OF THE CASTLE IN THE PENTLANDS
Now the prince had been absent from his father’s hall for many days and
feared his anger or that suspicion might fall upon him; so that night
he took his horse and rode into the city of Camelon and entered his
father’s hall. There he found Feargus talking with the king. When the
prince entered, Feargus turned to withdraw and, in a moment, beheld the
wondrous ring on the prince’s finger; then his heart leapt for very joy,
for in dire trouble had he been. So he went out and donned his byrny
and slung his great sword over his shoulder, and then, covering it all
with the habit of a wandering minstrel, took his harp, the clarsach, or
small harp of the Gael, and made himself a beard of great length and
whiteness so that, having donned it, none could know him. He then went
forth, mounted on a sorry nag, which laboured so under his weight that
he had pity on it and sighed for his great grey horse. He rode to the
outskirts of the town and there waited the prince’s coming. Long after
midnight he approached with a strong company of warriors, and Feargus
dismounted and sat upon a fallen tree, and as the prince drew nigh played
a plaintive tune. With the clarsach and pipe the Picts excelled, and of
them few could be likened to Feargus for skill. Now the prince was filled
with thoughts of love, yet was he angry at having been so thwarted, and
fearful also for his own life. So when he heard the harp in the still
night he turned to the harper and drew in his beast, whereupon Feargus
sang this song:—
THE BOON OF LIFE
I sing the greatest boon of life—
’Tis not the torrent’s glorious strife,
Sun-dappled paths where nature weaves
A paradise amongst the leaves,
Or forest depths, the wild deer’s haunt,
’Tis not of these I make my vaunt,
Nay, not of these!
’Tis not the friends kind fate hath sent
Full of brave thoughts and hardiment,
Though at your back a stalwart friend
His blade will swing, swift to defend,
Nor heed though foemen be a host,
Yet not of these I make my boast,
Nay, not of these!
Whose face is fresh as morning fair,
Whose hands the whitest anywhere,
What is the one thing I can praise,
With all my heart through all my days,
With all the life that me doth move?
’Tis only love, ah, yes, ’tis love!
The prince listened till the end of the song, and said he, “Thou hast
wondrous skill, good minstrel; never heard I the like, nay, and the song
thou singest pleaseth me.”
Then Feargus answered, imitating the broken English of the Lothian
Britons, “Yes, sir knight, but I am old and my hand will not long keep
its cunning.”
“Here’s gold to thee, and, if thou art willing, thou mayest come with me
this night, for there is much merriment in my hall and I am to wed a fair
lady to-morrow.”
“That will I gladly, sir knight, but my beast is old and weary and can go
but slowly.”
“An thou canst play as thou wert doing a minute since I will wait on thy
beast and ride with thee.”
Then Feargus arose, but made as though he were bent and decrepit, and,
mounting his beast, rode on behind the prince; but they went but slowly
for the horse of Feargus was overdone, and Feargus was a merciful man
and loved all breathing things. At length they won the castle, and
Feargus marked it well. It lay between high hills in a narrow glen, and
to the west were two hills with conical tops;[8] it was a great building
of wood, stone, and earth and had many towers, some tall and narrow and
pointed, others in the style of the Roman city of Camelon, which could be
seen lying in the plain to the north-west, from the great brae up which
they wended by the hill of Bonaly. Close by the castle stretched a loch
and the hills encompassed it. It was the last outpost of the English
of Lothian built to keep back the native people who still held out in
the wide moors and fastnesses. They entered over the drawbridge and the
prince bade his servants give the minstrel meat and drink and then bring
him to the hall. They set the meat before him and he ate heartily, so
that they were astonished he being so old a man. Then said the seneschal,
“Methinks thou hast had a mighty frame in thy youth, good minstrel.”
“Aye, and thou hast handled a sword as well as a harp methinks, father,”
said another.
Then Feargus arose. “Yes,” he said, “I have used the harp and the sword,
but better I love the harp which makes men merry than the sword which
makes them sad.”
“Thou sayest sooth,” said the seneschal, and Feargus took his harp and
soon, such was his skill, and such was the beauty of the music of Albainn
which he played, that they forgot the harper and cried, “Well done! well
done! thou art the king of minstrels.”
They took him to the hall and there, as he entered, he beheld the prince
seated at the middle of the table and at his right hand and his left a
great and motley company of wild and savage men, on the faces of most
of whom drunkenness had left its mark. The prince himself was a man of
bloated visage, but well featured and powerful of form and with an air
of some courtliness. He was, moreover, much younger than most of his
companions. At his right hand sat Torfrida dressed in red and cloth of
gold, a jewel of wondrous beauty in her hair. Feargus thought her pale
at first, but so lively and bright was she, and so merrily she chatted
with the prince, that he was surprised. Instead of finding her distressed
he found her gay, and so far from being appalled by the thought of her
marriage with the prince on the coming day, she was bright and lively.
Feargus looked again—this was no feigned composure or merriment. Had she
forgotten him, and, glad to escape the dangers of their journey, was she
going to wed the prince? The thought flashed across his brain only to
be crushed back, and he was ashamed that it had even entered his heart.
A merry peal of laughter rang through the hall and thrilled him, and
the thought returned again, again to be forced back. Then he struck his
harp, avoiding all those airs which Torfrida knew, and so, the meal over,
Torfrida sped lightly through the hall to her chamber leaning on the arm
of the prince. Feargus stood up in the corridor as they passed, for move
he could not, and he watched him bid her farewell at the door, she giving
him her hand to kiss and waving it to him as he passed along to the hall.
And when the door of her chamber closed on her Feargus felt his knees
give under him; his strength melted away; his body shook so that his harp
nigh fell from his hands. Anger against her he felt none but only grief.
There life ended for him; all the pain, the weariness, the danger he had
passed through for her and with her, returned to him and crushed him.
Now he was in the snowstorm, now in the robbers’ cave, now he leapt into
the waters of Aire after the host of Penda; now she plucked him by the
beard and awoke him from his madness with her touch—how beautiful she
looked in that moment of recognition, was ever human creature so lovely
before! Then he saw her dying face upturned in the boat and cut his arm
that she might drink. Anger—no, he could never feel anger towards her,
and towards him—if she loved him he should go unscathed, and what help he
could give should be his. Then the water gathered in his eyes and despair
seized him, and he groped with his hand for his sword to slay himself,
and then he staggered forward a step or two and sank to earth knowing no
more.