THE MISTS OF DEE
I confess it was with a marvellous gladness that I saw our ancient
castle of Thrieve stand up out of the morning mists, as we rode up
Deeside from the little port of Kirkcudbright, where we had landed. I
was once more in the land and among the people who were mine own. I
could scarce repress my joy. When I leaped on the quay, I declare I
could have kissed the many decent townsfolk, who, with sundry of the
neighbouring gentrice, had come down to welcome me. It was sweet to
hear their honest Scots tongues again, though oftentimes I could
hardly keep from answering back in French.
But Thrieve! To see it once more and know it mine--yes, _mine_, even
though I must fulfil my word and give it (with myself) to another, and
he a man whom I could not love.
But I did not think of that then--Thrieve and Maud Lindsay and Sholto!
These were before me, and my heart beat fast to see the valley opening
out, and the white haze lifting from the water-meadows. For though we
had left it full summer in Touraine, we came to Galloway to find it
little more than the breaking out of the spring-time on the
white-thorns on the braes.
And (so I kept saying to myself) Maud could tell me what I must
do--Maud would understand all. She would not preach like the others.
She would know that the best way to make a young maid think of any man
is constantly to abuse him to her behind his back. So they had done
with James Douglas--all but William, that is--who, I believe, had as
much idea of being jealous of his stable-knave.
But there was Laurence--whose angers, however, because of what I knew
was in his heart towards me, I could understand and forgive. But every
day there was this one and that--each with a tale to bear of my Lord
James and his wild doings--concerning maids of honour and suchlike.
Last of all, and worst of all, there was Agnes Sorel, who had had so
many bitter things to say of one concerning whom she knew nothing.
Even the Sieur Paul (no white angel himself) could not let the poor
lad go from Cour Cheverney without a blow in the by-going, perhaps
thinking to curry favour with me.
“You are marrying the right brother,” he said; “you will sleep the
easier for it! My Lord Quicksilver here would be always out at the
haymaking!”
But I answered him back that it was all upon the turn of a coin which
of my cousins I wedded--that they were all five of them brave men,
right Douglases, and true Scots. The which words, being sorry for
afterwards, caused me, upon taking of my leave, to hold up my cheek
for the Sieur Paul to kiss--saying that it was an ancient Scots
custom, the first time that one had tasted of a good man’s
hospitality. And Messire Paul had the grace to reply, “I thank you, my
lady princess, for your great condescendence. By St. Denis, if I had
been a younger man, and somewhat slimmer of my body, I should have
broke a lance with these lads myself for the honour of your
hand--though, indeed, as to the matter of your vow, I am no Scot, but
only a true Douglas in name and in heart!”
“Well,” I said, “for that good and brave saying I will give you back
your kiss--which is more than I have ever given to any of these very
poor young men, riding upon horses!”
For I knew how envious James was for the like,
[Illustration: I CONFESS IT WAS WITH A MARVELLOUS GLADNESS THAT I SAW
OUR ANCIENT CASTLE OF THRIEVE STAND UP OUT OF THE MORNING MISTS, AS WE
RODE UP DEESIDE FROM THE LITTLE PORT OF KIRKCUDBRIGHT, WHERE WE HAD
LANDED.]
and of course it pleased me to think that he would hear and see.
Which, indeed, he did, and grilled within him--not speaking a word for
the better part of a day, as we took our way down the water-side
towards the port of Nantes, where we were to embark in the little ship
which was to bring us safe to Scotland.
* * * * * * *
But it is of Thrieve and my home-coming that I have to speak. One
thing there was which appeared strange to me. Already William had
taken all under his care. It was “my castle,” “my men,” “my lands,”
“my fiefs”--till I was moved to say, “Not so fast, my dear Lord of
Douglas and Avondale--here you are only my Cousin Will, come on a
visit to MY castle. Do not, in the press of your plans, forget that
poor little Margaret is still the châtelaine of Thrieve!”
Never did you see a man more taken aback.
“Betrothed or married--it is the same thing,” he said. “Besides, have
I not faithfully administered your estates for you all the time you
have spent in France?”
“Yes, surely, Will,” said I, in the tone that never failed to make him
nettled, “it is of that I would speak. You were doubtless a good
‘doer,’ an excellent steward. But now that I am once more in my
province and principality--why, I am proud to be able to entertain my
Lord of Avondale, his brother, the Lord James, and the Abbot of Dulce
Cor for as long as they will deign to remain with me.”
But in spite of myself, I could not keep my gravity at the dismay on
his face, and I had perforce to laugh, which spoilt all.
“Margaret,” he said, “there is much to do--little time to do it in.
Let us make all secure. Before we enter Thrieve, I would have you
appoint a day for our wedding, and forewarn a priest”--
“Not Larry, then,” I cried. “He will never tie you firmly enough to
the estates you wish so much to marry. Galloway itself might slip off
the thread, with only such an apprentice at the parson work as
Laurence M‘Kim to tie the knot. And that, you know, would break your
heart, William.”
At which James laughed, till he chanced to observe the expression in
his brother’s eyes. But for that I cared nothing. Will might be as
angrisome as a wullcat of the Forest of Buchan--he would not fright
me.
“Listen, Cousin Will,” I said. “There has come to me in the night a
proposal which, if you accept, will end all your anxieties. Here it
is. Take Galloway, take the north, take the Forest, take all that is
mine on the Borderside! Leave me only the little Isle of Thrieve, with
Maud Lindsay and her husband Sholto to look after me--enough meal in
the meal-ark to make our porridge, a little beef in the larder for the
house-carles, as many chickens as I can breed and feed--and as for me,
I promise never to meddle with you or with your plottings any more!
What say you to that?”
Then for a moment William Douglas said nothing. He still said nothing
when James cried out, “Bravely said, cousin mine!--I for one will stay
and help you feed the chickens--let them go follow glory who love
glory. She is but an old unwashed dish-clout, an unstable wench that
gives a man more cuffs than cossetings.”
Then for one wild moment there came a hope in my heart that Will would
take me at my word. But his silence was only his accustomed way of
examining everything seriously, and of giving a fair and equal
consideration to each proposition that was placed before him. This it
was which made it so easy for me to tease him, and also so impossible
for him to reply. For, long before he had time to prepare his phrase,
I was, so to say, “out of the window with the swallows.”
“Margaret,” he said, quite simply for so great a man, “I do not use
ink-horn terms. But I tell you this--if you speak in earnest, you know
not what you say. And if not--then _I_ know not what you mean!”
So after this I said no word more, nor yet did James. For there is
nothing so disconcerting to those who count themselves clever with the
tongue (which both James and I did) as to be put down by the
simplicity of one whom they know greater than they.
But there at the last was the boat waiting to ferry us across the
river. (For be it not forgotten that the castle of Thrieve lies upon
an island of twenty acres or thereby, with the river Dee running deep
about it on every side--save at a place on the east where, as I
remember, it was mostly possible to cross on stepping-stones in the
long droughts of summer.) And in the boat, to my eye more beautiful
than La Dame de Beauté herself, there sat--could it be?--yes--my old
companion and only friend--sweetest Maud Lindsay, she who had married
Sholto M‘Kim, now the governor of Thrieve and war-captain of all the
levies of my lord the Earl of Douglas--most dear and notable, both of
them.
“Maud!” I cried, slipping from my pony and running to the margent to
meet her. I was about to clasp her in my arms as I used to do--as
vividly and rapturously as if we had been lovers of only a handful of
days. But, gazing at me, she seemed to be amazed somehow--I cannot
tell why--perhaps because I was so grown and tall--having gowns of
silk to my feet--that I too paused.
And then, to my utter astonishment, she suddenly bent down upon her
knee, and, seizing my hand, she kissed it, weeping and murmuring words
like these: “Oh, my gracious lady, you have grown so beautiful! But I
knew it! I knew it would fall out so!”
Upon which I lifted her up and gave her a sound shake of anger. For I
have a quick temper, and when people do not do just _what_ I want,
_when_ I want it--well, _I shake them!_
So I shook Maud.
“You doting, silly little fool!” I cried; “do you not know that you
are Maud--my Maud, whom I love more than a world of men? Why, it is
for you I am come home, do you hear? I will be a goose-girl to you, if
you will but let me stay, and love me as of old. I will nurse the last
baby--though, indeed, really I love them not greatly till they can run
and speak (being like a man in that)! I will play with them on the
downs by the Three Thorns and listen to the clank of the armourer’s
hammer if Malise is still at his anvil. But I will not--I swear it--be
a princess and a great lady to you!”
And I fairly sprang upon her neck, putting my arms about and
about--yes, and kissing her over and over till she was sobbing blindly
in my arms without let or stint, truce or limit, happily
weeping--which indeed is one of woman’s greatest luxuries, till at
last she becomes old and awaits the end. Then (hard that it should be
so) the fount of her tears is dried up, and she sorrows like a man,
rendingly, and without pleasure. I that write these things know.
However, there, on the bank of Dee Water, I let Maud weep. And it did
her good. For she was young and fair, and there were many there to
see. I think Sholto had been wont to stop her, thinking (being a man,
and, therefore, in these matters a fool!) that a woman’s tears
signified unhappiness. But I knew my Maud better. And so in time we
made a good end, with Laurence waiting behind with a solemn
countenance, Will cutting impatiently at his boot with his riding
switch, and James all upon the broad grin. (He thought he understood
these things, women, and so forth--God help him! He who thinks that is
the greatest fool of all.) And lo! looking up, there, on the opposite
bank, was Sholto, looking like a prince, all in black armour, with the
warden’s red favour on his helmet. He had his visor down, and at the
head of his gentlemen, with his plume sweeping his shoulders, he
appeared, as I say, like a very god. And Maud, wiping her tears,
whispered, “Yes, I dressed him,” in answer to my words in her ear.
We went across, just Cousin Will and I, with Maud (whom I would not
for anything leave behind) holding my hand all the time as if I might
yet escape her. And when we were at the most half way across--lo, she
smiled with eyes still wet, and it was like the sun of August shining
through clouds on the dripping corn-stooks.
“Oh, I am so glad to have you again, my own little maid!” she said,
and kissed me.
“Ah,” I cried triumphantly, “that is better! You are my Maud, after
all--my Maud--my Maud!”
As for Cousin Will, he said nothing, only with his eye ran over the
accoutrements of the knights of the escort and the soldiers of the
guard, to see if he could pick a fault.
But he had Sholto M‘Kim to deal with, and his lieutenant, Andro the
Penman. So all was as in such a case it could not help being. And then
as the boat came gently to the little landing-place, which was built
with pier and breakwater, all complete, like a tiny harbour--my dear
brother David had taken a pride in it--I sprang directly upon my own
Isle of Thrieve.
At the same moment Sholto leaped from his horse. Andro the Penman
unlaced his helm, and the Captain of the Douglas Guard, bareheaded,
kneeling on the soft grass of the river brink, presented to me the
keys of the castle upon a golden paten.
But because all my life I loved not ceremony, I only clapped him on
his head--which was covered all over with crisp curls, cut short so
that his head would not be too hot within the leather-lined shell of
steel they call a helmet, and bade him give the keys to William. Which
when he had done, he kissed my hand, and I asked him if his father
ever beat him with his buckled waist-strap nowadays?
This I did to make him laugh. For ceremonies, especially when only one
person is ceremonious, are awkward things, and it needs tact to get
quit of them without the hurting of feelings. But then--well, you
learn how to manage such things in France. A convent is good for so
much, at any rate.
So in a few moments we were all talking quickly together, while the
boat went back to bring over James, together with Laurence and his
people. My Cousin Will did not say much, but then no one expected it
of him. When he had shaken hands with Sholto, kissed Maud Lindsay’s
hand, nodded to Andro the Penman and his brother, forthwith he devoted
himself to the examination of every part of the architecture of the
castle as if he had never seen it before--the outer works, the moat,
the great drawbridge, the flanking towers, the wall of enceinture, and
the keep, with its high gallery of wood set on wooden beams.
I could see him shake his wise head. There was in the matter of
shaking no one like Will. You could always tell when he had an idea.
He shook it as a terrier shakes a rat, as the mill-hopper doth the
corn.
“That will never do--never,” I heard him mutter. “We must have them of
stone--as at Amboise. At the first red-hot ball from a mortar they
would be in a blaze!”
From that I could discern very clearly the direction of his thoughts.
So Maud and I were left alone, Sholto directing his gentlemen of the
Douglas Guard to ride on either side as an escort. It was good to see
him mount his horse as easily as of yore, even though in full armour,
which showed me that, though the father of a family, he had lost none
of his old active ways. And indeed, as the future proved, Sholto had
only grown stronger and firmer in his seat, so that even James was no
longer a match for him at the spear-driving when they tried it in the
lists of Thrieve Isle.
Then Maud went on to tell me how each of her babes was more wonderful
than the others. She spoke of Marcelle, the eldest, who was learned in
broidery work and could read like Clerk Laurence himself; of Cuthbert
and Bride, the twins, who for ever fought and harcelled each other,
even as their father and uncle had done about the old forge on the
bank of Carlinwark. Then there was Ulric and little David, the one
falling over the twitch-grass of the meadow-land and digging at the
sandy rabbit-holes like a scent-dog, while as yet, David, being the
youngest, was content to sit on the lap of his mother solemnly
contemplating the grey walls of Archibald the Grim, where so many
generations of M‘Kims had done their service to as many generations of
Douglases.
At last, at last--there was the drawbridge coming down! But another
porter louted low where surly old A’Cormack had so long turned his
great creaking wheel. The willows along the waterside, the garden
inside with its homely flowers, and without, that with the homelier
plants for the pot! Thrieve! Thrieve! Could ever any place be so dear?
It was good to see even the well in the courtyard, with the great
beech twisting about it, and then, running to the edge, to mark, as of
yore, the dripping leathern plants--hartstongues they call them. They
were the same, only a little longer, a little more leathery, and a
little more drippy than I had imagined when I thought of them in the
convent, which I did often in chapel on hot afternoons.
Meanwhile, Will had gone about the house and about it, had examined
the defences in detail, with an eye fresh from Loches and Amboise,
picking out weak points, noting what must be altered, what must be
done away with, what had grown antiquated, and, generally, how the
naturally strong position of the castle could best be strengthened.
After a while he strode into the courtyard with the scowling brow
which with him only betokened deep thought. I was holding up Ulric,
that sturdy scion of the family of the M‘Kims, a lusty tribe enough;
but, i’ faith, at the sight of Will’s dark face he dropped his head on
my neck and howled most unvalorously. Maud laughed a little at some
inarticulate words which came from his baby lips.
“What does he say?” I asked, smiling.
“He says,” murmured Maud, “that he will tell his father of the naughty
black man who wants to carry Ulric away!”
I sighed.
“I wish it were only Ulric that Cousin William has it in his head to
take away!” I cried.
At that moment came Will up, stalking over the flagged pavement,
solemn as a stork in armour.
“Margaret,” he said, as if he asked “What’s o’clock?” “I forgot. You
have not yet named a day for our marriage.”
“Why,” said I, “how am I to dare? I might cross your wondrous devices.
Let your Highness choose your own time! Say, shall it be some morning
a few years hence, when you have no plans to make, no rent-rolls to
revise, no troops of horse to pass in review, when all your architects
and builders have ceased from troubling, and there is not even an
arrow-shooting or a wapenshaw in all the Douglas country from south to
north, when all the thieves are hanged out of Annandale, and there is
not a cow in her wrong byre from Edenmouth to Berwick bound, when you
are the King of the King of Scots, and Lord of the Lords of the
north--then, unless you have an unproven hawk to fly at a heron, or a
main of lusty cocks to fight, or a leash of dogs to take out for the
coursing--why, good sir, of your pleasure, will you please to marry
me?”
But Will took it all quite solemnly, or at least appeared to do so.
“Thank you,” he said. “This is Wednesday--shall we say Saturday? There
is nothing to take me away from Thrieve before that.”
I let the boy drop on the grass in my horror. His mother ran to rescue
him, but Master Ulric was noways alarmed. He only rolled over, and
putting his great toe in his mouth, lay regarding the sky.
“No, Will,” I said; “be good enough to remember that I am not a parcel
of goods to be handed over the counter, nor yet a bullock to be
delivered three days after sale, sound in wind and limb. Give me a
month, if it were only, like the daughter of Jephthah, to bewail my”--
But I did not get time to finish my quotation.
“Child,” he cried, for the first time visibly angered, “you do not
know what you say! This thing is the will of God.”
“It is the will of William, Earl of Douglas, which is considerably
more to the point,” I retorted mockingly. But he did not heed. It took
more than the flout of a girl to move Will of Douglas and Avondale
from his purpose.
“Then, I take it,” he repeated, as it were extracting the kernel of
meaning and leaving the husk of words as of no value, “you are willing
that we should be married in a month!”
“If it is His Majesty’s good and gracious pleasure,” I said, “and he
happens to have nothing better to do!”
And I made him a low reverence with the most provoking mock humility.
But I might as well have tried my agaceries on the blue ridge of Ben
Gairn, steady on the horizon of the south.
“So be it!” he said, and, turning sharp on his heel, he went out.
“I declare,” cried Maud, “your bridegroom has gone to examine the
state of the water-defences at the southern end of the isle!”
“I do not wonder,” I retorted; “he had them on his mind all the time.”
“Margaret!” she cried, pained at my manner of speech of William
Douglas.
“Yes, Maud!” I answered in the same tone, nodding as one would say,
“There it is! Make what you like of it!”