection, saidst thou? By St. Barnabas, but she hath
already hath enow of his protection.”
“What dost thou mean, my Lord?” replied the monk, in astonishment.
“Why, by my knighthood, but I am ashamed to speak so of mine own son,”
replied the Wolfe; “yet am I bound to treat thee with candour, and so
thou shalt e’en have it.” And he proceeded to give the monk a short
history of the infamous treachery of Sir Andrew Stewart towards the
Lady Beatrice.
“My Lord of Buchan,” cried the Franciscan, with an agitation and
earnestness of manner which the Wolfe of Badenoch could by no means
explain, “if I have found favour with thee, lend me thine aid, I
entreat thee, to recover the Lady Beatrice from thy son. She is
destined to take the veil, and in giving me thine aid to reclaim her
thou wilt be doing a pious duty, the which will assuredly tell for the
good of thy soul, yea, and help to balance the heavy charge of thine
iniquities.”
“Right joyfully shall I give thee mine aid,” replied the Wolfe of
Badenoch; “the more that she was the lady of the gallant Sir Patrick
Hepborne, with whom she was here, in the disguise of a page. Ha, ha,
ha, ha! But wherefore doth she now take the veil?”
“’Tis fitting that she doth atone for a youth of sin by a life of
penitence,” replied the Friar, unwilling to speak more plainly.
“So,” said the Wolfe of Badenoch, with a significant look, “after all
her modest pretence, and after all Sir Patrick’s cunning dissembling,
’twas as I did suspect then, after all?”
“Thou didst suspect, then?” said the Friar; “alas! I do fear with too
much reason. Yet let us not tarry, but hasten to recover her, I pray
thee.”
“Squires, there—what, ho, within!” cried the Wolfe, “hath no one as yet
heard aught of Sir Andrew Stewart?”
“No one, my noble Earl,” replied an esquire who waited.
“By the holy mass, then,” said the Wolfe, “but the caitiff hath taken
refuge in some of my strongholds. But ’twill be hard an we ferret him
not out. Ha! knaves there, let fifty mounted lances be ready in the
lawnde beyond the land-sconce ere I can wind my bugle.”
The Wolfe of Badenoch was restored to all his pristine vigour by the
very thought of going on an expedition, even though it was against his
own son. The court-yard rang with the bustle the Castle was thrown
into, and all the boats were put in requisition to ferry the horses
across. Everything was ready for them to mount at the land-sconce in an
incredibly short space of time; but, however short the delay, still it
was too much for his impatience; nor was his companion less restless
than the Wolfe, till he found himself in saddle. When all were mounted,
the monk showed, by his forward riding, that there was little risk of
his being a drag upon the speed of the furious-pricking knight, and the
Wolfe of Badenoch exulted to behold his horsemanship.
“By the mass,” cried he, pulling up a little, “but thou art a prince of
friars; ’tis a pleasure, I vow, to have a stalwarth monk like thee as a
confessor; wouldst thou be mine, thou shouldst ever ride at my elbow.
Where hadst thou thy schooling, Sir Friar?”
“I have rode in the lists ere now,” replied the Franciscan; “yea, and
war have I seen in all its fashions. But it doth now befit me to forget
these vain carnal contentions, and to fight against mine own evil
passions, the which are harder to subdue than any living foe. And in
this let me be an ensample to thee, my Lord, for verily the time is but
short sith that I was as violent and tempestuous as thyself; and hard
it is even yet for me, frail man as I am, to keep down the raging devil
that is within me. May the blessed Virgin increase our virtuous
resolution!” said he, crossing himself.
To this pious ejaculation the Wolfe added a hearty “Amen;” and they
again pushed on at the same rapid pace at which they had originally
started.
CHAPTER LXX.
Bishop Barr at Lochyndorbe Castle—Reception by the Wolfe.
The Wolfe of Badenoch and the Franciscan had hardly reached the end of
the lake, when they descried a mounted knight approaching them.
“By all that is marvellous,” cried the Wolfe, halting suddenly, “but
yonder doth come my very son Andrew!”
“Is it indeed Sir Andrew Stewart?” said the Franciscan; “methinks he
cometh as if he had little fear of blame about him.”
“By’r Lady, but his coming home thus at all doth look something like
honesty,” said the Wolfe; “but do thou let me question him, holy
father, nor fear that I will deal over gently with him. So, Sir
Andrew,” cried he, as soon as his son was near enough to hear him, “I
do rejoice to behold thee again. Whence comest thou, I pray thee?”
“From Elgin straightway, my noble father,” replied Sir Andrew Stewart.
“Marry, and what hath kept thee there so long, then?” demanded the
Wolfe; “methought that thou hadst seen enow to teach thee that no whelp
of mine could be welcome guest there.”
“In truth, I did so find it indeed,” replied Sir Andrew Stewart.
“Then what a murrain hath kept thee there?” demanded the Wolfe sternly.
“Come, thou knowest I am not over patient. Thy story—thy story quickly.
What befel thee after thou didst enter the blazing Spital of the Maison
Dieu? Didst thou rescue the damosel—the Lady Beatrice?”
“I did,” replied the unblushing knight; “verily, I rushed to the upper
chamber through the fire and the smoke, and I did snatch her from the
very flames, and bear her forth in safety.”
“There thou liest, caitiff,” roared out the Wolfe; “thou dost lie in
the very threshold of thy story. By the mass, but we shall judge of the
remainder of thy tale by the sample thou hast already given us. But go
on, Sir Andrew. What didst thou with her after thou didst save her, as
thou saidst? ay, and tell us, too, how thou didst escape?”
“But first, where is she now?” demanded the Franciscan, breaking in.
“Nay, Sir Friar, be not impatient,” cried the Wolfe of Badenoch; “thou
wilt gain nothing by impatience. Interrupt him not, I entreat thee; but
let him go on in order. Proceed, sirrah.”
“I retreated with the Lady Beatrice, through the Chapel of the Maison
Dieu,” replied Sir Andrew Stewart, now assuming greater caution as to
what he uttered.
“Well, Sir Knight,” exclaimed the Franciscan keenly, “what hast thou
done with her? Speak to that at once.”
“Nay, Sir Friar, why wilt thou thus persist in taking speech?” demanded
the Wolfe testily; “thou art most unreasonably hasty. By the beard of
my grandfather, but impatience and unbridled passion doth ever defeat
itself. Dost thou not see that I am cool and unflurried with this
knave’s face? Answer me, villain,” roared he to his son, “answer me,
thou disgrace to him from whom thou art sprung—thou child of thine
infamous mother—answer me, I tell thee, quickly, and to the point, or,
by the blood of the Bruce, I shall forget that thou hast any claim to
be called my son.”
“Be not angry with me, father,” said Sir Andrew, trembling; “verily the
lady is safe, for all that I do know of her; and——”
“Where hast thou bestowed her, villain?” shouted the Wolfe; “speak, or,
by all the fiends, thou shalt never speak more.”
“I will, father, if thou wilt but suffer me,” replied the terrified Sir
Andrew Stewart.
“Why dost thou not go on then?” cried the Wolfe yet more impatiently;
“where hast thou bestowed the lady, villain! An we be not possessed by
thee of the whole of thy story, and of the place where thou hast
confined her, in less time than the flight of an arrow doth consume, by
the blessed house of my ancestors, I shall cause hang thee up, though
thou be’st called my son.”
“The lady is not in my hands,” replied Sir Andrew Stewart in terrible
alarm; “she fled from me in the garden of the Maison Dieu, and I did
never see her more.”
“Hey—what?—but this may be all of a piece with the beginning of thy
tale, which we know was false as hell,” replied the Wolfe.
“Nay, we do indeed know so much as that thou didst never save her,”
cried the Franciscan; “we do know right well how she was saved; yea,
and we do know, moreover, that thou didst seize her as she did pass
through the Chapel, and thou wert heard with her in the garden. Tell me
speedily whither didst thou carry her, and where is she now?”
“Ay, where is she now,” cried the Wolfe; “out with the truth, if thou
wouldst escape hanging. Be assured that every false word thou mayest
utter shall be proved against thee; so see that thou dost speak truth.”
“Have mercy on me, father,” cried the wretched Sir Andrew Stewart,
throwing himself from his horse, and dropping on his knees between the
Wolfe and the Franciscan; “have mercy on me, and I will tell thee all
the truth. To my shame I do confess that vanity and the fear of my
father’s wrath against my cowardice did prompt me to utter that which
was false; and——”
“Ha! where is she, then, villain?” cried the Wolfe, interrupting him.
“Distraction! where hast thou concealed her?” cried the Franciscan.
“Verily, I know nothing of her,” said the knight.
“Wretch, dost thou return to thy falsehood?” cried the Franciscan.
“Nay, what I say in this respect is most true,” said Sir Andrew
Stewart; “it was in saying that I did rescue the Lady Beatrice that I
spake falsely. I was too much daunted by the fierceness of the flames
to venture aloft; but having been once upon a time a guest in the
Maison Dieu, I well knew its various passages, one of which did lead
from the bottom of the main staircase of the building directly into the
Chapel, whence I was aware that a retreat into the garden was easy. As
I entered the Chapel I beheld one of the sisterhood of the Maison Dieu
hobbling away with the Lady Beatrice. Mine ancient passion returned
upon me, and——”
“Villain! thou didst carry her off,” cried the Franciscan, interrupting
him.
“Thou lying caitiff, where hast thou concealed her?” cried the Wolfe.
“I did straightway attempt to lay hands upon her, when she fled before
me into the garden, and escaped among the trees and bushes, where I
instantly lost all trace of her.”
“But where hast thou been all this time sithence?” demanded the Wolfe
fiercely; “answer me straightway to that.”
“My Lord Earl,” replied Sir Andrew Stewart, “as I wandered in the
garden I did encounter the old gardener, who, under the light of the
burning, did remember me for one of thy sons. He instantly seized me,
and having snatched my sword from my side, he did swear potent oaths
that he would put me to death if I dared offer to resist; and with
these threats he forced me through the garden, and plunged me into a
deep vault at its farther extremity, where I was immured without food
for two days.”
“Ha! and by the Holy Rood, thou didst well merit it all, I ween, thou
most pitiful of cowards,” cried the Wolfe, angrily gnashing his teeth;
“what, thou the son of the Wolfe of Badenoch, to be frayed and captured
by an old doting unarmed gardener! By all the fiends, but thou dost
deserve to wear a kirtle and petticoat, and to have a distaff to
handle. But what more hast thou to tell, thou shame to knighthood?”
“When I was nearly spent by hunger and thirst,” continued Sir Andrew,
“the gardener came, with some of the brethren of the Maison Dieu, to
take me from my prison, and I was led before the Bishop of Moray.”
“Ha! and how did the Bishop treat thee?” interrupted the Wolfe.
“He received me with much mildness and gentleness,” replied Sir Andrew
Stewart; “and he did severely chide those who so cruelly left me
without food, and ere he would allow a question to be put to me, he did
straightway order my hunger and thirst to be forthwith satisfied; and,
when I had well eaten and drank, he ordered an apartment to be
instantly prepared for me, that I might enjoy the repose the which I
had so much need; and verily I was right glad to accept of the
proffered blessing. The Bishop did keep me with him until a messenger
came to him from Lochyndorbe, after which he entertained me rather as
his favoured guest than as his prisoner.”
“Nay, so far he speaketh truth” said the Franciscan; “that messenger
was mine; he was the messenger of peace.”
“I do indeed speak the truth in everything now,” replied Sir Andrew
Stewart, “the which thou mayest soon learn from the Bishop himself, for
I am sent before him to announce a peaceful visitation from him, and he
will be here anon.”
“Ha! if thou hadst but listened, Sir Friar,” cried the Wolfe, “if thine
impatience had but suffered thee to listen, we had saved much time.”
“Yea, much time mought have indeed been saved,” said the Franciscan;
“but, sinner that I am, what hath become of the Lady Beatrice? Her
disappearance is most mysterious, if what Sir Andrew Stewart hath told
be indeed true.”
“But didst thou not say that the Bishop was coming hither, son Andrew?”
cried the Wolfe of Badenoch; “what force doth he bring with him?”
“He bringeth not a single armed man with him,” replied Sir Andrew
Stewart; “nay, he hath not above some fifteen or twenty persons in all
his company.”
“Had we not better hasten us homewards?” said the Wolfe to the
Franciscan; “had we not better hasten to prepare for receiving my Lord
Bishop, sith that he doth honour me so far?”
“Thou art right, my Lord,” replied the Franciscan, starting from a
reverie into which he had fallen; “it may be that my Lord Bishop may
peraunter have some tidings to give me of her about whom I am so much
interested.”
The Franciscan had little leisure to think more of the Lady Beatrice at
that time. They were no sooner within the Castle walls than he found
that he had a sufficient task to fulfil in preparing the fierce mind of
the Wolfe of Badenoch for receiving the Bishop with that peaceful
humility which became a sincere penitent. It was so far a fortunate
circumstance that the Wolfe himself was already very greatly touched by
the prelate’s generous conduct towards his sons Duncan and Andrew, whom
fortune had placed at his mercy.
“By the Rood,” exclaimed he, “but the Bishop hath shown kindness where,
in truth, I had but little reason to expect it at his hands. He might
have hanged both my boys, taken, as I may say they were, red-handed in
a manner. Then his coming thus doth show but little of that haughtiness
of the which I did believe him to be possessed. By this hand, we shall
muster out our garrison and meet him on the land-sconce with all our
warlike parade, that we may do him all the honour that may be.”
“Nay,” replied the monk mildly, “not so, I do entreat thee, my Lord.
Let us appear there with all the symbols of peace and humility, and——”
“What,” interrupted the Wolfe hastily, “wouldst thou have me put myself
in the power of the prelate?”
“Nay, thou needst hardly fear that, if thou rememberest what thy son
Sir Andrew did say of the unarmed state of his small escort,” replied
the Franciscan; “and, in truth, meseems that if the peaceful Bishop
doth adventure so far as to entrust himself and his people unarmed in
thy stronghold, it would speak but little for the bold heart of the
Earl of Buchan to go armed, and attended by armed men. Nay, nay, my
Lord; of a truth, this is a bold act of the Bishop of Moray, when all
that hath passed is well considered. He hath indeed been generous, and
now he doth prove himself to be dauntless. Let him not have to boast,
then, that he hath outdone thee either in generosity or fearlessness. I
need not call upon thee to remember thee of thy vow, the which I did
witness, and which is now registered in heaven. Show that thou art
truly penitent and humble, and remember that thine abasement before
God’s minister is but thine abasement before God, who hath already
shown thee such tender mercy, and who will yet show thee more.”
After listening to this exhortation, the Wolfe of Badenoch became
thoughtful, and the Franciscan gradually ventured to propose to him the
manner in which it would best become him to receive the Bishop. The
countenance of the ferocious warrior showed sufficiently how painful
the humiliation was to his feelings; but he submitted patiently, if not
cheerfully, and the necessary preparations were accordingly made.
The warder who was stationed in the barbican blew his horn to announce
the first appearance of the Bishop’s party, who were seen winding like
black specks through the scattered greenwood at the farther end of the
lake. The colony of herons were scarcely disturbed by their slow and
silent march. The little fleet of boats clustered under the Castle
walls was manned, and the Wolfe of Badenoch and his whole garrison were
rowed across to the land-sconce, where they immediately formed
themselves into a procession, and walked onwards to meet those who were
coming.
First went fifty warriors, unarmed and with their heads bare. Then
followed the Wolfe of Badenoch himself, also unarmed, and wearing a
black hood and surcoat. At his side was the Franciscan, and behind him
were his sons Andrew and Duncan, after whom came fifty more of his
people. The Bishop approached, mounted on his palfrey, surrounded by
some of the dignitaries of his diocese, and followed by a few monks and
a small train of attendants. The Wolfe of Badenoch’s men halted, and,
dividing themselves into two lines, formed a lane for the Bishop and
his party to advance. The Wolfe moved forward to meet the prelate; but
though his garb was that of a humble penitent, his eye and his bearing
were those of a proud Prince.
“Ah, there is the good Bishop, who was so kind to me at Spynie,” cried
little Duncan, clapping his hands with joy; “he did teach me to play
bowls, father, and he gave me so many nice sweetmeats. Let me run to
him, I beseech thee.”
The boy’s innocent speech was enough; it brought a grappling about the
heart of the Wolfe of Badenoch; he hastened forward to the end of the
lane of men, and made an effort to reach the Bishop’s stirrup, that he
might hold it for him to dismount.
“Nay, nay,” said the good man, preventing his intention by quitting his
saddle ere he could reach him; “I may not allow the son of my King so
to debase himself.”
“My Lord Bishop,” said the Wolfe, prompted by the Franciscan, “behold
one who doth humbly throw himself on the mercy and forgiveness of God
and thee.”
“The mercy of God was never refused to a repentant sinner,” replied the
Bishop; “and as for the forgiveness of a fallible being like me, I wot
I do myself lack too much of God’s pardon to dare refuse it to a
fellow-sinner. May God, then, in his mercy, pardon thee on thy present
submission, and on the score of that penance to which thou art prepared
to submit.”
“My Lord Bishop,” replied the Wolfe, “I am ready to submit to
whatsoever penance it may please thee to enjoin me. Thy mercy to my
sons, and in especial that to my boy Duncan, hath subdued me to thy
will. But let me entreat of thee that, sinner though I be, thou wilt
honour my Castle of Lochyndorbe with thy sacred presence. There shall I
learn thy volunde, the which I do here solemnly vow, before the blessed
Virgin and the Holy Trinity, whom I have offended, to perform to the
veriest tittle, were it to be a pilgrimage to the Holy Sepulchre
itself. Trust me, thy tender mercy towards me and mine hath wrought
more with me than all that thy power or thy threats could have done.”
“Let us not talk more of this matter at this time, my Lord,” replied
the Bishop; “I do hereby take upon me, in the meanwhile, conditionally
to remove from thee the dread sentence of excommunication, seeing thou
hast made all the concession as yet in thy power, and that thou art
ready to make what reparation thou canst for what hath passed, and to
do such penance as may be required of thee; and so shall I cheerfully
accept thy hospitality for this night.”
The Wolfe of Badenoch’s men stared at each other, to behold their
fierce master thus become the peaceable companion of the very prelate
and monk against whom the full stream of his fury had been so lately
directed. They shrugged and looked wise at each other, but no one
ventured to utter a word; and the two processions having mingled their
truly heterogeneous materials together, they turned towards the
land-sconce, and peacefully entering the boats, crossed the Lake to the
Castle, where the chief personages were soon afterwards to be seen
harmoniously seated at the same festive board. But before they were so
assembled, the Franciscan had a conference with the Bishop in his
private apartment.
“Thou hast indeed well served the cause of the Church, Friar John,”
said the prelate to him; “yea, thou hast done God and our holy religion
good service, by having thus so miraculously tamed this wild and
ferocious Wolfe. Thou hast tilled a hardened soil, that hath heretofore
borne but thistles, thorns, and brambles, that did enter into our flesh
and tear our very hearts. But thy hand must not be taken from the
plough until thy task be complete. Thou must forward with the Earl of
Buchan towards Perth to-morrow. ’Twere well to take him while his mind
is yet soft with the meliorating dews of penitence. I have spoken to
him apart sith I did come hither. Already hath he agreed to make over
to me certain large sums in gold, to be placed at the disposal of our
chapter, as alswa divers annual rents springing from a wide extent of
territory, to be expended in the restoration of our Cathedral.
Moreover, he hath declared himself ready to perform the penance I have
enjoined him, the ceremonial of which thou wilt find detailed in this
parchment, after which he will be absolved by the godly Walter Traill,
Bishop of St. Andrews, in the Blackfriars Church of Perth. To thy
prudence and care do I commit the proper ordering and execution of all
that this parchment and these directions I have written do contain,
seeing there be none other who could do it so well.”
“I must obey all thy commands, my sacred Lord,” replied the friar; “yet
is my mind ill attuned to the task, seeing it is distracted because of
the uncertain fate of the Lady Beatrice. I beseech thee, hath any
tidings of her reached thee?”
“Nay, I heard not of her,” replied the Bishop, “save what I gathered
from Sir Andrew Stewart, who parted with her in the garden of the
Maison Dieu. Yet did I not cease to make inquiry—and, in truth, I do
greatly fear that she hath availed herself of her liberty to flee
towards the south, to join herself to him with whom she did once so
scandalously associate, and for whom thou sayest she hath unblushingly
confessed her inextinguishable love. I hear our Scottish champions have
returned from the English expedition, and doubtless Sir Patrick
Hepborne the younger is by this time at the Court of King Robert, at
Scone, if he hath not been detained in the Tower, to answer for his
outrage. From what thou hast told me there must have been some secret
concert between the knight and Beatrice. She must, therefore, have been
well possessed of all his intentions—and if so, she was well prepared
to avail herself of any chance of escape, that she might fly to join
herself to him again. Hadst thou any talk with her on the subject of
Sir Patrick Hepborne?”
“Never, my sacred Lord, sith the night when Friar Rushak enabled me to
take her from the Tower,” replied the Franciscan. “Nay, save some short
dialogue between us after the ship weighed anchor, when, to quiet her
fears and compose her mind, I did tell her the secret in which she was
so much interested, and explained to her by what right I so assumed
control over her—the stormy voyage, and the fatigues that followed it,
left me no leisure to hold further converse with her. But thou art
right, my gracious Lord Bishop. She hath doubtless fled to her
paramour, who seems to carry some love enchantment about him that he
hath so bewitched her.”
“The King hath lately removed to Scone,” said the Bishop; “so, I do
verily think that, on going to Perth on this errand of the Church, thou
shalt have the best chance to recover her who hath fled from thee; at
least, thou wilt hear of Sir Patrick Hepborne; and where he is, there
will she be also.”
“I do verily believe so the more I turn the subject in my thoughts,”
replied the Franciscan; “nay, it can be no otherwise. Trust me, I do
gladly give thee thanks for this hint, as well as for all thy friendly
actings towards me. I shall go hence with Lord Badenoch to-morrow. My
heart shall first of all be given to the service of the blessed Church,
the which I do yet hope to see raise her head but so much the higher
from these her late calamities. That accomplished, I shall seek for and
find Beatrice, though her foul seducer should conceal her in the bowels
of the earth.”
The hot feud had so long subsisted between the Wolfe of Badenoch and
the Bishop of Moray that each had for many years viewed the other
through a false medium. The eyes of the ferocious Earl had been
specially diseased, and now that the scales had been removed from them,
he was astonished to discover the mild and unpretending demeanour, and
the forgiving disposition of the man whom he had believed to be his
proud and implacable enemy. This induced him to overwhelm the Bishop
with all that the kindness of his native hospitality could devise, and
so a mutual re-action took place between them, which the politic
Franciscan took every opportunity to improve. The Wolfe even listened
with tolerable patience of countenance, and altogether without
offensive reply, to the Bishop’s remonstrance on the subject of his
misconduct to his wife Euphame Countess of Ross; and, strange as it may
seem, he solemnly vowed that the first step he should take after doing
penance, would be to receive that injured woman again to his bosom.
Preparations for an early march next morning were made with that
expedition with which all his orders were generally executed by his
well-disciplined people; and when the time of departure came, the
Bishop and he set out cordially together, and afterwards separated,
each to pursue his respective way, with a friendly regret that can only
be comprehended by those who are well conversant in the whimsical
issues of the human heart.
CHAPTER LXXI.
The Scottish Knights in London—Father Rushak’s Tale.
Allowing the Wolfe of Badenoch and his friend the Franciscan to proceed
on their journey, we must now return to inquire into the fate of Sir
Patrick Hepborne. We left him lying on the straw in his dungeon, giving
way to a paroxysm of grief for having been so cruelly rent from Lady
Beatrice, tormenting himself with fears for her safety, and refusing
the comfort which his esquire Mortimer Sang, and Master Lawrence
Ratcliffe, were in vain attempting to administer to him. Whilst he was
in this state of bitter affliction, the door of the dungeon was again
opened, and a number of guards entering, silently approached him.
Believing that they were about to lead him to immediate execution, he
rose to meet them.
“I am ready,” said he recklessly; “my life is now but of little value
to me. The sooner it is over the better. Lead on, then, my friends.”
Mortimer Sang sprang forward to prevent their seizure of his master,
but he was speedily overpowered, and Sir Patrick was led passively
away.
He was conducted through a long dark passage, and finally lodged in a
cell, to which he ascended by a short circular flight of steps. He
questioned his conductors as to what was to be his fate, but they
retired without giving him any reply. His new prison, though small, was
less dark and gloomy than the larger dungeon from which he had been
taken; and though sufficiently strong, it had an air of greater comfort
about it; yet would he willingly have exchanged it for that he had
left, to have been again blessed with the society of his esquire and
the wine merchant. He seemed to be now condemned to solitary
imprisonment, and he anticipated the worst possible intentions from
this seclusion. The survey he took of the four walls that enclosed him
left no hope of escape. There was indeed another small door besides
that by which he had entered, but both were so powerfully fenced with
iron as to be perfectly impregnable. He viewed this second door with an
eye of suspicion, and the idea that through it might enter the
assassins who were privily to despatch him, presented death to him in a
shape so uninviting, that, ready as he had been to lay down his life
but the moment before, he now resolved to sell it as dearly as he
could, although he had no other weapon but his hands to defend himself
with.
He sat down on a stone bench in a niche in the wall opposite to this
suspicious door, and, fixing his eye on it, he fell into a reverie,
from which he was roused by the sound of footsteps, as if descending
towards it. He sprang up, that he might be prepared for action. The
door opened, and a young man in the garb of a lacquey, and altogether
unarmed, appeared at the bottom of a very narrow spiral staircase. He
made an obeisance to Sir Patrick, and silently, but respectfully
beckoned him to follow; and the knight, resolving to pursue his fate,
immediately obeyed. He was conducted up several flights of steps, until
at length, to his great surprise, he was brought into a little oratory,
where he was again left alone.
He had not waited long, when a pannel in the wall, behind the altar,
opened, and a Franciscan Friar appeared. The knight regarded him with a
calm and steady look. It was Friar Rushak, the King’s Confessor.
“Sir Patrick Hepborne,” said the monk mildly to him, “I come to thee on
private embassage from the Royal Richard. Thine intemperance in
breaking in upon his privacy as thou didst, hath led thee to be
accused, by some who are more zealous than prudent, of having made a
premeditated attempt to assassinate His Majesty. But this hath been
done without the Royal sanction; for albeit that appearances do of a
surety most powerfully array themselves against thee, yet he doth
acquit thee of all such traitorous intent. But thou hast been led by
blind fury to lift thine hand against the Sovereign whose hospitality
thou dost now enjoy, and that, too, in defence of one against whom he
did mean nothing dishonourable, though circumstances may have wrought
up her fears to believe that he did.”
“What!” cried Hepborne, with a strong expression of doubt in his face;
“so King Richard doth deny all dishonourable intention against the Lady
Beatrice? But what availeth it if he doth so? Hath he not sithence
devoted her to certain destruction, by giving her up to one who hath
already proved himself to be her enemy, yea, an assassin, who would
have murdered her?”
“Sir Knight,” said Friar Rushak, after some moments’ thought, “trust
me, the King had no hand in the disposal of her. He did never see the
lady after that moment when thou didst force him to retreat before
thine inconsiderate rage. But, an assassin—a murderer, saidst thou? How
canst thou so accuse a brother of St. Francis?”
“Because I have good reason to know that he did once steal into the
chamber of the Lady Beatrice at the hour of midnight, armed with a
dagger,” cried Hepborne impatiently; “and had she not saved herself by
flight——”
“Thou must suffer me to tell thee that this strange tale is difficult
of credence with me,” said Friar Rushak, interrupting him; “the more,
too, that it cometh from the very knight whom report doth accuse of
having taught the damsel to stray from the path of virtue, and to whom
she oweth her present infamy.”
“What mean ye, friar?” cried Sir Patrick Hepborne, with mingled
indignation and astonishment. “Who hath so foully and falsely dared to
charge me and the Lady Beatrice—she who is pure as an angel of
light—Who, I say, hath dared to prefer so foul and false an
accusation?”
“The Franciscan whom thou——”
“Villain!” cried Sir Patrick, interrupting Friar Rushak, and giving way
to a rage which he was quite unable to control; “villain, black and
damnable villain! I swear by the honour of a knight, that this charge
is false as hell. Pardon me, holy father, for my just ire. I do beseech
thee, tell me what thou dost know of this wretch, of this assassin, who
doth so foully stab reputation too, and who hath so imposed on thy too
easy belief—What, I pray thee, dost thou know of him?”
“Nay, I am ashamed to say, I know not much,” replied Friar Rushak,
already shaken in his opinion of the Franciscan by the solemnity of Sir
Patrick’s asseverations; “yet what I do know I was about to tell thee,
when thou didst break in on my speech. Being yesterday at the
Franciscan Convent in the Newgate Street, a stranger brother of the
order did claim a private audience of me, when he entreated mine aid to
recover a damsel of good family from the house of the Lady de Vere. He
stated his belief that she had come hither for the purpose of meeting
with thee, with whom she had once lived in lawless love, hid in the
disguise of a page, a connection which both were impatient to renew. He
said that it was intended to bury her disgrace in a convent. Fearing,
for certain reasons, that the King might see her at the Lady de Vere’s,
and so be misled to take up with one so light, I resolved to do my best
to assist in her removal, and to this I was afterwards the more spurred
on by hearing that Richard had gone expressly to meet with her, as I
did believe, by her own especial consent. Availing myself of my private
knowledge of the palace, I did enable the stranger Franciscan to take
her from the apartment, where she succeeded in convincing me that she
was no willing captive; and the King’s confession of this morning, the
which I am so far permitted to impart to thee, hath satisfied me that I
had weened too gravely of the matter as it did regard him, and that the
whole of his share in it did but arise from a harmless piece of
humour.”
“And whither hath the Lady Beatrice been carried by this villain?”
cried Hepborne, in all the agony of apprehension for her safety.
“He took her hence by water,” said Friar Rushak, “and Scotland did seem
to be the object of his voyage. But, of a truth, mine intercourse with
the foul deceiver was so short that I had little leisure to question
him.”
“Fiend!” cried Sir Patrick Hepborne, his rage overpowering his grief.
“If St. Baldrid do but speed me, I shall find him though he were to
flee unto the uttermost parts of the earth. Meanwhile, may God in his
mercy, and the blessed Virgin in her purity, protect the Lady
Beatrice!”
“Amen! my son,” said the father confessor. “Verily, I do grieve for
thee and for her; and of a truth I do bitterly reproach mine own facile
credence, the which hath led me to be the innocent author of this
misfortune. Thou shalt have my prayers. Meanwhile, let us return to the
object of my mission. Richard did send me to tell thee that he doth
freely forgive thee thine indiscreet attack on his sacred person,
seeing it was committed under a delusion. Thou and thine esquire are
forthwith liberated, under his word as a king, and yours as a knight,
that all that hath passed shall be buried in oblivion by both sides;
and further, that thou, on thy part, shalt fasten no quarrel on Sir
Hans de Vere for what hath passed.”
“Nay,” replied Hepborne; “meseems that His Majesty doth ask too much in
demanding of me to withhold punishment in a quarter where it is so
justly due.”
“Yes, and where it would be so well merited, Sir Knight,” observed the
Friar Rushak. “But yet must thou yield for peace’s sake.”
“Thou mayest tell the King, then,” said Hepborne, “that as a mark of
the high sense I entertain of his hospitality, he shall be obeyed
herein, and that Sir Hans de Vere shall find shelter under it from my
just indignation.”
“And now let me show thee forth, Sir Knight,” said Friar Rushak.
“Ere I go,” said Hepborne, forgetting not the misery of others amid his
own affliction; “ere I go hence let me entreat thee to use thine
influence with His Majesty for the liberation of mine host, Master
Lawrence Ratcliffe.”
“Knowest thou aught of this same Ratcliffe, Sir Knight?” demanded the
Friar after a pause, during which he endeavoured to read Hepborne’s
countenance.
“Nay, nothing further than that I have experienced his hospitality by
His Majesty’s good will,” replied Hepborne.
“And how may he have treated thee and thine?” inquired Rushak, resuming
a careless air.
“With a kindness for which I cannot sufficiently express my gratitude,”
replied Hepborne.
“’Tis well,” replied Rushak. “Then may I tell thee in confidence that
he hath been for some time suspected as a malcontent, and after thine
attempt of yesternight against the King, he was taken up by the
officious minions of power, as the most likely person to have set thee
on. But I may now promise for his liberation. Thou shalt forthwith see
him at his own house, and he shall know, ere he goeth, that it is to
thee he oweth his liberty.”
Sir Patrick Hepborne now hastened home to his lodgings, whither he was
soon afterwards followed by his esquire and Master Lawrence Ratcliffe.
The former was all joy, and the latter all gratitude. By and by he was
joined by Adam of Gordon, who wept bitterly for the fate of the Lady
Beatrice. Hepborne, much as he wanted comfort himself, found it
necessary to administer it to the good old man, whom he immediately
took into his service. He was now impatient to begin his quest after
the Franciscan, and he would have quitted London immediately could he
have easily procured a safe-conduct for himself individually; but this
could not be granted. Sir David Lindsay, however, having witnessed the
perfect recovery of the Lord Welles, on whom he had been unceasing in
his attendance, he readily yielded to Hepborne’s impatience, and the
brave band of Scottish knights departed, leaving a sweet odour of good
fame, both for courtesy and deeds of arms, behind them.
Their journey was speedily and safely performed; and they were no
sooner in Scotland than Hepborne hastened to Hailes Castle, whither he
was accompanied by his friends. Thence he was eager to pursue his way
northwards to Elgin, where he believed that the Franciscan had his
abode, and whither he thought it likely that he had conveyed his
prisoner. But Sir John Halyburton, to whom he had been much attached
ever since their first acquaintance at Tarnawa, and with whom his
friendship had been drawn yet tighter by the intercourse he held during
their late expedition, had already extracted a promise from him that he
would be present at his marriage with the Lady Jane de Vaux, a promise
from which he felt it impossible to rid himself by any excuse he could
invent. But this, he hoped, would occasion him but small delay, for the
Lord of Dirleton, with his lady and daughter, were understood to be
with the Court at Scone; and thither Sir John Halyburton resolved to
proceed immediately, in the hope that the consummation of his happiness
would not be long deferred. Delay to Hepborne was distraction; but it
was at least some small comfort to him, that at Scone he would be so
much nearer that part of Scotland whither his anxiety now so powerfully
drew him.
The whole party then hastened to Scone, which the residence of the
Court had already made the general rendezvous of the great. There Sir
Patrick Hepborne had the happiness to find his father, and there he
also embraced his happy sister Isabelle, and her Assueton. The Lord of
Dirleton and his lady expressed much pleasure in again enjoying his
society; but, to the great grief of Sir John Halyburton, and to the
secret mortification of his friend Sir Patrick, the Lady Jane de Vaux
was not with her father and mother, for, not being aware of the so
early return of the knights from England, they had permitted their
daughter to accompany the Countess of Moray from Aberdeen to Tarnawa,
whence that noble lady was daily expected to bring her to Scone.
The venerable King Robert received the knights who had so nobly
supported the honour of Scotland on the bloody field of Otterbourne
with distinguished cordiality and condescension. Sir Patrick Hepborne
was among those who were most highly honoured. To him was granted the
privilege, only extended to a limited number of courtiers, of entering
the Royal presence at all times; and Robert, pressing his hand with a
warmth which kings seldom permit themselves to show, told him that the
more frequently he availed himself of the power of approaching him, the
more he would add to his satisfaction. This flattering reception from
his aged King, together with the gratifying notice bestowed on him by
the Earl of Fife and Menteith, now the Regent of the Kingdom, might
have made him well contented to prolong his residence at Court, and
little regret the delay of Halyburton’s marriage, had it not been for
the thought, that never forsook him, of the mysterious fate and
probable misery of the Lady Beatrice. His mind was ceaselessly employed
in fancying a thousand improbable things regarding her, and he was
generally abstracted in the midst of those gay scenes which the politic
Regent took care should follow one another with the greatest rapidity,
that he might the better keep his hold of the fickle hearts of the
nobles. In vain were the fairest eyes of the Court thrown upon Sir
Patrick Hepborne: their warm glances were invariably chilled by the
freezing indifference by which they were met.
Day after day passed away, and still no appearance of the Countess of
Moray and her lovely companion; and Halyburton’s loudly-expressed
impatience was only to be equalled by that which affected Hepborne in
secret. The two knights had nearly agreed to proceed northwards
together, a plan proposed by Hepborne, and listened to by Halyburton
with great gratitude, as he considered it a very strong proof of his
friend’s anxiety for his happiness. But, happening to recollect that
the party from Tarnawa might reach Scone perhaps a few hours only after
they should leave it on this doubtful expedition, and that the
long-wished-for meeting with his beloved Jane de Vaux might thus be
much delayed, instead of hastened, Halyburton, to Hepborne’s very great
grief, abandoned the scheme as unwise. Soon afterwards came the
intelligence of the burning of Elgin, which, whilst it threw a gloom
over the whole Court, filled Hepborne’s mind with fresh apprehensions
and anxieties.
CHAPTER LXXII.
At the Scottish Court—The Penitential Procession—Sir Patrick and
the Friar.
It happened one day that Sir Patrick went to pay his duty to the King,
and understanding, as he passed through the ante-room, from those who
were in waiting, that His Majesty was in the apartment he usually
occupied as a private audience-chamber, he approached and opened the
door. To his unspeakable astonishment, he beheld the very Franciscan
whom he was so anxious to go in search of, standing beside His
Majesty’s chair, and in conference with him. They were alone. Holding a
letter and parchment carelessly folded in his hand, His Majesty seemed
to have been much moved with what had been passing between him and the
monk, and he was so much occupied in listening, that Sir Patrick’s
entrance could have hardly been observed, had not the opening of the
door startled both of them. Sir Patrick was so petrified with what he
beheld, that he had neither self-command enough to retreat, as he ought
to have done, nor to apologise, as the interruption demanded.
“Another time, Sir Patrick Hepborne,” said the King, nodding him away.
But His Majesty was compelled to repeat the hint ere the knight had so
far regained his self-possession as to take it, and when he did retire,
it was with a face overwhelmed with confusion, and with a heart boiling
with rage against the monk.
“Ha!” said he, at length, in soliloquy; “at least I am now nearer the
object of my anxious quest than I did think I was. The friar must be a
fiend, who can thus so soon catch the King’s ear. But, fiend or mortal,
he shall not escape me. How malignant was his eye-glance, shot at me
the moment that he heard my name uttered. But, by St. Baldrid, were he
a basilisk I will seize him by the throat. He shall tell me where he
hath hid her who is the idol of my soul; yea, he shall disgorge all
that his black heart doth contain, even though the monarch himself
should endeavour to protect him. What if the Lady Beatrice may be here?
Oh, misery! so near me, and yet am I denied the delight of hearing that
voice, the which did so soothe mine ear when it came from the lips of
my faithful page—or of beholding that eye, which did so beam upon me
with looks that nothing but love could have explained. But the monk at
least shall not escape me this time. I shall station myself here, and
watch his approach, albeit he should tarry within till doomsday.”
After thinking, rather than uttering, all this, Sir Patrick mingled
with the crowd in the ante-room, where he waited patiently for the
greater part of the day, until the King came forth to get into his
litter to take the air. His Majesty appeared unattended by the friar,
and then it was that Sir Patrick Hepborne began to recollect, what his
agitation had made him overlook before, that the Franciscan must have
been admitted, and allowed to retire, by a private passage, only
accessible to those who received a very particular confidential
audience of His Majesty. Hepborne threw himself as much in the King’s
way as he could, and made a very marked obeisance to him as he passed;
but Robert, who usually received all his advances with peculiar
kindness and condescension, now turned from him with a certain distance
of manner that could not be mistaken, and which chilled Sir Patrick to
the heart. At once it flashed upon him that the Franciscan, who had so
strangely possessed himself of the King’s ear, must have poisoned it
against him, as he had formerly done that of Friar Rushak. His rage
against the monk grew to tenfold strength, and, in the agony of his
distraction, he resolved to risk His Majesty’s displeasure by seeking
his presence again, rather than not gain his object. He determined to
accuse the Franciscan to the King, as he who had stolen away, and
perhaps murdered, the Lady Beatrice, and this in defiance of all
consequences.
Sir Patrick again tried to catch the Royal eye, as the King returned
from his airing, but again he had the mortification to observe that he
was shunned and neglected. His Majesty appeared not at the banquet,
where, indeed, he had not been since the news of the burning of Elgin
had reached him; and when Hepborne thought on this, a faint hope came
over him that the King’s neglect might perhaps proceed from no
particular feeling against him, but might arise from the vexation that
must naturally fill the Royal breast on this unhappy occasion. But then
again he remembered, with incalculable chagrin, that although the
sunshine of the Monarch’s smiles had been eclipsed towards him, it had
fallen with all its wonted cheering influence upon some who were near
him, and who had hitherto been considered as planets of a much lower
order, and of infinitely less happy influence than himself.
But Sir Patrick now became so impatient to get at the truth, that he
threw aside all that delicacy which might have otherwise swayed him. He
resolved to make an attempt to obtain an audience of His Majesty at his
hour of couchée; and, accordingly, entering the ante-room a little
before the time, he made his enquiries for that purpose.
“The King hath given strict orders that no one be admitted to him,”
replied the Lord-in-waiting, to whom he addressed himself. “He doth
hold private conference. And between you and me, Sir Patrick Hepborne,
I do verily believe that it is with his son, the furious Wolfe of
Badenoch, who hath so besieged the Bishop of Moray, that he is to hold
parlance.”
“What, hath the Earl of Buchan arrived, then?” demanded Sir Patrick.
“Yea, he is here,” replied the nobleman with whom he talked. “Hast thou
not heard that to-morrow the streets of St. Johnstoun will see a sight
the like of which hath not been seen in Scotland before? for there the
fierce and proud Wolfe of Badenoch is to walk in penance from the
Castle, where he now hath his lodging, to the Church of the
Blackfriars.”
“And how dost thou know all this?” demanded Sir Patrick Hepborne, who
had probably heard the report, but who had been too much occupied with
his own thoughts to attend to anything extraneous, however interesting
it might be to others.
“The news hath already gone fully abroad,” replied the nobleman; “but,
moreover, all manner of preparation hath been already made for the
ceremony; yea, and all the world do make arrangement for witnessing so
great a miracle. I, for one, shall assuredly be there.”
Sir Patrick Hepborne retired. As he passed by the entrance to the
King’s private staircase, a portly figure brushed by him, and entered
it hastily. He called to mind that he had encountered the same as he
left the King’s presence at Aberdeen. It was indeed the Wolfe of
Badenoch, but he had passed Sir Patrick Hepborne without observing him.
King Robert was at this moment seated in a large antique chair, placed
close to the chimney corner, somewhat in the same dishabille as we have
described him to have worn on a former occasion. His foot-bath stood
ready prepared, and his attendant Vallance, who waited at a respectful
distance, ventured more than once to remind His Majesty that the water
was cooling. But the old man was deeply absorbed in serious thought.
His eyes were directed to a huge vacuum in the hinder part of the
chimney, amidst the black void of which the play of his ideas went on
without interruption. A gentle tap was heard at his private door.
“We would be private, Vallance,” said the King, starting from his
reverie, and pointing to his attendants to quit the apartment.
When they had withdrawn, Robert arose feebly, and propped himself on a
cane. The knock at the private room was repeated. The old Monarch
tottered towards the middle of the room. The knock was heard a third
time, and with more impatience.
“If it be thou, son Alexander, come in,” said the King.
The door opened and the Wolfe of Badenoch entered, with a chastened
step, and a mien very different from that which usually characterised
him. He made an humble obeisance to his father. He spoke not, but his
eyes glanced unsteadily towards the King, as if yet half in doubt what
his reception might be. He beheld the old man standing before him
struggling with emotions that convulsed his face and threw his whole
frame into a fit of trembling. He saw that a great and mortifying
change had taken place on his father since the last interview, and his
conscience at once struck him that his own disobedience and outrageous
conduct must have largely contributed to produce the decay which was so
evident. He was smitten to the heart.
“Oh, my father, my father!” cried he in a half-choked voice; “canst
thou forgive me? When all have forgiven me, canst thou refuse me
pardon?”
“Son Alexander,” said Robert, in a voice that shook from agitation as
well as debility, “all others may pardon thee, and yet it may be the
duty of thy King, albeit that he is thy father, to put on sternness
with thee. Nor have we been wanting in performance of the severe duty
of a King towards thee; for ere we did receive the godly Bishop of
Moray’s letters regarding thee from the hands of the good Friar John,
we had issued orders for the arrestment and warding of thy person in
the nearest and most convenient of our prisons. Nor did we ever spare
to meet thee with harsh reproof whilst thou were headstrong and
rebellious; but now that thou dost come before us as a penitent and
afflicted son, saying, ‘Father, I have sinned against Heaven and in thy
sight;’ when thou comest as one willing to submit thee to all that the
Church may demand of thee in reparation or in penance for thine
outrages, we can no longer remember that we are a King, but we must
yield us to those feelings which do now so stirringly tell us that we
are a father. Oh, Alexander, my son, my son!” cried the old man,
yielding to those emotions which he could no longer restrain, and
bursting into a flood of tears, whilst he threw his aged arms around
the manly form of the Wolfe of Badenoch; “the joy of this thy
repentance doth more than recompense for all the affliction thou hast
occasioned me during a long life. For thee, my son Alexander, have all
my nights been sleepless; yea, and for thee have all my prayers been
put up. Blessed be the holy Virgin, that they have not been put up in
vain. Verily, I do sink fast into the grave; but thanks be to the
Almighty King of kings, I shall now die in peace and with joy, sith
that it hath pleased Him to bring thee to a due sense of the enormity
of thy guilt.”
“Alas, alas!” cried the Wolfe of Badenoch, deeply affected by his
father’s wasted appearance, and sobbing aloud from remorse; “alas! I do
fear that thy life hath been amenused by mine iniquities. Oh, father, I
could bear all but this, the bitterest punishment of all. Thou hast
sadly drooped sith that I did last behold thee. Would that I had then
listened to the voice of thy wisdom, when it did so eloquently speak.
But a devil hath possessed me; and, fiend that I was——”
“Speak not so, my son,” cried the old King, who had now sufficiently
recovered himself to be able to talk calmly. “Self-accusation, except
in so far as it is used as an offering before Heaven, is but a vain
thing. Let thy whole heart be given up to that contrition the which is
between thee and thy God alone, through the medium and mediation of the
blessed Virgin and her Son; and let the seemliness and sincerity of thy
public penance be an earnest of the amendment of thy future life.”
“I will, I will, my father,” cried the Wolfe of Badenoch, much moved.
“Would that ages of my penance could but add to the number of thy
peaceful and righteous years; cheerfully would I wander as a barefooted
palmer for the rest of my miserable days. Yet fancy not, my father,
that I have lacked mine own share of punishment. The viper for whom I
did risk thy wrath and that of Heaven, hath stung me to the heart. Ha!
but ’tis over now. The good Friar John hath taught me to keep down the
raging ire which her black and hellish ingratitude did excite within
me. May the holy Virgin grant me aid to subdue it, that my whole heart
may be in to-morrow’s work; for, sooth to say, ’tis cruel and cutting,
after all, for a hardy, haughty soul like mine to bend me thus beneath
the rod of the priesthood. Ha! by the bones of my ancestors, a King’s
son too—thy son! Nay, ’tis that the which doth most gall and chafe me;
to think that thou shouldst thus be brought into derision by the
disgrace which befalleth me. Thou, a King who——”
“Son Alexander,” said the venerable Monarch, calmly interrupting the
Wolfe of Badenoch, as he was gradually blowing up a self-kindled flame
of passion; “think not of us—think not of us now. Thou shouldst have
thought of us and of our feelings before thou didst apply the torch of
thy wild wrath to the holy temples of God and the peaceful habitations
of his ministers. Robert was indeed ashamed of a wicked son, glorying
in his mad and guilty rage; but Robert never can be ashamed of a son
who is an humble penitent. No, Alexander; thy penance will be a crown
of glory to us. Further, we would have thee remember that the
priesthood are but the ministers of the justice of a greater King than
any upon earth; and we would have thee to bear in mind how the Son of
that Almighty King did, in all His innocence, submit Himself to the
scourge and the cross, to infamy and cruel suffering, that He might
redeem such sinners as thou and I. Let this humble thy pride and tame
thy temper, if, indeed, pride or violence may yet remain with thee. And
now haste thee homeward, that, by a night spent in conversation and
prayer with the holy Friar John, thou mayest fit and prepare thyself
for to-morrow’s duty, the which ought to be rather esteemed a triumph
than a trial to thee. We shall be at the Castle of St. Johnstoun by
times to give thee our best comfort; till then take with thee a
father’s blessing.”
The Wolfe of Badenoch bowed his head to receive the benediction of the
good old King, who wept as he gave it him, and throwing one arm round
his son’s neck, he patted his head with the other hand, kissing his
cheek repeatedly with all the affection of a doating father, who
abandons himself to the full tide of his feelings and who is unwilling
to shorten the transports he enjoys.
The news of the intended penitential procession of the King’s son, the
terrible Wolfe of Badenoch, spread like wildfire through the town of
St. Johnstoun, as well as throughout the surrounding country, and
produced a general commotion. The Bishops of St. Andrews, Dunkeld, and
Dunblane, had already arrived at the Dominican Convent, each having
separately entered the town in great pomp, attended by all the high
dignitaries of their respective dioceses. It was a proud triumph for
the Church, and secret advices had been accordingly sent everywhere,
that it might be rendered the more imposing and impressive by the
numbers and importance of those religious persons who came as
deputations from the different monastic houses which were within reach.
Of the canons regular, there were the Abbots of Scone, Inch Colm, and
Inch Mahome, with the Priors of St. Andrews, Loch Leven, Port Moak, and
Pittenweem; of the Trinity, or Red Friars, were the Ministers of the
Hospitals of Scotlandwell and of Dundee; of the Dominicans or Black
Friars, the inmates of the Dominican Convent of Perth, where the
ceremony was to take place, with the heads of the Convents of Dundee,
Cupar in Fife, St. Monans, and St. Andrews; of the Benedictines, the
Abbot of Dunfermline; of the Tyronenses, the Abbot of Lundores; of the
Cistertians, or Bernardines, the Abbots of Culross and Balmerinoch; of
the Franciscans, or Grey Friars, the head of the Convent of
Inverkeithing; and, lastly, a numerous body of Carmelites, or White
Friars, from the neighbouring Convent of Tullilum. All these heads of
houses were largely attended; and if the crowd of these holy men was
great that of the laity and vulgar was tenfold greater. The houses of
the place were unable to contain them, and many were glad to encamp on
those beautiful meadows stretching to north and south of the town,
thankful to huddle themselves under any temporary shelter they could
procure. The Black Friars Monastery, which was to be the scene of the
humiliation of the Wolfe of Badenoch, was all in a ferment, and many
there were who, knowing the formidable character of him they had to
deal with, muttered secret ejaculations that all were well over.
The King left his Palace of Scone early in the morning, and entered
Perth in his litter, attended by the Regent and the courtiers, being
desirous to get as quietly as possible into the Castle. The King’s
body-guard were drawn out to line the street from the Castle to the
Church of the Dominican Convent. The distance was short, but the crowd
contained in that small space was immense. The murmur was great, and
the eyes of the spectators were constantly directed towards the gate of
the Castle, whence they expected the procession to come. Every motion
among the multitude excited an accession of impatience.
At length the King’s litter appeared, attended by the Regent, and
followed by the crowd of courtiers. They came without order, and the
litter hurried into the Church amidst the loud shouts of the people.
All was then eager expectation, and nothing interrupted the low hum of
voices, save the noise occasioned by those who made way for the
different religious deputations, who approached the Church from
different directions.
All these had passed onwards, and some time had elapsed, when a general
hush ran through the crowd—a dead silence ensued—all eyes were directed
towards the Castle gate—and the Wolfe of Badenoch appeared. He was
supported on his right hand by his confessor, the Franciscan Friar, and
he was followed by his two sons Andrew and Duncan, and by a very
numerous train of attendants, all clad in the same humiliating
penitential garb, walking barefooted. The Wolfe of Badenoch had no
sooner issued from the Castle gateway than he appeared to be astonished
and mortified at the multitude of people who had collected to witness
his abasement. Anticipating nothing of this sort, he had prepared to
assume a subdued air; but he was roused by the sight, and advanced with
his head carried high, and with all his usual haughtiness of stride,
his eyes flinging a bold defiance to all round, and their glances
travelling rapidly from countenance to countenance, as they surveyed
the two walls of human faces lining his way, as if he looked eagerly
for some one whose taunting smile might give him an apology for
breaking forth, and giving vent to his pent-up passion by felling him
to the earth. He went on, biting his nether lip, and still he scanned
them man by man; but everywhere he encountered eyes that quailed before
his, and peaceful, gaping faces, filled with vulgar wonder, perhaps,
and indicating much of fear, but nothing of scorn to be seen. The
Franciscan was observed to whisper him; he seemed to listen with
reverence, and, as he approached the entrance to the Church, he adopted
a more humble gait and look. As for his men, they hung down their heads
sheepishly from the first, like felons going to execution.
When the procession had reached the great door of the Church, which was
closed against it, the Franciscan approached, and knocked slowly and
solemnly.
“Who is he who knocketh for admission into the Church of God?” demanded
a voice from within.
“Alexander Stewart, Earl of Buchan, and Lord of Badenoch, son of
Robert, our most pious King,” replied the Franciscan.
“We do know right well that there once was such an one as thou dost
name,” replied the voice; “but now he hath no existence. The great
sentence of excommunication hath gone forth against his hardened
obstinacy, and the Holy Church knoweth him no longer.”
“He cometh here as an humble penitent, to crave mercy and pardon of our
Holy Mother Church,” replied the Franciscan.
“Is he ready to confess his sins against God and man, then?” demanded
the voice. “Is he prepared humbly on his knees to declare his
penitence, and to implore that mercy and pardon, the which must of
necessity be extended to him ere he can again be received back into the
bosom of that Church which he hath so greatly outraged?”
“He is,” replied the Franciscan.
“Then, if such be his sincere professions,” replied the voice, “let him
and all understand, that albeit she can greatly and terribly punish,
yet doth the Church delight in mercy, and it is ever her most joyful
province to open her doors wide to her sincerely repentant children.”
These words were no sooner uttered, than the folding doors were thrown
wide, and the populace were dazzled with the grandeur of the spectacle
that presented itself. The verse of a hymn, that burst from a powerful
choir within, added to the sublimity of the effect, whilst it gave time
for the spectators to feast their eyes without distraction on what they
beheld. In the centre of the doorway stood Walter Traill, the Bishop of
St. Andrews, arrayed in all the splendour of his pastoral robes. Within
his left arm was his crosier, and in his right hand he raised aloft a
large silver crucifix. On his right and left were the Bishops of
Dunblane and Dunkeld, behind whom were the whole dignitaries of the
three sees in all their pomp of costume. The Church had been darkened
that it might be artificially lighted by tapers, so as to present
objects under that softly diffused and holy kind of illumination most
favourable for the productions of strong impressions of awe. By this
was seen a long train of Abbots and Priors, with Monks and Friars from
all those religious houses we have already particularised. The sight
was grand and imposing in itself, and picturesque in its grouping and
disposal. The Franciscan Friar John whispered the Wolfe of Badenoch,
and he bent down with a rigid effort until his knees were on the
pavement. His sons and his followers imitated his example.
“Alexander Stewart, Earl of Buchan, and Lord of Badenoch,” said the
Bishop of St. Andrews, in a full and sonorous voice, when the music had
died away, “dost thou earnestly desire to be relieved from the heavy
sentence of excommunication which thy manifold crimes and iniquities
have compelled the Church to issue forth against thee?”
“I do,” replied the Wolfe in a firm voice.
“Dost thou humbly confess and repent thee of thy sins in general,”
demanded the Bishop; “and art thou willing to confess and repent thee
of each sin in particular at the high altar of this holy temple?”
“I do so repent me, and I am willing so to confess me,” replied the
Wolfe.
“Then arise, my contrite son,” said the Bishop, “and humbly follow me
to present thyself at the holy altar of God.”
The three Bishops with their attendants then turned away, and being
followed by the Wolfe of Badenoch and his long train of penitential
adherents, they moved in slow procession up the middle of the church
towards the high altar, before which the penitents kneeled down, with
their stern leader at their head, the monks of the various orders
closing in behind them. The most perfect silence prevailed, and the
soft fall of the footsteps on the pavement, and the rustling of
draperies, were the only sounds heard.
“Alexander Stewart, Earl of Buchan, and Lord of Badenoch,” said the
Bishop of St. Andrews, “dost thou confess that thou hast greatly sinned
in thine abandonment of thine honourable and lawful wife Euphame
Countess of Ross, and dost thou repent thee of this thine offence?”
“I do repent me,” said the Wolfe in an humble tone.
“Dost thou confess that thou hast greatly sinned in taking to thy bosom
that foul and impure strange woman, Mariota Athyn?” demanded the
Bishop; “especially thou being——”
“I do so confess, and I do most sincerely, yea, cruelly repent me,”
cried the Wolfe, breaking in impatiently, and with great bitterness, on
the unfinished question of the Bishop, and shouting out his answer in a
tone that re-echoed from the Gothic roof.
“And art thou willing, or dost thou purpose to put this strange woman
far from thee?” demanded the Bishop.
“I have already turned her forth,” shouted the Wolfe, in the same
furious tone; “yea, and before God, at this His holy altar, do I swear,
that with mine own will these eyes shall never see her more.”
“And wilt thou take back thy lawful wife?” demanded the Bishop, now
willing to be as short as possible.
“I will,” replied the Wolfe.
“And now, dost thou sincerely acknowledge and repent thee of all the
outrages thou hast done to our Holy Mother Church, as well as to God
and His ministers?” demanded the Bishop.
“I do,” replied the Wolfe.
“Then do I, God’s servant, proceed to give thee and thine absolution,
and to remove from thee the excommunication which was hurled upon thee
by the Church in her just vengeance,” said the Bishop, who immediately
began to pronounce the form of absolution prescribed by his ritual, as
well as that for removing the excommunication.
Miserere was now sung by the choir, after which a mass was chanted, and
the impatient Wolfe of Badenoch, tired twenty times over of a ceremony
which would have worn out a much more submissive temper, tarried not a
moment in the church after it was concluded, but, attended by the
Franciscan, forced his way without any delicacy through the crowd,
which yielded him a ready passage, and made a hasty exit from the
church door. Having gained the open air, he strode along the lane of
the guards, with an air that might have led a bystander to fancy that
he gloried in his strange attire.
He was about to enter the Castle-gate, when a loud voice, calling
“Halt!” came from behind him. He stopped, and turning loftily round, he
beheld an armed knight, who came rushing through the abashed and
scattered ranks of his men, who were straggling after him. In an
instant, the mailed warrior made an effort to grapple the Franciscan by
the throat; and he would have succeeded, had not the friar sprung
nimbly aside to avoid him.
“Ha!” cried the Wolfe, in a voice like thunder, and at the same time
snatching a formidable Scottish axe from one of the guards, and
planting his unprotected body firmly before the Franciscan; “ha! who
art thou that doth thus dare to attack the father confessor of the
Wolfe of Badenoch? Dost thou think that I have tyned my spirit in
yonder Church? By all the solemn vows I have made, I will split the
skull of any he who may dare to lay impious hands on this holy
Franciscan.”
“Is this possible?” cried the knight, raising his vizor, and showing
himself to be Sir Patrick Hepborne the younger; “can it be that the
Earl of Buchan will thus defend the very friar whom mine ears have so
often heard him curse as a fiend? But let me pass to him, my Lord; I do
beseech thee to provoke me not, for, of a truth, I am mad, utterly mad,
at this present.”
“Mad or sober, Sir Patrick Hepborne,” cried the Wolfe, “for now I do
perceive that thou art indeed Sir Patrick Hepborne, and much as I do
love thee, I swear, by the beard of my grandfather, that neither thine
arm, nor that of any created man, shall reach the friar save through
this body of mine.”
“Wull she wants her helps? wull she wants her to grip him? wull she
cleave the Wolfe’s crown?” said Duncan MacErchar, who now stepped out
from the ranks, and spoke into Sir Patrick’s ear. “Troth, she wull soon
do that, though she be twenty Wolfes, and a hundert Badenochs.”
“Stand aside, Duncan,” cried the knight, now somewhat sensible of his
apparently unwarrantable violence, and altogether confounded by the
Wolfe of Badenoch’s unlooked-for defence of the Franciscan. “By St.
Baldrid, my Lord of Buchan, I should have as soon looked to have seen
the eagle defending the owl who hath robbed her nest, as to see thee
thus stand forth the protector of that accursed priest, that
foul-mouthed slanderer, and remorseless assassin. Let me secure him. He
is a criminal who must be brought to justice.”
“Thou shalt not touch the hem of his garment,” roared the Wolfe of
Badenoch.
“Nay, give him way, my noble Lord of Buchan,” said the Franciscan in a
taunting manner; “let this brave knight have way to use his poinard, or
his sword, against the defenceless body of a friar. But,” continued he,
snatching a long spear from one of those near him, whilst his eyes
flashed a fiery defiance against Hepborne, “let him come on now, and he
shall find that beneath this peaceful habit there doth beat as proud
and determined a heart as ever his bosom did own. As for his villainous
and lying charges, I do hereby cast them back in his teeth as false.”
“Caitiff,” cried Sir Patrick, “I should gain but little credit, I trow,
by attacking a vile friar. I did but intend to prevent thine escape
from the justice thou dost merit; and if I were but sure of seeing thee
again in fitter time and place, when and where I could bring forward my
charges, and prove them against thee, I should let thee go for this
present.”
“Nay, fear not, I will promise not to shun thee, Sir Knight,” said the
friar; “and thou, too, dost well know what charges thou shalt have to
defend. The Earl of Buchan here will answer for my presence in the
Castle when it shall be wanted; but who shall answer for thine?”
“I will,” said Sir John Halyburton, who chanced to come up at that
moment.
“Sir John Halyburton!” exclaimed the Franciscan, with an air of
astonishment. “Um—’tis well; and trust me, Sir John Halyburton, thou
wilt find that thou hast more interest in his being forthcoming than
thou dost at this moment imagine, and so the sooner he doth appear the
better.”
“Nay, I will follow thee now,” replied Sir Patrick; “by all the holy
saints, thou shalt not leave my sight.”
“Come on, then,” replied the Franciscan, with a bitter laugh; “and
yonder cometh the King’s litter, so thou shalt have little time to
wait, I wis, for ample justice.”
The monk then entered the Castle, followed by the Wolfe of Badenoch,
who still brandished the long Scottish axe, and looked sternly around
from time to time upon Sir Patrick as if suspicious that he might yet
meditate an attack upon the friar.
“Hoit oit,” cried Duncan MacErchar, “and has the Hepbornes lost their
spunks sith the battles o’ Otterburns? Who would hae thought that ony
ane o’ her name would hae ta’en the boast yon way even frae the Wolfes
o’ Badenoch hersel? Huits toots, Sir Patrick—uve, uve!”
“Pshaw,” replied Sir Patrick, much mortified to find that MacErchar had
attributed his forbearance to want of spirit, “Wouldst thou have had a
Hepborne attack a monk, or a man half naked, and at such a time as this
too!”
“Ou fye! faith an’ it may be’s,” replied Duncan, somewhat doubtfully;
“but she might ha’ gien him a clour for a’ tats. But can she do nothing
to serve her honour?”
“Yea,” replied Sir Patrick, “plant thyself here; let not that
Franciscan Friar leave the Castle until I have questioned him.”
“Ou, troth, and she’ll no scruples to gie him a clour,” replied Duncan.
Hepborne hastened into the Castle, and Captain MacErchar mechanically
took his stand, nor did even the approach of the King’s litter, and the
bustle that came with it, dislodge him from his post.
CHAPTER LXXIII.
Accusation made in presence of the King—The Challenge.
Sir Patrick Hepborne, accompanied by his friend Sir John Halyburton,
made his way into the hall of the Castle, burning with impatience to
bring the Franciscan to a strict account, and half dreading that he
might yet escape, by that mysterious power which had already so
marvellously availed him. The Wolfe of Badenoch had hurried to his
apartments to rid himself of his penitential weeds; and the Franciscan
having disappeared also, the two knights were left to pace the hall for
at least two hours, until Sir Patrick began to suspect that his fears
had been realized. Rushing down to the gate, however, he found Captain
MacErchar as steady at his post as the walls of the fortress; and,
having questioned him, he learned that no friar had passed outwards.
When he returned to the hall, he found the King seated on a chair of
state, and his courtiers ranged on either hand of him, forming a
semi-circle, of which he was the central point.
“Sir Patrick Hepborne,” said the King, with a high and distant air, “we
are here to listen to thine accusation against the holy Franciscan
Friar John, whom, we do understand, thou hast dared to malign.”
“My liege,” said Hepborne, “the thirsty steed panteth not more for the
refreshing fountain than I do for audience of your Most Gracious
Majesty, from whom I would claim that justice the which thou dost never
deny to the meanest of thy subjects.”
“And we shall not refuse it to thee, the son of our ancient and
faithful servant,” replied the King; “to one who hath himself done us
and our kingdom of Scotland much good service. Yet do we bid thee bear
in mind, that the best services may be wiped away by the disgraceful
finger of polluted iniquity. Speak, Sir Patrick, what hast thou to
say?”
“Nay, my liege, I would stay me until mine adversary doth appear to
meet my charge,” said Sir Patrick.
“’Tis so far considerate of thee,” replied the King; “but thou mayest
say on, for he will be here anon.”
“I come here, then, to impeach this Friar John of having feloniously
carried off a damsel from the Tower of London, where she did then
abide,” said Sir Patrick Hepborne, violently agitated; “a damsel whom
he did once before attempt to murder, and whom he doth even now
secrete, if he hath not already cruelly slain her.”
“Friar John is here to meet thy charge, Sir Knight,” cried the
Franciscan, who had entered the hall in time to hear what had fallen
from Hepborne, and who now came sternly forward, attended by the Wolfe
of Badenoch, the Lord of Dirleton, and some others; “Friar John shall
not shrink from whatever tales thine inventive recrimination may
produce against him; he too shall have his charge against thee; but let
thine be disposed of first, whereby the incredible boldness of thy
wickedness may be made the more apparent to all.”
“What sayest thou?” demanded Hepborne, with considerable confusion.
“I do say,” replied the friar, “that conscious guilt doth already
stagger thee in the very outset of this thine infamous attempt against
an innocent man, whom thou wouldst fain sacrifice to hide thy foul
deeds. Guilt doth often prove its own snare, and so shall ye see it
here, I ween.”
“Villain, wretch, fiend?” cried Sir Patrick Hepborne, who forgot in his
resentment the presence in which he stood; “mine emotions, the which
thou wouldst have others so misjudge, have been those only of horror
and astonishment at thine unparalleled effrontery. My liege, this
fiend—this wicked sorcerer—for so do I believe him to be—this
assassin——”
“Ha! by the ghost of my grandfather,” cried the Wolfe of Badenoch, who
stood by, now restored to all his knightly splendour—“by the ghost of
my grandfather, but I will not stand by to hear such names hurled
without reason on my holy father confessor. As he is here to answer
thee, Sir Patrick Hepborne, and as I would not willingly seem to
interfere with justice, say what thou wilt of calm accusation, for I
fear not that he will cleanse himself, whosoever may be foul. But, by
all the holy saints, I swear that, friends though we have been, I will
not hear the holy man so foully miscalled; and I am well willing to
fight for him to the outrance, not only in this world, but in the next
too, if chivalry be but carried thither.”
“Silence, son Alexander,” said the King; “speak not, I pray thee, with
lips so irreverent. And do thou, Sir Patrick Hepborne, proceed with thy
charges, withouten these needless terms of reproach, the which are
unseemly in our presence, and do but tend to inflame.”
“My liege,” said Sir Patrick, making an obeisance to the King, “I shall
do my best to restrain my just indignation.—The Lady Beatrice, of whom
I do now speak, did accompany me to Moray Land in the disguise of a
page; and——”
“Ha!” exclaimed the King, starting with an air of surprise, and
exchanging a look with the Franciscan and some others, that very much
discomposed Sir Patrick; “so—dost thou confess this?”
“I do confess nothing, my liege,” replied Sir Patrick; “I do only tell
the truth. When we were guests for some days to thee, my Lord of
Buchan, at Lochyndorbe, this friar did enter the apartment of the Lady
Beatrice armed with a dagger, and had she not fled from him to save her
life, she had surely been murdered by his villainy. Already have I told
that he did snatch her from the Tower of London, by means of false
representations made to Friar Rushak, King Richard’s Confessor, and
thence he did carry her by ship to Scotland, as I do know from Friar
Rushak himself. I do therefore call on him to produce the damsel
straightway, if indeed his cruelty hath not already put it beyond his
power so to do.”
“Hast thou aught else to charge him withal?” demanded the King.
“Nay, my liege,” replied Hepborne, “but I require an immediate answer
to these charges.”
“Before I do give a reply,” said the Franciscan, assuming a grand air,
“I, on my part, do demand to know by what right Sir Patrick Hepborne
doth thus question me.”
“Right, didst thou say?” exclaimed Hepborne; “I must answer thee by
simply saying, that I do question thee by that right which every
honourable knight hath to come forward in the cause of the unfortunate.
But I will go farther, and say before all who are here present, that I
do more especially appear here against thee for the unquenchable love I
do bear to the Lady Beatrice.”
“Ha! so,” replied the Franciscan, with a bitter expression, “thou hast
so far confessed that thou didst entertain the Lady Beatrice in thy
company in male attire, and that thou dost cherish an unquenchable
passion for her? Then, my liege, do I boldly accuse this pretended
phœnix of virtue, this Sir Patrick Hepborne, of having stolen this
damsel from the path of honour—of having plunged her in guilt—of having
so bewitched her by potent charms, that she did even follow him to
London, whence, with much fatigue and stratagem, I did indeed reclaim
her, yea, did bring her to Scotland in a ship. But she was not many
hours on land when she so contrived as to flee from me; and no one can
doubt that her flight was directed to him who hath thrown his sorcery
over her, and to whom she hath made so many efforts basely to unite
herself again.”
“Friar, thou hast lied, grossly and villanously lied,” cried Sir
Patrick Hepborne in a fury, “but now let me, in my turn, demand of thee
what hast thou to urge that mought have given thee right so to control
the Lady Beatrice?”
“All have right to prevent the commission of wickedness,” said the
Franciscan. “But I do claim the right of parentage to control the Lady
Beatrice. I am her uncle. Hath not so near a parent some right to
control the erring daughter of his brother? Speak then; tell me where
thou hast hid her, Sir Knight?”
“Can this be true?” exclaimed Sir Patrick Hepborne, petrified with
astonishment at what he heard; “canst thou in very deed be the uncle of
the Lady Beatrice? But what shall we say of that tender uncle who doth
enter the apartment of his niece at midnight with a dagger in his hand?
Villain, I observe thee blench as I do speak it. Thou art a villain
still, let thy kindred to her be what it may. Thou hast murdered my
love, and thou wouldst shift off suspicion from thyself, by an
endeavour to throw guilt upon me. Wretched hypocrite! foul stain to the
holy habit thou dost wear—say where, where hast thou bestowed the Lady
Beatrice? Is she dead or alive?”
“Nay, foul shame to knighthood that thou art, ’tis thou who hast
secreted the Lady Beatrice—thou who hast poisoned her mind—thou who
hast disgraced her—thou who dost hide her from the light of day, that
she may minister to thine abandoned love. Tell, tell me where thou hast
hid her, or, friar as I am, I do here appeal thee to single duel.”
“Ha!” said Sir Patrick. “And right willingly, I trow, shall I do
instant battle in support of mine unsullied honour—in support of the
honour of her who hath been so foully calumniated; but with a friar
like thee!”
“Nay, let that be no hindrance, Sir Knight,” cried the Franciscan,
whilst his eyes darted lightnings; “now indeed I am a friar, but, trust
me, I was not always so. In me thou shalt have no weak or untaught arm
to deal withal; and if I may but have dispensation——”
“Talk not so, Friar John,” said the King; “thou shalt never be suffered
to peril thy life. Thou must seek thee out some cham——”
“Nay, seek nowhere but here,” cried the Wolfe of Badenoch, slapping his
right hand furiously on his cuirass. “If the good Friar John doth
bestir himself to save my soul, ’tis but reason, meseems, that I should
rouse me to save his body. I am in some sort a witness to the truth of
part of what he hath asserted. So, by the blood of the Bruce, Sir
Patrick——”
“Nay, nay, my Lord Earl,” cried the old Lord of Dirleton, now starting
up with an agitation that shook every fibre, and with a countenance in
which grief and resentment were powerfully blended; “verily I am old;
but old as I am, I have still some strength; and my heart, at least,
hath not waxed feeble. It shall never be said that a De Vaux did suffer
a son of the Royal house of Scotland to risk the spilling of his noble
blood, to save that which hath already been so often shed in its
defence, and the which shall be ever ready to flow for it, whilst a
drop of it may remain within these shrivelled veins. Here am I ready to
encounter the caitiff knight, on whose smiles, when an infant, I looked
with delight as the future husband of my very daughter Beatrice, and
who did so gain upon me lately by the plausible semblance of virtue.
Base son of thy noble sire, full hard, I ween, hath it been for me, an
injured father, to sit silent thus so long listening to thy false
denials, and thy vile recriminations against my brother John. But now
do I give thee the lie to them all, and dare thee to mortal combat.”
“My Lord, my Lord,” cried Sir John Halyburton, going up to the Lord of
Dirleton in great astonishment, “calm thy rage, I beseech thee. What is
this I do hear? Of whom dost thou speak? For whom dost thou thus hurl
mortal defiance against my dearest friend Sir Patrick Hepborne?
Daughter, saidst thou?”
“Ay, daughter, Sir John Halyburton,” exclaimed the old man; “my
daughter Beatrice—she whom I have discovered to be yet alive, only that
I may wish her dead. Oh, I could bear the loss of mine innocent
infant—I could forgive a sinning and now repentant brother—but to
forgive the villain who hath robbed my sweet flower of her
fragrance—no, no, no, ’tis impossible. The very thought doth bring back
all a father’s rage upon me. Give me my daughter, villain!—my daughter.
Oh, villain, villain, give me my daughter!” The aged Lord of Dirleton,
exhausted by the violence of his emotions, tottered forward a step or
two towards Sir Patrick, and would have sunk down on the floor had he
not been supported to the seat he had occupied.
“Sir Patrick Hepborne,” said Sir John Halyburton, sternly advancing
towards him, after he had assisted the father of his future bride, “we
have been warm friends, yea, I did come in hither to stand by thee to
the last, as thy friend; but my friendship did sow itself and spread
its roots in that honourable surface with the which thou wert covered.
’Tis no wonder, then, that it should dry up and wither when it doth
push deeper into the less wholesome soil, which was hitherto hid from
my sight. The Earl of Buchan, the Lord of Dirleton—nay, all do seem to
know thy blackness, and I do now curse myself that we were ever so
linked. We can be friends no longer; and sith that it has pleased
heaven to deny a son to that honourable but much injured Lord, it
behoveth me, who look soon to stand in that relation to him, to take
his wrongs upon myself. We must meet, yea, and that speedily, as deadly
foes. My liege,” continued he, turning towards the King, and making his
obeisance, “have I thy gracious permission here to appeal Sir Patrick
Hepborne to single combat of outrance, to be fought as soon as
convenient lists may be prepared?”
“Thou hast our licence, Sir John Halyburton,” replied the King;
“to-morrow shall the lists be prepared, and on the day thereafter this
plea shall be tried.”
“Then, sith that I have thy Royal licence, my liege,” cried Sir John
Halyburton, “I do hereby challenge Sir Patrick Hepborne to do battle
with me in single combat of outrance, with sharp grounden lances, and
after that with battle-axes, and swords and daggers, as may be, and
that unto the death. And this for the foul stain he hath brought upon
the noble family of De Vaux, of the which I am about to become a son,
and may God defend the right, and prosper the just cause;” and with
these words, Sir John Halyburton threw down his gauntlet on the floor.
“I will not deny,” said Sir Patrick, as he stooped to lift it with a
deep sigh, “I will not deny that it doth deeply grieve me thus to take
up the gauntlet of challenge from one whom I have so much loved, and
one for whom I should much more willingly have fought to the death than
lifted mine arm against him. But the will of an all-seeing Providence
must be obeyed; that Providence, who doth know that I wist not even
that the Lady Beatrice was aught else but the page Maurice de Grey,
until after she did flee from me. Twice did I afterwards behold her;
once in the field of Otterbourne, where she had piously sought out and
found the body of her benefactor, Sir Walter de Selby, and once within
the Church of Norham, where she did assist at his funeral rites; but on
neither of these sad occasions had I even speech of her. A third time I
did behold her but for an instant in the house of Sir Hans de Vere, in
the Tower of London, and then did I save her, at the peril of my life,
from what I then conceived to be a base assault of King Richard of
England against her, for the which I did pay the penalty of
imprisonment. On these three occasions only have mine eyes beheld her,
sith that we parted at Tarnawa. If to love her honourably and
virtuously be a crime, then am I indeed greatly guilty; but for aught
else——”
“Thou hast told a fair tale, Sir Patrick,” said the King, shaking his
head.
“Nay, ’twere better to be silent, methinks, than thus to try to thrust
such ill-digested stories on us,” cried the Franciscan. “But ’tis no
wonder that he should be loth to appear in the lists in such a cause.
Conscience will make cowards of the bravest.”
“Nay, let God judge me then,” cried Sir Patrick Hepborne, turning
fiercely round, and darting a furious glance at the friar. “Conscience,
as with thee, may sleep for a time; but trust me, its voice will be
terribly heard at last. Then bethink thee how thou shalt answer thine,
when thy death-bed cometh. Coward, saidst thou?—By St. Baldrid, ’tis
the first time—But Sir John Halyburton, thou at least will readily
acquit me of aught that may have so disgraceful a savour. I do accept
thy challenge; I am thine at the appointed time; may God indeed defend
the right! Then shall mine innocence appear, while the transcendent
virtue of the Lady Beatrice, whom I do glory to proclaim my lady-love,
shall shine forth like the noonday sun.”
By one of those unfortunate accidents which sometimes occur, it chanced
that the elder Sir Patrick Hepborne had been gone for some days on
private business to his Castle of Hailes. Had he been present, this
unfortunate feud might have perhaps been prevented; but he could not be
now looked for at Scone until after the day fixed for the duel; and if
he had been expected sooner, things had already gone too far to have
been arrested, without some living proof to establish the truth. Sir
John Assueton was present during the scene we have described, but he
had been too much confounded by all he had witnessed and heard to be
able to utter a sentence.
“My dear Assueton,” said Sir Patrick, going up to him, and taking him
aside after all was over, “my friend, my oldest, my best-tried, my
staunchest friend, thou brother of my dearest affections, from thee, I
trust, I may look for a fairer judgment than these have given me?”
“Thou mayest indeed, Hepborne,” replied Assueton, griping his friend’s
hand warmly. “Trust me, it doleth me sorely to see such deadly strife
about to be waged between thee and one whom we both do so much love.
Yet are the ways of Providence past our finding out. But may God do
thee right, and make thy virtue appear.”
“Thou canst not have been astonished at the tardiness I did show!” said
Hepborne. “Alas! my heart doth grieve to bursting; perplexed, lost in a
maze of conjecture, the whole doth appear to me to have been delusion.
So the Lady Beatrice proveth to be the long-lost daughter of the Lord
of Dirleton! and the Franciscan—ha!—the Friar—he then is that John de
Vaux who did so traitorously steal his brother’s child!—and hath the
word of such a villain had power to face down mine? Oh, monstrous! Nay,
now do I more than ever fear for the safety—for the life—of her whom I
do love to distraction. And then her pure fame blasted, mine own good
name tarnished, and no other means left for the cleansing of mine
honour and her fame, but to lift the pointed lance, and the whetted
sword, against the life of him whom, next to thee, I do of all men
account most dear to me! May the holy Virgin, may the blessed Trinity,
aid and sustain me amid the cruel host of distresses by the which I am
environed!”
“Most hardly art thou indeed beset,” replied Sir John Assueton; “yet
hast thou no other choice but to put thy trust in God, and to do thy
best in this combat for the establishment of thine own honour as a
knight, and the pure fame of thy lady-love, leaving to Providence the
issues of life and death.”
After this conversation, Sir Patrick Hepborne and Sir John Assueton
prepared to leave the Castle. As they were passing through the gateway,
Hepborne, who was deeply absorbed in his own reflections, was gently
touched on the arm by some one.
“She be’e here, Sir Patricks,” whispered Duncan MacErchar; “troth, she
hath catched the friars, and troth she be’s a strong sturdy loons. Uve,
uve, but she had a hard tuilzie wi’ her.”
“What? whom?” cried Sir Patrick.
“Troth, she did tell her to stand there till Sir Patricks come,” said
MacErchar; “but she would not bide; and so, afore a’ was done, she was
forced to gie her a bit clouring. Would she no likes to——”
“What?” cried Sir Patrick, now beginning to comprehend him, “thou dost
not talk of the Franciscan? I do hope and trust thou hast not hurt the
Franciscan?”
“Phoo! troth, as to tat, she doth best ken hersel the friars,” replied
Duncan; “but hurts or no hurts, she be’s in here,” continued he,
pointing under the gateway to a low vaulted door, “and she may e’en ask
the friars hersel.”
“Holy Virgin!” cried Hepborne, “thou hast ruined me with thy zeal. Open
the door of this hole, and let me forthwith release the friar. Though
he be mine enemy, yet would I not for kingdoms lie under the foul
suspect of having caused him to be waylaid.”
“Troth, she shall soon see her,” said Duncan, opening the door of the
place—“Ho, ho, ho! there she doth lie, I do well wot, like a mockell
great grey swine.”
There indeed, in an area not four feet square, was squeezed together
the body of the Franciscan. He had a considerable cut and bruise upon
his tonsure, from which the blood still oozed profusely. He seemed to
be insensible; but he was no sooner lifted into the open air, than it
appeared that his swoon was more owing to the closeness of the hole he
had been crammed into than the wound he had received. He quickly began
to recover and Sir Patrick raised him up and assisted him to stand.
“To thee, then, I am indebted for thy villainous traiterie?” cried the
Franciscan, looking wildly at Sir Patrick, and shaking himself free
from his arms as he said so. “Oh, shame to knighthood, thus to plant an
assassin in my path; but rivers of thy blood shall speedily flow for
every drop that doth fall from this head of mine.”
With these words he darted into the Castle ere Sir Patrick could speak,
leaving him stupified by this unfortunate mistake, which had brought a
fresh cause of shameful suspicion upon him.
“May she leave her posts noo!” demanded Duncan MacErchar with great
coolness.
“Leave thy post!” cried Hepborne in a frenzy; “would thou hadst been in
purgatory, knave, rather than that thou hadst wrought me this evil.”
“Oh, hoit-toit!” cried Duncan. “Spurgumstory! Uve, uve! and tat’s from
Sir Patricks!”
“Forgive me, Duncan,” cried Hepborne, immediately recovering his
self-command, and remembering whom it was he had so wounded, “forgive
my haste. I do well know thy zeal. But here, by ill luck, thou hast
fortuned to carry it farther than befitting. It will be but an evil
report when it shall be told of Sir Patrick Hepborne that he did plant
a partizan to assail and wound the friar with whom he had feud. But
thou art forgiven, my friend, for I do well know that thine intention
was of the best.”
“Phoo-oo-o!” cried Duncan, with a prolonged sound, “troth, and she doth
see that she hath missed her marks, fan she did hit the friars a clour.
But troth, she will see yet and mend the friar’s head; and sith she
doth ken that she hath a feud wi’ her, och, but she will mak her quiet
wi’ the same plaisters that did the ills.”
“On thy life, touch him not again,” said Sir Patrick, “not as thou dost
love me, Duncan. Let not the friar be touched, else thou dost make me
thy foe for ever.”
“Phoo, ay, troth she’s no meddles mair wi’ her,” said Duncan; “ou ay,
troth no, she’ll no meddles.”
CHAPTER LXXIV.
The missing Lady Beatrice.
Whilst preparations are making for the duel, it may not be improper to
relieve the reader’s mind regarding the Lady Beatrice, who had thus
unwittingly become the subject of a feud likely to terminate so
fatally. After having providentially effected her escape, first from
the flames of the Hospital of the Maison Dieu, and then from the base
and treacherous protection of Sir Andrew Stewart, she fled through the
garden, and, being bewildered by a complication of terrors, she ran she
knew not whither, and unwittingly taking the direction of the town,
rushed wildly through the streets. Terror-struck by the blaze of the
Cathedral and the shouts of those who were engaged in its destruction,
some of whom her fears led her to imagine had joined in the pursuit
which she believed Sir Andrew Stewart still held after her, she darted
onwards with inconceivable rapidity, until she passed quite through the
town. A little beyond its western entrance, she beheld a light at some
distance before her, and believing that it proceeded from the casement
of some cottage, she sprang towards it with renewed exertion. To her
great disappointment, it turned out to be one of those lamps kept
burning within a shrine of the Virgin that stood by the wayside. She
sank down exhausted before the image it contained, and clasping her
hands together, implored protection from her whom the figure
represented.
While she was occupied in devotion, she heard the distant tramp of a
horse. At first she was doubtful of the reality of the sound,
confounded as it was with the far-off shouts of the Wolfe of Badenoch’s
people; but it soon became too distinct to be mistaken. It came not
very quick, however, and she had yet time to flee. Filled with fresh
alarm, she again sprang to her feet; but, alas! their strength was
gone. Her limbs refused to do their office, and, tottering for a step
or two, she again sank down on the ground, under the half shadow at the
base of the little Gothic building. As she fell the horseman came on.
He halted in doubt whether that which he beheld sink so strangely was
corporeal or spiritual. His horse, too, seemed to partake of his alarm;
for when he tried to urge the animal to pass by, he snorted and backed,
and could not be persuaded or compelled to advance by any means the
rider could use.
Meanwhile, the Lady Beatrice, believing that the man who rode the horse
had halted for the purpose of dismounting, lay trembling with
apprehension that Sir Andrew Stewart was about to seize her. Fear
robbed her for some moments of recollection, from which temporary
stupor she was roused by feeling her waist powerfully encircled by two
arms of no pigmy size or strength, upon which she screamed aloud and
fainted away.
When the Lady Beatrice regained her recollection, she found herself
seated on the saddle, and travelling at a good round pace. She was held
in her place, and supported by the same sinewy arms, which were also
employed in guiding the reins, and pressing on the steed.
“Mercy, mercy, Sir Andrew Stewart,” shrieked she; “oh, whither dost
thou carry me?”
“St. Lowry be praised that thou hast gathered thysel back frae the
warld o’ sauls, my leddy! Of a truth I did greatly fear that thy spirit
had yode thither.”
“Merciful Providence, Rory Spears!” cried the Lady Beatrice, almost
doubting the evidence of her ears. “The holy Virgin be praised, if it
be thee indeed!”
“Yea, in good truth, it is assuredly me, Roderick Spears, esquire, at
the humble service of thy leddyship,” replied Rory.
“Then thanks be to the blessed Virgin, I am safe!” replied Beatrice.
“Safe!” cried Rory; “yea, as safe as the bold heart of ane esquire can
make thee. Trust me, they sall take measure o’ ane ell and ane half o’
this lance that hangs ahint me here, that may essay to do thee aught o’
harm between this and Tarnawa, whither my shalty Brambleberry shall
speedily convey us.”
“May the saints unite to shower their blessings upon thee, Rory, for
thy timely aid!” cried the Lady Beatrice; “but how, I pray thee, didst
thou chance to rescue me from the power of Sir Andrew Stewart?”
“What!” cried Rory, “so that ill-doing, misbegotten fumart hath been
besetting thee again with this accursed traiterie. By St. Lowrie, but I
did ance tak measure o’ him afore.”
“Yea, he encountered me as I did escape from the flames of the Maison
Dieu, and he pursued me to the shrine of the Virgin, where he was in
the act of laying his impure hands on me, when I did faint away.”
“Na, troth, my leddy,” said Rory, “the hands that war laid on thee war
my hands; and, though I should speak weel o’ that the which be’s mine
ain, I do boldly avow that they are purer than the scartin’ claws o’
that mouldwarp, although they hae handled mony a foul fish, and I wad
be sair ashamed an they waur no teucher. It was me that took haud o’
ye, my leddy, and I made bauld to do that same (being ane esquire) that
I might succour ye, distressed damsel that thou wert, by lifting thy
dead body into the saddle, that wi’ a sair heart I mought bring thee
aff to Tarnawa, where, an thou didst not recover thee, thou mightest
have had ane honourable yirdin’.”
“But tell me, I pray thee, how thou didst chance to come there?”
demanded Beatrice.
“I’ll tell thee,” said Rory. “My master, the Yearl, did send me to
Aberdeen wi’ a flight o’ falcons he had promised till the King’s
Majesty; so I hae been there, yea, and did behold his Royal Grace afore
he depairted for his Palace of Scone. I wot he was weel pleased wi’ the
birds, and he did show me the fair side o’ his Royal favour for
bringing them, partly, nae doot, for the sake o’ my noble master the
Yearl o’ Moray, and partly, I do opine, because I am noo an esquire
admitted and acknowledged, the which the King himsel did alswa most
graciously confirm out o’ his ain mouth. For, says he to me, ‘Squire
Rory,’ says he, ‘are the falcons well mewed, and hast thou reclaimed
them to purpose?’ To the which I did answer, ‘Try ye them, my Royal
Liege, and ye’ll see gin there be ony Royal hern that’ll mount wi’
them. Trust me, my Lord King, that they have a wing that will carry
them up to the very riggin’ o’ the lift, an ye can find a hern that
’ill gang there before them.’ The king gied a most gracious laugh
thereupon, and so I did laugh too, and the Lords did laugh. At length
the King telled ane o’ his fouk to see that Squire Roderick Spears was
well feasted; and so I was in good troth, yea, and got handsome gurdeon
I rauckon alswa. So, as I was on my way back from Aberdeen, I stopped
late yestreen at the Spital o’ the Mason’s Due; but I had not lain long
asleep until I was startled to my legs by the cry o’ fire, and the
flames bursting out. I hurried on some of my garments, and grupping the
rest in my hands, I made the best o’ my way to the stable; but there I
could not get in for lack o’ the key. It was firm fast, and I had hard
wark, I wis, till I could get something to break it open wi’. Then did
I ride through a’ the town to see what destruction the Wolfe o’
Badenoch was doing. But as I was but ae man, and that it would ill
become me to find faut wi’ the son o’ the King or the brother o’ my
leddy Countess, I cam aff hot foot to tell the Yearl. So seeing thee
moving in the light yonder, I maun just say, that, at the first, I did
opine that thou wert something not o’ this warld; and had it not been
for Brambleberry here, who would by no means pass thee by, and whose
good sense therein did gie me time to see that thou were nae ghost,
verily thou mightst ha’e lain there still for me.”
Under the protection of the faithful Rory Spears, the Lady Beatrice
arrived safely at Tarnawa, where she was joyfully received by the
Countess. Her converse with the Franciscan had been enough to inform
her of the pleasing fact that she was indeed the daughter of the Lord
of Dirleton; and the happy Jane de Vaux learned this much from her with
a rapture that melted Beatrice’s heart with emotions of delight she had
never before experienced. To her, who had grown up without knowing
aught of the affectionate regard of a near relation, how soothing must
have been the pure embrace of a sister, of a sister too who had already
shown herself to be the kindest of friends. But the joy of Jane de Vaux
and the Countess of Moray, who had fully participated in the felicity
of her young friend, was converted into extreme anxiety about Beatrice,
who was seized with a severe illness, the effect of the fatigue,
shipwreck, dread, and agitation to which she had lately been exposed.
To add to their distress, the Earl of Moray had been gone from home for
some days. It is no wonder, then, that the Countess and the Lady Jane
de Vaux should have been too much occupied with their patient to think
of making inquiry about her uncle the Franciscan; nor was it until the
Earl returned that he did what they should have done before; and then
it was they learned from the Bishop of Moray that the friar had gone on
his important mission to the Wolfe of Badenoch.
CHAPTER LXXV.
The Ordeal of Battle.
Having thus seen the Lady Beatrice safe into the hands of friends, we
must leave her to be recovered by their affectionate care, whilst we
give some account of the preparations which were making for the duel
between Sir Patrick Hepborne and Sir John Halyburton.
The Lord of Dirleton, after some moments of cool reflection, began to
regret that his feelings had so hurried him away, as to make him forget
that his family honour could gain but little by the cause of the duel
being made public. He therefore lost no time in beseeching the King
that the lists might be erected in some situation where the vulgar, at
least, could be excluded; and, in compliance with this request, a spot
was fixed on, in the meadow below the Palace of Scone, and there
workmen were employed in immense numbers to ensure their erection
against the time fixed on. Even during the night they worked
unceasingly, and the lights were seen flitting about, and the hatchets,
saws, and hammers were heard in full operation, so that by the morning
of the appointed day a rudely-constructed amphitheatre of combat was
prepared.
The morning was beautiful, and although all about the court knew that
the day must end in a tragedy, yet nothing could be more gay or
brilliant than the prologue to the scene. The King’s pavilion was
pitched close to the outside of the lists, and a private door and stair
led up from it into a balcony over the centre of one of the sides of
the enclosure, where the King took his seat, with the Regent, the Lord
of Dirleton and his lady, together with the Franciscan and some others.
Between the outer and the inner lists, a wide space extended all around
on both sides, from one gate to the other, which was dedicated to the
nobles and knights who sat on horseback, there to witness the combat.
There were barriers in the inner circle of palisadoes, one opposite to
each side of the gate.
The two knights arrived at the outside of the lists, each attended by
his esquire, and armed at all points, both horse and man; and each of
them waited at a different gate, that he might be admitted with all the
ceremony of chivalry.
After the King was seated, the Constable, Marshal of the lists, and the
heralds took their stand in the places allotted for them below. Then
appeared Sir John Halyburton, attended by his esquire, at the east
gate; which circumstance being formally announced to the Constable and
Marshal, they went thither to receive him.
“Who art thou, and for what purpose art thou come hither?” demanded the
Constable.
“I am Sir John Halyburton,” replied he; “and hither am I come, mounted
and armed, to perform my challenge against Sir Patrick Hepborne,
younger of Hailes, and to redeem my pledge. Wherefore do I humbly
desire this gate to be opened, that I may be suffered to perform mine
intent and purpose.”
“Thou shalt have way hither if thou be’st indeed he whom thou dost set
thyself forth to be,” replied the Constable. “The Moor’s head proper on
thy crest, and thy golden shield with those three mascles on a bend
azure, do speak thee to be him whom thou dost say thou art. Yet must we
behold thy face. Raise thy vizor, then, Sir Knight.”
Sir John Halyburton did as he was desired, and his identity being
acknowledged, he was led into the lists, and placed opposite the King,
where he was to remain until the defendant should appear.
He had to wait no longer than the nature of the ceremony required, when
the Constable was called to the western gate to receive the defendant,
who, on being formally questioned, declared himself to be Sir Patrick
Hepborne, younger of Hailes.
“We do indeed behold the couped horse’s head with bridled neck on thy
crest,” said the Constable; “and on thy shield gules, the chevron
argent, with the two lions pulling at the rose, but we would have other
proof that thou art in very deed Sir Patrick Hepborne. Raise thy vizor,
Sir Knight, that we may behold thy countenance. Ay, now we do indeed
see that thou art the very defendant in this duel. Enter;” and he was
accordingly led into the lists, and placed by the side of his
challenger.
Then were the weapons of each examined. These were a lance, a
battle-axe, a sword, and a dagger. The lances were measured, and
everything was adjusted in such a manner that neither should have any
undue advantage over the other. The Constable next besought His
Majesty’s pleasure, to know whether he would in person take the oaths
of the combatants, or whether he would empower him and the Marshal to
do it; and having received orders to proceed, they first addressed Sir
John Halyburton, and demanded of him what were the terms of his
challenge.
“I do appear as champion for William de Vaux, Lord of Dirleton,”
replied Sir John; “he being of an age which doth render it impossible
that he can take arms in his own person; also for John de Vaux, his
brother, a friar of the order of St. Francis, to do battle against Sir
Patrick Hepborne, younger of Hailes, whom, in their name, and upon
their credit, I do accuse of having wronged them in certain matters
well known to His Majesty, as also to the defendant, and to compel him
to own his guilt, or to clear it by his arm.”
“Thou dost swear, then, on the holy Evangelists,” said the Constable,
“that this is the true cause of thy coming hither, that thou dost
thyself believe the averments of those for whom thou dost appear, and
that thou art prepared, if it be God’s will, to support the same with
thy life.”
“I do swear,” replied Sir John Halyburton.
“And thou, Sir Patrick Hepborne,” said the Constable, “dost thou
comprehend the charge that is brought against thee; and if thou dost,
what hast thou to answer?”
“I do comprehend the charge,” replied Sir Patrick; “and I do deny it
solemnly in all its parts. I do deny that I have ever done injury to
the Lord of Dirleton, or to any person or thing of his; and I do
declare, that both to him and to his I have borne, and do still bear,
the strongest love. This do I swear on the holy Evangelists; and God so
help me as I do speak the truth.”
Then the second oath—that they had not brought with them other armour
or weapon than such as was allowed, nor any engine, instrument, herb,
charm, or enchantment, and that neither of them should put affiance or
trust in anything other than God and their own valour, as God and the
holy Evangelists should help them—being solemnly sworn by both, each
was led off to the barrier opposite to the gate he had entered by,
where his banner and blazon were set up; and whilst both were in
preparation, the usual proclamation was given forth by the heralds.
The lists were then cleared of every one save only of two knights and
two esquires, one of each to wait upon the Constable and the Marshal.
The knight who was assigned to the Constable was Sir William de Dalzel,
and he who was appropriated to the Marshal was Sir John Assueton. To
each was given a headless lance, and they sat mounted immediately
before the place occupied by the Constable and the Marshal, and
directly under the King’s balcony, that they might be ready to part the
combatants, if it should so please the King.
When all was in readiness, the bugle-note of warning sounded from both
barriers, and, after a short pause, the King issued the usual command,
“Laissez les aller!” and, the signal being given by the heralds’
trumpets, the knights flew together. Halyburton and Hepborne had been,
nay, were at that moment, warmly attached to each other, but his
individual honour as a knight was dearer to each of them than even
friendship. Whatever had been their feelings of regret, or
unwillingness to engage in mortal strife, each now only remembered him
of his own name and that of his lady as he spurred; and, throwing the
blame on unhappy fate, which had thus doomed them to this unnatural
struggle, each thought but of working the death of his opponent, as if
it had been but the winning from him of some gaudy trophy in a
tournament. The collision was tremendous; the clash resounded far and
near, and a murmur of admiration burst from the assembled knights. Both
lances were shivered, and both steeds were thrown so much back on their
haunches, that, for the fraction of a second, it seemed to the
spectators as if it were impossible that they could again recover
themselves.
But the horses regaining their legs, the riders lost not an instant in
seizing the battle-axes that hung at their saddle-bows; and then the
fight became dreadful indeed. Their blows fell so thick and fast upon
each other’s head and body, that the sound resembled that which may be
supposed to come from the busy forge of an armourer; and desperate were
the dints made in the plate-mail both of the horses and their riders.
The noble quadrupeds reared and plunged, and, dexterously guided by the
rein, leaped forwards and backwards, and from side to side, with as
much precision, while the strokes were dealing, as if they had been but
parts of the animals that combated on their backs. But this equestrian
battle was not of long duration. A heavy blow from the axe of Sir John
Halyburton fell upon the head of Hepborne’s favourite war steed,
Beaufront, and, in defiance of his steel chamfront, the noble animal
was so stunned by it that he staggered, and measured his length on the
sod. But as his horse was sinking under him, Sir Patrick made his
battle-axe tell heavily and loudly on the helmet of his opponent, who
had leaned forward to give his stroke more weight, and he beat him
fairly down from his saddle.
Sir Patrick extricated his feet from the stirrups with great agility as
his horse was falling, and leaped on the ground. His antagonist, having
taken some seconds to regain his legs, was completely in his power. But
here friendship came into operation. Although he might, with perfect
honour, have taken full advantage of Sir John Halyburton, he only
brandished his battle-axe over him for an instant to mark that
advantage, whilst the spectators shuddered, in expectation of the blow
that was to put an end to the combat, and then dropping his arm
harmlessly by his side, he retreated a few paces, to wait until his
antagonist should be again equal with him. The King, and the knights
who looked on, clapped their hands in sign of approbation.
And now the combatants again approached each other, and desperate was
the encounter. The armour of both knights was battered so tremendously,
that their helmets were soon shorn of their proud plumes and crests,
which hung down in tattered fragments about their heads. Soon
afterwards, the lacings of their head pieces were cut, and each, in his
turn, lost his bassinet. Their surcoats were cut to shreds, and some of
the fastenings of the most important defences of their bodies being
also demolished, the plates dropped away piecemeal, and the persons of
both were left comparatively exposed, having nothing to resist the
blows but their hauberks and hauquetons. Still they fought with their
battle-axes, until both becoming unable longer to wield them, they
seemed to throw them away by mutual consent, and, drawing their swords
and daggers, began to cut and stab, aiming at those places where their
former weapons had opened breaches, through which they hoped to extract
each other’s life’s blood.
And now, indeed, the combat assumed the character of a deadly strife.
The most experienced warriors present declared, that so perfectly
matched a contest had never before been witnessed, and a very general
opinion prevailed, that, instead of one of them only being slain, the
death of both the knights would probably be the result of this fierce
and desperate duel. Despairing of the life of her champion, the Lady
Dirleton had already fainted, and had been borne out to the King’s
pavilion. The poor old Lord of Dirleton also began to picture to
himself the melancholy scene which must take place on the return of his
daughter, the Lady Jane de Vaux, to weep over the cold and bloody
corpse of him whom she expected to find warmly waiting to salute her as
his bride. As for John de Vaux the Franciscan, he inwardly regretted
that he had not been his own champion; the apprehension of evil fortune
that naturally arises where there is a doubt, having already led him to
fear that Halyburton had much the worst of the combat. As for Assueton
and Sang, they each sat silently in their saddles, in the places where
they were posted, doubtful and unhappy. Their eyes being more turned
upon Hepborne than upon his adversary, they trembled to remark each new
wound he received, and each reeling step which the successful blows of
Halyburton occasioned. His growing faintness was anxiously and
fearfully noticed by them in secret, and every moment made an accession
to their anxiety and their fear. The minstrel, Adam of Gordon, who was
seated among the attendants behind the King, trembled, clasped his
hands, groaned, and moved backwards and forwards on his place; and as
Duncan MacErchar, who was there with his company of Guards, and who as
yet knew little of the usages observed at such duels, it was with the
utmost difficulty that he was prevented from rushing to Hepborne’s
assistance, and he was at length only hindered from doing so by being
seized by the order of the Marshal of the lists.
The combat was raging, though both the knights were evidently growing
fainter and fainter, when a bugle sounded at one of the gates, and one
of the marshalmen being sent to ascertain the cause, brought a message
to the Constable that an esquire waited there who craved immediate
admittance to the King; and the circumstance being signified to his
Majesty, leave was granted to the stranger to enter. He no sooner
appeared within the gate than he was seen to push his horse furiously
along behind the drawn-up ranks of the mounted knights who were looking
on, making directly for the stair that led up from thence to the King’s
gallery. Some who recognized the face of this esquire knew him to be
Rory Spears. Leaping from his froth-covered horse, he left him to pant,
and, springing up the steps to the King’s gallery, he was seen to throw
himself on his knees before His Majesty. What he said was known only to
those who were near the Monarch’s person; indeed the sudden appearance
of this messenger carried away the eyes of the spectators for a few
moments only from the combat, which now appeared to be approaching
nearer and nearer to that fatal termination which so many experienced
heads had anticipated. Already both knights staggered and grew giddy
with their numerous wounds and their loss of blood; and those generous
bosoms who surrounded the lists cursed the interruption which the
King’s attention was receiving, being persuaded, that if it had been
still directed towards the combatants, he could not possibly have
allowed the duel to proceed to the extinction of two such brave lives.
They trembled with dread that he should not look and act until his
interference would be of no avail; for it seemed as if every moment
would see both the heroes extended dead upon the sod, that had been
already rendered slippery with the blood they had spilt.
All at once a great confusion seemed to have taken place in the King’s
gallery. His Majesty himself appeared to be much agitated, and a signal
was given, in his name by the Regent to the Constable and Marshal, to
stop the combat. Their two knights assistants, who had both been in
misery for the fate of their friends who were fighting, gave their
horses the spur, and darted forward like arrows, with their headless
lances extended, to separate the combatants. The two champions,
breathless and hardly able to support themselves, were yet not
approached by any one, save by those who divided them by their
lance-poles, for in this stage of the affair the duel was only stayed;
and as it might yet be the King’s pleasure that they should renew their
strife to the death, the law required that they should be left
precisely in the same state, that if the combat should recommence, it
might do so with each champion in the same circumstances, with relation
to his adversary, as he had been in when the King had interfered.
Faint, and ready to drop, therefore, they supported themselves on their
well-hacked swords; and whilst the blood poured from many a wound, they
panted, and silently surveyed each other’s grim and gory features, at
the short distance by which they were divided, as if each read his own
death legibly written in the death-like face of his opponent.
Female shrieks were now heard coming from the King’s pavilion without
the lists, and all was commotion in the King’s gallery. Robert himself
was seen moving away, supported by some of his people; and, in defiance
of propriety, many were seen rushing out before him by the way that led
down to the pavilion. In a few minutes the gallery was cleared.
Meanwhile the combatants still stood gazing with fixed and ghastly look
at each other; and their two friends sat like equestrian statues, with
their lance-shafts crossed between them, but uttering no word, and
giving no sign; and, while they were thus grouped, a messenger came to
announce to the Constable the King’s pleasure that the duel should be
forthwith terminated and ended without further bloodshed, he having
taken the quarrel into his own hand, and that he was prepared to decide
it in his own pavilion, where the combatants were ordered immediately
to attend him; that the two knights should be led forth of the lists,
each by his own gate, the one by the Constable, and the other by the
Marshal, and that both should make exit at the same moment, by signal
from the heralds’ trumpets, that neither might suffer the disgrace of
being the first to quit them.
The King’s command was no sooner made known than a loud shout burst
from the brave and noble hearts who had witnessed this obstinate and
sanguinary duel. His Majesty’s orders were punctually obeyed, and Sir
Patrick Hepborne followed the marshalman with tottering steps, whilst
Halyburton went staggering in the opposite direction, and as if he was
groping his way in the dark after the Constable. The trumpets sounded,
and they disappeared from the gates. Hepborne, supported by his guide
and his faithful esquire, made the best of his way round to the
external entrance to the King’s pavilion; but thither Sir John
Halyburton never came, for he swooned away the moment he had crossed
the threshold of the gateway. As Hepborne was entering the pavilion, a
lady, frantic with grief and despair, rushed by him, and made her way
towards the eastern gate, followed by several attendants.
Sir Patrick made his obeisance to the King, immediately upon coming
into the pavilion, and His Majesty, with the Regent, came kindly
towards him, to praise his valour and to inquire into his safety. A
crowd, among whom he recognized the Lord and Lady Dirleton, the Earl
and Countess of Moray, and the Franciscan, surrounded a lady who seemed
to be overwhelmed with affliction.
“He is safe,” cried half a dozen voices to her immediately on
perceiving him; and the circle opening at the moment, he beheld the
Lady Beatrice de Vaux. At one and the same instant she screamed aloud
when she saw him, and he sprang forward to throw himself at her feet,
where he fainted away.
CHAPTER LXXVI.
The Friar’s Tale—The Two Combatants—Lady Eleanore’s explanation—All
is well that ends well.
It was not wonderful that a sudden ecstasy of joy, such as that which
burst unexpectedly on Hepborne, coming after so much mental
wretchedness, and when his bodily frame had been so weakened by
fatigue, wounds, and loss of blood, should have thrown him into a
swoon, from which he only awakened to show symptoms of a feverish
delirium. He passed some days and nights under all the strange and
fluctuating delusions of a labouring dream, during which the angelic
image of her he loved, and the hated form of the Franciscan, appeared
before him, but in his delirium he knew them not.
It was after a long and deep sleep that he opened his eyelids, and
felt, for the first time, a consciousness of perfect calmness and
clearness of intellect, but combined with a sense of great exhaustion.
He turned in bed, and immediately he heard a light step move towards it
from a distant part of the room. The drapery was lifted up, and the
lovely, though grief-worn countenance of Beatrice looked anxiously in
upon him.
“Blessed angel,” said Sir Patrick, clasping his hands feebly together,
and looking upwards with a heavy languid eye, that received a faint ray
of gladness from what it looked upon; “blessed angel, is it a fair
vision that deceives me, or is it a reality I behold? I have dreamed
much and fearfully of thee and of others; tell me, do I dream still, or
art thou in truth Beatrice, the lady of my heart?”
“Hush, Sir Knight,” replied the lady, a smile of pleasure delicately
blending on her countenance, with a rich blush of modesty; “I am indeed
Beatrice. It joyeth me much to hear thee talk so calmly, seeing that it
doth argue thy returning health; but quiet and repose are needful for
thee, therefore must I leave thee.”
“Nay, if thou wouldst have me repose in peace, repeat again that thou
art Beatrice, that thou art mine own Beatrice,” cried Sir Patrick
feelingly. “Say that thy beauteous form shall never more flit from my
sight; and that we shall never, never part.”
“Do but rest thee quietly, Sir Patrick,” said Beatrice. “Trust me,
thine own faithful Maurice de Grey shall be thy page still, and shall
never quit the side of thy couch until health shall have again
revisited those wan and wasted cheeks.”
“’Tis enough,” exclaimed Sir Patrick, rapturously snatching her hand
and devouring it with kisses; “thou hast already made me well. Methinks
I do almost feel strong enow to quit this couch; and yet I could be ill
for ever to be blessed with such attendance.”
“Nay, thou must by no means think of rashly quitting thy sick-bed,”
said the Lady Beatrice, withdrawing her hand, and looking somewhat
timorous at his impetuosity, as she dropped the curtain.
A stirring was then heard in the apartment, then a whispering, and
immediately Assueton and Sang appeared, with anxious looks, at his
bedside.
“My dearest friend, and my faithful esquire,” said Hepborne, with a
face of joy, and with so collected and rational an expression, that
they could hardly doubt the perfect return of his senses; though they
soon began to believe themselves deceived, for his features suddenly
became agitated; “but what eye is that which doth glare from between
you? Ha! the face of mine arch enemy—of that demon, the enemy of the
Lady Beatrice. Doth he come to snatch her from me again? Seize him, my
beloved Assueton—seize him, my faithful esquire—let him not escape, I
entreat thee, if thou wouldst have me live.”
“We have been in terror, my dearest Hepborne,” said Assueton, calmly,
after having ascertained that it was the Franciscan, who had been
looking over his shoulder, that had excited Hepborne’s apparent fit of
frenzy; “this Franciscan, this friar, John de Vaux, hath now no evil
thought or wish against thee or the Lady Beatrice. He was worked upon
by false impressions, which were not removed until that Providential
discovery, the which did put a stop to thine unfortunate duel with Sir
John Halyburton. But sith that all is now cleared up, the holy
Franciscan hath made good reparation for all the evil his misjudgment
did occasion thee; for sith that thou wert laid here, he hath never
ceased day or night to watch by thy bedside, save when called to that
of another; and to him, under God, do we now owe the blessed hope of
thy speedy recovery.”
“Strange,” cried Hepborne; “but didst thou not say unfortunate duel? I
beseech thee speak—Hath my beloved friend, Halyburton, against whom
fate did so cruelly compel me to contend—oh, say not, I beseech thee,
that aught hath befallen him! What, thou dost hesitate! Oh, tell me not
that he hath died by my hand, or happiness shall ne’er again revisit
this bosom.”
“He is not dead,” said the Franciscan, “but he is still grievously sick
of his wounds; yet may we hope that he will soon recover as thou dost.”
“Thank God, he is not dead,” cried Hepborne with energy; “thank God,
there is hope of his recovery.”
“Nay, this good Friar John will keep him alive, as he hath done thee,”
said Assueton.
“Strange,” said Hepborne, “to see thee, my truest friend, Assueton,
thus in league with the man whom I did esteem my bitterest foe;
wonderful to learn from thee that he hath exerted himself to recall me
from death. Of a truth, then, I must of needscost yield me to
conviction so strong, and pray him and God to forgive me for the hatred
I did harbour against him.”
“Nay, Sir Knight,” said the Franciscan, “of a truth much hatred and
misjudging doth need forgiveness on both our parts, and I do grieve
most sincerely and heavily for mine, as well as for the mischief it
hath occasioned.”
“But I do earnestly entreat thee to clear up my way through this
strange wilderness of perplexity in which I am still involved,” said
Sir Patrick.
“That will I most readily do for thee, Sir Knight,” replied the
Franciscan; “but anxiety for thy certain and speedy return to health
would lead me to urge thee to postpone thy curiosity, until thou shalt
have gained further strength.”
“Nay,” said Sir Patrick, “of a truth I shall have more ease and repose
of body after that my mind shall have been put at rest.”
“In truth, what thou hast said hath good reason in it,” replied the
Franciscan; “then shall I no longer keep thee in suspense, but briefly
run over such circumstances as it may be necessary for thee to know.
“My brother, the Lord of Dirleton, hath told me that thou art already
possessed by him of the story of the loss of his first-born infant
daughter. It was I, John de Vaux, his brother, to whom he did ever play
the part of a kind benefactor and an affectionate father—it was I who
repaid all the blessings I received from him by robbing him of his
child. My mother (’tis horrible to be compelled thus to allow it) was
the worst of her sex. I was young and violent of temper, and not being
at that time aware of her infamy, I was hurt by the neglect with which
she was treated, and, instigated by her, I boldly attempted to force
her into the hall of my brother’s Castle, then thronged by all the
nobility and chivalry of the neighbourhood, to witness the ceremonial
baptism of the little Beatrice. My brother was justly enraged with mine
impudence; he did incontinently turn both of us forth with disgrace,
and in doing so he struck me a blow. Stung with the affront, I gave way
to the full fury of my passion, and vowed to be revenged. My mother
wickedly fostered mine already too fiery rage, till it knew no bounds.
She urged me to watch mine occasion to murder the child; and although
my young soul revolted at a crime so horrible, yet did her proposal
suggest a plan of vengeance, which, with less of guilt to me, should
convey as much of misery to my brother, and especially to his wife,
against whom we had a peculiar hatred.
“It was long ere a fitting opportunity offered for carrying my purpose
into effect. At length, after frequent watching, I did one evening
observe the nurse walking in a solitary place, with the babe in her
arms. With my face concealed beneath a mask, and my person shrouded in
a cloak, I came so suddenly on her, that I snatched the child from her
arms before she was aware. Ere I could flee from the woman, she sprang
on me like a she-wolf robbed of her young—pulled the mantle from the
child in a vain attempt to reach her, and clung to me so firmly as I
fled, that, to rid myself of her, I was compelled to wound her hand
deeply with my dagger. My horse was at hand, and, to put the child
equally beyond the reach of the affection of its fond parents or the
cruelty of my mother, I wrapt it in my cloak, and, riding with it over
to Lammermoor, consigned it to the care of a shepherd’s wife. To avoid
suspicion, I returned home immediately; but conscious guilt would not
permit me to remain long near those I had injured. I withdrew myself
secretly, and entered on board the privateer of the brave Mercer, where
for six or eight years of my life I encountered many a storm, and bore
my part in many a desperate action. I was a favourite with the old man,
and did gain considerable wealth with him; but my proud spirit would
not brook command, so I quitted the sea-service, and travelled through
foreign lands as a knight, when I did share in many a stubborn field of
fight, and won many a single combat. Yet was I not always successful;
and, having been overthrown in a certain tournament, I was so
overwhelmed with mortification at the disgrace that followed me, that I
became soured with the world, and straightway resolved to exchange the
helmet and the cuirass for the Franciscan’s grey cowl and gown, vainly
hoping to humble my haughty temper by the outward semblance of poverty.
But my towering soul was not to be subdued by a mere garb of penance.
“From the foreign convent into which I entered, I chanced to be sent to
England, and, having been recommended as a proper person for confessor
in the family of the Earl of Northumberland, mine ambitious and proud
heart did again begin to show itself. Sir Rafe Piersie, to whom I was
more especially attached, made me large promises of future promotion in
the Church; and, having set his affections on the Lady Eleanore de
Selby, he did employ me to further his suit. To effect this, I bribed a
certain villainous pretender to necromancy, who was well known to have
much influence over the old knight. But the villain deceived me. Sir
Rafe Piersie had a flat denial, as well from the father as the
daughter, and this did I partly attribute to the traiterie of the
impostor, whose services I paid for, and partly to the interposition of
Sir Walter de Selby’s adopted daughter, whom I did not then know to be
my niece, the Lady Beatrice. Sir Rafe Piersie, believing that I had
been playing the cheat with him, drove me indignantly away. I burned to
be revenged against those who had occasioned this overthrow of my
hopes, and soon afterwards I had nearly glutted my rage against the
Ancient by a cruel death, from which he most narrowly escaped. I did
then journey northwards to the Franciscan Convent at Elgin, where I
arrived at the very time the Bishop of Moray was sorely lacking some
one bold enough to beard the Wolfe of Badenoch. It was a task quite to
my mind, and I accordingly readily undertook that, the which all others
did most anxiously shun. Thou, who wert present at Lochyndorbe, mayest
well remember how mine attempt was likely to have ended. As they
dragged me from the hall I did detect the companion of the Lady
Eleanore de Selby under her page’s disguise, having seen her by
accident at Norham. One of mine old seamates, who chanced to be among
the number of Lord Badenoch’s men, procured me admission to the Castle,
and he it was who effected mine escape from the horrors of the Water
Pit Vault. He would fain have had me flee instantly, but, much against
his will, I did insist on his showing me the page’s chamber; and I went
thither, determined to question closely her whom I did then only know
to be the companion of the Lady Eleanore de Selby, as to what share she
had in persuading her friend against an union with the Piersie. I
sought her chamber with my mind rankling with the remembrance of my
disgrace, inflamed and full of prejudice against her, and, Heaven
pardon me, it is in truth hard to say how far my blind rage might have
hurried me, had she not fled from me at the sight of my dagger.
“It was soon after this that my brother, William de Vaux, came to
Elgin. The remembrance of my ingratitude to him came powerfully upon
me. I contrived to bring him, at night, into the Church of the
Franciscan Convent, and then it was I discovered that his heart,
instead of being filled with a thirst of revenge against me, was full
of charity, compassion, and forgiveness. This discovery so worked upon
my soul, already beginning to feel compunction for mine early
wickedness, that I should have confessed all to my much-injured
brother, had not some one, accidentally approaching at that moment,
unluckily interrupted the conference and compelled me to retreat. But I
went straightway to the good Bishop of Moray, with whom by this time I
stood in high favour for my bold service, and to him did I fully
confess my sins against my brother, of the which, until now, I had but
little thought, and had never repented. I did then forthwith solemnly
vow to do all that might be in my power to restore his child to him, if
that she did yet live. In this good resolution the Bishop encouraged
me; yea, and he did moreover lend me ample means for effectuating the
purpose I had in view. I hastened to the South of Scotland, to find out
the woman with whom I had left the baby. From her I learned that
poverty and my neglect had induced her to part with Beatrice to Sir
Walter de Selby. Then did I shudder to think of the scene at
Lochyndorbe, where, but for the providence of God, I might have
murdered mine own niece, and I secretly blessed a merciful Being who
had snatched her from my hands.
“But now another cause of affliction took possession of me. Believing,
as I did, that Beatrice was the unworthy partner of thy journey, and
that thou hadst taken her with thee, by her own guilty consent, from
Norham, where I did well know thou hadst been, I cursed my villainy,
which had removed an innocent babe from that virtuous maternal counsel
and protection, the lack of which, I believed, had been her undoing. My
suspicions were confirmed when I beheld thee among the crowd at the
funeral of Sir Walter de Selby in Norham Church. I doubted not but thou
hadst come thither to meet with Beatrice, and by her own consent to
carry her off. Her eyes encountered mine as I stood near the altar,
and, as they were full of severity from the impressions then on my
mind, it is little marvel that the sight of me should have produced the
fainting fit into which she fell. That night I was deprived of all
chance of an interview with her; and when I sought for one in the
morning, I found that she had departed, no one knew whither. After
seeking her for many days, I at last returned to Dunbar in despair,
where I did by chance meet with the son of mine old sea captain,
Mercer, and from him I learned that she had been sojourning for some
time at Newcastle, but that she had sailed for London. Having heard of
the expedition of the Scottish knights thither, I readily believed that
her errand was for the purpose of meeting him who had so won her heart
from virtue. My soul boiled within me to rescue her from so base an
intercourse, and mine old sea-mate having offered to carry me to the
Thames in his ship, I did accept his aid, and did take her from thence,
as thou dost already know, Sir Knight; but instead of making the port
whence we had sailed, we were driven northward by a storm, and, after
much tossing, we suffered wreck on the eastern coast of Moray Land,
whence I conveyed Beatrice to the Hospital of the Maison-Dieu at Elgin,
on that night the place was burnt by the Wolfe of Badenoch. As I was
well assured that the lady had escaped from the fire, and that I could
nowhere hear tidings of her, it was no wonder that I believed she had
fled to thee; for our stormy voyage had left me no leisure to undeceive
myself by the discovery of her innocence.”
The Franciscan then went on to give Sir Patrick such other explanations
as his eager questions called for. But his patient seemed to be
insatiable in his thirst of information. Afraid that he might do
himself an injury, the learned leech forbade him further converse, and,
having ordered some proper nourishment for the invalid, desired that he
should be left quiet. Sir Patrick accordingly fell into a deep and
refreshing sleep, from which he next day awakened, with pleasing dreams
of future happiness.
Sir Patrick Hepborne the elder had not yet returned to Scone. The
younger Sir Patrick saw less of the Franciscan after he became
convalescent; but his friend, Assueton, was indefatigable in his
attendance on him, and Mortimer Sang did not even permit his love for
Katherine Spears to carry him away from the affectionate duty he paid
his master. It was not surprising, then, that his cure went on rapidly,
being so carefully looked to. As he got better, he was visited by many.
The King sent daily inquiries for him; the Regent came himself; and the
Wolfe of Badenoch, though his impatient temper would never permit him
to make his visit long, generally called three or four times a day to
see how he did. But the grateful Duncan MacErchar lay in the ante-room,
like an attached dog, from the moment that Hepborne was carried into
the Palace, and never quitted the spot save when he thought he could
run off for something that might do him good or give him ease.
Hepborne was a good deal surprised, and even a little hurt, that,
amongst all those who came to see him in his wounded state, he had
never beheld the old Lord of Dirleton, who had ever shown so warm a
heart towards him until the late unfortunate misunderstanding. The
Franciscan, too, came but to dress his numerous wounds, which were fast
healing up, and then left him in haste. But when some days more had
passed away, and he was enabled to quit his bed, he learned
intelligence that explained this seeming neglect of the De Vaux, and
filled him with grief and anxiety. It was the anticipation of its
producing this effect upon him, indeed, which had occasioned the
concealment of it, as the Franciscan feared that his recovery might
have been retarded by the communication. Sir John Halyburton’s case had
been much less favourable than Hepborne’s. His life still hung
quivering in uncertainty. The Lord of Dirleton, his lady, and the
unhappy Lady Jane de Vaux never left him; and the Franciscan, who had
been the unfortunate cause of bringing it into its present peril, was
reduced to the deepest despair.
No sooner had Sir Patrick learned those doleful tidings, than, calling
to his esquire, he put on his garments, and demanded to be instantly
led to the apartment of Sir John Halyburton, where he found those who
were so deeply interested in him sitting drowned in affliction,
believing that they should soon see him breathe his last. Sir Patrick
mingled his tears with theirs; but he did more—he spoke the words of
hope, comfort, and encouragement; and the Franciscan and the others
being worn out, and almost rendered unserviceable with watching, he
took his instructions from the learned leech, and then seated himself
by the wounded knight’s bedside. It seemed as if a kind Providence had
blessed the hand which had inflicted the wounds with a power of healing
them. From the moment that Sir Patrick sat down by his friend’s couch,
he had the satisfaction of finding his disease take a favourable turn.
He never left his patient, who continued to improve hourly. In less
than a week he was declared out of danger, and in a few days more he
was able to join Hepborne and the two happy sisters, Beatrice and Jane
de Vaux, in their walks on the terrace of the Palace.
The reader may easily fancy what was the subject of conversation that
gave interest to these walks. It was during one of them that the Lady
Beatrice de Vaux was suddenly met by a woman of the most graceful mien,
who, standing directly in her path, threw aside a mantle that shrouded
her face. Astonishment fixed Beatrice to the spot for an instant, when,
recovering herself, she sprang into the arms of the stranger,
exclaiming—
“Eleanore—my beloved Eleanore de Selby!”
The meeting was overpowering, and Hepborne hastened to conduct the two
friends into the Palace, where they might give full way to their
feelings without observation. After their transports had in some degree
subsided, the Lady Beatrice eagerly inquired into the history of her
friend.
“Proud as thou knowest me to be, Beatrice,” replied Eleanore, “I do
here come to thee as a suppliant, nor do I fear that I come in vain;
albeit I have peraunter but ill deserved a favour at thy hands, since I
did deceive thee into being the propagator of a falsehood, by telling
thee that he with whom I fled from Norham was Sir Hans de Vere——”
“Ah! if thou didst but know into what wretchedness that falsehood had
nearly betrayed me,” exclaimed Beatrice; “but who then was thy lover?”
“Thou dost well know that my poor father was early filled by a wicked
and lying witch with a superstitious dread of the union of his daughter
with a Scottish knight, the cunning fortune-teller having discovered
his prejudice, and fostered it by prophesying that such a marriage
would lead to certain misery. So he did ever study to keep me from all
sight of Scottish chevaliers. But, when visiting my aunt at Newcastle,
I did chance to meet with Sir Allan de Soulis, who had fled from
Scotland for having killed a knight in a hasty brawl, and to him did I
quickly resign my heart. ’Twas this which made me despise the splendid
proposals of the proud Sir Rafe Piersie, and which rendered the thought
of the horrid union with the Wizard Ancient, if possible, even yet more
insupportable. I agreed to fly into the arms of Sir Allan; but, to
effect mine escape, thy connivance was indispensable, nay, without
thine aid it would have been impossible to have carried my scheme into
execution. I did well know thine attachment and devotion to my father,
and I felt how difficult it would be to shake thee from what thou
wouldst conceive to be thy duty to him. I saw, however, that I had thy
full pity for the unwonted harshness I was enduring; yet I feared that
if thou shouldst discover the country of my lover, thou wouldst never
consent to keep my secret, far less to become my accomplice in an act
that would tend to make Sir Walter so unhappy. I was therefore
compelled to resort to falsehood. I did introduce Sir Allan to thee as
Sir Hans de Vere, one who, from being kinsman to King Richard’s
favourite, De Vere, Duke of Ireland, was likely to rise to high
honours. By doing this, I hoped to weaken thine objections to the step
I was about to take. Nor was I wrong in my conjecture, for thou didst
at last kindly agree to facilitate my flight.”
“And whither didst thou fly, then?” demanded Beatrice.
“First to Newcastle,” replied the Lady de Soulis, “and then to Holland.
Being banished from his own country, and dreading to remain in England,
where he, too, could not tarry during war without proving himself a
traitor to Scotland, we were compelled to retreat beyond sea for a
time. It is not long since that the sad news of my father’s death did
reach me. I was struck with deep remorse for my desertion of him. We
hastened back to Norham. There I found that some low-born kinsmen of my
father’s, trusting that I should never return, had seized on the
greater part of his effects and divided the spoil. The small remnant
that was left me was saved by the fidelity of the trusty Lieutenant
Oglethorpe. There doth yet remain for us Sir Allan’s paternal lands in
Scotland, the which have not yet been forfaulted; but without the Royal
remission he dare not return to claim them. To thee, then, my Beatrice,
do I look to use thine influence with the merciful King Robert in
behalf of the gallant De Soulis, that he may be restored to his
country, his estates, and the cheering countenance of his Sovereign.”
We need push the conversation between these two friends no farther. It
is enough to say that the united entreaties of Hepborne, Halyburton,
and the two Ladies de Vaux, soon prevailed in moving the clemency of
the good old King, and the happy Lady de Soulis flew to England to be
the bearer of her own good news to the brave Sir Allan.
The joy of the old Lord of Dirleton and his lady in contemplating the
happiness that awaited their children may be imagined; and it will also
be readily believed that the delight of the elder Sir Patrick Hepborne
was no less, when he returned to Scone, and found that he had lost his
share of the general misery, and had arrived just in time to have full
enjoyment in the unalloyed pleasure that spread itself throughout the
whole Court.
The King resolved that the double nuptials should be celebrated in his
presence, with all the splendour that he could shed upon them. The
Bishop of Moray came from his diocese, at His Majesty’s particular
request, to perform the marriage rites; and the Wolfe of Badenoch, to
mark his respect for the good man, actually made one of his rapid
journeys into Buchan, to bring thence his neglected spouse, Euphame,
Countess of Ross, that she might be present with him on the happy
occasion. So magnificent and proudly attended a ceremonial had not been
witnessed in Scotland for many a day. Old Adam of Gordon, who was now a
member of the younger Sir Patrick Hepborne’s household, composed and
performed an epithalamium that put all the other minstrels to shame;
and as for Squire Rory Spears, and Captain MacErchar, of His Majesty’s
Guards, their joy was so totally beyond all restraint, that, much to
the amusement of the company, they performed a bargaret together—a sort
of dance of these days which antiquarians have supposed to have borne
some resemblance to the fandango of Spain, or the saltarella of Italy.
If the two knights who thus married the co-heiresses of Dirleton were
friends before, they now became attached to each other with an
affection almost beyond that of brothers, and Sir John Assueton was
united with them in the same strict bonds. Sir Patrick Hepborne being
aware that the unexpected discovery of Beatrice had diminished the
prospect of wealth which would have eventually accrued to Halyburton,
had Jane de Vaux been the sole heiress of her father, privately
influenced the old Lord to leave his Castle, and the larger part of his
estates, to his brother-in-law. On the death of William De Vaux,
therefore, Sir John Halyburton became Lord of Dirleton. For the
descendants from these marriages, those who are curious in such matters
may consult “Douglas’s Peerage,” vol. i., pp. 223 and 687. [2]
We must not forget to mention that Rory Spears and Captain MacErchar
were called on soon afterwards to repeat their dancing exhibition which
had met with so much applause; and this was on occasion of the wedding
of Squire Mortimer Sang and the lovely Katherine Spears. Many a happy
hour had Squire Roderick afterwards, in teaching his grandson the
mysteries of wood and river craft, whilst the youth’s father, the
gallant Sir Mortimer, was gathering wreaths of laurel in foreign lands,
whither he travelled as a valiant knight.
One of the last acts of King Robert was to bestow a small estate in the
valley of the Dee upon the veteran MacErchar. Thither he retired to
spend a comfortable and respectable old age, and, having married,
became the head of a powerful family.
It has always been a very common belief in Scotland that, when a wicked
man becomes unexpectedly good, the circumstance is a forewarning of his
approaching death. It was so with the Wolfe of Badenoch, for he lived
not above two or three years after the reformation that was so
surprisingly worked in him. The Franciscan, who still continued with
the Earl as his confessor, gained a great ascendancy over his ferocious
mind; and his endeavours to subdue it to reason had also the good
effect of enabling him the better to command his own proud spirit,
which he every day brought more and more under subjection. The happy
effects of this appeared after the demise of him to whom he had been so
strangely linked; for, despising that Church advancement which was now
within his grasp, he retired into the Franciscan Convent at Haddington,
where he subjected himself to the penance of writing the Chronicle from
which these volumes have been composed; and those who have suffered the
tedium of reading the produce of it, may perhaps be judges of the
severity of this self-inflicted punishment. That the Wolfe of Badenoch
had not failed to make good use of the remnant of his life, in wiping
off old scores with the Church by making it large donations, we may
well guess, from the following epitaph, which may yet be read in
well-raised, black-letter characters sculptured around the edge of the
sarcophagus in which his body was deposited in the Cathedral of
Dunkeld; but where now, alas! there remains not as much of the dust of
Alister-more-mac-an-righ as might serve to make clay sufficient for
the base purpose to which the fancy of our immortal dramatic Bard has
made his moralizing Prince of Denmark trace a yet mightier Alexander,
and an Imperial Cæsar,
To stop a hole to keep the wind away.
The Epitaph is:—
Hic Jacet
Dominus Alexander Seneschallus
Comes de Buchan et Dominus de Badenoch,
Bonæ Memoriæ,
Qui Obiit xx Die Mensis Februarii,
Anno Domini MCCCXCIV. [3]
THE END.
NOTES
[1] Having some debates with the Earl of Huntly, he laid him under
ecclesiastical censure, which so provoked the Gordons that they
threatened to pull the Bishop out of his pigeon-holes. “I will build a
house,” said the Bishop, “out of which neither the Earl nor his clan
shall pull me,” and he accordingly erected that strong tower still
known by the name of Davy’s Tower. Even the present walls were of date
posterior to that alluded to in the text.
[2] The reader, on consulting the second reference of our text, will
find that Douglas has run into much confusion in regard to the
Halyburtons. The Sir John Halyburton who married the co-heiress of
Dirleton, he kills at the battle of Nisbet in 1355. Now, by consulting
the first reference, p. 223, it will be found that Sir Patrick
Hepborne, younger of Hailes, who married the other sister, was killed
at the battle of Nisbet in 1402, at which time Sir Patrick Hepborne,
sen., was alive. This we know to be true, and perfectly according to
history; but to suppose that Sir Patrick Hepborne’s brother-in-law
could have been killed in 1355 is a glaring absurdity. The
inconsistency is easily explained, however, for there were several Sir
John Halyburtons, and two battles of Nisbet. There was a Sir John
Halyburton killed at the battle of Nisbet in 1355, and there was a Sir
John Halyburton taken at the battle of Nisbet in 1402. On this last
occasion Sir Patrick Hepborne commanded. It is therefore quite natural
that his brother-in-law should have had a share in this
expedition.—Vid. Fordun, II., p. 433.
[3] This monument is still in tolerable preservation, though it
suffered mutilation by a party of Cameronians about the time of the
Revolution.
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