Margery's Son; or, 'Until he find it:' a fifteenth century tale of the Court of Scotland

Front matter

MARGERY'S SON, " Ths Kin,* was lowered by means ot two blankets tied together • * * For one loment Idonia saw the granl figure of Kate Douglas at the door with firm lips ompressed and gleaming eyes. Tage 243. MARGERY'S SON; OR, "UNTIL HE FIND IT." J. HHtemty ©attarg lab of tfts ©uttri us BY EMILY SARAH HOLT, AUTHOR OF "MISTRESS MARGERY," " LETTICE EDEN," ETC. " But the road was too rough and rugged, And some coward hearts drew back : Ye found one more smooth and sunny, But ye lost the Master's track." LONDON : JOHN F. SHAW AND CO. 48 PATERNOSTER ROW. [A/I rights reserved.} BY THE SAME AUTHOR. MISTRESS MARGERY: %, salt of % foUarbs. New Edition. Crown Svo, 3s. 6d. Full List of Author's Works al end of Volume.

Preface

. The readers of " Mistress Margery " will need little introduction to her son, Geoffrey Marnell of Lym ington. The times in which he lived were more like our own than hers. There was scarcely any visible per secution throughout the reign of Henry the Sixth. There were men willing to persecute, but not able : there were men able, but not willing. Such are not martyr-times, nor times for the growth of the martyr spirit. They afford congenial soil for the develop ment of those cares and riches and pleasures of this life, which sorely hinder the fruit from being brought to perfection. They are prolific of words and inten tions : but very bare of deeds. If these times of ours were suddenly changed to a storm of persecution, how should we stand ? Preface. VI " A certain man had two sons : and he came to the first, and said, Son, go work to-day in my vine yard.

He answered and said, I will not ; but after wards he repented, and went. And he came to the second, and said likewise. And he answered and said, I go, sir; and went not. Whether of them twain did the will of his father ? " There is yet a third course. " Lord, we have left all, and have followed Thee ! " Which of these paths shall we wish that we had taken, when the thrones are set, and the books are opened ? Let us take it now. CONTENTS. CHAP. PAGE I. A LILY AMONG THORNS . . . . I II. WHAT CAME OF A WALK IN THE GARDEN . 29 III. WHEREIN WE DANCE THE CUSHION DANCE . 52 IV. A SOUND OF WEDDING BELLS . . .76 V. BLACK KATE . . . . . . IOI VI. THE WHITE LADY OF ROTHESAY . . .121 VII. MAKING DISCOVERIES . . . • 143 VIII. IN THE LOLLARDS' TOWER .... 170 IX. SECRETLY, FOR FEAR . . . .192 X. TWICE WARNED . . . . . 2l6 XI.

THE BARRING OF THE DOOR . . . 238 XII. REST FOR THE WEARY .... 261 XIII. MAN PROPOSES, AND GOD DISPOSES . . 279 XIV. MARGERY ...... 298 XV. TRIED IN THE FIRE . . . . . 318 XVI. BY THE WAY OF THE WILDERNESS . . -341 MARGERY'S SON.

Chapter I

A LILY AMONG THORNS. " When some beloved voice, that was to you Both sound and sweetness, faileth suddenly, And silence, against which you dare not cry, Aches round you like a strong disease and new, — What hope, what help, what music will undo That silence to your sense ? Speak Thou, availing Christ, and fill this pause ! " — Elizabeth Barrett Browning. The gloaming was falling over Stirling Castle, and inside the rooms, lighted by narrow windows, it was already dark. Too dark, indeed, to discern the features of any one, or to tell who was the woman standing in the corridor outside a doorway, in the attitude of one waiting and somewhat earnestly look- A ing for an expected arrival. She was rewarded at length, for a man, some forty years her senior — that is to say, nearly seventy years of age — laboriously climbed the steep spiral staircase, and became aware of her presence as he reached the summit.

" Ye ha'e come, then, at long last ? " said the woman, in a voice remarkable for its silvery sweetness. " Ay. I couldna win sooner," answered the man, wiping his heated forehead. " Is she onie better the nicht, Gilet, think ye ? " "Nay, she's little like to be better i' this warld," was the answer, with a sigh. " But win ye in, Robbie ; ye'll find wee Jamie there." The only reply made by the man was to lift the latch of the door, with a careful hand which made no noise, and to pass into the chamber of the in valid. It scarcely looked like a sick-room. There were two occupants, — a woman of some fifty years of ace, who sat in a large chair made easy by soft cushions — there were no other easy chairs in 1399 — and a pretty little child of five years old, who was seated on a hassock at her feet, singing in a low tone to himself.

As the man softly entered, the woman looked up with a smile of welcome, and the child, stopping his singing, rushed upon him with tumul tuous glee. A simple scene enough, many a time repeated in this earthly life, but not often in so high a grade ; for the man was Robert III., the anointed King of Scotland, and the sick woman was its dying Queen. The chamber was very lktle lighter than the corridor. A silver lamp, suspended from the ceiling, swung in the midst, giving sufficient light to move about the room ; not enough to read by — which did not matter in an age when a hundred books constituted a sumptuous library, and a single volume was usually worth at least its weight in gold. "Are ye no better the nicht, Annabel? — just a wee bittie ? " lovingly demanded the old King. " It'll be vara wee, then, I'm thinking," answered the invalid with a responsively affectionate smile.

They were all in all to each other, — this husband and wife who were so soon to be parted. They were vine and elm, — but, alas ! she was the elm, and he the vine. King Robert III. of Scotland was a most estimable man, in all relations of life; yet to this estimable character there was one terrible drawback, one deficiency which made him wholly unfit for his position as King of a distracted country in stormy times. Poor fellow ! — he could never say No. He detested vexing others, disobliging them, wounding their feelings. The natural result was that he himself was the trodden-down, harassed victim of everybody's caprice. Among all who surrounded him, he had only one real friend. It might have been said of him, as Mirabeau said of Louis XVI., — " The King has only one man about him, and that one is his wife."

For Annabel Drummond, the wife of Robert III., and the last subject who was ever Queen of Scotland, was a woman of loftier intellect than her lord, and gifted with strong practical wisdom. So long as she sat on the throne by his side, the craftiest machina tions of his enemies were powerless to hurt him. But after a long wilful closing of his eyes to the truth he was utterly unwilling to perceive, the poor old King was compelled to admit that the days of his cherished wife were numbered, and that the rest of his weary pilgrimage must be performed alone. " Ye're late frae the Council the nicht, my Lord," said the Queen faintly, and closing her eyes. "Ay," admitted the old man with a troubled sigh. " Like eneuch, when my brother o' Albany's there. He's aye fashin' himsei' anent our Davie." " Anent Davie ?

" The Queen's eyes suddenly unclosed with a look which denoted at once surprise and alarm. " Ou ay, just anent Davie. He'll ha'e 't he's a richt ne'er-do-weel. He's aye at it, dinnin' in my ears that Davie's sic a wastrel as ne'er onie man saw. I'm gey weary o' the haill thing." " But ye dinna think it, my Lord ? Our Davie ! " There was both indignation and reproach in the mother's tone. " Eh, Annabel, aiblins — I dinna ken what to think. When Albany's fu' o' his talk, I think he may ha'e ower mickle reason; and when Davie just looks i' my face, and says, ' Faither ! ' I reckon 'tis a' clavers. I dinna ken ! " Poor King Robert ! It was his normal condition — not to know what to think unless somebody told him. So long as that somebody was Queen Anna bel, it had not much mattered. She usually did know what to think, and thought rightly.

But it was evident that it would shortly have to be some body else ; and the future both of King and coun try very largely depended upon whom that was to be. " My Lord ! " said the Queen, laying her weak hand upon that of her husband, as he sat beside her, "ye'll no tak' up wi' onie man's fashes and clashes, against your ain bairn? Gi'e me your word for it, ere I gang awa." "Eh, Annabel, my bonnie doo! I dinna ken what'll come o' me and a' the lave ! " "The gude Lord help us! I scarce ken either," wailed the dying woman. "But, Annie, ye look a hantle better this even, — ye do, my marrow! Please God, ye'll no be gangin' a gey while yet ! " The Queen smiled sadly ; she knew better, or deemed so. "Nay, now! — Look on her, Gilet," resumed the King, addressing the watcher, who had just entered the sick chamber.

" Do ye no think she's a deal better the nicht ? " The lady addressed came forward till the light of the lamp shone upon her. It revealed a very lovely woman of some thirty years — that beautiful Princess Giletta whose fame had spread over all Europe, and for whose hand the Most Christian King had sighed in vain. She was the youngest sister of King Robert, by a different mother; and she had disap pointed all her princely suitors by making a love match with Sir William Douglas of Nithsdale. It was not in King Robert's nature to be harsh to a pair of lovers ; and when his favourite sister, who had ever been his pet and plaything, requested his permission to wed the man of her heart, all his feelings were enlisted on her side in an instant. The same sad smile as that of the Queen now hovered for a moment on the fair, mobile lips of the Princess.

" Ye can think sae the nicht, Robbie ! " she said. " Gilet, what think ye o' Davie ? " It was the royal mother who asked the question, in an eager, anxious tone. "What think I, Annie ? Why, I lo'e him weel, " Div ye think onie ill o' him ? " " No me ! Wha's been vexin' ye wi' sic fule's clavers, Annie, woman ? " " Nay, 'tis my Lord they're vexin'," sighed Annabel. "Wha's been fulin' ye, Robbie? " " Ou, 'tis just Albany," answered the King in the same harassed tone in which he had spoken be fore. " He'll ha'e 't Davie's a wastrel, and nae mortal thing'll mend him." The Queen and Princess exchanged glances, — . the kind of glance which people cast at each other when a subject is brought up which they have dis cussed in private, and each wishes to remind the other of some decision upon which they have agreed.

" My Lord, will ye tak' my bit counsel anent Davie ? " " Eh, Annie, my dearie, I'll tak' aught i' the warld frae ye." " Then ye'll see and ha'e Davie weddit.' "Weddit! What, Davie! Hoot, 'tis no but yestre'en the lad was suckin' his bit thumb i' the cradle ! Weddit ! — ma certie ! " It never seemed to have dawned on King Robert that the lapse of years had emancipated his heir from the cradle. "He's four-and-twenty, Robbie!" said the Prin cess, in a slightly amused tone. " What, Davie ?" repeated the King, as if the idea were a startling one to him — as indeed it was. " Hoot, woman ! — I do believe he is. Hech ! but 'tis fearsome to think 't ! " "Ye'll just get him a gude wife, my Lord," said the Queen again ; " a lassie wi' gude wit, that'll be a true friend till the laddie, — " "As thou hast been to me, my ain Annie!

Ay, but I dinna ken what airt I'll look for her. There's no twa Annabels i' this warld." " Atweel, ye'll think that o'er." " I maun speir at Albany," murmured the poor King. " Eh, Robbie, ha'e ye no a mind o' your ain, but ye maun aye speir at Albany?" demanded his sister. "Ye'll be ganging to Albany, ane o' thae days, to ken what ye shall ha'e to your supper, or what fashion the sartor shall cut your neist doublet." " Nay, I'll come to thee for the doublet, my lassie," answered King Robert, with a twinkle in his eyes. " 'Deed, then, I'll no tell ye ! " said his sister, laughing. " Do learn to walk without a crutch, Rob, man." " I'm too auld, my woman, I'm too auld ! " said the King with a sigh. " Atweel, Annie, we'll see anent the bit wifie for Davie." When King Robert undertook to see about any thing, what he practically meant was that he would resign himself into somebody's hands, to be moulded with respect to that question.

That somebody, during the Queen's long illness, had more and more often been his brother of Albany, who was only by two or three years his junior, and far abler than him self. By little and little, for some months past, Albany had been subtlely engaged in drawing the supreme power gently into his own hands, quite imperceptibly to the easy-tempered, peace-loving Ma/'gerys Son. 10 King. Had the opportunity been afforded to her, Queen Annabel would have seen the state of matters readily enough : but in the enforced quiet of her sick chamber she could only guess it, and even then she was powerless to thwart it beyond the term of her own life. So far as human forecast could reach, she knew that her death would be the virtual entrance of Albany into the kingship, and that he would after wards deal with his weak, affectionate, guileless brother according to his will.

King Robert would just do as he was told ; he had done it all his life. Yet, beyond that, the life of a man who had nearly touched the allotted boundary of threescore and ten could not be expected to last long; and the heir to the throne, David Duke of Rothesay, was in that fatal point the very opposite of his father. He would be no puppet, pulled about at Albany's pleasure. His mother's firm purpose and clear brain had descended to him, though not, alas ! her just and delicate judgment. He might be deceived into an impolitic course by misrepresentations, but he would never be impelled into it from sheer weakness of will or absence of purpose. The more pity, thought the dying Queen, if his father were induced to take up idle tales against him, and his influence over the King were thus reduced to a minimum.

A Lily amojig Thorns. 11 " Whaur are ye gaun, Albany, my man ? " asked King Robert, meeting his brother in the court-yard on the followinc, morning.. " Ou, jist for a turn," replied the Duke. "Were ye wantin' me, my gude Lord ? " " Eh, man, I'm pu'd twa-three ways," said the worried King. " Come ye ben a wee whilie, and crack o'er 'em wi' me." " I'm aye at your Highness' service." And Albany followed his royal brother into his private room. " What think ye, Albany, anent a wife for Davie ? " The astute brain of the Duke instantly guessed from whom this suggestion had come, and perceived that the project might very materially either advance or retard his interest. All depended upon the per son chosen to fill that position. " A braw thocht, sure ! " said he. " I'll no guess wrang, I'm thinkin', gin I say that cam' frae the Queen's Grace ? 'Tis ower like her wise heid to ha'e onie ither source.

How can I serve your Grace i' this matter ? " " Ken ye what airt to look for her ? I ha'e been reivin' and ruggin' my brains a' this livelang nicht, an' I'm no wiser than when I laid me down. There's wee Gilet, — but she's no auld eneuch." This was the Princess Giletta's only child — a girl of some eleven years. " Gin my poor counsel were worth aught," returned Albany, with that assumption of humility which was one of the snares that most completely deceived his royal brother, "in vara deed, my Lord, I would avise a woman grown for his Grace, — no a bit lassie. He's no sae young he need tarry for his wedding." "But whaur'll ye look for her?" inquired the King again, passing his hand over his weary brow. " Atweel, my Lord, that's no a question can be answered in a moment," replied Albany, putting on an aspect of grave thought, though his own resolve was already taken.

" There's a wheen noble lassies i' Scotland, fair and gude, that wad e'en become your Highness' throne, when the ill day comes, whilk may the blessed saints avert ! 'Tis a matter to be weel thocht on ere ye stir fit thereanent." " Ye wadna leave Davie to pick out ane for himsei' ? " asked the King rather doubtfully. This idea would not have suited Albany's policy at all. But he never directly opposed his brother's suggestions ; he always made a feint of taking them into consideration, and ended by finding some in superable obstacle to their execution. " Atweel, my Lord, " he began in a regretful tone, as if that would indeed have been the best plan, had circumstances allowed it, " ye see, gin his Grace had been a thocht wiser-like, and no sae gi'en to his evil courses, nae doubt but that were the canniest road to tak'.

But to speak truth " — pursued Albany, who was on the point of uttering falsehood — " I'm gey feart his Grace should leave the jewels i' their cases, and just pick up some bit broken glass frae the pathway. He has an ill handfu' o' folk that he com panies wi', that jist move him hither and thither at their wull, — mean chiels o' the common sort; and I wouldna be surprisit gin his Highness chose some sister or kinswoman o' theirs — a decent woman, micht be, but nae mair fit to be Queen o' Scots ane day nor your Highness' henchman were fit to be Bishop o' Saint Andrew's. It'll no be sae wise, I'm thinkin',—" " Ye're richt, Albany, as ye aye are," replied the King with a sigh. " Atweel, pick ye oot a lassie, — or twa, gin ye can find 'em. I'd fain ha'e her as near like my Annie as may be." " Her Grace is sure the best pattern to look to o' onie woman i' the warld," said Albany, who fervently hoped to obtain a girl as unlike Queen Annabel as he could find.

" I'll do my vara best for his Highness, and bring ye the names for your Grace to con o'er, and do me to wit o' your pleasure thereanent." So the royal brothers parted, and Albany went his way with a peculiar smile, unintelligible to King Robert, but which the Queen, had she seen it, would have known to bode mischief. Albany took a long time to make his selection. The King twice urged him to be quick, expressing his sore forebodings that Annabel's time was short, and that he earnestly wished her to see and approve of the maiden chosen to fill her place. But to allow the Queen to interfere at all was exactly what Albany was most anxious to prevent. On one plausible pretext after another, he kept delaying the decision, trusting that he would be able to avoid the final step until the Duke of Rothesay's too penetrat ing mother should have disappeared from this earthly scene.

But circumstances proved unpropi tious to Albany's artful schemes. As the summer drew nearer, contrary to the fears of her friends, and the expectations of her physicians, Queen Annabel rallied wonderfully. She was able to leave her sick room, and even to sit out of doors. Of course no one thought the improvement otherwise than temporary ; but Albany felt that it deprived him of all decent pleas for further delay. This worthy Prince was a great sufferer from that malady which has been wittily termed a disease of the chest. He was sadly extravagant in his per sonal expenses, and he had, moreover, a family of seven, for whom some provision was necessary. Albany had made up his mind to replenish his empty coffers by the right royal and very delicate method of setting up the heir-apparent to auction.

Should the purchase be made on behalf of some young lady of too determined and independent a type, — well, surely the Duke of Albany knew how to get round a corner. It was accordingly an nounced, but privately communicated, to the whole nobility of Scotland, that the reversion of the crown matrimonial awaited the candidate put forward by that nobleman who chose to make the highest bid for the honour. Be it, however, understood, that this piece of information was not vouchsafed to King Robert, to the Queen, nor to Rothesay himself. The two former were led to suppose that a genuine choice was really being made : the latter was not told anything until the whole affair was over. There was a sharp competition at the auction mart; and after an exciting contest, the brilliant article was knocked down to George Dunbar, Earl of March.1 This nobleman had two daughters, named Elizabeth and Janet.

It was Elizabeth, the elder, for whose aggrandisement he thus outbid his brother nobles. The result of the auction was by no means satis factory to Albany. He had instituted inquiries, which convinced him that both the Ladies Dunbar had to a great extent inherited the fearless and resolute character of their famous grandmother, Black Agnes of Dunbar. Such a woman as Agnes, in the position of Crown Princess, would be to him a serious annoyance. Albany kept outwardly quiet, while he set on foot a further string of inquiries. He was now in search of the maiden who would suit him ; and having once found her, it would be easy, he thought, to manipulate her family so as to seat her on the steps of the throne. He found her at last, and in a position just suited to his requirements. One Scottish noble had not responded to the invi tation to purchase the crown matrimonial.

This was 1 It is necessary to remember, in order to avoid confusion in reading the history of these times, that there were two marches, or borders, in Great Britain, and two Earls of March, or, more properly speaking of the Marches. The family of Mortimer were Earls of the Marches of Wales ; the family of Dunbar were Earls of the Marches of Scotland. Earl Archibald the Grim, "the doughtie Douglas," the most powerful chieftain in Scotland, who deemed himself the equal, if not the superior, of every uncrowned head in the world. He was too proud to buy even the crown of Scotland. Able to bring an enormous power into the field, and having some claim on the throne itself, through his grandmother, Dornagil Comyn of Badenoch, daughter of Marjory Baliol, — Earl Archibald Douglas stood too high already to lower his dignity by so mean an action.

His mother was herself a daughter of Black Agnes. But Albany heard from his spies that the tempera ment of Black Agnes had not been transmitted to one of her descendants, the only daughter of the Douglas. She was a maiden, he was told, less fit for Court than cloister ; grave, reticent, romantic, dreamy; highly educated, for she could not only preserve, pickle, cook, distil, spin, weave, sew, and embroider, — she could actually read and write, — most unusual accomplishments in a Scottish maiden at that day. She was self-contained ; she " neither melled nor made, nor fashed her wi' ither folk ; " she was a woman of few words. This seemed to Albany just the woman he needed. Perhaps he forgot that very few words might be very pointed, or that a character B habitually reticent to the many might be sully con fidential with the one.

Albany did not think it necessary to take into con sideration that March had already paid down a portion of the purchase-money. This he intended to pocket, and March might be easily disposed of if he became troublesome. Secret negotiations, therefore, were entered into with Earl Archibald ; the unfortunate March was quietly thrown over board ; and the shadowy crown was transferred from the head of the too lively and resolute Eliza beth Dunbar to the grave, white brow of Marjory Douglas. Everything being settled, it was time to inform the King, Queen, and Prince of the decision to which Albany had come. King Robert was greatly relieved to hear of any decision, and not particular about the details. Rothesay, harassed and wounded from first to last, more than suspicious of his uncle's evil deeds, and finding that barriers were set in every direction to his approaching his father, was ready to purchase his freedom and reconciliation by marrying as they wished him.

Moreover, it gave him the chance of one household friend, — the hope of such a friend as the mother whom he was about to lose. And what of her, whose wishes no one dreamed of consulting — who had to be told, like the rest, of the fate in store for her ? She was called down one winter evening into her father's hall, led up by him to the place where stood a tall, handsome, splendidly attired youth, and simply informed, — " Marjory, here is my Lord's Grace of Rothesay, and thy lord that shall be." Startled beyond measure at a communication so utterly unexpected, Marjory lifted grave dark eyes, which had in them a look half of curious interest and half of alarm, to the face hitherto unseen, but about to become so familiar. She was met by eyes as dark as her own, but having in them a more com plicated expression.

There was interest, and curio sity too ; but also a mixture of pleasure and pit)-. And the lonely maiden, looking into those eyes, "loved him with that love which was her doom." Marjory had never loved any one before, for she had never found any one lovable. Her father was a comparative stranger ; her brother little better ; her mother cold, stern, and precise. All the lonely, shadowed, shut-up heart went out towards Rothesay, true Stuart as he was, graceful, gracious, and fasci nating. They were married in Bothwell Church, in February 1400. Margery's S071. 20 For very different reasons, Queen Annabel was as well satisfied with the choice made as Albany himself. The woman could see into the heart of a woman farther than the man. She recognised that Marjory's grave reserve arose neither from stolidity nor coldness ; that a deep, strong character lay beneath that outer shell.

But it was not for long that the solace was permitted to her. The recur rence of winter tried her beyond her little strength ; and one evening in early spring she passed away, her hand locked in her husband's, entreating him with her last breath " no to let onie man turn him against our Davie ! " The manner in which he had been snubbed by Albany, as may be guessed, was not gratifying to the Earl of March. He was, however, reasonable enough in his anger, for he contented himself with requesting the return of the sum which he had already paid. Albany coolly declined to refund the money, and gave as an excuse for his conduct that Parliament had not confirmed the contract. This was adding insult to injury, and March de serted to the English, carrying with him his strong border castle of Roxburgh.

Meantime Albany continued to poison the mind of the poor old King against his hapless son. He was assisted by Sir John de Ramorgny, who had been a tutor of the young Prince, and had proposed to the latter to assassinate his uncle of Albany. Rothesay repulsed him with horror. Ramorgny determined to revenge himself, and for this purpose made com mon cause with Albany. Both carried bitter and endless complaints to the King. The Prince's marriage, they affirmed, had not caused even a temporary reformation in his conduct. He was a thoroughly bad man, whom no remedy would amend. Douglas, apparently also deceived by Albany, added his complaints ; and the simple old King, who never suspected plot or fraud, was induced to consent that Albany should place Rothesay in durance for a short time, to see if this means of breaking off his bad habits would be of any avail.