at the same time when she advanced her natural brother to be Earl of
Mar, and afterwards of Murray.
On his refusing this honour, Mary wrote, or caused to be written, the
following lines in Latin and French:
Sunt comites, ducesque alii; sunt denique reges;
Sethom dominum sit satis esse mihi.
Il y a des comptes, des roys, des ducs; ainsi
C'est assez pour moy d'estre Seigneur de Seton.
Which may be thus rendered:--
Earl, duke, or king, be thou that list to be:
Seton, thy lordship is enough for me.
This distich reminds us of the “pride which aped humility,” in the motto
of the house of Couci:
Je suis ni roy, ni prince aussi;
Je suis le Seigneur de Coucy.
After the battle of Langside, Lord Seton was obliged to retire abroad
for safety, and was an exile for two years, during which he was reduced
to the necessity of driving a waggon in Flanders for his subsistence. He
rose to favour in James VI's reign, and assuming his paternal property,
had himself painted in his waggoner's dress, and in the act of driving
a wain with four horses, on the north end of a stately gallery at Seton
Castle]
undoing from his bonnet the golden chain and medal, “and wear it for my
sake.”
With no little pride Roland Graeme accepted the gift, which he hastily
fastened around his bonnet, as he had seen gallants wear such an
ornament, and renewing his obeisance to the Baron, left the hall,
traversed the court, and appeared in the street, just as Adam Woodcock,
vexed and anxious at his delay, had determined to leave the horses to
their fate, and go in quest of his youthful comrade. “Whose barn hast
thou broken next?” he exclaimed, greatly relieved by his appearance,
although his countenance indicated that he had passed through an
agitating scene.
“Ask me no questions,” said Roland, leaping gaily on his horse; “but see
how short time it takes to win a chain of gold,” pointing to that which
he now wore.
“Now, God forbid that thou hast either stolen it, or reft it by
violence,” said the falconer; “for, otherwise, I wot not how the devil
thou couldst compass it. I have been often here, ay, for months at an
end, and no one gave me either chain or medal.”
“Thou seest I have got one on shorter acquaintance with the city,”
answered the page, “but set thine honest heart at rest; that which is
fairly won and freely given, is neither reft nor stolen.”
“Marry, hang thee, with thy fanfarona [Footnote: A name given to the
gold chains worn by the military men of the period. It is of Spanish
origin: for the fashion of wearing these costly ornaments was much
followed amongst the conquerors of the New World.] about thy neck!” said
the falconer; “I think water will not drown, nor hemp strangle thee.
Thou hast been discarded as my lady's page, to come in again as my
lord's squire; and for following a noble young damsel into some great
household, thou gettest a chain and medal, where another would have
had the baton across his shoulders, if he missed having the dirk in his
body. But here we come in front of the old Abbey. Bear thy good luck
with you when you cross these paved stones, and, by our Lady, you may
brag Scotland.”
As he spoke, they checked their horses, where the huge old vaulted
entrance to the Abbey or Palace of Holyrood crossed the termination of
the street down which they had proceeded. The courtyard of the palace
opened within this gloomy porch, showing the front of an irregular pile
of monastic buildings, one wing of which is still extant, forming a part
of the modern palace, erected in the days of Charles I.
At the gate of the porch the falconer and page resigned their horses to
the serving-man in attendance; the falconer commanding him with an air
of authority, to carry them safely to the stables. “We follow,” he said,
“the Knight of Avenel--We must bear ourselves for what we are here,”
said he in a whisper to Roland, “for every one here is looked on as they
demean themselves; and he that is too modest must to the wall, as the
proverb says; therefore cock thy bonnet, man, and let us brook the
causeway bravely.”
Assuming, therefore, an air of consequence, corresponding to what he
supposed to be his master's importance and quality, Adam Woodcock led
the way into the courtyard of the Palace of Holyrood.
He appears to have been fond of the arts; for there exists a beautiful
family-piece of him in the centre of his family. Mr. Pinkerton, in his
Scottish Iconographia, published an engraving of this curious portrait.
The original is the property of Lord Somerville, nearly connected with
the Seton family, and is at present at his lordship's fishing villa of
the Pavilion, near Melrose.
Chapter the Eighteenth.
--The sky is clouded, Gaspard,
And the vexed ocean sleeps a troubled sleep,
Beneath a lurid gleam of parting sunshine.
Such slumber hangs o'er discontented lands,
While factions doubt, as yet, if they have strength
To front the open battle.
ALBION--A POEM.
The youthful page paused on the entrance of the court-yard, and implored
his guide to give him a moment's breathing space. “Let me but look
around me, man,” said he; “you consider not I have never seen such a
scene as this before.--And this is Holyrood--the resort of the gallant
and gay, and the fair, and the wise, and the powerful!”
“Ay, marry, is it!” said Woodcock; “but I wish I could hood thee as they
do the hawks, for thou starest as wildly as if you sought another fray
or another fanfarona. I would I had thee safely housed, for thou lookest
wild as a goss-hawk.”
It was indeed no common sight to Roland, the vestibule of a palace
traversed by its various groups,--some radiant with gaiety--some
pensive, and apparently weighed down by affairs concerning the state, or
concerning themselves. Here the hoary statesman, with his cautious
yet commanding look, his furred cloak and sable pantoufles; there the
soldier in buff and steel, his long sword jarring against the pavement,
and his whiskered upper lip and frowning brow, looking an habitual
defiance of danger, which perhaps was not always made good; there again
passed my lord's serving-man, high of heart, and bloody of hand, humble
to his master and his master's equals, insolent to all others. To these
might be added, the poor suitor, with his anxious look and depressed
mien--the officer, full of his brief authority, elbowing his betters,
and possibly his benefactors, out of the road--the proud priest, who
sought a better benefice--the proud baron, who sought a grant of church
lands--the robber chief, who came to solicit a pardon for the injuries
he had inflicted on his neighbors--the plundered franklin, who came to
seek vengeance for that which he had himself received. Besides there was
the mustering and disposition of guards and soldiers--the despatching of
messengers, and the receiving them--the trampling and neighing of horses
without the gate--the flashing of arms, and rustling of plumes, and
jingling of spurs, within it. In short, it was that gay and splendid
confusion, in which the eye of youth sees all that is brave and
brilliant, and that of experience much that is doubtful, deceitful,
false, and hollow--hopes that will never be gratified--promises
which will never be fulfilled--pride in the disguise of humility--and
insolence in that of frank and generous bounty.
As, tired of the eager and enraptured attention which the page gave to
a scene so new to him, Adam Woodcock endeavoured to get him to move
forward, before his exuberance of astonishment should attract the
observation of the sharp-witted denizens of the court, the falconer
himself became an object of attention to a gay menial in a dark-green
bonnet and feather, with a cloak of a corresponding colour, laid down,
as the phrase then went, by six broad bars of silver lace, and welted
with violet and silver. The words of recognition burst from both
at once. “What! Adam Woodcock at court!” and “What! Michael
Wing-the-wind--and how runs the hackit greyhound bitch now?”
“The waur for the wear, like ourselves, Adam--eight years this grass--no
four legs will carry a dog forever; but we keep her for the breed, and
so she 'scapes Border doom--But why stand you gazing there? I promise
you my lord has wished for you, and asked for you.”
“My Lord of Murray asked for me, and he Regent of the kingdom too!” said
Adam. “I hunger and thirst to pay my duty to my good lord;--but I fancy
his good lordship remembers the day's sport on Carnwath-moor; and my
Drummelzier falcon, that beat the hawks from the Isle of Man, and won
his lordship a hundred crowns from the Southern baron whom they called
Stanley.”
“Nay, not to flatter thee, Adam,” said his court-friend, “he remembers
nought of thee, or of thy falcon either. He hath flown many a higher
flight since that, and struck his quarry too. But come, come hither
away; I trust we are to be good comrades on the old score.”
“What!” said Adam, “you would have me crush a pot with you; but I must
first dispose of my eyas, where he will neither have girl to chase, nor
lad to draw sword upon.”
“Is the youngster such a one?” said Michael.
“Ay, by my hood, he flies at all game,” replied Woodcock.
“Then had he better come with us,” said Michael Wing-the-wind; “for we
cannot have a proper carouse just now, only I would wet my lips, and so
must you. I want to hear the news from Saint Mary's before you see my
lord, and I will let you know how the wind sits up yonder.”
While he thus spoke, he led the way to a side door which opened into the
court; and threading several dark passages with the air of one who knew
the most secret recesses of the palace, conducted them to a small matted
chamber, where he placed bread and cheese and a foaming flagon of ale
before the falconer and his young companion, who immediately did justice
to the latter in a hearty draught, which nearly emptied the measure.
Having drawn his breath, and dashed the froth from his whiskers, he
observed, that his anxiety for the boy had made him deadly dry.
“Mend your draught,” said his hospitable friend, again supplying
the flagon from a pitcher which stood beside. “I know the way to the
butterybar. And now, mind what I say--this morning the Earl of Morton
came to my lord in a mighty chafe.”
“What! they keep the old friendship, then?” said Woodcock.
“Ay, ay, man, what else?” said Michael; “one hand must scratch the
other. But in a mighty chafe was my Lord of Morton, who, to say truth,
looketh on such occasions altogether uncanny, and, as it were, fiendish;
and he says to my lord,--for I was in the chamber taking orders about
a cast of hawks that are to be fetched from Darnoway--they match your
long-winged falcons, friend Adam.”
“I will believe that when I see them fly as high a pitch,” replied
Woodcock, this professional observation forming a sort of parenthesis.
“However,” said Michael, pursuing his tale, “my Lord of Morton, in a
mighty chafe, asked my Lord Regent whether he was well dealt with--'for
my brother,' said he, 'should have had a gift to be Commendator of
Kennaqubair, and to have all the temporalities erected into a lordship
of regality for his benefit; and here,' said he, 'the false monks have
had the insolence to choose a new Abbot to put his claim in my brother's
way; and moreover, the rascality of the neighbourhood have burnt and
plundered all that was left in the Abbey, so that my brother will
not have a house to dwell in, when he hath ousted the lazy hounds of
priests.' And my lord, seeing him chafed, said mildly to him, 'These
are shrewd tidings, Douglas, but I trust they be not true; for Halbert
Glendinning went southward yesterday, with a band of spears, and
assuredly, had either of these chances happened, that the monks had
presumed to choose an Abbot, or that the Abbey had been burnt, as
you say, he had taken order on the spot for the punishment of such
insolence, and had despatched us a messenger.' And the Earl of Morton
replied--now I pray you, Adam, to notice, that I say this out of love
to you and your lord, and also for old comradeship, and also because Sir
Halbert hath done me good, and may again--and also because I love not
the Earl of Morton, as indeed more fear than like him--so then it were
a foul deed in you to betray me.--'But,' said the Earl to the Regent,
'take heed, my lord, you trust not this Glendinning too far--he comes
of churl's blood, which was never true to the nobles'--by Saint Andrew,
these were his very words.--'And besides,' he said, 'he hath a brother,
a monk in Saint Mary's, and walks all by his guidance, and is making
friends on the Border with Buccleuch and with Ferniehirst, [Footnote:
Both these Border Chieftains were great friends of Queen Mary.] and will
join hand with them, were there likelihood of a new world.' And my lord
answered, like a free noble lord as he is; 'Tush! my Lord of Morton, I
will be warrant for Glendinning's faith; and for his brother, he is a
dreamer, that thinks of nought but book and breviary--and if such hap
have chanced as you tell of, I look to receive from Glendinning the cowl
of a hanged monk, and the head of a riotous churl, by way of sharp
and sudden justice.'--And my Lord of Morton left the place, and, as it
seemed to me, somewhat malecontent. But since that time, my lord has
asked me more than once whether there has arrived no messenger from the
Knight of Avenel. And all this I have told you, that you may frame your
discourse to the best purpose, for it seems to me that my lord will not
be well-pleased, if aught has happened like what my Lord of Morton said,
and if your lord hath not ta'en strict orders with it.”
There was something in this communication which fairly blanked the bold
visage of Adam Woodcock, in spite of the reinforcement which his natural
hardihood had received from the berry-brown ale of Holyrood.
“What was it he said about a churl's head, that grim Lord of Morton?”
said the discontented falconer to his friend.
“Nay, it was my Lord Regent, who said that he expected, if the Abbey was
injured, your Knight would send him the head of the ringleader among the
rioters.”
“Nay, but is this done like a good Protestant,” said Adam Woodcock,
“or a true Lord of the Congregation? We used to be their white-boys and
darlings when we pulled down the convents in Fife and Perthshire.” “Ay,
but that,” said Michael, “was when old mother Rome held her own, and our
great folks were determined she should have no shelter for her head in
Scotland. But, now that the priests are fled in all quarters, and their
houses and lands are given to our grandees, they cannot see that we are
working the work of reformation in destroying the palaces of zealous
Protestants.”
“But I tell you Saint Mary's is not destroyed!” said Woodcock, in
increasing agitation; “some trash of painted windows there were
broken--things that no nobleman could have brooked in his house--some
stone saints were brought on their marrow-bones, like old Widdrington at
Chevy-Chase; but as for fire-raising, there was not so much as a lighted
lunt amongst us, save the match which the dragon had to light the
burning tow withal, which he was to spit against Saint George; nay, I
had caution of that.”
“How! Adam Woodcock,” said his comrade, “I trust thou hadst no hand in
such a fair work? Look you, Adam, I were loth to terrify you, and you
just come from a journey; but I promise you, Earl Morton hath brought
you down a Maiden from Halifax, you never saw the like of her--and
she'll clasp you round the neck, and your head will remain in her arms.”
“Pshaw!” answered Adam, “I am too old to have my head turned by any
maiden of them all. I know my Lord of Morton will go as far for a buxom
lass as anyone; but what the devil took him to Halifax all the way? and
if he has got a gamester there, what hath she to do with my head?”
“Much, much!” answered Michael. “Herod's daughter, who did such
execution with her foot and ankle, danced not men's heads off more
cleanly than this maiden of Morton. [Footnote: Maiden of Morton--a
species of Guillotine which the Regent Morton brought down from Halifax,
certainly at a period considerably later than intimated in the tale. He
was himself the first who suffered by the engine.] 'Tis an axe, man,--an
axe which falls of itself like a sash window, and never gives the
headsmen the trouble to wield it.”
“By my faith, a shrewd device,” said Woodcock; “heaven keep us free
on't!”
The page, seeing no end to the conversation betwixt these two old
comrades, and anxious from what he had heard, concerning the fate of the
Abbot, now interrupted their conference.
“Methinks,” he said, “Adam Woodcock, thou hadst better deliver thy
master's letter to the Regent; questionless he hath therein stated
what has chanced at Kennaquhair, in the way most advantageous for all
concerned.”
“The boy is right,” said Michael Wing-the-wind, “my lord will be very
impatient.”
“The child hath wit enough to keep himself warm,” said Adam Woodcock,
producing from his hawking-bag his lord's letter, addressed to the Earl
of Murray, “and for that matter so have I. So, Master Roland, you will
e'en please to present this yourself to the Lord Regent; his presence
will be better graced by a young page than by an old falconer.”
“Well said, canny Yorkshire!” replied his friend; “and but now you were
so earnest to see our good lord!--Why, wouldst thou put the lad into
the noose that thou mayst slip tether thyself?--or dost thou think
the maiden will clasp his fair young neck more willingly than thy old
sunburnt weasand?”
“Go to,” answered the falconer; “thy wit towers high an it could strike
the quarry. I tell thee, the youth has nought to fear--he had nothing
to do with the gambol--a rare gambol it was, Michael, as mad-caps ever
played; and I had made as rare a ballad, if we had had the luck to get
it sung to an end. But mum for that--_tace_, as I said before, is Latin
for a candle. Carry the youth to the presence, and I will remain here,
with bridle in hand, ready to strike the spurs up to the rowel-heads, in
case the hawk flies my way.--I will soon put Soltraedge, I trow, betwixt
the Regent and me, if he means me less than fair play.”
“Come on then, my lad,” said Michael, “since thou must needs take
the spring before canny Yorkshire.” So saying, he led the way through
winding passages, closely followed by Roland Graeme, until they arrived
at a large winding stone stair, the steps of which were so long and
broad, and at the same time so low, as to render the ascent uncommonly
easy. When they had ascended about the height of one story, the
guide stepped aside, and pushed open the door of a dark and gloomy
antechamber; so dark, indeed, that his youthful companion stumbled, and
nearly fell down upon a low step, which was awkwardly placed on the very
threshold.
“Take heed,” said Michael Wing-the-wind, in a very low tone of voice,
and first glancing cautiously round to see if any one listened--“Take
heed, my young friend, for those who fall on these boards seldom rise
again--Seest thou that,” he added, in a still lower voice, pointing to
some dark crimson stains on the floor, on which a ray of light, shot
through a small aperture, and traversing the general gloom of the
apartment, fell with mottled radiance--“Seest thou that, youth?--walk
warily, for men have fallen here before you.”
“What mean you?” said the page, his flesh creeping, though he scarce
knew why; “Is it blood?”
“Ay, ay,” said the domestic, in the same whispering tone, and dragging
the youth on by the arm--“Blood it is,--but this is no time to question,
or even to look at it. Blood it is, foully and fearfully shed, as foully
and fearfully avenged. The blood,” he added, in a still more cautious
tone, “of Seignior David.”
Roland Graeme's heart throbbed when he found himself so unexpectedly in
the scene of Rizzio's slaughter, a catastrophe which had chilled with
horror all even in that rude age, which had been the theme of wonder and
pity through every cottage and castle in Scotland, and had not escaped
that of Avenel. But his guide hurried him forward, permitting no farther
question, and with the manner of one who has already tampered too much
with a dangerous subject. A tap which he made at a low door at one end
of the vestibule, was answered by a huissier or usher, who, opening
it cautiously, received Michael's intimation that a page waited the
Regent's leisure, who brought letters from the Knight of Avenel.
“The Council is breaking up,” said the usher; “but give me the packet;
his Grace the Regent will presently see the messenger.”
“The packet,” replied the page, “must be delivered into the Regent's own
hands; such were the orders of my master.”
The usher looked at him from head to foot, as if surprised at his
boldness, and then replied, with some asperity, “Say you so, my young
master? Thou crowest loudly to be but a chicken, and from a country
barn-yard too.”
“Were it a time or place,” said Roland, “thou shouldst see I can do
more than crow; but do your duty, and let the Regent know I wait his
pleasure.”
“Thou art but a pert knave to tell me of my duty,” said the courtier
in office; “but I will find a time to show you you are out of yours;
meanwhile, wait there till you are wanted.” So saying, he shut the door
in Roland's face.
Michael Wing-the-wind, who had shrunk from his youthful companion during
this altercation, according to the established maxim of courtiers of
all ranks, and in all ages, now transgressed their prudential line of
conduct so far as to come up to him once more. “Thou art a hopeful young
springald,” said he, “and I see right well old Yorkshire had reason in
his caution. Thou hast been five minutes in the court, and hast employed
thy time so well, as to make a powerful and a mortal enemy out of the
usher of the council-chamber. Why, man, you might almost as well have
offended the deputy butler!”
“I care not what he is,” said Roland Graeme; “I will teach whomever I
speak with to speak civilly to me in return. I did not come from Avenel
to be browbeaten in Holyrood.”
“Bravo, my lad!” said Michael; “it is a fine spirit if you can but hold
it--but see, the door opens.”
The usher appeared, and, in a more civil tone of voice and manner, said,
that his Grace the Regent would receive the Knight of Avenel's message;
and accordingly marshalled Roland Graeme the way into the apartment,
from which the Council had been just dismissed, after finishing their
consultations. There was in the room a long oaken table, surrounded by
stools of the same wood, with a large elbow chair, covered with crimson
velvet, at the head. Writing materials and papers were lying there
in apparent disorder; and one or two of the privy counsellors who had
lingered behind, assuming their cloaks, bonnets, and swords, and bidding
farewell to the Regent, were departing slowly by a large door, on the
opposite side to that through which the page entered. Apparently the
Earl of Murray had made some jest, for the smiling countenances of the
statesmen expressed that sort of cordial reception which is paid by
courtiers to the condescending pleasantries of a prince.
The Regent himself was laughing heartily as he said, “Farewell, my
lords, and hold me remembered to the Cock of the North.”
He then turned slowly round towards Roland Graeme, and the marks of
gaiety, real or assumed, disappeared from his countenance, as completely
as the passing bubbles leave the dark mirror of a still profound lake
into which a traveller has cast a stone; in the course of a minute his
noble features had assumed their natural expression of deep and even
melancholy gravity.
This distinguished statesman, for as such his worst enemies acknowledged
him, possessed all the external dignity, as well as almost all the
noble qualities, which could grace the power that he enjoyed; and had he
succeeded to the throne as his legitimate inheritance, it is probable he
would have been recorded as one of Scotland's wisest and greatest kings.
But that he held his authority by the deposition and imprisonment of
his sister and benefactress, was a crime which those only can excuse
who think ambition an apology for ingratitude. He was dressed plainly
in black velvet, after the Flemish fashion, and wore in his high-crowned
hat a jewelled clasp, which looped it up on one side, and formed the
only ornament of his apparel. He had his poniard by his side, and his
sword lay on the council table.