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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.