of the day have impressed on my mind the necessity of our observing more
distance to each other. A chance similar to that which betrayed to you
the existence of my brother, may make known to Henry the terms you have
used to me; and, alas! his whole conduct, as well as his deed, this day,
makes me too justly apprehensive of the consequences.”
“Fear nothing for that, fair Catherine,” answered the page; “I am well
able to protect myself against risks of that nature.”
“That is to say,” replied she, “that you would fight with my
twin-brother to show your regard for his sister? I have heard the
Queen say, in her sad hours, that men are, in love or in hate, the most
selfish animals of creation; and your carelessness in this matter looks
very like it. But be not so much abashed--you are no worse than others.”
“You do me injustice, Catherine,” replied the page, “I thought but of
being threatened with a sword, and did not remember in whose hand your
fancy had placed it. If your brother stood before me, with his drawn
weapon in his hand, so like as he is to you in word, person, and favour,
he might shed my life's blood ere I could find in my heart to resist him
to his injury.”
“Alas!” said she, “it is not my brother alone. But you remember only the
singular circumstances in which we have met in equality, and I may say
in intimacy. You think not, that whenever I re-enter my father's house,
there is a gulf between us you may not pass, but with peril of your
life.--Your only known relative is of wild and singular habits, of a
hostile and broken clan [Footnote: A broken clan was one who had no
chief able to find security for their good behaviour--a clan of outlaws;
And the Graemes of the Debateable Land were in that condition.]--the
rest of your lineage unknown--forgive me that I speak what is the
undeniable truth.”
“Love, my beautiful Catherine, despises genealogies,” answered Roland
Graeme.
“Love may, but so will not the Lord Seyton,” rejoined the damsel.
“The Queen, thy mistress and mine, she will intercede. Oh! drive me not
from you at the moment I thought myself most happy!--and if I shall
aid her deliverance, said not yourself that you and she would become my
debtors?”
“All Scotland will become your debtors,” said Catherine; “but for the
active effects you might hope from our gratitude, you must remember I am
wholly subjected to my father; and the poor Queen is, for a long time,
more likely to be dependant on the pleasure of the nobles of her party,
than possessed of power to control them.”
“Be it so,” replied Roland; “my deeds shall control prejudice itself--it
is a bustling world, and I will have my share. The Knight of Avenel,
high as he now stands, rose from as obscure an origin as mine.”
“Ay!” said Catherine, “there spoke the doughty knight of romance, that
will cut his way to the imprisoned princess, through fiends and fiery
dragons!”
“But if I can set the princess at large, and procure her the freedom
of her own choice,” said the page, “where, dearest Catherine, will that
choice alight?”
“Release the princess from duresse, and she will tell you,” said the
damsel; and breaking off the conversation abruptly, she joined the Queen
so suddenly, that Mary exclaimed, half aloud--
“No more tidings of evil import--no dissension, I trust, in my limited
household?”--Then looking on Catherine's blushing cheek, and Roland's
expanded brow and glancing eye--“No--no,” she said, “I see all is
well--_Ma petite mignone_, go to my apartment and fetch me down--let me
see--ay, fetch my pomander box.”
And having thus disposed of her attendant in the manner best qualified
to hide her confusion, the Queen added, speaking apart to Roland, “I
should at least have two grateful subjects of Catherine and you; for
what sovereign but Mary would aid true love so willingly?--Ay, you lay
your hand on your sword--your _petite flamberge à rien_ there--Well,
short time will show if all the good be true that is protested to us--I
hear them toll curfew from Kinross. To our chamber--this old dame hath
promised to be with us again at our evening meal. Were it not for the
hope of speedy deliverance, her presence would drive me distracted. But
I will be patient.”
“I profess,” said Catherine, who just then entered, “I would I could be
Henry, with all a man's privileges, for one moment--I long to throw my
plate at that confect of pride and formality, and ill-nature.”
The Lady Fleming reprimanded her young companion for this explosion of
impatience; the Queen laughed, and they went to the presence-chamber,
where almost immediately entered supper, and the Lady of the castle.
The Queen, strong in her prudent resolutions, endured her presence with
great fortitude and equanimity, until her patience was disturbed by
a new form, which had hitherto made no part of the ceremonial of the
castle. When the other attendant had retired, Randal entered, bearing
the keys of the castle fastened upon a chain, and, announcing that
the watch was set, and the gates locked, delivered the keys with all
reverence to the Lady of Lochleven.
The Queen and her ladies exchanged with each other a look of
disappointment, anger, and vexation; and Mary said aloud, “We cannot
regret the smallness of our court, when we see our hostess discharge in
person so many of its offices. In addition to her charges of principal
steward of our household and grand almoner, she has to-night done duty
as captain of our guard.”
“And will continue to do so in future, madam,” answered the Lady
Lochleven, with much gravity; “the history of Scotland may teach me how
ill the duty is performed, which is done by an accredited deputy--We
have heard, madam, of favourites of later date, and as little merit,
as Oliver Sinclair.” [Footnote: A favourite, and said to be an unworthy
one, of James V.]
“Oh, madam,” replied the Queen, “my father had his female as well as
his male favourites--there were the Ladies Sandilands and Olifaunt,
[Footnote: The names of these ladies, and a third frail favourite of
James, are preserved in an epigram too _gaillard_ for quotation.] and
some others, methinks; but their names cannot survive in the memory of
so grave a person as you.”
The Lady Lochleven looked as if she could have slain the Queen on the
spot, but commanded her temper and retired from the apartment, bearing
in her hand the ponderous bunch of keys.
“Now God be praised for that woman's youthful frailty!” said the Queen.
“Had she not that weak point in her character, I might waste my words on
her in vain--But that stain is the very reverse of what is said of
the witch's mark--I can make her feel there, though she is otherwise
insensible all over.--But how say you, girls--here is a new
difficulty--How are these keys to be come by?--there is no deceiving or
bribing this dragon, I trow.”
“May I crave to know,” said Roland, “whether, if your Grace were beyond
the walls of the castle, you could find means of conveyance to the firm
land, and protection when you are there?”
“Trust us for that, Roland,” said the Queen; “for to that point our
scheme is indifferent well laid.”
“Then if your Grace will permit me to speak my mind, I think I could be
of some use in this matter.”
“As how, my good youth?--speak on,” said the Queen, “and fearlessly.”
“My patron the Knight of Avenel used to compel the youth educated in his
household to learn the use of axe and hammer, and working in wood and
iron--he used to speak of old northern champions, who forged their own
weapons, and of the Highland Captain, Donald nan Ord, or Donald of the
Hammer, whom he himself knew, and who used to work at the anvil with a
sledge-hammer in each hand. Some said he praised this art, because he
was himself of churl's blood. However, I gained some practice in it,
as the Lady Catherine Seyton partly knows; for since we were here, I
wrought her a silver brooch.”
“Ay,” replied Catharine, “but you should tell her Grace that your
workmanship was so indifferent that it broke to pieces next day, and I
flung it away.”
“Believe her not, Roland,” said the Queen; “she wept when it was broken,
and put the fragments into her bosom. But for your scheme--could your
skill avail to forge a second set of keys?”
“No, madam, because I know not the wards. But I am convinced I could
make a set so like that hateful bunch which the Lady bore off even now,
that could they be exchanged against them by any means, she would never
dream she was possessed of the wrong.”
“And the good dame, thank Heaven, is somewhat blind,” said the Queen;
“but then for a forge, my boy, and the means of labouring unobserved?”
“The armourer's forge, at which I used sometimes to work with him, is
the round vault at the bottom of the turret--he was dismissed with
the warder for being supposed too much attached to George Douglas. The
people are accustomed to see me work there, and I warrant I shall find
some excuse that will pass current with them for putting bellows and
anvil to work.”
“The scheme has a promising face,” said the Queen; “about it, my lad,
with all speed, and beware the nature of your work is not discovered.”
“Nay, I will take the liberty to draw the bolt against chance visitors,
so that I will have time to put away what I am working upon, before I
undo the door.”
“Will not that of itself attract suspicion, in a place where it is so
current already?” said Catherine.
“Not a whit,” replied Roland; “Gregory the armourer, and every good
hammerman, locks himself in when he is about some master piece of craft.
Besides, something must be risked.”
“Part we then to-night,” said the Queen, “and God bless you my
children!--If Mary's head ever rises above water, you shall all rise
along with her.”
Chapter the Thirty-Fifth.
It is a time of danger, not of revel,
When churchmen turn to masquers.
SPANISH FATHER.
The enterprise of Roland Graeme appeared to prosper. A trinket or two,
of which the work did not surpass the substance, (for the materials were
silver, supplied by the Queen,) were judiciously presented to those most
likely to be inquisitive into the labours of the forge and anvil, which
they thus were induced to reckon profitable to others and harmless
in itself. Openly, the page was seen working about such trifles. In
private, he forged a number of keys resembling so nearly in weight and
in form those which were presented every evening to the Lady Lochleven,
that, on a slight inspection, it would have been difficult to perceive
the difference. He brought them to the dark rusty colour by the use of
salt and water; and, in the triumph of his art, presented them at length
to Queen Mary in her presence-chamber, about an hour before the tolling
of the curfew. She looked at them with pleasure, but at the same time
with doubt.--“I allow,” she said, “that the Lady Lochleven's eyes, which
are not of the clearest, may be well deceived, could we pass those keys
on her in place of the real implements of her tyranny. But how is this
to be done, and which of my little court dare attempt this _tour de
jongleur_ with any chance of success? Could we but engage her in some
earnest matter of argument--but those which I hold with her, always have
been of a kind which make her grasp her keys the faster, as if she
said to herself--Here I hold what sets me above your taunts and
reproaches--And even for her liberty, Mary Stuart could not stoop to
speak the proud heretic fair.--What shall we do? Shall Lady Fleming try
her eloquence in describing the last new head-tire from Paris?--alas!
the good dame has not changed the fashion of her head-gear since
Pinkie-field for aught that I know. Shall my _mignóne_ Catherine sing to
her one of those touching airs, which draw the very souls out of me and
Roland Graeme?--Alas! Dame Margaret Douglas would rather hear a Huguenot
psalm of Clement Marrot, sung to the tune of _Reveillez vous, belle
endormie._--Cousins and liege counsellors, what is to be done, for our
wits are really astray in this matter?--Must our man-at-arms and the
champion of our body, Roland Graeme, manfully assault the old lady, and
take the keys from her _par voie du fait?_”
“Nay! with your Grace's permission.” said Roland, “I do not doubt being
able to manage the matter with more discretion; for though, in your
Grace's service, I do not fear--”
“A host of old women,” interrupted Catherine, “each armed with rock and
spindle, yet he has no fancy for pikes and partisans, which might rise
at the cry of _Help! a Douglas, a Douglas!_”
“They that do not fear fair ladies' tongues,” continued the page, “need
dread nothing else.--But, gracious Liege, I am well-nigh satisfied that
I could pass the exchange of these keys on the Lady Lochleven; but I
dread the sentinel who is now planted nightly in the garden, which, by
necessity, we must traverse.”
“Our last advices from our friends on the shore have promised us
assistance in that matter,” replied the Queen.
“And is your Grace well assured of the fidelity and watchfulness of
those without?”
“For their fidelity, I will answer with my life, and for their
vigilance, I will answer with my life--I will give thee instant proof,
my faithful Roland, that they are ingenuous and trusty as thyself. Come
hither--Nay, Catherine, attend us; we carry not so deft a page into our
private chamber alone. Make fast the door of the parlour, Fleming,
and warn us if you hear the least step--or stay, go thou to the
door, Catherine,” (in a whisper, “thy ears and thy wits are both
sharper.)--Good Fleming, attend us thyself”--(and again she whispered,
“her reverend presence will be as safe a watch on Roland as thine
can--so be not jealous, _mignone_.”)
Thus speaking, they were lighted by the Lady Fleming into the Queen's
bedroom, a small apartment enlightened by a projecting window.
“Look from that window, Roland,” she said; “see you amongst the several
lights which begin to kindle, and to glimmer palely through the gray of
the evening from the village of Kinross-seest thou, I say, one solitary
spark apart from the others, and nearer it seems to the verge of the
water?--It is no brighter at this distance than the torch of the poor
glowworm, and yet, my good youth, that light is more dear to Mary
Stuart, than every star that twinkles in the blue vault of heaven.
By that signal, I know that more than one true heart is plotting my
deliverance; and without that consciousness, and the hope of freedom
it gives me, I had long since stooped to my fate, and died of a broken
heart. Plan after plan has been formed and abandoned, but still the
light glimmers; and while it glimmers, my hope lives.--Oh! how many
evenings have I sat musing in despair over our ruined schemes, and
scarce hoping that I should again see that blessed signal; when it
has suddenly kindled, and, like the lights of Saint Elmo in a tempest,
brought hope and consolation, where there, was only dejection and
despair!”
“If I mistake not,” answered Roland, “the candle shines from the house
of Blinkhoolie, the mail-gardener.”
“Thou hast a good eye,” said the Queen; “it is there where my trusty
lieges--God and the saints pour blessings on them!--hold consultation
for my deliverance. The voice of a wretched captive would die on these
blue waters, long ere it could mingle in their councils; and yet I can
hold communication--I will confide the whole to thee--I am about to
ask those faithful friends if the moment for the great attempt is
nigh.--Place the lamp in the window, Fleming.”
She obeyed, and immediately withdrew it. No sooner had she done so, than
the light in the cottage of the gardener disappeared.
“Now count,” said Queen Mary, “for my heart beats so thick that I cannot
count myself.”
The Lady Fleming began deliberately to count one, two, three, and when
she had arrived at ten, the light on the shore showed its pale twinkle.
“Now, our Lady be praised!” said the Queen; “it was but two nights
since, that the absence of the light remained while I could tell thirty.
The hour of deliverance approaches. May God bless those who labour in it
with such truth to me!--alas! with such hazard to themselves--and bless
you, too, my children!--Come, we must to the audience-chamber again. Our
absence might excite suspicion, should they serve supper.”
They returned to the presence-chamber, and the evening concluded as
usual.
The next morning, at dinner-time, an unusual incident occurred. While
Lady Douglas of Lochleven performed her daily duty of assistant and
taster at the Queen's table, she was told a man-at-arms had arrived,
recommended by her son, but without any letter or other token than what
he brought by word of mouth.
“Hath he given you that token?” demanded the Lady.
“He reserved it, as I think, for your Ladyship's ear,” replied Randal.
“He doth well,” said the Lady; “tell him to wait in the hall--But
no--with your permission, madam,” (to the Queen) “let him attend me
here.”
“Since you are pleased to receive your domestics in my presence,” said
the Queen, “I cannot choose--”
“My infirmities must plead my excuse, madam,” replied the Lady; “the
life I must lead here ill suits with the years which have passed over my
head, and compels me to waive ceremonial.”
“Oh, my good Lady,” replied the Queen, “I would there were nought in
this your castle more strongly compulsive than the cobweb chains of
ceremony; but bolts and bars are harder matters to contend with.”
As she spoke, the person announced by Randal entered the room, and
Roland Graeme at once recognized in him the Abbot Ambrosius.
“What is your name, good fellow?” said the Lady.
“Edward Glendinning,” answered the Abbot, with a suitable reverence.
“Art thou of the blood of the Knight of Avenel?” said the Lady of
Lochleven.
“Ay, madam, and that nearly,” replied the pretended soldier.
“It is likely enough,” said the Lady, “for the Knight is the son of his
own good works, and has risen from obscure lineage to his present high
rank in the Estate--But he is of sure truth and approved worth, and his
kinsman is welcome to us. You hold, unquestionably, the true faith?”
“Do not doubt of it, madam,” said the disguised churchman.
“Hast thou a token to me from Sir William Douglas?” said the Lady.
“I have, madam,” replied he; “but it must be said in private.”
“Thou art right,” said the Lady, moving towards the recess of a window;
“say in what does it consist?”
“In the words of an old bard,” replied the Abbot.
“Repeat them,” answered the Lady; and he uttered, in a low tone, the
lines from an old poem, called The Howlet,--
“O Douglas! Douglas!
Tender and true.”
“Trusty Sir John Holland!” [Footnote: Sir John Holland's poem of the
Howlet is known to collectors by the beautiful edition presented to
the Bannatyne Club, by Mr. David Laing.] said the Lady Douglas,
apostrophizing the poet, “a kinder heart never inspired a rhyme, and the
Douglas's honour was ever on thy heart-string! We receive you among our
followers, Glendinning--But, Randal, see that he keep the outer ward
only, till we shall hear more touching him from our son.--Thou fearest
not the night air. Glendinning?”
“In the cause of the Lady before whom I stand, I fear nothing, madam,”
answered the disguised Abbot.
“Our garrison, then, is stronger by one trustworthy soldier,” said the
matron--“Go to the buttery, and let them make much of thee.”
When the Lady Lochleven had retired, the Queen said to Roland Graeme,
who was now almost constantly in her company, “I spy comfort in that
stranger's countenance; I know not why it should be so, but I am well
persuaded he is a friend.”
“Your Grace's penetration does not deceive you,” answered the page; and
he informed her that the Abbot of St. Mary's himself played the part of
the newly arrived soldier.
The Queen crossed herself and looked upwards. “Unworthy sinner that I
am,” she said, “that for my sake a man so holy, and so high in spiritual
office, should wear the garb of a base sworder, and run the risk of
dying the death of a traitor!”
“Heaven will protect its own servant, madam,” said Catherine Seyton;
“his aid would bring a blessing on our undertaking, were it not already
blest for its own sake.”
“What I admire in my spiritual father,” said Roland, “was the steady
front with which he looked on me, without giving the least sign of
former acquaintance. I did not think the like was possible, since I have
ceased to believe that Henry was the same person with Catherine.”
“But marked you not how astuciously the good father,” said the Queen,
“eluded the questions of the woman Lochleven, telling her the very
truth, which yet she received not as such?”
Roland thought in his heart, that when the truth was spoken for the
purpose of deceiving, it was little better than a lie in disguise. But
it was no time to agitate such questions of conscience.
“And now for the signal from the shore,” exclaimed Catherine; “my bosom
tells me we shall see this night two lights instead of one gleam from
that garden of Eden--And then, Roland, do you play your part manfully,
and we will dance on the greensward like midnight fairies!”
Catherine's conjecture misgave not, nor deceived her. In the evening
two beams twinkled from the cottage, instead of one; and the page heard,
with beating heart, that the new retainer was ordered to stand sentinel
on the outside of the castle. When he intimated this news to the Queen,
she held her hand out to him--he knelt, and when he raised it to his
lips in all dutiful homage, he found it was damp and cold as marble.
“For God's sake, madam, droop not now,--sink not now!”
“Call upon our Lady, my Liege,” said the Lady Fleming--“call upon your
tutelar saint.”
“Call the spirits of the hundred kings you are descended from,”
exclaimed the page; “in this hour of need, the resolution of a monarch
were worth the aid of a hundred saints.”
“Oh! Roland Graeme,” said Mary, in a tone of deep despondency, “be true
to me--many have been false to me. Alas! I have not always been true to
myself. My mind misgives me that I shall die in bondage, and that this
bold attempt will cost all our lives. It was foretold me by a soothsayer
in France, that I should die in prison, and by a violent death, and here
comes the hour--Oh, would to God it found me prepared!”
“Madam,” said Catherine Seyton, “remember you are a Queen. Better we all
died in bravely attempting to gain our freedom, than remained here to be
poisoned, as men rid them of the noxious vermin that haunt old houses.”
“You are right, Catherine,” said the Queen; “and Mary will bear her
like herself. But alas! your young and buoyant spirit can ill spell the
causes which have broken mine. Forgive me, my children, and farewell for
a while--I will prepare both mind and body for this awful venture.”
They separated, till again called together by the tolling of the curfew.
The Queen appeared grave, but firm and resolved; the Lady Fleming, with
the art of an experienced courtier, knew perfectly how to disguise her
inward tremors; Catherine's eye was fired, as if with the boldness of
the project, and the half smile which dwelt upon her beautiful mouth
seemed to contemn all the risk and all the consequences of discovery;
Roland, who felt how much success depended on his own address and
boldness, summoned together his whole presence of mind, and if he found
his spirits flag for a moment, cast his eye upon Catherine, whom he
thought he had never seen look so beautiful.--“I may be foiled,” he
thought, “but with this reward in prospect, they must bring the devil to
aid them ere they cross me.” Thus resolved, he stood like a greyhound
in the slips, with hand, heart, and eye intent upon making and seizing
opportunity for the execution of their project.