the ill-fated Mary, or to recount how, during the week which succeeded
her flight from Lochleven, her partisans mustered around her with their
followers, forming a gallant army, amounting to six thousand men. So
much light has been lately thrown on the most minute details of the
period, by Mr. Chalmers, in his valuable history of Queen Mary, that the
reader may be safely referred to it for the fullest information
which ancient records afford concerning that interesting time. It is
sufficient for our purpose to say, that while Mary's head-quarters
were at Hamilton, the Regent and his adherents had, in the King's name,
assembled a host at Glasgow, inferior indeed to that of the Queen in
numbers, but formidable from the military talents of Murray, Morton, the
Laird of Grange, and others, who had been trained from their youth in
foreign and domestic wars.
In these circumstances, it was the obvious policy of Queen Mary to avoid
a conflict, secure that were her person once in safety, the number of
her adherents must daily increase; whereas, the forces of those opposed
to her must, as had frequently happened in the previous history of her
reign, have diminished, and their spirits become broken. And so evident
was this to her counsellors, that they resolved their first step should
be to place the Queen in the strong castle of Dunbarton, there to await
the course of events, the arrival of succours from France, and the
levies which were made by her adherents in every province of Scotland.
Accordingly, orders were given, that all men should be on horseback or
on foot, apparelled in their armour, and ready to follow the Queen's
standard in array of battle, the avowed determination being to escort
her to the Castle of Dunbarton in defiance of her enemies.
The muster was made upon Hamilton-Moor, and the march commenced in all
the pomp of feudal times. Military music sounded, banners and pennons
waved, armour glittered far and wide, and spears glanced and twinkled
like stars in a frosty sky. The gallant spectacle of warlike parade was
on this occasion dignified by the presence of the Queen herself, who,
with a fair retinue of ladies and household attendants, and a
special guard of gentlemen, amongst whom young Seyton and Roland were
distinguished, gave grace at once and confidence to the army, which
spread its ample files before, around, and behind her. Many churchmen
also joined the cavalcade, most of whom did not scruple to assume arms,
and declare their intention of wielding them in defence of Mary and the
Catholic faith. Not so the Abbot of Saint Mary's. Roland had not seen
this prelate since the night of their escape from Lochleven, and he now
beheld him, robed in the dress of his order, assume his station near the
Queen's person. Roland hastened to pull off his basnet, and beseech the
Abbot's blessing.
“Thou hast it, my son!” said the priest; “I see thee now under thy true
name, and in thy rightful garb. The helmet with the holly branch befits
your brows well--I have long waited for the hour thou shouldst assume
it.”
“Then you knew of my descent, my good father?” said Roland.
“I did so, but it was under seal of confession from thy grandmother;
nor was I at liberty to tell the secret, till she herself should make it
known.”
“Her reason for such secrecy, my father?” said Roland Avenel.
“Fear, perchance of my brother--a mistaken fear, for Halbert would not,
to ensure himself a kingdom, have offered wrong to an orphan; besides
that, your title, in quiet times, even had your father done your mother
that justice which I well hope he did, could not have competed with that
of my brother's wife, the child of Julian's elder brother.”
“They need fear no competition from me,” said Avenel. “Scotland is
wide enough, and there are many manors to win, without plundering my
benefactor. But prove to me, my reverend father, that my father was just
to my mother--show me that I may call myself a legitimate Avenel, and
make me your bounden slave for ever.”
“Ay,” replied the Abbot, “I hear the Seytons hold thee cheap for that
stain on thy shield. Something, however, I have learnt from the late
Abbot Boniface, which, if it prove sooth, may redeem that reproach.”
“Tell me that blessed news,” said Roland, “and the future service of my
life--”
“Rash boy!” said the Abbot, “I should but madden thine impatient temper,
by exciting hopes that may never be fulfilled--and is this a time for
them? Think on what perilous march we are bound, and if thou hast a sin
unconfessed, neglect not the only leisure which Heaven may perchance
afford thee for confession and absolution.”
“There will be time enough for both, I trust, when we reach Dunbarton,”
answered the page.
“Ay,” said the Abbot, “thou crowest as loudly as the rest--but we are
not yet at Dunbarton, and there is a lion in the path.”
“Mean you Murray, Morton, and the other rebels at Glasgow, my reverend
father? Tush! they dare not look on the royal banner.”
“Even so,” replied the Abbot, “speak many of those who are older, and
should be wiser, than thou.--I have returned from the southern shires,
where I left many a chief of name arming in the Queen's interest--I
left the lords here wise and considerate men--I find them madmen on my
return--they are willing, for mere pride and vain-glory, to brave the
enemy, and to carry the Queen, as it were in triumph, past the walls of
Glasgow, and under the beards of the adverse army.--Seldom does Heaven
smile on such mistimed confidence. We shall be encountered, and that to
the purpose.”
“And so much the better,” replied Roland; “the field of battle was my
cradle.”
“Beware it be not thy dying bed,” said the Abbot. “But what avails it
whispering to young wolves the dangers of the chase? You will know,
perchance, ere this day is out, what yonder men are, whom you hold in
rash contempt.”
“Why, what are they?” said Henry Seyton, who now joined them: “have
they sinews of wire, and flesh of iron?--Will lead pierce and steel cut
them?--If so, reverend father, we have little to fear.”
“They are evil men,” said the Abbot, “but the trade of war demands
no saints.--Murray and Morton are known to be the best generals in
Scotland. No one ever saw Lindesay's or Ruthven's back--Kirkaldy of
Grange was named by the Constable Montmorency the first soldier in
Europe--My brother, too good a name for such a cause, has been far and
wide known for a soldier.”
“The better, the better!” said Seyton, triumphantly; “we shall have all
these traitors of rank and name in a fair field before us. Our cause
is the best, our numbers are the strongest, our hearts and limbs match
theirs--Saint Bennet, and set on!”
The Abbot made no reply, but seemed lost in reflection; and his anxiety
in some measure communicated itself to Roland Avenel, who ever, as their
line of march led over a ridge or an eminence, cast an anxious look
towards the towers of Glasgow, as if he expected to see symptoms of the
enemy issuing forth. It was not that he feared the fight, but the issue
was of such deep import to his country, and to himself, that the natural
fire of his spirit burned with a less lively, though with a more intense
glow. Love, honour, fame, fortune, all seemed to depend on the issue of
one field, rashly hazarded perhaps, but now likely to become unavoidable
and decisive.
When, at length, their march came to be nearly parallel with the city of
Glasgow, Roland became sensible that the high grounds before them were
already in part occupied by a force, showing, like their own, the royal
banner of Scotland, and on the point of being supported by columns of
infantry and squadrons of horse, which the city gates had poured forth,
and which hastily advanced to sustain those troops who already possessed
the ground in front of the Queen's forces. Horseman after horseman
galloped in from the advanced guard, with tidings that Murray had taken
the field with his whole army; that his object was to intercept the
Queen's march, and his purpose unquestionable to hazard a battle. It
was now that the tempers of men were subjected to a sudden and a severe
trial; and that those who had too presumptuously concluded that they
would pass without combat, were something disconcerted, when, at once,
and with little time to deliberate, they found themselves placed in
front of a resolute enemy.--Their chiefs immediately assembled around
the Queen, and held a hasty council of war. Mary's quivering lip
confessed the fear which she endeavoured to conceal under a bold
and dignified demeanour. But her efforts were overcome by painful
recollections of the disastrous issue of her last appearance in arms at
Carberry-hill; and when she meant to have asked them their advice for
ordering the battle, she involuntarily inquired whether there were no
means of escaping without an engagement?
“Escaping?” answered the Lord Seyton; “when I stand as one to ten of
your Highness's enemies, I may think of escape--but never while I stand
with three to two!”
“Battle! battle!” exclaimed the assembled lords; “we will drive the
rebels from their vantage ground, as the hound turns the hare on the
hill side.”
“Methinks, my noble lords,” said the Abbot, “it were as well to prevent
his gaining that advantage.--Our road lies through yonder hamlet on the
brow, and whichever party hath the luck to possess it, with its little
gardens and enclosures, will attain a post of great defence.”
“The reverend father is right,” said the Queen. “Oh, haste thee, Seyton,
haste, and get thither before them--they are marching like the wind.”
Seyton bowed low, and turned his horse's head.--“Your Highness honours
me,” he said; “I will instantly press forward, and seize the pass.”
“Not before me, my lord, whose charge is the command of the vanguard,”
said the Lord of Arbroath.
“Before you, or any Hamilton in Scotland,” said the Seyton, “having the
Queen's command--Follow me, gentlemen, my vassals and kinsmen--Saint
Bennet, and set on!”
“And follow me,” said Arbroath, “my noble kinsmen, and brave
men-tenants, we will see which will first reach the post of danger. For
God and Queen Mary!”
“Ill-omened haste, and most unhappy strife,” said the Abbot, who saw
them and their followers rush hastily and emulously to ascend the
height without waiting till their men were placed in order.--“And you,
gentlemen,” he continued, addressing Roland and Seyton, who were each
about to follow those who hastened thus disorderly to the conflict,
“will you leave the Queen's person unguarded?”
“Oh, leave me not, gentlemen!” said the Queen--“Roland and Seyton,
do not leave me--there are enough of arms to strike in this fell
combat--withdraw not those to whom I trust for my safety.”
“We may not leave her Grace,” said Roland, looking at Seyton, and
turning his horse.
“I ever looked when thou wouldst find out that,” rejoined the fiery
youth.
Roland made no answer, but bit his lip till the blood came, and spurring
his horse up to the side of Catherine Seyton's palfrey, he whispered
in a low voice, “I never thought to have done aught to deserve you;
but this day I have heard myself upbraided with cowardice, and my sword
remained still sheathed, and all for the love of you.”
“There is madness among us all,” said the damsel; “my father, my
brother, and you, are all alike bereft of reason. Ye should think
only of this poor Queen, and you are all inspired by your own absurd
jealousies--The monk is the only soldier and man of sense amongst you
all.--My lord Abbot,” she cried aloud, “were it not better we should
draw to the westward, and wait the event that God shall send us, instead
of remaining here in the highway, endangering the Queen's person, and
cumbering the troops in their advance?”
“You say well, my daughter,” replied the Abbot; “had we but one to guide
us where the Queen's person may be in safety--Our nobles hurry to the
conflict, without casting a thought on the very cause of the war.”
“Follow me,” said a knight, or man-at-arms, well mounted, and attired
completely in black armour, but having the visor of his helmet closed,
and bearing no crest on his helmet, or device upon his shield.
“We will follow no stranger,” said the Abbot, “without some warrant of
his truth.”
“I am a stranger and in your hands,” said the horseman; “if you wish to
know more of me, the Queen herself will be your warrant.”
The Queen had remained fixed to the spot, as if disabled by fear, yet
mechanically smiling, bowing, and waving her hand, as banners were
lowered and spears depressed before her, while, emulating the strife
betwixt Seyton and Arbroath, band on band pressed forward their march
towards the enemy. Scarce, however, had the black rider whispered
something in her ear, than she assented to what he said; and when he
spoke aloud, and with an air of command, “Gentlemen, it is the Queen's
pleasure that you should follow me,” Mary uttered, with something like
eagerness, the word “Yes.”
All were in motion in an instant; for the black horseman, throwing off a
sort of apathy of manner, which his first appearance indicated, spurred
his horse to and fro, making him take such active bounds and short
turns, as showed the rider master of the animal; and getting the Queen's
little retinue in some order for marching, he led them to the left,
directing his course towards a castle, which, crowning a gentle yet
commanding eminence, presented an extensive view over the country
beneath, and in particular, commanded a view of those heights which both
armies hastened to occupy, and which it was now apparent must almost
instantly be the scene of struggle and dispute.
“Yonder towers,” said the Abbot, questioning the sable horseman, “to
whom do they belong?--and are they in the hands of friends?”
“They are untenanted,” replied the stranger, “or, at least, they have
no hostile inmates.--But urge these youths. Sir Abbot, to make more
haste--this is but an evil time to satisfy their idle curiosity, by
peering out upon the battle in which they are to take no share.”
“The worse luck mine,” said Henry Seyton, who overheard him--“I
would rather be under my father's banner at this moment than be made
Chamberlain of Holyrood, for this my present duty of peaceful ward well
and patiently discharged.”
“Your place under your father's banner will shortly be right dangerous,”
said Roland Avenel, who, pressing his horse towards the westward,
had still his look reverted to the armies; “for I see yonder body of
cavalry, which presses from the eastward, will reach the village ere
Lord Seyton can gain it.”
“They are but cavalry,” said Seyton, looking attentively; “they cannot
hold the village without shot of harquebuss.”
“Look more closely,” said Roland; “you will see that each of these
horseman who advance so rapidly from Glasgow, carries a footman behind
him.”
“Now, by Heaven, he speaks well!” said the black cavalier; “one of you
two must go carry the news to Lord Seyton and Lord Arbroath, that
they hasten not their horsemen on before the foot, but advance more
regularly.”
“Be that my errand,” said Roland, “for I first marked the stratagem of
the enemy.”
“But, by your leave,” said Seyton, “yonder is my father's banner
engaged, and it best becomes me to go to the rescue.”
“I will stand by the Queen's decision,” said Roland Avenel.
“What new appeal?--what new quarrel?” said Queen Mary--“Are there not
in yonder dark host enemies enough to Mary Stewart, but must her very
friends turn enemies to each other?”
“Nay, madam,” said Roland, “the young master of Seyton and I did but
dispute who should leave your person to do a most needful message to the
host. He thought his rank entitled him, and I deemed that the person of
least consequence, being myself, were better perilled--”
“Not so,” said the Queen; “if one must leave me, be it Seyton.”
Henry Seyton bowed till the white plumes on his helmet mixed with the
flowing mane of his gallant war-horse, then placed himself firm in the
saddle, shook his lance aloft with an air of triumph and determination,
and striking his horse with the spurs, made towards his father's banner,
which was still advancing up the hill, and dashed his steed over every
obstacle that occurred in his headlong path.
“My brother! my father!” exclaimed Catherine, with an expression
of agonized apprehension--“they are in the midst of peril, and I in
safety!”
“Would to God,” said Roland, “that I were with them, and could ransom
every drop of their blood by two of mine!”
“Do I not know thou dost wish it?” said Catherine--“Can a woman say to
a man what I have well-nigh said to thee, and yet think that he could
harbour fear or faintness of heart?--There is that in yon distant sound
of approaching battle that pleases me even while it affrights me. I
would I were a man, that I might feel that stern delight, without the
mixture of terror!”
“Ride up, ride up, Lady Catherine Seyton,” cried the Abbot, as they
still swept on at a rapid pace, and were now close beneath the walls
of the castle--“ride up, and aid Lady Fleming to support the Queen--she
gives way more and more.”
They halted and lifted Mary from the saddle, and were about to
support her towards the castle, when she said faintly, “Not there--not
there--these walls will I never enter more!”
“Be a Queen, madam,” said the Abbot, “and forget that you are a woman.”
“Oh, I must forget much, much more,” answered the unfortunate Mary,
in an under tone, “ere I can look with steady eyes on these well-known
scenes!--I must forget the days which I spent here as the bride of the
lost--the murdered----”
“This is the Castle of Crookstone,” said the Lady Fleming, “in which the
Queen held her first court after she was married to Darnley.”
“Heaven,” said the Abbot, “thy hand is upon us!--Bear yet up,
madam--your foes are the foes of Holy Church, and God will this day
decide whether Scotland shall be Catholic or heretic.”
A heavy and continued fire of cannon and musketry, bore a tremendous
burden to his words, and seemed far more than they to recall the spirits
of the Queen.
“To yonder tree,” she said, pointing to a yew-tree which grew on a small
mount close to the castle; “I know it well--from thence you may see a
prospect wide as from the peaks of Schehallion.”
And freeing herself from her assistants, she walked with a determined,
yet somewhat wild step, up to the stem of the noble yew. The Abbot,
Catherine, and Roland Avenel followed her, while Lady Fleming kept back
the inferior persons of her train. The black horseman also followed the
Queen, waiting on her as closely as the shadow upon the light, but ever
remaining at the distance of two or three yards---he folded his arms on
his bosom, turned his back to the battle, and seemed solely occupied by
gazing on Mary, through the bars of his closed visor. The Queen regarded
him not, but fixed her eyes upon the spreading yew.”
“Ay, fair and stately tree,” she said, as if at the sight of it she had
been rapt away from the present scene, and had overcome the horror
which had oppressed her at the first approach to Crookstone, “there thou
standest, gay and goodly as ever, though thou hearest the sounds of war,
instead of the vows of love. All is gone since I last greeted thee--love
and lover--vows and vower--king and kingdom.--How goes the field, my
Lord Abbot?--with us, I trust--yet what but evil can Mary's eyes witness
from this spot?”
Her attendants eagerly bent their eyes on the field of battle, but could
discover nothing more than that it was obstinately contested. The small
enclosures and cottage gardens in the village, of which they had a full
and commanding view, and which shortly before lay, with their lines of
sycamore and ash-trees, so still and quiet in the mild light of a May
sun, were now each converted into a line of fire, canopied by smoke; and
the sustained and constant report of the musketry and cannon, mingled
with the shouts of meeting combatants, showed that as yet neither party
had given ground.
“Many a soul finds its final departure to heaven or hell, in these awful
thunders,” said the Abbot; “let those that believe in the Holy Church,
join me in orisons for victory in this dreadful combat.”
“Not here--not here,” said the unfortunate Queen; “pray not here,
father, or pray in silence--my mind is too much torn between the past
and the present, to dare to approach the heavenly throne--Or, if we
will pray, be it for one whose fondest affections have been her greatest
crimes, and who has ceased to be a queen, only because she was a
deceived and a tender-hearted woman.”
“Were it not well,” said Roland, “that I rode somewhat nearer the hosts,
and saw the fate of the day?”
“Do so, in the name of God,” said the Abbot; “for if our friends are
scattered, our flight must be hasty--but beware thou approach not too
nigh the conflict; there is more than thine own life depends on thy safe
return.”
“Oh, go not too nigh,” said Catherine; “but fail not to see how the
Seytons fight, and how they bear themselves.”
“Fear nothing, I will be on my guard,” said Roland Avenel; and without
waiting farther answer, rode towards the scene of conflict, keeping, as
he rode, the higher and unenclosed ground, and ever looking cautiously
around him, for fear of involving himself in some hostile party. As he
approached, the shots rung sharp and more sharply on his ear, the shouts
came wilder and wilder, and he felt that thick beating of the heart,
that mixture of natural apprehension, intense curiosity, and anxiety for
the dubious event, which even the bravest experience when they approach
alone to a scene of interest and of danger.
At length he drew so close, that from a bank, screened by bushes and
underwood, he could distinctly see where the struggle was most keenly
maintained. This was in a hollow way, leading to the village, up
which the Queen's vanguard had marched, with more hasty courage than
well-advised conduct, for the purpose of possessing themselves of that
post of advantage. They found their scheme anticipated, and the hedges
and enclosures already occupied by the enemy, led by the celebrated
Kirkaldy of Grange and the Earl of Morton; and not small was the loss
which they sustained while struggling forward to come to close with
the men-at-arms on the other side. But, as the Queen's followers were
chiefly noblemen and barons, with their kinsmen and followers, they had
pressed onward, contemning obstacles and danger, and had, when Roland
arrived on the ground, met hand to hand at the gorge of the pass with
the Regent's vanguard, and endeavoured to bear them out of the village
at the spear-point; while their foes, equally determined to keep the
advantage which they had attained, struggled with the like obstinacy
to drive back the assailants. Both parties were on foot, and armed in
proof; so that, when the long lances of the front ranks were fixed in
each other's shields, corslets, and breastplates, the struggle resembled
that of two bulls, who fixing their frontlets hard against each other,
remain in that posture for hours, until the superior strength or
obstinacy of the one compels the other to take to flight, or bears him
down to the earth. Thus locked together in the deadly struggle, which
swayed slowly to and fro, as one or other party gained the advantage,
those who fell were trampled on alike by friends and foes; those whose
weapons were broken, retired from the front rank, and had their place
supplied by others; while the rearward ranks, unable otherwise to share
in the combat, fired their pistols, and hurled their daggers, and the
points and truncheons of the broken weapons, like javelins against the
enemy.
“God and the Queen!” resounded from the one party; “God and the King!”
thundered from the other; while, in the name of their sovereign,
fellow-subjects on both sides shed each other's blood, and, in the name
of their Creator, defaced his image. Amid the tumult was often heard the
voices of the captains, shouting their commands; of leaders and chiefs,
crying their gathering words; of groans and shrieks from the falling and
the dying.
The strife had lasted nearly an hour. The strength of both parties
seemed exhausted; but their rage was unabated, and their obstinacy
unsubdued, when Roland, who turned eye and ear to all around him, saw
a column of infantry, headed by a few horsemen, wheel round the base
of the bank where he had stationed himself, and, levelling their long
lances, attack the Queen's vanguard, closely engaged as they were in
conflict on their front. The very first glance showed him that the
leader who directed this movement was the Knight of Avenel, his ancient
master; and the next convinced him, that its effects would be decisive.
The result of the attack of fresh and unbroken forces upon the flank of
those already wearied with a long and obstinate struggle, was, indeed,
instantaneous.