A Tangled Web: a tale of the fifteenth century

Chapter I. The Last Of Lady Annabel

" 'Tis fare ye weel, my bonnie palace, And fare ye weel, my children three ! God grant your faither may get mair grace, And love ye better than he's loved me." — The Ballad of Lady Douglas. "[KMjgiTWEEL, then, and she's just the bonniest, Ife^l doucest, brawest bit lassie that ever was born ! My bit dawtie, my wee woman, my bonnie doo ! Aye, ye may lauch wi' your bit pearly teeth, and richt up to your winsome blue e'en. Auld Maggie's petting's no like to wrang ye, and you're no big eneuch to be hurt by flattering words yet. Aye, thae willow-buds are vara bonnie, but no sae bonnie as the bit facie ahint 'em. Come an' gi'e me a gude hug, then ! You're no above huggin' your auld nursie yet. Hech, sirs ! what for canna bairns bide as God makes 'em, and no grow up to be bad men and wicked women ? 'Tis an ill warld, this.

I'd be fain to ha'e the wings of a doo by nows and thens. Atweel, then, was auld Maggie looking cross ? She's a bad auld wife, she is ! Come then, we'll sing a bit sang, to cheer us like. Jump up into my lap and hearken. Eh, but you're bonnie ! And gin onie ill-faured loon says no, I'll fecht him wi' my ain ten fingers ! " Maggie Fyvie was not likely to be called on to fight many battles in that cause. The baby girl nestled in her arms was one of the loveliest children ever seen. A complexion of that exquisite fairness which to an experienced eye denotes extreme deli cacy, if not actual disease, was set off by eyes blue as the sky, and by a wealth of silky hair which would break into curls and waves and ripples all over the baby head, and then fall down the back in a great cascade of gold.

Fashion just then demanded straight partings and carefully smoothed hair ; but Katie Gordon's hair would not lie smooth. It in sisted on curling out here, and massing itself up there, in a manner more agreeable to the eye of an artist who had to paint her than of the nurse who had to keep her tidy. The liveliness of its owner, too, would have tried the patience of most nurses. She could not be still for a minute. If one second saw her pouting or in tears — for Katie could be naughty when she thought proper — the next found her breaking into peals of silvery laughter, chasing stray kittens or trying to grasp sunbeams. But Maggie Fyvie was equal to any amount of cheques drawn on her patience — when drawn by Katie Gor don. Thirty-four years earlier, a little motherless child, too young to understand her orphanhood, had been given into Maggie's hands, then young and unwrinkled: and now that Maggie's face was old and careworn, the dearest child of that dear nursling was placed in her hands again.

Tender hands they were : and so they needed to be. For it would only be a very little while before all the motherly tender ness that ever Katie was to know, would be bounded by that one warm heart of Maggie Fyvie. " Maggie ! " Oo It was almost a wonder that Maggie heard that call from the next room, the door of which stood wide open. So faint and low was the voice that uttered it — the voice of a woman either in deadly illness or in intense sorrow. But Maggie's hearing was of a peculiar kind. She was capable of turning a very acute ear to any sound she wished to hear, and sometimes of showing herself most annoyingly, deaf to any which she did not. If Maggie did not choose to answer a question, the querist might shout in vain. But let Katie turn her head, and Maggie knew it. So Maggie heard the soft call from the next chamber.

She set the child gently down on a velvet stool, bidding her "be a gude lassie, and play wi' thae flowers bonnie," and with quick, quiet steps she went to answer the summons. It was to a bed side, where lay a woman of some fifty years of age in look — she was really ten years less — whose face plainly showed whence Katie drew alike her colour ing and her beauty. The same fair complexion, the same blue eyes lifted to Maggie's face, only that these were very weak and dim, — and the same rich golden hair upon the pillow, but thin and much mixed with silver threads. It needed no practised eye in this case to see that not only the days, but the hours of the sick woman were numbered low, and that probably before the sun made another day's sunbeams for her playthings, Katie Gordon would have no mother.

Twenty years before that day, the world had opened — bright, fair, and bewitching alike in the present and the apparent future — before the eyes of the Princess Annabel of Scotland. For she was a king's daughter, and no more beautiful girl trod the purple heather, nor did a lighter heart beat under the royal ermine. Her lands were broad and fair, her friends were true, her flatterers were many. And to crown all, as the blue eyes saw things, her hand was promised to the man whom she loved best, and who poured out at her feet vows of unalterable devotion. And now she lay dying in that chamber at Dun staffnage Castle, a guest on sufferance of her royal nephew, without one friend but poor Maggie Fyvie, and without one jewel or grain of gold but Katie. . How had it come about ? It was the old story, so many times repeated — she had trusted to a mirage of the desert ; she had spent money for that which was not bread : and the dream-waters mocked her thirsting lips, and the painted bread would not sustain life.

The friends whom she had thought so true fell away from her — the lands were gone, the flatterers had vanished. Last and worst of all, the vows of unchangeable fidelity had proved empty air, and the love which had been yielded so confidingly was met by some thing harder than granite and colder than ice. Ah, that was the one sorrow of Annabel's life, beside which all the rest were as nothing. Could she but have kept that one treasure, she could have borne all else. As a Highland woman once said, that grief made so great a hole in her heart, that the other troubles went through without her know ing it. The one conviction that she had lost her husband's heart — she knew not how nor why — was rapidly killing her. She shut her eyes to the real truth, which she thought would but make her die the sooner.

And that was that she had not lost it — she never had it at all. And she never had it, simply because he did not possess the article. In the eyes of Earl George of Huntly, women could be classed under two heads only — machines and playthings. The women of the lower classes were machines — sweep ing, cooking, and sewing machines. Very necessary pieces of furniture they were ; a man could not get on comfortably without them. But then, when done with, it must be possible to put them away in a cupboard; if left about, to be fallen over, they became nuisances. The women of the higher class were playthings, to amuse a man's leisure and make pleasures for him. They, too, must be put away when a man was tired of his plaything. The idea of making a companion or counsellor of that inferior animal, woman, appeared to Earl George — if indeed the thought ever crossed his mind as a possibility — too absurd for an instant's consideration.

And for the plaything to complain when thrown aside was altogether out of character — it was not expected of a plaything. Let it meekly roll into the cup board and lie there. And if the breathing, throb bing, immortal toy refused to do so, and insisted on lying about in its owner's way — well, then, it must be broken. The Princess Annabel had declined to lie meekly in the cupboard. Therefore, costly toy as she was, she had been broken. And she was not easy to break, for in her veins ran not only Stuart but Plantagenet blood, and the royal soul resented the sentence passed upon her. She might be turned out of her husband's house, but go forth of her own will she would not. He could bring against her what false charge he would — he might thank Heaven if the one whom he meant to enshrine in her place were as true and tender as she had been to him ! — but never would she show herself to the world as acquiescing in the charge and as sealing the disgrace.

So she waited and endured. The Earl did not thank her for it by any means. It put him in the wrong instead of her. And the weaker, of course, was the one who ought to go to the wall. Why could she not go and have done with it, and leave him in peace ? He was not at all afraid of the King's wrath : that hapless gentle man had about as much as he could do to preserve his own balance, and was not likely to anger one of his most powerful nobles by interference in so very slight a matter as this. Earl George waited too, and nursed his wrath, and encouraged other passions yet more evil, until his heart grew harder and his hand more daring, and Satan spied his opportunity. And then — the cruel whisper did its work, and the castle door was set open, and the slandered wife and bereaved mother bidden to go her way.

And if she would — a fine burst of part ing generosity — she might take the baby with her. The Earl disliked crying children. Annabel stooped and took Katie in her arms. " George Gordon ! " she said, looking into the face of the man whom she had loved, while her own eyes and voice were unnaturally calm, " the worst I pray God to give you is that every soul you have to do with may love you but one-half as well as I have done ! " " Pish ! " was the Earl's answer. He detested sentimentality — in people who had lost their youthful attractions. Love was a sensation with which a woman had no business after she had passed thirty. "God bless my bairnies ! " said the Princess, and her voice trembled a little. " And God bless you — and take me ! " Then she went forth. But somebody else had something to say, of a rather different sort.

Maggie Fyvie came trudging after her mistress and nursling. Had Annabel gone to the equator or the North Pole — to the hanging gardens of Babylon or the fiery furnace of Nebu chadnezzar — there, behind her, would have trudged Maggie Fyvie. " I did not turn you forth, woman ! " muttered the Earl. He thought she might have been useful in the nursery. " Hoots ! did ye no ? " said Maggie, in accents of the supremest scorn. " Did ye think I was in love wi' yer ugly phiz, man ? 'Deed, an' if ye were gaun to be hangit the morn — and I'll no say ye'd ha'e your deservings, for hanging 's a sicht too gude for ye — think ye I'd lift sae mickle as my little finger to keep you from the gallows ? You ! Aye, you may look ! Ye'd lauch t' ither side yer mou' if I had the handling o' ye ! " " Hizzie, you are speaking to your master !

" said the Earl with a frown. " Maister 1 nae maister o' mine ! I've ane Maister, and I'm thinking ye'll no ha'e mickle thanks frae Him for your day's work, forby wages. Ye'll ha'e them frae t' ither side, I reckon, — gude measure, na doubt on 't." " On my honour ! " The Earl got no further, for Maggie, who was passing out, stopped and faced him. "On your what?" she demanded, in a tone which was the concentrated essence of scorn. "YOUR honour ! " And with those stinging words, flung as it were in his face, Maggie Fyvie marched out of Gordon Castle. B And if some extremely objectionable language fell from the lordly lips of the man whom she had just disowned as her master, it did not reach the woman who had angered him. It would not have effected the faintest impression if it had done so. King James felt considerable annoyance when the news reached him — a great deal more than he dared to show.

To resent these transactions to the Earl was an idea not to be entertained. To sympathise with, and to offer a home to the innocent, insulted Princess, was a safer channel for emotion. And to the gentle soul of James III., the sympathy was a more natural feeling than the resentment. For a few months only was the refuge needed. Annabel had never been a strong woman, and nine teen years of life by the side of such a man as Lord Huntly, had not tended to the happiness or lengthen ing of it. She did not take long to kill, for the seeds of death had been sown in the weary heart and brain long before. She was ready enough to lay down the heavy burdens which had crushed her to the earth so long, and to go where the tears should be wiped away from her tired and failing eyes. A poor controversialist, and a very imperfect theo logian, would the Princess Annabel have made.

Her opinions were not at all clear, except on one point: and happily for her, that was the only point of real importance. To most of those around her, religion was a string of ceremonies and an erection of barri cades. To her, it was a divine heart that loved her, and tender hands which beckoned her to rest. Her understanding had never been of a brilliant order : but she understood enough, for she could see the Lord's Christ. And for the rest, she simply took Him at His word, and left Him to understand for her. Yes, Annabel was glad enough to go. But — Katie ! The last touch of earth upon her spirit was one which had touched her Lord's on the night before His sacrifice. "Now I am no more in the world — but these are in the world ! — and I come to Thee." It was harder to trust God with Katie than with herself.

All the more hard, because her own future lay plain before her — only the dark river to be crossed, and then she would be at home. But Katie's future was all an uncertain maze. Strange as it may seem, she was troubled com paratively little with forebodings for her elder child ren. They seemed to have passed out of her life already : and they were all more or less Gordons, not Stuarts — with stronger health, and harder brains, and less sensitive hearts, than those which Providence had decreed for Annabel and Katie. The baby is usually the dearest child ; it needs most tenderness, and God makes it natural for the mother to bestow it. There was only one of the boys, and one of the elder girls, who might have been at all excepted from the description thus given. The eldest son of the Princess, but the second of Lord Huntly — Adam, Lord Aboyne — was not so hard and self-centred as his brothers; and the second daughter, Isobel, had weaker health, and should have been more ready to sympathise with weakness.

But Annabel, and Maggie also, were well aware that these were but frail reeds for hope, and might break down when wanted. And what sort of a future was likely to await George Gordon's daughter ? The eyes of Annabel's understanding, which were but dim, were strained by trying to look into the future. " Maggie," said the dying mother, " I ha'e been trying hard to see what lies afore my Katie." "And what see ye, then, Dame?" Maggie was not by any means above the super stitions of her age and country. She implicitly believed that Annabel's dying vision would be pro phetic, and that from her last words she would derive the most important information to guide her treatment of Katie. " I see," was the answer, " naething ava, forby a great darkness, wi' God Almighty in the midst o' it." " Then," said Maggie, after a moment's pause for reflection, " I reckon I maun try to win the bairn into the licht i' the midst.

She'll be safe whaur He'll be.' "Aye, get there gin ye can. There's sure to be Satan prowling about i' the darkness." Maggie's heart replied what her lips did not, — "Then we must keep away from Castle Gordon." In her eyes, the Devil and the Earl of Huntly were very near of kin. As if her unspoken thought had communicated itself, Annabel's next words were — "Maggie, when ye've laid me in the mould, ye maun win to the castle wi' Katie." A casual spectator, judging from Maggie's face, might have thought that she had a dose of senna tea in immediate prospect. Annabel caught the look. "No, Maggie, it'll no do onie ither way — not at the first," she said. "Ye ken ower weel what my Lord has said o' me. Gin the lassie's kept awa frae him, he may disown her althegither; but gin she's ta'en to him at ance, her bonnie ways and her sweet face may saften him ; and she must nae be reft o' baith faither and mither."

Maggie Fyvie would about as soon have expected to melt a block of Aberdeen granite by stroking it with a primrose, as to soften Earl George by means of Katie's face or ways. And as to being bereaved of her father, she had a private conviction that her nursling's life was likely to be considerably happier, if that gentleman could be kept out of it. But the pang of intense suffering which had convulsed Annabel's face held her silent. Aye, that saddest of all sorrows had been the portion of the dying Princess. "As she drew near to her stair-head, She heard her ain lord lichtlie her ! " And "louder than the cataracts of Nile " had been that low whisper to the listener's ear. She would never cease to hear it till its place was taken by the " Well done !" which awaited her on high. " Maggie ! ye'll promise me ?

" Maggie would have promised in such circum stances, so far as lay in her power, to climb the Himalayas or to swim the Amazon. But she would have set forth on either expedition with much less misgiving, and a far lighter heart, than on the journey now demanded of her. " I'll do your bidding, Dame," she said — and said no more. " I trust the gude Lord '11 gi'e the wee bairn grace in her faither's e'en. An' if no — well, then, when you're weel assured o' that, — but nae sooner, my woman, nae sooner ! — then ye can let Queen Margaret ken. She'd no mak' her an ill mother, for she's a kind heart. But till then, Maggie, the lassie maun gang to her ain." Maggie's instinct would have taken her to the Palace at first. She thought well of the young Danish Queen, and that Katie could not be worse off than in her father's keeping she was thoroughly convinced.

Maggie was relieved, therefore, to hear of this contingency. " I'm thinkin', maybe, Adam '11 be kind till the bairnie," said the mother, in a tone which had in it doubt as well as hope. " And her sisters — they should be gude to her. Atweel ! — the Lord will provide. But O Katie, my wee lassie ! gin the best thing He can provide for you suld be a coffin and a grave ! " Maggie Fyvie was not without that misgiving. " And, Maggie, my woman, never forget that Katie's like eneuch to ha'e nae mither but you. I dinna ken her, and she micht ha'e a kind heart, but it '11 be as weel gin ye no gi'e it mickle strain, I'm thinkin'. Sae ye maun mither the bairn yersel', Maggie. She's no like to ha'e ower mickle loue in 00 this evil warld — not o' the gude sort. Dinna be feart to gi'e it her." No proper noun came, and none was needed.

Maggie knew, as well as the discarded wife, that the pronoun had reference to the Lady Elizabeth Hay, who had taken Annabel's seat as Countess of Huntly. " I'se ne'er speir at her for't. No me ! " was Maggie's muttered answer. "And, Maggie, mind you breed up the lassie to ha'e respect to her elders. O my woman ! — ye ha'e a warm heart, Maggie, an' I ken ye loue me weel, but for that vara loue's sake, dinna learn the bairn to hate her faither ! " O true heart, which no absence could chill, no cruelty could alienate ! It silenced Maggie Fyvie's tongue. Had she spoken her thought, it would have been that Earl George himself would teach his daughter that lesson with very little loss of time. " For the lave, Maggie, ye maun learn her to put her trust i' the Lord. He'll no fail the bairn. She's like Saint Austin — mickle prayed for.

But I'm a hantle faint the noo, and sair weary — aye, heart weary e'en to death ! Maybe I'll ha'e anither sleep, gin I can." Maggie shook up her pillow, and gave her a little Malmsey wine, and then she turned her face to the wall and slept. Slept well, after life's fitful fever! For Annabel of Scotland woke to the waving of angel wings around her, — to be comforted and safe sheltered for evermore. " It'll no serve your turn to gang up to the Castle, honest woman. We've naething for ye the day." The words came from a rather good-looking youn^ man, clad in Lincoln green, with a hawk upon his wrist, and a silver bugle-horn slung by his side from a richly embroidered baldrick. Three or four servants in livery were following him at a little distance. The woman to whom he spoke appeared to have taken a long journey on foot.

She was exceedingly dusty, her feet were sorely bemired, and her clothes were not in much better condition. She carried, not in her arms, but in her plaid, slung upon her back, a lovely golden-haired child, fast asleep. When thus addressed, she stopped and turned to the speaker, whom she had apparently intended to pass without notice. "'Deed, then, wha speired at ye?" said she. "Ye may gang yer ain ways for me, Maister o' Huntly ! It'll be a lang simmer day ere I beg bit or sup frae your faither's son." " Why, gin it's no Maggie Fyvie ! " exclaimed the young gentleman. " How won ye here — and in sic fashion ! " " I won here because I could nae help it," was Maggie's answer. " Gin I'd had the choosing, ye'd no ha'e seen my face this side o' Heaven's gate. And as for the fashion — I can tell you, the King's Grace did nae leave his niece to journey o' auld Maggie's back : but we were set on by freebooters o' Thursday in the even, and yon ill-faured loons just made aff, like cowards as they were, and last me to fend for mysel'.

By gude luck, they did nae ken wha we were, and it was ower dark to see the King's livery. And I was no for being beholden to onie man, sae I just girdit the bairn at my back, and came on by mysel', with the gude Lord to help : and here I am, as ye may see gin your e'en's no steekit." "Ye're aye ane by yoursel', Maggie," said the Master, laughing. " Then the bairn'll be " Maggie took the words out of his mouth before he Oo could utter another. " My Lady Katherine Gordon, your sister, Maister o' Huntly, that's come back the day to her ain hame." And Maggie's tone added, " Contradict me if you daur ! " The Master did not attempt it. On the contrary, a rather softer expression came into his face as he looked at the sleeping child. " She's a bonnie lassie," said he. " Then I'm thinkin', Maggie, the Lady's awa'."

He spoke gravely now. Maggie's voice and man ner had somewhat changed too. The expression of apprehensive expectation, and readiness to do battle, passed out of them. " She's sand the wings o' a doo," was Maggie's answer, " and they've ta'en her to a better place than this. 'Deed, and she could nae ha'e gaed to a waur ane ! — Hech, are you there, my Lord Aboyne ? Come ben, and gi'e a kiss to your wee sister. I'm no like to say that to onie forby yoursel'." The last words were addressed to a boy of fifteen, clad like his brother in Lincoln green, who had just run up to the group. "Hoots, is that our Katie?" said he. "Why, Maggie, I wad hardly ha'e kent ye i' sic guise. Gi'e me the wee bairnie, and let me tak' her ben mysel'. No, Sandy, I'se no gang wi' ye the noo." " Ye'll play the nursemaid instead ?

" returned the Master, half laughing. " Ye'll mak' a bonnie ane, my callant." " Gin ye daur me, I will ! " said Lord Aboyne, with a flash in his dark eyes, as he took his little sister in his arms, and turned to walk on by the side of Maggie. "Ye'll mak' a man, ane o' thae days, my Lord Aboyne," said she approvingly. " And now, will ye tell me how matters staun' ? Is the Earl at hame ? " "Aye, and my Lady baith," replied the boy. " But, Maggie, how come ye to be here, i' this strange fashion ? Ye may ha'e tell't Sandy, but ye ken I've heard naething." " It'll be an ill hearing for you, my Lord — gin ye've a heart in ye." The boy stood still, a spasm of pain crossing his face. " Then, Maggie, ye mean — the waurst ye could." " I mean the best I could, laddie. Your noble mither's heart's at rest the noo."

Lord Aboyne's face worked terribly, but his selfcontrol was evidently great for his age. He bent his head low, and pressed his lips on Katie's white brow and soft cheek. " The laddie's better than I thocht him ! " said Maggie within herself. " Now, gin my Lady Isobel's as gude " " My Lord, ye maun win me a hearing o' the Earl at once," was all she said aloud. Lord Aboyne looked doubtful. " I'll do what I can. They went in at a little postern-door, passed up a narrow spiral staircase, and came out into a stately corridor, lighted at one end by a gorgeous window of stained glass. Lord Aboyne held his little sister out to Maggie. "Ye'll ta'e Katie," he said. "I maun see gin Maggie quite understood the unfinished sentence. The temper in which the Earl might be discovered was either an unknown quantity, or, being known to his son, he felt doubtful about trying it.

Lord Aboyne passed into a small turret-chamber in the corner of the corridor, and closed the door behind him. Maggie could just hear voices speaking, but could not distinguish words. She waited with Katie in her arms ; and to her surprise, Katie slept on. All at once, the door was flung wide open, and she found herself in the stately presence of Lord Huntly. Maggie took care not to look at his face. She had that to say which must be said, and immediately. Let it come, and then he could say what he would. " Earl," she said, " my noble Lady your wife is awa' to the gude Lord. And here's your youngest daughter, my Lady Katherine Gordon, whom I ha'e brocht as as her deid mither bade me, to be bred up wi' the lave o' your bairns." And, very gently, Maggie laid the beautiful child at her father's feet.

It was for him to act now. " Then ye may just ta'e the brat awa' again, and yoursel' too ! " was the answer that met her dignified speech. " Vera weel," said Maggie coolly. " Gin that's yer wull, I ha'e my orders. The young leddy '11 gae to the Palace, to be in Queen Margaret's care. It'll be a hantle better than yourn." This was not by any means the Earl's will. It would be a terrible disgrace to him if Katie were brought up by her royal uncle, who was sure to see matters from his sister's side of the question. It would be better to own her than that. And in his secret mind, the Earl never for a moment believed the doubt which he had openly and diligently spread to Annabel's hurt. "Then, gin you're siccan a fule," was the next command, " ye can leave the bairn there, and gang yer ain ways."