her, and man can do no more. And know, fair Catherine,--for you shall
see the very secret thought of my heart,--that not Honour only--not
only that other and fairer sister, whom you frown on me for so much as
mentioning--but the stern commands of duty also, compel me to aid the
Queen's deliverance.”
“Indeed!” said Catherine; “you were wont to have doubts on that matter.”
“Ay, but her life was not then threatened,” replied Roland.
“And is it now more endangered than heretofore?” asked Catherine Seyton,
in anxious terror.
“Be not alarmed,” said the page; “but you heard the terms on which your
royal mistress parted with the Lady of Lochleven?”
“Too well--but too well,” said Catherine; “alas! that she cannot rule
her princely resentment, and refrain from encounters like these!”
“That hath passed betwixt them,” said Roland, “for which woman never
forgives woman. I saw the Lady's brow turn pale, and then black, when,
before all the menzie, and in her moment of power, the Queen humbled her
to the dust by taxing her with her shame. And I heard the oath of deadly
resentment and revenge which she muttered in the ear of one, who by his
answer will, I judge, be but too ready an executioner of her will.”
“You terrify me,” said Catherine.
“Do not so take it--call up the masculine part of your spirit--we will
counteract and defeat her plans, be they dangerous as they may. Why do
you look upon me thus, and weep?”
“Alas!” said Catherine, “because you stand there before me a living and
breathing man, in all the adventurous glow and enterprise of youth, yet
still possessing the frolic spirits of childhood--there you stand, full
alike of generous enterprise and childish recklessness; and if to-day,
or to-morrow, or some such brief space, you lie a mangled and lifeless
corpse upon the floor of these hateful dungeons, who but Catherine
Seyton will be the cause of your brave and gay career being broken short
as you start from the goal? Alas! she whom you have chosen to twine your
wreath, may too probably have to work your shroud!”
“And be it so, Catherine,” said the page, in the full glow of youthful
enthusiasm; “and _do_ thou work my shroud! and if thou grace it with
such tears as fall now at the thought, it will honour my remains more
than an earl's mantle would my living body. But shame on this faintness
of heart! the time craves a firmer mood--Be a woman, Catherine, or
rather be a man--thou canst be a man if thou wilt.”
Catherine dried her tears, and endeavoured to smile.
“You must not ask me,” she said, “about that which so much disturbs
your mind; you shall know all in time--nay, you should know all now, but
that--Hush! here comes the Queen.”
Mary entered from her apartment, paler than usual, and apparently
exhausted by a sleepless night, and by the painful thoughts which had
ill supplied the place of repose; yet the languor of her looks was
so far from impairing her beauty, that it only substituted the frail
delicacy of the lovely woman for the majestic grace of the Queen.
Contrary to her wont, her toilette had been very hastily despatched,
and her hair, which was usually dressed by Lady Fleming with great care,
escaping from beneath the headtire, which had been hastily adjusted,
fell in long and luxuriant tresses of Nature's own curling, over a neck
and bosom which were somewhat less carefully veiled than usual.
As she stepped over the threshold of her apartment, Catherine, hastily
drying her tears, ran to meet her royal mistress, and having first
kneeled at her feet, and kissed her hand, instantly rose, and placing
herself on the other side of the Queen, seemed anxious to divide with
the Lady Fleming the honour of supporting and assisting her. The page,
on his part, advanced and put in order the chair of state, which she
usually occupied, and having placed the cushion and footstool for her
accommodation, stepped back, and stood ready for service in the place
usually occupied by his predecessor, the young Seneschal. Mary's
eye rested an instant on him, and could not but remark the change of
persons. Hers was not the female heart which could refuse compassion, at
least, to a gallant youth who had suffered in her cause, although he
had been guided in his enterprise by a too presumptuous passion; and the
words “Poor Douglas!” escaped from her lips, perhaps unconsciously, as
she leant herself back in her chair, and put the kerchief to her eyes.
“Yes, gracious madam,” said Catherine, assuming a cheerful manner,
in order to cheer her sovereign, “our gallant Knight is indeed
banished--the adventure was not reserved for him; but he has left behind
him a youthful Esquire, as much devoted to your Grace's service, and
who, by me, makes you tender of his hand and sword.”
“If they may in aught avail your Grace,” said Roland Graeme, bowing
profoundly.
“Alas!” said the Queen, “what needs this, Catherine?--why prepare new
victims to be involved in, and overwhelmed by, my cruel fortune?--were
we not better cease to struggle, and ourselves sink in the tide without
farther resistance, than thus drag into destruction with us every
generous heart which makes an effort in our favour?--I have had but too
much of plot and intrigue around me, since I was stretched an orphan
child in my very cradle, while contending nobles strove which should
rule in the name of the unconscious innocent. Surely time it were that
all this busy and most dangerous coil should end. Let me call my prison
a convent, and my seclusion a voluntary sequestration of myself from the
world and its ways.”
“Speak not thus, madam, before your faithful servants,” said Catherine,
“to discourage their zeal at once, and to break their hearts. Daughter
of Kings, be not in this hour so unkingly--Come, Roland, and let us, the
youngest of her followers, show ourselves worthy of her cause--let us
kneel before her footstool, and implore her to be her own magnanimous
self.” And leading Roland Graeme to the Queen's seat, they both kneeled
down before her. Mary raised herself in her chair, and sat erect, while,
extending one hand to be kissed by the page, she arranged with the
other the clustering locks which shaded the bold yet lovely brow of the
high-spirited Catherine.
“Alas! _ma mignóne_,” she said, for so in fondness she often called her
young attendant, “that you should thus desperately mix with my unhappy
fate the fortune of your young lives!--Are they not a lovely couple,
my Fleming? and is it not heart-rending to think that I must be their
ruin?”
“Not so,” said Roland Graeme, “it is we, gracious Sovereign, who will be
your deliverers.”
“_Ex oribus parvulorum!_” said the Queen, looking upward; “if it is by
the mouth of these children that Heaven calls me to resume the stately
thoughts which become my birth and my rights, thou wilt grant them thy
protection, and to me the power of rewarding their zeal!”--Then turning
to Fleming, she instantly added,--“Thou knowest, my friend, whether
to make those who have served me happy, was not ever Mary's favourite
pastime. When I have been rebuked by the stern preachers of the
Calvinistic heresy--when I have seen the fierce countenances of my
nobles averted from me, has it not been because I mixed in the harmless
pleasures of the young and gay, and rather for the sake of their
happiness than my own, have mingled in the masque, the song, or the
dance, with the youth of my household? Well, I repent not of it--though
Knox termed it sin, and Morton degradation--I was happy, because I
saw happiness around me; and woe betide the wretched jealousy that can
extract guilt out of the overflowings of an unguarded gaiety!--Fleming,
if we are restored to our throne, shall we not have one blithesome day
at a blithesome bridal, of which we must now name neither the bride
nor the bridegroom? but that bridegroom shall have the barony of
Blairgowrie, a fair gift even for a Queen to give, and that bride's
chaplet shall be twined with the fairest pearls that ever were found
in the depths of Lochlomond; and thou thyself, Mary Fleming, the best
dresser of tires that ever busked the tresses of a Queen, and who would
scorn to touch those of any woman of lower rank,--thou thyself shalt,
for my love, twine them into the bride's tresses.--Look, my Fleming,
suppose them such clustered locks as those of our Catherine, they would
not put shame upon thy skill.”
So saying, she passed her hand fondly over the head of her youthful
favourite, while her more aged attendant replied despondently, “Alas!
madam, your thoughts stray far from home.”
“They do, my Fleming,” said the Queen; “but is it well or kind in you to
call them back?--God knows, they have kept the perch this night but too
closely--Come, I will recall the gay vision, were it but to punish them.
Yes, at that blithesome bridal, Mary herself shall forget the weight
of sorrows, and the toil of state, and herself once more lead a
measure.--At whose wedding was it that we last danced, my Fleming?
I think care has troubled my memory--yet something of it I should
remember--canst thou not aid me?--I know thou canst.”
“Alas! madam,” replied the lady----
“What!” said Mary, “wilt thou not help us so far? this is a peevish
adherence to thine own graver opinion, which holds our talk as folly.
But thou art court-bred, and wilt well understand me when I say,
the Queen _commands_ Lady Fleming to tell her where she led the last
_branle_.”
With a face deadly pale, and a mien as if she were about to sink into
the earth, the court-bred dame, no longer daring to refuse obedience,
faltered out--“Gracious Lady--if my memory err not--it was at a masque
in Holyrood--at the marriage of Sebastian.”
The unhappy Queen, who had hitherto listened with a melancholy smile,
provoked by the reluctance with which the Lady Fleming brought out her
story, at this ill-fated word interrupted her with a shriek so wild
and loud that the vaulted apartment rang, and both Roland and Catherine
sprang to their feet in the utmost terror and alarm. Meantime, Mary
seemed, by the train of horrible ideas thus suddenly excited, surprised
not only beyond self-command, but for the moment beyond the verge of
reason.
“Traitress!” she said to the Lady Fleming, “thou wouldst slay thy
sovereign--Call my French guards--_a moi! a moi! mes Français!_--I
am beset with traitors in mine own palace--they have murdered my
husband--Rescue! rescue for the Queen of Scotland!” She started up from
her chair--her features, late so exquisitely lovely in their paleness,
now inflamed with the fury of frenzy, and resembling those of a Bellona.
“We will take the field ourself,” she said; “warn the city--warn Lothian
and Fife--saddle our Spanish barb, and bid French Paris see our petronel
be charged!--Better to die at the head of our brave Scotsmen, like our
grandfather at Flodden, than of a broken heart, like our ill-starred
father!”
“Be patient--be composed, dearest Sovereign,” said Catherine: and then
addressing Lady Fleming angrily, she added, “How could you say aught
that reminded her of her husband?”
The word reached the ear of the unhappy Princess, who caught it up,
speaking with great rapidity. “Husband!--what husband?--Not his most
Christian Majesty--he is ill at ease--he cannot mount on horseback.--Not
him of the Lennox--but it was the Duke of Orkney thou wouldst say.”
“For God's love, madam, be patient!” said the Lady Fleming.
But the Queen's excited imagination could by no entreaty be diverted
from its course. “Bid him come hither to our aid,” she said, “and
bring with him his lambs, as he calls them--Bowton, Hay of Talla, Black
Ormiston, and his kinsman Hob--Fie! how swart they are, and how they
smell of sulphur! What! closeted with Morton? Nay, if the Douglas and
the Hepburn hatch the complot together, the bird, when it breaks the
shell, will scare Scotland. Will it not, my Fleming?”
“She grows wilder and wilder,” said Fleming; “we have too many hearers
for these strange words.”
“Roland,” said Catherine, “in the name of God, begone! You cannot aid us
here--Leave us to deal with her alone--Away--away!”
She thrust him to the door of the anteroom; yet even when he had entered
that apartment, and shut the door, he could still hear the Queen talk in
a loud and determined tone, as if giving forth orders, until at length
the voice died away in a feeble and continued lamentation.
At this crisis Catherine entered the anteroom. “Be not too anxious,” she
said, “the crisis is now over; but keep the door fast--let no one enter
until she is more composed.”
“In the name of God, what does this mean?” said the page; “or what was
there in the Lady Fleming's words to excite so wild a transport?”
“Oh, the Lady Fleming, the Lady Fleming,” said Catherine, repeating the
words impatiently; “the Lady Fleming is a fool--she loves her mistress,
yet knows so little how to express her love, that were the Queen to ask
her for very poison, she would deem it a point of duty not to resist
her commands. I could have torn her starched head-tire from her formal
head--The Queen should have as soon had the heart out of my body, as the
word Sebastian out of my lips--That that piece of weaved tapestry should
be a woman, and yet not have wit enough to tell a lie!”
“And what was this story of Sebastian?” said the page. “By Heaven,
Catherine, you are all riddles alike!”
“You are as great a fool as Fleming,” returned the impatient maiden;
“know ye not, that on the night of Henry Darnley's murder, and at the
blowing up of the Kirk of Field, the Queen's absence was owing to her
attending on a masque at Holyrood, given by her to grace the marriage of
this same Sebastian, who, himself a favoured servant, married one of her
female attendants, who was near to her person?”
“By Saint Giles,” said the page, “I wonder not at her passion, but only
marvel by what forgetfulness it was that she could urge the Lady Fleming
with such a question.”
“I cannot account for it,” said Catherine; “but it seems as if great
and violent grief and horror sometimes obscure the memory, and spread
a cloud like that of an exploding cannon, over the circumstances with
which they are accompanied. But I may not stay here, where I came not to
moralize with your wisdom, but simply to cool my resentment against that
unwise Lady Fleming, which I think hath now somewhat abated, so that I
shall endure her presence without any desire to damage either her curch
or vasquine. Meanwhile, keep fast that door--I would not for my life
that any of these heretics saw her in the unhappy state, which, brought
on her as it has been by the success of their own diabolical plottings,
they would not stick to call, in their snuffling cant, the judgment of
Providence.”
She left the apartment just as the latch of the outward door was
raised from without. But the bolt which Roland had drawn on the inside,
resisted the efforts of the person desirous to enter. “Who is there?”
said Graeme aloud.
“It is I,” replied the harsh and yet slow voice of the steward
Dryfesdale.
“You cannot enter now,” returned the youth.
“And wherefore?” demanded Dryfesdale, “seeing I come but to do my duty,
and inquire what mean the shrieks from the apartment of the Moabitish
woman. Wherefore, I say, since such is mine errand, can I not enter?”
“Simply,” replied the youth, “because the bolt is drawn, and I have no
fancy to undo it. I have the right side of the door to-day, as you had
last night.”
“Thou art ill-advised, thou malapert boy,” replied the steward, “to
speak to me in such fashion; but I shall inform my Lady of thine
insolence.”
“The insolence,” said the page, “is meant for thee only, in fair guerdon
of thy discourtesy to me. For thy Lady's information, I have answer more
courteous--you may say that the Queen is ill at ease, and desires to be
disturbed neither by visits nor messages.”
“I conjure you, in the name of God,” said the old man, with more
solemnity in his tone than he had hitherto used, “to let me know if her
malady really gains power on her!”
“She will have no aid at your hand, or at your Lady's--wherefore,
begone, and trouble us no more--we neither want, nor will accept of, aid
at your hands.”
With this positive reply, the steward, grumbling and dissatisfied,
returned down stairs.
Chapter the Thirty-Second.
It is the curse of kings to be attended
By slaves, who take their humours for a warrant
To break into the bloody house of life,
And on the winking of authority
To understand a law.
KING JOHN.
The Lady of Lochleven sat alone in her chamber, endeavouring with
sincere but imperfect zeal, to fix her eyes and her attention on
the black-lettered Bible which lay before her, bound in velvet and
embroidery, and adorned with massive silver clasps and knosps. But she
found her utmost efforts unable to withdraw her mind from the resentful
recollection of what had last night passed betwixt her and the Queen,
in which the latter had with such bitter taunt reminded her of her early
and long-repented transgression.
“Why,” she said, “should I resent so deeply that another reproaches
me with that which I have never ceased to make matter of blushing
to myself? and yet, why should this woman, who reaps--at least, has
reaped--the fruits of my folly, and has jostled my son aside from the
throne, why should she, in the face of all my domestics, and of her own,
dare to upbraid me with my shame? Is she not in my power? Does she not
fear me? Ha! wily tempter, I will wrestle with thee strongly, and with
better suggestions than my own evil heart can supply!”
She again took up the sacred volume, and was endeavouring to fix her
attention on its contents, when she was disturbed by a tap at the
door of the room. It opened at her command, and the steward Dryfesdale
entered, and stood before her with a gloomy and perturbed expression on
his brow.
“What has chanced, Dryfesdale, that thou lookest thus?” said
his mistress--“Have there been evil tidings of my son, or of my
grandchildren?”
“No, Lady,” replied Dryfesdale, “but you were deeply insulted last
night, and I fear me thou art as deeply avenged this morning--Where is
the chaplain?”
“What mean you by hints so dark, and a question so sudden? The chaplain,
as you well know, is absent at Perth upon an assembly of the brethren.”
“I care not,” answered the steward; “he is but a priest of Baal.”
“Dryfesdale,” said the Lady, sternly, “what meanest thou? I have ever
heard, that in the Low Countries thou didst herd with the Anabaptist
preachers, those boars which tear up the vintage--But the ministry which
suits me and my house must content my retainers.”
“I would I had good ghostly counsel, though,” replied the steward, not
attending to his mistress's rebuke, and seeming to speak to himself.
“This woman of Moab----”
“Speak of her with reverence,” said the Lady; “she is a king's
daughter.”
“Be it so,” replied Dryfesdale; “she goes where there is little
difference betwixt her and a beggar's child--Mary of Scotland is dying.”
“Dying, and in my castle!” said the Lady, starting up in alarm; “of what
disease, or by what accident?”
“Bear patience, Lady. The ministry was mine.”
“Thine, villain and traitor!--how didst thou dare----”
“I heard you insulted, Lady--I heard you demand vengeance--I promised
you should have it, and I now bring tidings of it.”
“Dryfesdale, I trust thou ravest?” said the Lady.
“I rave not,” replied the steward. “That which was written of me a
million of years ere I saw the light, must be executed by me. She hath
that in her veins that, I fear me, will soon stop the springs of life.”
“Cruel villain,” exclaimed the Lady, “thou hast not poisoned her?” “And
if I had,” said Dryfesdale, “what does it so greatly merit? Men bane
vermin--why not rid them of their enemies so? in Italy they will do it
for a cruizuedor.”
“Cowardly ruffian, begone from my sight!”
“Think better of my zeal, Lady,” said the steward, “and judge not
without looking around you. Lindesay, Ruthven, and your kinsman Morton,
poniarded Rizzio, and yet you now see no blood on their embroidery--the
Lord Semple stabbed the Lord of Sanquhar--does his bonnet sit a jot more
awry on his brow? What noble lives in Scotland who has not had a share,
for policy or revenge, in some such dealing?--and who imputes it to
them? Be not cheated with names--a dagger or a draught work to the
same end, and are little unlike--a glass phial imprisons the one, and a
leathern sheath the other--one deals with the brain, the other sluices
the blood--Yet, I say not I gave aught to this lady.”
“What dost thou mean by thus dallying with me?” said the Lady; “as thou
wouldst save thy neck from the rope it merits, tell me the whole truth
of this story-thou hast long been known a dangerous man.”
“Ay, in my master's service I can be cold and sharp as my sword. Be it
known to you, that when last on shore, I consulted with a woman of skill
and power, called Nicneven, of whom the country has rung for some brief
time past. Fools asked her for charms to make them beloved, misers for
means to increase their store; some demanded to know the future--an idle
wish, since it cannot be altered; others would have an explanation
of the past--idler still, since it cannot be recalled. I heard their
queries with scorn, and demanded the means of avenging myself of a
deadly enemy, for I grow old, and may trust no longer to Bilboa blade.
She gave me a packet--`Mix that,' said she, `with any liquid, and thy
vengeance is complete.'”
“Villain! and you mixed it with the food of this imprisoned Lady, to the
dishonour of thy master's house?”
“To redeem the insulted honour of my master's house, I mixed the
contents of the packet with the jar of succory-water: They seldom fail
to drain it, and the woman loves it over all.”
“It was a work of hell,” said the Lady Lochleven, “both the asking and
the granting.--Away, wretched man, let us see if aid be yet too late!”
“They will not admit us, madam, save we enter by force--I have been.
twice at the door, but can obtain no entrance.”
“We will beat it level with the ground, if needful--And, hold--summon
Randal hither instantly.--Randal, here is a foul and evil chance
befallen--send off a boat instantly to Kinross, the Chamberlain Luke
Lundin is said to have skill--Fetch off, too, that foul witch Nicneven;
she shall first counteract her own spell, and then be burned to ashes
in the island of Saint Serf. Away, away--Tell them to hoist sail and ply
oar, as ever they would have good of the Douglas's hand!”
“Mother Nicneven will not be lightly found, or fetched hither on these
conditions,” answered Dryfesdale.
“Then grant her full assurance of safety--Look to it, for thine own life
must answer for this lady's recovery.”
“I might have guessed that,” said Dryfesdale, sullenly; “but it is
my comfort I have avenged mine own cause, as well as yours. She hath
scoffed and scripped at me, and encouraged her saucy minion of a page to
ridicule my stiff gait and slow speech. I felt it borne in upon me that
I was to be avenged on them.”
“Go to the western turret,” said the Lady, “and remain there in
ward until we see how this gear will terminate. I know thy resolved
disposition--thou wilt not attempt escape.”
“Not were the walls of the turret of egg-shells, and the lake sheeted
ice,” said Dryfesdale. “I am well taught, and strong in belief, that man
does nought of himself; he is but the foam on the billow, which rises,
bubbles, and bursts, not by its own effort, but by the mightier impulse
of fate which urges him. Yet, Lady, if I may advise, amid this zeal for
the life of the Jezebel of Scotland, forget not what is due to thine own
honour, and keep the matter secret as you may.”
So saying, the gloomy fatalist turned from her, and stalked off with
sullen composure to the place of confinement allotted to him.
His lady caught at his last hint, and only expressed her fear that the
prisoner had partaken of some unwholesome food, and was dangerously ill.
The castle was soon alarmed and in confusion. Randal was dispatched to
the shore to fetch off Lundin, with such remedies as could counteract
poison; and with farther instructions to bring mother Nicneven, if she
could be found, with full power to pledge the Lady of Lochleven's word
for her safety.
Meanwhile the Lady of Lochleven herself held parley at the door of the
Queen's apartment, and in vain urged the page to undo it.