the tables on him, and become in turn the counsellor of good order and
peaceable demeanour--“I say, fy for shame!--Alas, that you will speak
thus! Here are you sent with me, to prevent my innocent youth getting
into snares----”
“I wish your innocent youth were cut short with a halter, with all my
heart,” said Adam, who began to see which way the admonition tended.
--“And instead of setting before me,” continued Roland, “an example of
patience and sobriety becoming the falconer of Sir Halbert Glendinning,
you quaff me off I know not how many flagons of ale, besides a gallon of
wine, and a full measure of strong waters.”
“It was but one small pottle,” said poor Adam, whom consciousness of his
own indiscretion now reduced to a merely defensive warfare.
“It was enough to pottle you handsomely, however,” said the page--“And
then, instead of going to bed to sleep off your liquor, must you sit
singing your roistering songs about popes and pagans, till you have got
your eyes almost switched out of your head; and but for my interference,
whom your drunken ingratitude accuses of deserting you, yon galliard
would have cut your throat, for he was whipping out a whinger as broad
as my hand, and as sharp as a razor--And these are lessons for an
inexperienced youth!--Oh, Adam! out upon you! out upon you!”
“Marry, amen, and with all my heart,” said Adam; “out upon my folly for
expecting any thing but impertinent raillery from a page like thee, that
if he saw his father in a scrape, would laugh at him, instead of lending
him aid.
“Nay, but I will lend you aid,” said the page, still laughing, “that is,
I will lend thee aid to thy chamber, good Adam, where thou shalt sleep
off wine and ale, ire and indignation, and awake the next morning with
as much fair wit as nature has blessed thee withal. Only one thing
I will warn thee, good Adam, that henceforth and for ever, when thou
railest at me for being somewhat hot at hand, and rather too prompt to
out with poniard or so, thy admonition shall serve as a prologue to the
memorable adventure of the switching of Saint Michael's.”
With such condoling expressions he got the crest-fallen falconer to his
bed, and then retired to his own pallet, where it was some time ere
he could fall asleep. If the messenger whom he had seen were really
Catherine Seyton, what a masculine virago and termagant must she be! and
stored with what an inimitable command of insolence and assurance!--The
brass on her brow would furbish the front of twenty pages; “and I should
know,” thought Roland, “what that amounts to--And yet, her features, her
look, her light gait, her laughing eye, the art with which she disposed
the mantle to show no more of her limbs than needs must be seen--I am
glad she had at least that grace left--the voice, the smile--it must
have been Catherine Seyton, or the devil in her likeness! One thing
is good, I have silenced the eternal predications of that ass, Adam
Woodcock, who has set up for being a preacher and a governor, over me,
so soon as he has left the hawks' mew behind him.”
And with this comfortable reflection, joined to the happy indifference
which youth hath for the events of the morrow, Roland Graeme fell fast
asleep.
Chapter the Twentieth.
Now have you reft me from my staff, my guide,
Who taught my youth, as men teach untamed falcons,
To use my strength discreetly--I am reft
Of comrade and of counsel.
OLD PLAY.
In the gray of the next morning's dawn, there was a loud knocking at the
gate of the hostelrie; and those without, proclaiming that they came
in the name of the Regent, were instantly admitted. A moment or
two afterwards, Michael Wing-the-wind stood by the bedside of our
travellers.
“Up! up!” he said, “there is no slumber where Murray hath work ado.”
Both sleepers sprung up, and began to dress themselves.
“You, old friend,” said Wing-the-wind to Adam Woodcock, “must to horse
instantly, with this packet to the Monks of Kennaquhair; and with this,”
delivering them as he spoke, “to the Knight of Avenel.”
“As much as commanding the monks to annul their election, I'll warrant
me, of an Abbot,” quoth Adam Woodcock, as he put the packets into his
bag, “and charging my master to see it done--To hawk at one brother with
another, is less than fair play, methinks.”
“Fash not thy beard about it, old boy,” said Michael, “but betake thee
to the saddle presently; for if these orders are not obeyed, there will
be bare walls at the Kirk of Saint Mary's, and it may be at the Castle
of Avenel to boot; for I heard my Lord of Morton loud with the Regent,
and we are at a pass that we cannot stand with him anent trifles.”
“But,” said Adam, “touching the Abbot of Unreason--what say they to
that outbreak--An they be shrewishly disposed, I were better pitch the
packets to Satan, and take the other side of the Border for my bield.”
“Oh, that was passed over as a jest, since there was little harm
done.--But, hark thee, Adam,” continued his comrade, “if there was a
dozen vacant abbacies in your road, whether of jest or earnest, reason
or unreason, draw thou never one of their mitres over thy brows.--The
time is not fitting, man!--besides, our Maiden longs to clip the neck of
a fat churchman.”
“She shall never sheer mine in that capacity,” said the falconer, while
he knotted the kerchief in two or three double folds around his sunburnt
bull-neck, calling out at the same time, “Master Roland, Master Roland,
make haste! we must back to perch and mew, and, thank Heaven, more than
our own wit, with our bones whole, and without a stab in the stomach.”
“Nay, but,” said Wing-the-wind, “the page goes not back with you; the
Regent has other employment for him.”
“Saints and sorrows!” exclaimed the falconer--“Master Roland Graeme to
remain here, and I to return to Avenel!--Why, it cannot be--the child
cannot manage himself in this wide world without me, and I question
if he will stoop to any other whistle than mine own; there are times I
myself can hardly bring him to my lure.”
It was at Roland's tongue's end to say something concerning the occasion
they had for using mutually each other's prudence, but the real anxiety
which Adam evinced at parting with him, took away his disposition
to such ungracious raillery. The falconer did not altogether escape,
however, for, in turning his face towards the lattice, his friend
Michael caught a glimpse of it, and exclaimed, “I prithee, Adam
Woodcock, what hast thou been doing with these eyes of thine? They are
swelled to the starting from the socket!”
“Nought in the world,” said he, after casting a deprecating glance
at Roland Graeme, “but the effect of sleeping in this d--ned truckle
without a pillow.”
“Why, Adam Woodcock, thou must be grown strangely dainty,” said his old
companion; “I have known thee sleep all night with no better pillow than
a bush of ling, and start up with the sun, as glegg as a falcon; and now
thine eyes resemble----”
“Tush, man, what signifies how mine eyes look now?” said Adam--“let
us but roast a crab-apple, pour a pottle of ale on it, and bathe our
throats withal, thou shalt see a change in me.”
“And thou wilt be in heart to sing thy jolly ballad about the Pope,”
said his comrade.
“Ay, that I will,” replied the falconer, “that is, when we have left
this quiet town five miles behind us, if you will take your hobby and
ride so far on my way.”
“Nay, that I may not,” said Michael--“I can but stop to partake your
morning draught, and see you fairly to horse--I will see that they
saddle them, and toast the crab for thee, without loss of time.”
During his absence the falconer took the page by the hand--“May I never
hood hawk again,” said the good-natured fellow, “if I am not as sorry to
part with you as if you were a child of mine own, craving pardon for the
freedom--I cannot tell what makes me love you so much, unless it be for
the reason that I loved the vicious devil of a brown galloway nag whom
my master the Knight called Satan, till Master Warden changed his name
to Seyton; for he said it was over boldness to call a beast after the
King of Darkness----”
“And,” said the page, “it was over boldness in him, I trow, to call a
vicious brute after a noble family.”
“Well,” proceeded Adam, “Seyton or Satan, I loved that nag over every
other horse in the stable---There was no sleeping on his back--he was
for ever fidgeting, bolting, rearing, biting, kicking, and giving you
work to do, and maybe the measure of your back on the heather to the
boot of it all. And I think I love you better than any lad in the
castle, for the self-same qualities.”
“Thanks, thanks, kind Adam. I regard myself bound to you for the good
estimation in which you hold me.”
“Nay, interrupt me not,” said the falconer--“Satan was a good nag--But
I say I think I shall call the two eyases after you, the one Roland,
and the other Graeme; and while Adam Woodcock lives, be sure you have a
friend--Here is to thee, my dear son.”
Roland most heartily returned the grasp of the hand, and Woodcock,
having taken a deep draught, continued his farewell speech.
“There are three things I warn you against, Roland, now that you art to
tread this weary world without my experience to assist you. In the first
place, never draw dagger on slight occasion--every man's doublet is not
so well stuffed as a certain abbot's that you wot of. Secondly, fly not
at every pretty girl, like a merlin at a thrush--you will not always win
a gold chain for your labour--and, by the way, here I return to you your
fanfarona--keep it close, it is weighty, and may benefit you at a pinch
more ways than one. Thirdly, and to conclude, as our worthy preacher
says, beware of the pottle-pot--it has drenched the judgment of wiser
men than you. I could bring some instances of it, but I dare say it
needeth not; for if you should forget your own mishaps, you will scarce
fail to remember mine--And so farewell, my dear son.”
Roland returned his good wishes, and failed not to send his humble duty
to his kind Lady, charging the falconer, at the same time, to express
his regret that he should have offended her, and his determination so
to bear him in the world that she would not be ashamed of the generous
protection she had afforded him.
The falconer embraced his young friend, mounted his stout, round-made,
trotting-nag, which the serving-man, who had attended him, held ready at
the door, and took the road to the southward. A sullen and heavy
sound echoed from the horse's feet, as if indicating the sorrow of the
good-natured rider. Every hoof-tread seemed to tap upon Roland's heart
as he heard his comrade withdraw with so little of his usual alert
activity, and felt that he was once more alone in the world.
He was roused from his reverie by Michael Wing-the-wind, who reminded
him that it was necessary they should instantly return to the palace,
as my Lord Regent went to the Sessions early in the morning. They went
thither accordingly, and Wing-the-wind, a favourite old domestic, who
was admitted nearer to the Regent's person and privacy, than many whose
posts were more ostensible, soon introduced Graeme into a small matted
chamber, where he had an audience of the present head of the troubled
State of Scotland. The Earl of Murray was clad in a sad-coloured
morning-gown, with a cap and slippers of the same cloth, but, even in
this easy deshabillé, held his sheathed rapier in his hand, a precaution
which he adopted when receiving strangers, rather in compliance with
the earnest remonstrances of his friends and partisans, than from any
personal apprehensions of his own. He answered with a silent nod the
respectful obeisance of the page, and took one or two turns through
the small apartment in silence, fixing his keen eye on Roland, as if he
wished to penetrate into his very soul. At length he broke silence.
“Your name is, I think, Julian Graeme?”
“Roland Graeme, my lord, not Julian,” replied the page.
“Right--I was misled by some trick of my memory--Roland Graeme, from
the Debateable Land.--Roland, thou knowest the duties which belong to a
lady's service?”
“I should know them, my lord,” replied Roland, “having been bred so
near the person of my Lady of Avenel; but I trust never more to practise
them, as the Knight hath promised----”
“Be silent, young man,” said the Regent, “I am to speak, and you to hear
and obey. It is necessary that, for some space at least, you shall
again enter into the service of a lady, who, in rank, hath no equal in
Scotland; and this service accomplished, I give thee my word as Knight
and Prince, that it shall open to you a course of ambition, such as may
well gratify the aspiring wishes of one whom circumstances entitle
to entertain much higher views than thou. I will take thee into my
household and near to my person, or, at your own choice, I will give you
the command of a foot-company--either is a preferment which the proudest
laird in the land might be glad to ensure for a second son.”
“May I presume to ask, my lord,” said Roland, observing the Earl paused
for a reply, “to whom my poor services are in the first place destined?”
“You will be told hereafter,” said the Regent; and then, as if
overcoming some internal reluctance to speak farther himself, he added,
“or why should I not myself tell you, that you are about to enter into
the service of a most illustrious--most unhappy lady--into the service
of Mary of Scotland.”
“Of the Queen, my lord!” said the page, unable to suppress his surprise.
“Of her who was the Queen!” said Murray, with a singular mixture of
displeasure and embarrassment in his tone of voice. “You must be aware,
young man, that her son reigns in her stead.”
He sighed from an emotion, partly natural, perhaps, and partly assumed.
“And am I to attend upon her Grace in her place of imprisonment,
my lord?” again demanded the page, with a straightforward and hardy
simplicity, which somewhat disconcerted the sage and powerful statesman.
“She is not imprisoned,” answered Murray, angrily; “God forbid she
should--she is only sequestered from state affairs, and from the
business of the public, until the world be so effectually settled, that
she may enjoy her natural and uncontrolled freedom, without her royal
disposition being exposed to the practices of wicked and designing men.
It is for this purpose,” he added, “that while she is to be furnished,
as right is, with such attendance as may befit her present secluded
state, it becomes necessary that those placed around her, are persons on
whose prudence I can have reliance. You see, therefore, you are at once
called on to discharge an office most honourable in itself, and so to
discharge it that you may make a friend of the Regent of Scotland. Thou
art, I have been told, a singularly apprehensive youth; and I perceive
by thy look, that thou dost already understand what I would say on this
matter. In this schedule your particular points of duty are set down
at length--but the sum required of you is fidelity--I mean fidelity
to myself and to the state. You are, therefore, to watch every attempt
which is made, or inclination displayed, to open any communication with
any of the lords who have become banders in the west--with Hamilton,
Seyton, with Fleming, or the like. It is true that my gracious sister,
reflecting upon the ill chances that have happened to the state of this
poor kingdom, from evil counsellors who have abused her royal nature in
time past, hath determined to sequestrate herself from state affairs in
future. But it is our duty, as acting for and in the name of our infant
nephew, to guard against the evils which may arise from any mutation or
vacillation in her royal resolutions. Wherefore, it will be thy duty to
watch, and report to our lady mother, whose guest our sister is for the
present, whatever may infer a disposition to withdraw her person from
the place of security in which she is lodged, or to open communication
with those without. If, however, your observation should detect any
thing of weight, and which may exceed mere suspicion, fail not to send
notice by an especial messenger to me directly, and this ring shall be
thy warrant to order horse and men on such service.--And now begone.
If there be half the wit in thy head that there is apprehension in
thy look, thou fully comprehendest all that I would say--Serve me
faithfully, and sure as I am belted earl, thy reward shall be great.”
Roland Graeme made an obeisance, and was about to depart.
The Earl signed to him to remain. “I have trusted thee deeply,” he said,
“young man, for thou art the only one of her suite who has been sent
to her by my own recommendation. Her gentlewomen are of her own
nomination--it were too hard to have barred her that privilege, though
some there were who reckoned it inconsistent with sure policy. Thou
art young and handsome. Mingle in their follies, and see they cover not
deeper designs under the appearance of female levity--if they do mine,
do thou countermine. For the rest, bear all decorum and respect to the
person of thy mistress--she is a princess, though a most unhappy one,
and hath been a queen! though now, alas! no longer such! Pay, therefore,
to her all honour and respect, consistent with thy fidelity to the King
and me--and now, farewell.--Yet stay--you travel with Lord Lindesay, a
man of the old world, rough and honest, though untaught; see that thou
offend him not, for he is not patient of raillery, and thou, I have
heard, art a crack-halter.” This he said with a smile, then added, “I
could have wished the Lord Lindesay's mission had been intrusted to some
other and more gentle noble.”
“And wherefore should you wish that, my lord?” said Morton, who even
then entered the apartment; “the council have decided for the best--we
have had but too many proofs of this lady's stubbornness of mind, and
the oak that resists the sharp steel axe, must be riven with the rugged
iron wedge.--And this is to be her page?--My Lord Regent hath doubtless
instructed you, young man, how you shall guide yourself in these
matters; I will add but a little hint on my part. You are going to the
castle of a Douglas, where treachery never thrives--the first moment of
suspicion will be the last of your life. My kinsman, William Douglas,
understands no raillery, and if he once have cause to think you false,
you will waver in the wind from the castle battlements ere the sun set
upon his anger.--And is the lady to have an almoner withal?”
“Occasionally, Douglas,” said the Regent; “it were hard to deny the
spiritual consolation which she thinks essential to her salvation.”
“You are ever too soft hearted, my lord--What! a false priest to
communicate her lamentations, not only to our unfriends in Scotland, but
to the Guises, to Rome, to Spain, and I know not where!”
“Fear not,” said the Regent, “we will take such order that no treachery
shall happen.”
“Look to it then.” said Morton; “you know my mind respecting the wench
you have consented she shall receive as a waiting-woman--one of a
family, which, of all others, has ever been devoted to her, and inimical
to us. Had we not been wary, she would have been purveyed of a page as
much to her purpose as her waiting-damsel. I hear a rumour that an old
mad Romish pilgrimer, who passes for at least half a saint among them,
was employed to find a fit subject.”
“We have escaped that danger at least,” said Murray, “and converted it
into a point of advantage, by sending this boy of Glendinning's--and for
her waiting-damsel, you cannot grudge her one poor maiden instead of her
four noble Marys and all their silken train?”
“I care not so much for the waiting-maiden,” said Morton, “but I cannot
brook the almoner--I think priests of all persuasions are much like
each other--Here is John Knox, who made such a noble puller-down, is
ambitious of becoming a setter-up, and a founder of schools and colleges
out of the Abbey lands, and bishops' rents, and other spoils of Rome,
which the nobility of Scotland have won with their sword and bow, and
with which he would endow new hives to sing the old drone.”
“John is a man of God,” said the Regent, “and his scheme is a devout
imagination.”
The sedate smile with which this was spoken, left it impossible to
conjecture whether the words were meant in approbation, or in derision,
of the plan of the Scottish Reformer. Turning then to Roland Graeme, as
if he thought he had been long enough a witness of this conversation,
he bade him get him presently to horse, since my Lord of Lindesay was
already mounted. The page made his reverence, and left the apartment.
Guided by Michael Wing-the-wind, he found his horse ready saddled and
prepared for the journey, in front of the palace porch, where hovered
about a score of men-at-arms, whose leader showed no small symptoms of
surly impatience.
“Is this the jackanape page for whom we have waited thus long?” said
he to Wing-the-wind.--“And my Lord Ruthven will reach the castle long
before us.”
Michael assented, and added, that the boy had been detained by the
Regent to receive some parting instructions. The leader made an
inarticulate sound in his throat, expressive of sullen acquiescence, and
calling to one of his domestic attendants, “Edward,” said he, “take the
gallant into your charge, and let him speak with no one else.”
He then addressed, by the title of Sir Robert, an elderly and
respectable-looking gentleman, the only one of the party who seemed
above the rank of a retainer or domestic, and observed, that they must
get to horse with all speed.
During this discourse, and while they were riding slowly along the
street of the suburb, Roland had time to examine more accurately the
looks and figure of the Baron, who was at their head.
Lord Lindesay of the Byres was rather touched than stricken with years.
His upright stature and strong limbs, still showed him fully equal to
all the exertions and fatigues of war. His thick eyebrows, now partially
grizzled, lowered over large eyes full of dark fire, which seemed yet
darker from the uncommon depth at which they were set in his head. His
features, naturally strong and harsh, had their sternness exaggerated
by one or two scars received in battle. These features, naturally
calculated to express the harsher passions, were shaded by an open steel
cap, with a projecting front, but having no visor, over the gorget
of which fell the black and grizzled beard of the grim old Baron, and
totally hid the lower part of his face. The rest of his dress was a
loose buff-coat, which had once been lined with silk and adorned with
embroidery, but which seemed much stained with travel, and damaged with
cuts, received probably in battle. It covered a corslet, which had once
been of polished steel, fairly gilded, but was now somewhat injured with
rust. A sword of antique make and uncommon size, framed to be wielded
with both hands, a kind of weapon which was then beginning to go out
of use, hung from his neck in a baldrick, and was so disposed as
to traverse his whole person, the huge hilt appearing over his left
shoulder, and the point reaching well-nigh to the right heel, and
jarring against his spur as he walked. This unwieldy weapon could only
be unsheathed by pulling the handle over the left shoulder--for no human
arm was long enough to draw it in the usual manner. The whole
equipment was that of a rude warrior, negligent of his exterior even to
misanthropical sullenness; and the short, harsh, haughty tone, which he
used towards his attendants, belonged to the same unpolished character.
The personage who rode with Lord Lindesay, at the head of the party, was
an absolute contrast to him, in manner, form, and features. His thin and
silky hair was already white, though he seemed not above forty-five or
fifty years old. His tone of voice was soft and insinuating--his
form thin, spare, and bent by an habitual stoop--his pale cheek was
expressive of shrewdness and intelligence--his eye was quick though
placid, and his whole demeanour mild and conciliatory. He rode an
ambling nag, such as were used by ladies, clergymen, or others of
peaceful professions--wore a riding habit of black velvet, with a cap
and feather of the same hue, fastened up by a golden medal--and
for show, and as a mark of rank rather than for use, carried a
walking-sword, (as the short light rapiers were called,) without any
other arms, offensive or defensive.