and united line of helmets, surmounted with plumage, was at once
broken and hurled in confusion down the hill, which they had so long
endeavoured to gain. In vain were the leaders heard calling upon their
followers to stand to the combat, and seen personally resisting when all
resistance was evidently vain. They were slain, or felled to the earth,
or hurried backwards by the mingled tide of flight and pursuit. What
were Roland's feelings on beholding the rout, and feeling that all that
remained for him was to turn bridle, and endeavour to ensure the safety
of the Queen's person! Yet, keen as his grief and shame might be,
they were both forgotten, when, almost close beneath the bank which
he occupied, he saw Henry Seyton forced away from his own party in the
tumult, covered with dust and blood, and defending himself desperately
against several of the enemy who had gathered around him, attracted by
his gay armour. Roland paused not a moment, but pushing his steed down
the bank, leaped him amongst the hostile party, dealt three or four
blows amongst them, which struck down two, and made the rest stand
aloof; then reaching Seyton his hand, he exhorted him to seize fast on
his horse's mane.
“We live or die together this day,” said he; “keep but fast hold till we
are out of the press, and then my horse is yours.”
Seyton heard and exerted his remaining strength, and, by their joint
efforts, Roland brought him out of danger, and behind the spot from
whence he had witnessed the disastrous conclusion of the fight. But
no sooner were they under shelter of the trees, than Seyton let go his
hold, and, in spite of Roland's efforts to support him, fell at length
on the turf. “Trouble yourself no more with me,” he said; “this is my
first and my last battle--and I have already seen too much to wish
to see the close. Hasten to save the Queen--and commend me to
Catherine--she will never more be mistaken for me nor I for her--the
last sword-stroke has made an eternal distinction.”
“Let me aid you to mount my horse,” said Roland, eagerly, “and you may
yet be saved--I can find my own way on foot--turn but my horse's head
westward, and he will carry you fleet and easy as the wind.”
“I will never mount steed more,” said the youth; “farewell--I love thee
better dying, than ever I thought to have done while in life--I would
that old man's blood were not on my hand!--_Sancte Benedicte, ora pro
me_--Stand not to look on a dying man, but haste to save the Queen!”
These words were spoken with the last effort of his voice, and scarce
were they uttered ere the speaker was no more. They recalled Roland to
a sense of the duty which he had well-nigh forgotten, but they did not
reach his ears only.
“The Queen--where is the Queen?” said Halbert Glendinning, who, followed
by two or three horsemen, appeared at this instant. Roland made no
answer, but, turning his horse, and confiding in his speed, gave him at
once rein and spur, and rode over height and hollow towards the Castle
of Crookstone. More heavily armed, and mounted upon a horse of less
speed, Sir Halbert Glendinning followed with couched lance, calling out
as he rode, “Sir, with the holly-branch, halt, and show your right to
bear that badge--fly not thus cowardly, nor dishonour the cognizance
thou deservest not to wear!--Halt, sir coward, or by Heaven, I will
strike thee with my lance on the back, and slay thee like a dastard--I
am the Knight of Avenel--I am Halbert Glendinning.”
But Roland, who had no purpose of encountering his old master, and who,
besides, knew the Queen's safety depended on his making the best speed
he could, answered not a word to the defiances and reproaches which Sir
Halbert continued to throw out against him; but making the best use of
his spurs, rode yet harder than before, and had gained about a hundred
yards upon his pursuer, when, coming near to the yew-tree where he had
left the Queen, he saw them already getting to horse, and cried out
as loud as he could, “Foes! foes!--Ride for it, fair ladies--Brave
gentlemen, do your devoir to protect them!”
So saying, he wheeled his horse, and avoiding the shock of Sir Halbert
Glendinning, charged one of that Knight's followers, who was nearly on
a line with him, so rudely with his lance, that he overthrew horse and
man. He then drew his sword and attacked the second, while the black
man-at-arms, throwing himself in the way of Glendinning, they rushed on
each other so fiercely, that both horses were overthrown, and the riders
lay rolling on the plain. Neither was able to arise, for the black
horseman was pierced through with Glendinning's lance, and the Knight
of Avenel, oppressed with the weight of his own horse and sorely bruised
besides, seemed in little better plight than he whom he had mortally
wounded.
“Yield thee, Sir Knight of Avenel, rescue or no rescue,” said Roland,
who had put a second antagonist out of condition to combat, and hastened
to prevent Glendinning from renewing the conflict.
“I may not choose but yield,” said Sir Halbert, “since I can no longer
fight; but it shames me to speak such a word to a coward like thee!”
“Call me not coward,” said Roland, lifting his visor, and helping his
prisoner to rise, “since but for old kindness at thy hands, and yet more
at thy lady's, I had met thee as a brave man should.”
“The favourite page of my wife!” said Sir Halbert, astonished; “Ah!
wretched boy, I have heard of thy treason at Lochleven.”
“Reproach him not, my brother,” said the Abbot, “he was but an agent in
the hands of Heaven.”
“To horse, to horse!” said Catherine Seyton; “mount and begone, or we
are all lost. I see our gallant army flying for many a league--To horse,
my Lord Abbot--To horse, Roland--my gracious Liege, to horse! Ere this,
we should have ridden many a mile.”
“Look on these features,” said Mary, pointing to the dying knight, who
had been unhelmed by some compassionate hand; “look there, and tell me
if she who ruins all who love her, ought to fly a foot farther to save
her wretched life!”
The reader must have long anticipated the discovery which the Queen's
feelings had made before her eyes confirmed it. It was the features of
the unhappy George Douglas, on which death was stamping his mark.
“Look--look at him well,” said the Queen, “thus has it been with all who
loved Mary Stewart!--The royalty of Francis, the wit of Chastelar, the
power and gallantry of the gay Gordon, the melody of Rizzio, the portly
form and youthful grace of Darnley, the bold address and courtly
manners of Bothwell--and now the deep-devoted passion of the noble
Douglas--nought could save them!--they looked on the wretched Mary, and
to have loved her was crime enough to deserve early death! No sooner had
the victim formed a kind thought of me, than the poisoned cup, the axe
and block, the dagger, the mine, were ready to punish them for casting
away affection on such a wretch as I am!--Importune me not--I will fly
no farther--I can die but once, and I will die here.”
While she spoke, her tears fell fast on the face of the dying man, who
continued to fix his eyes on her with an eagerness of passion, which
death itself could hardly subdue.--“Mourn not for me,” he said faintly,
“but care for your own safety--I die in mine armour as a Douglas should,
and I die pitied by Mary Stewart!”
He expired with these words, and without withdrawing his eyes from her
face; and the Queen, whose heart was of that soft and gentle mould,
which in domestic life, and with a more suitable partner than Darnley,
might have made her happy, remained weeping by the dead man, until
recalled to herself by the Abbot, who found it necessary to use a style
of unusual remonstrance. “We also, madam,” he said, “we, your Grace's
devoted followers, have friends and relatives to weep for. I leave
a brother in imminent jeopardy--the husband of the Lady Fleming--the
father and brothers of the Lady Catherine, are all in yonder bloody
field, slain, it is to be feared, or prisoners. We forget the fate
of our nearest and dearest, to wait on our Queen, and she is too much
occupied with her own sorrows to give one thought to ours.”
“I deserve not your reproach, father,” said the Queen, checking her
tears; “but I am docile to it--where must we go--what must we do?”
“We must fly, and that instantly,” said the Abbot; “whither is not so
easily answered, but we may dispute it upon the road--Lift her to her
saddle, and set forward.”
[Footnote: I am informed in the most polite manner, by D. MacVean, Esq.
of Glasgow, that I have been incorrect in my locality, in giving an
account of the battle of Langside. Crookstone Castle, he observes, lies
four miles west from the field of battle, and rather in the rear of
Murray's army. The real place from which Mary saw the rout of her last
army, was Cathcart Castle, which, being a mile and a half east from
Langside, was, situated in the rear of the Queen's own army. I was led
astray in the present case, by the authority of my deceased friend,
James Grahame the excellent and amiable author of the Sabbath, in his
drama on the subject of Queen Mary; and by a traditionary report of Mary
having seen the battle from the Castle of Crookstone, which seemed so
much to increase the interest of the scene, that I have been unwilling
to make, in this particular instance, the fiction give way to the fact,
which last is undoubtedly in favour of Mr. MacVean's system.
It is singular how tradition, which is sometimes a sure guide to truth,
is, in other cases, prone to mislead us. In the celebrated field of
battle at Killiecrankie, the traveller is struck with one of those
rugged pillars of rough stone, which indicate the scenes of ancient
conflict. A friend of the author, well acquainted with the circumstances
of the battle, was standing near this large stone, and looking on the
scene around, when a highland shepherd hurried down from the hill to
offer his services as cicerone, and proceeded to inform him, that Dundee
was slain at that stone, which was raised to his memory. “Fie, Donald.”
answered my friend, “how can you tell such a story to a stranger? I
am sure you know well enough that Dundee was killed at a considerable
distance from this place, near the house of Fascally, and that this
stone was here long before the battle, in 1688.”--“Oich! oich!” said
Donald, no way abashed, “and your honour's in the right, and I see you
ken a' about it. And he wasna killed on the spot neither, but lived till
the next morning; but a' the Saxon gentlemen like best to hear he was
killed at the great stane.” It is on the same principle of pleasing my
readers, that I retain Crookstone Castle instead of Cathcart.
If, however, the author has taken a liberty in removing the actual field
of battle somewhat to the eastward, he has been tolerably strict in
adhering to the incidents of the engagement, as will appear from it
comparison of events in the novel, with the following account from an
old writer.
“The Regent was out on foot and all his company, except the Laird of
Grange, Alexander Hume of Manderston, and some borderers to the number
of two hundred. The Laird of Grange had already viewed the ground, and
with all imaginable diligence caused every horseman to take behind him
a footman of the Regent's, to guard behind them, and rode with speed
to the head of Langside-hill, and set down the footmen with their
culverings at the head of a straight lane, where there were some cottage
houses and yards of great advantage. Which soldiers with their continual
shot killed divers of the vaunt guard, led by the Hamiltons, who,
courageously and fiercely ascending up the hill, were already out of
breath, when the Regent's vaunt guard joined with them. Where the
worthy Lord Hume fought on foot with his pike in his hand very manfully,
assisted by the Laird of Cessford, his brother-in-law, who helped him up
again when he was strucken to the ground by many strokes upon his face,
through the throwing pistols at him after they had been discharged. He
was also wounded with staves, and had many strokes of spears through his
legs; for he and Grange, at the joining, cried to let their adversaries
first lay down their spears, to bear up theirs; which spears were so
thick fixed in the others' jacks, that some of the pistols and great
staves that were thrown by them which were behind, might be seen lying
upon the spears.
“Upon the Queen's side the Earl of Argyle commanded the battle, and the
Lord of Arbroth the vaunt guard. But the Regent committed to the Laird
of Grange the special care, as being an experimented captain, to oversee
every danger, and to ride to every wing, to encourage and make help
where greatest need was. He perceived, at the first joining, the right
wing of the Regent's vaunt guard put back and like to fly, whereof the
greatest part were commons of the barony of Renfrew; whereupon he rode
to them, and told them that their enemy was already turning their backs,
requesting them to stay and debate till he should bring them fresh men
forth of the battle. Whither at full speed he did ride alone, and told
the Regent that the enemy were shaken and flying away behind the little
village, and desired a few number of fresh men to go with him. Where he
found enough willing, as the Lord Lindesay, the Laird of Lochleven,
Sir James Balfour, and all the Regent's servants, who followed him with
diligence, and reinforced that wing which was beginning to fly; which
fresh men with their loose weapons struck the enemies in their flank and
faces, which forced them incontinent to give place and turn back after
long fighting and pushing others to and fro with their spears. There
were not many horsemen to pursue after them, and the Regent cried to
save and not to kill, and Grange was never cruel, so that there were few
slain and taken. And the only slaughter was at the first rencounter
by the shot of the soldiers, which Grange had planted at the lane head
behind some dikes.”
It is remarkable that, while passing through the small town of Renfrew,
some partisans, adherents of the House of Lennox, attempting to arrest
Queen Mary and her attendants, were obliged to make way for her not
without slaughter.]
They set off accordingly--Roland lingered a moment to command the
attendants of the Knight of Avenel to convey their master to the Castle
of Crookstone, and to say that he demanded from him no other condition
of liberty, than his word, that he and his followers would keep secret
the direction in which the Queen fled. As he turned his rein to
depart, the honest countenance of Adam Woodcock stared upon him with an
expression of surprise, which, at another time, would have excited his
hearty mirth. He had been one of the followers who had experienced the
weight of Roland's arm, and they now knew each other, Roland having put
up his visor, and the good yeoman having thrown away his barret-cap,
with the iron bars in front, that he might the more readily assist his
master. Into this barret-cap, as it lay on the ground, Roland forgot not
to drop a few gold pieces, (fruits of the Queen's liberality,) and with
a signal of kind recollection and enduring friendship, he departed at
full gallop to overtake the Queen, the dust raised by her train being
already far down the hill.
“It is not fairy-money,” said honest Adam, weighing and handling the
gold--“And it was Master Roland himself, that is a certain thing--the
same open hand, and, by our Lady!” (shrugging his shoulders)--“the same
ready fist!--My Lady will hear of this gladly, for she mourns for him as
if he were her son. And to see how gay he is! But these light lads
are as sure to be uppermost as the froth to be on the top of the
quart-pot--Your man of solid parts remains ever a falconer.” So saying,
he went to aid his comrades, who had now come up in greater numbers, to
carry his master into the Castle of Crookstone.
Chapter the Thirty-Eighth.
My native land, good night!
BYRON.
Many a bitter tear was shed, during the hasty flight of Queen Mary, over
fallen hopes, future prospects, and slaughtered friends. The deaths of
the brave Douglas, and of the fiery but gallant young Seyton, seemed to
affect the Queen as much as the fall from the throne, on which she had
so nearly been again seated. Catherine Seyton devoured in secret her own
grief, anxious to support the broken spirits of her mistress; and the
Abbot, bending his troubled thoughts upon futurity, endeavoured in
vain to form some plan which had a shadow of hope. The spirit of young
Roland--for he also mingled in the hasty debates held by the companions
of the Queen's flight--continued unchecked and unbroken.
“Your Majesty,” he said, “has lost a battle--Your ancestor, Bruce, lost
seven successively, ere he sat triumphant on the Scottish throne, and
proclaimed with the voice of a victor, in the field of Bannockburn, the
independence of his country. Are not these heaths, which we may traverse
at will, better than the locked, guarded, and lake-moated Castle of
Lochleven?--We are free--in that one word there is comfort for all our
losses.”
He struck a bold note, but the heart of Mary made no response.
“Better,” she said, “I had still been in Lochleven, than seen the
slaughter made by rebels among the subjects who offered themselves to
death for my sake. Speak not to me of farther efforts--they would only
cost the lives of you, the friends who recommend them! I would not again
undergo what I felt, when I saw from yonder mount the swords of the fell
horsemen of Morton raging among the faithful Seytons and Hamiltons, for
their loyalty to their Queen--I would not again feel what I felt when
Douglas's life-blood stained my mantle for his love to Mary Stewart--not
to be empress of all that Britain's seas enclose. Find for me some place
where I can hide my unhappy head, which brings destruction on all
who love it--it is the last favour that Mary asks of her faithful
followers.”
In this dejected mood, but still pursuing her flight with unabated
rapidity, the unfortunate Mary, after having been joined by Lord Herries
and a few followers, at length halted, for the first time, at the Abbey
of Dundrennan, nearly sixty miles distant from the field of battle. In
this remote quarter of Galloway, the Reformation not having yet been
strictly enforced against the monks, a few still lingered in their
cells unmolested; and the Prior, with tears and reverence, received the
fugitive Queen at the gate of his convent.
“I bring you ruin, my good father,” said the Queen, as she was lifted
from her palfrey.
“It is welcome,” said the Prior, “if it comes in the train of duty.”
Placed on the ground, and supported by her ladies, the Queen looked for
an instant at her palfrey, which, jaded and drooping its head, seemed as
if it mourned the distresses of its mistress.
“Good Roland,” said the Queen, whispering, “let Rosabelle be cared
for--ask thy heart, and it will tell thee why I make this trifling
request even in this awful hour.”
She was conducted to her apartment, and in the hurried consultation
of her attendants, the fatal resolution of the retreat to England was
finally adopted. In the morning it received her approbation, and
a messenger was despatched to the English warden, to pray him for
safe-conduct and hospitality, on the part of the Queen of Scotland. On
the next day the Abbot Ambrose walked in the garden of the Abbey with
Roland, to whom he expressed his disapprobation of the course pursued.
“It is madness and ruin,” he said; “better commit herself to the savage
Highlanders or wild Bordermen, than to the faith of Elizabeth. A woman
to a rival woman--a presumptive successor to the keeping of a jealous
and childless Queen!--Roland, Herries is true and loyal, but his counsel
has ruined his mistress.”
“Ay, ruin follows us every where,” said an old man, with a spade in
his hand, and dressed like a lay-brother, of whose presence, in the
vehemence of his exclamation, the Abbot had not been aware--“Gaze not on
me with such wonder!--I am he who was the Abbot Boniface at Kennaquhair,
who was the gardener Blinkhoolie at Lochleven, hunted round to the
place in which I served my noviciate, and now ye are come to rouse me
up again!--A weary life I have had for one to whom peace was ever the
dearest blessing!”
“We will soon rid you of our company, good father,” said the Abbot; “and
the Queen will, I fear, trouble your retreat no more.”
“Nay, you said as much before,” said the querulous old man, “and yet I
was put forth from Kinross, and pillaged by troopers on the road.--They
took from me the certificate that you wot of--that of the Baron--ay,
he was a moss-trooper like themselves--You asked me of it, and I could
never find it, but they found it--it showed the marriage of--of--my
memory fails me--Now see how men differ! Father Nicholas would have
told you an hundred tales of the Abbot Ingelram, on whose soul God have
mercy!--He was, I warrant you, fourscore and six, and I am not more
than--let me see----”
“Was not Avenel the name you seek, my good father?” said Roland,
impatiently, yet moderating his tone for fear of alarming or offending
the infirm old man.
“Ay, right--Avenel, Julian Avenel--You are perfect in the name--I kept
all the special confessions, judging it held with my vow to do so--I
could not find it when my successor, Ambrosius, spoke on't--but the
troopers found it, and the Knight who commanded the party struck his
breast, till the target clattered like an empty watering-can.”
“Saint Mary!” said the Abbot, “in whom could such a paper excite such
interest! What was the appearance of the knight, his arms, his colours?”
“Ye distract me with your questions--I dared hardly look at him--they
charged me with bearing letters for the Queen, and searched my
mail--This was all along of your doings at Lochleven.”
“I trust in God,” said the Abbot to Roland, who stood beside him,
shivering and trembling “with impatience,” the paper has fallen into the
hands of my brother--I heard he had been with his followers on the scout
betwixt Stirling and Glasgow.--Bore not the Knight a holly-bough on his
helmet?--Canst thou not remember?”
“Oh, remember--remember,” said the old man pettishly; “count as many
years as I do, if your plots will let you, and see what, and how much,
you remember.--Why, I scarce remember the pear-mains which I graffed
here with my own hands some fifty years since.”
At this moment a bugle sounded loudly from the beach.
“It is the death-blast to Queen Mary's royalty,” said Ambrosius; “the
English warden's answer has been received, favourable doubtless, for
when was the door of the trap closed against the prey which it was set
for?--Droop not, Roland--this matter shall be sifted to the bottom--but
we must not now leave the Queen--follow me--let us do our duty, and
trust the issue with God--Farewell, good Father--I will visit thee again
soon.”
He was about to leave the garden, followed by Roland, with
half-reluctant steps. The Ex-Abbot resumed his spade.
“I could be sorry for these men,” he said, “ay, and for that poor Queen,
but what avail earthly sorrows to a man of fourscore?--and it is a rare
dropping morning for the early colewort.”
“He is stricken with age,” said Ambrosius, as he dragged Roland down
to the sea-beach; “we must let him take his time to collect
himself--nothing now can be thought on but the fate of the Queen.”
They soon arrived where she stood, surrounded by her little train,
and by her side the sheriff of Cumberland, a gentleman of the house of
Lowther, richly dressed and accompanied by soldiers. The aspect of the
Queen exhibited a singular mixture of alacrity and reluctance to depart.
Her language and gestures spoke hope and consolation to her attendants,
and she seemed desirous to persuade even herself that the step she
adopted was secure, and that the assurance she had received of kind
reception was altogether satisfactory; but her quivering lip, and
unsettled eye, betrayed at once her anguish at departing from Scotland,
and her fears of confiding herself to the doubtful faith of England.