JACK NEVILLE’S ANNE
It was on the third day of the stay of Malise the smith at the house
of the Larg of Kenmore that there came a message from the king, at
Stirling, commanding with all urgence the armourers presence at Carron
straths, where the great new cannons were being made, under Laurence’s
care.
This seemed greatly to excite Malise M‘Kim, and with much roughness of
speech he bade the messenger begone, lest a worse thing should befall
him. But Sholto and Maud, knowing that much depended on the
complaisance of the old man, laid it upon him to obey. And I also,
following the hint given me by Maud, commanded him to go and do the
king’s will.
He took a strange, lingering look at me, as if to make sure that I had
spoken in good faith.
“I understand your ladyship,” he said. “Ye shall be richtit. By God’s
ain grace ye shall be richtit. Ye shall be avenged for the man ye lost
by the bluidy hand o’ the Stewart. Bide ye! bide ye! There shall be
news to send! On a day--ay, on a day there shall be news that shall
gar the heart o’ ilka Stewart stand still frae Appin to the king’s
pailace o’ Stirling!”
So, with no more said, Malise the smith took his mighty piked staff in
his hand, and, without so much as a fair-good-day to any in the house,
he set his bonnet on his head, and strode away over the moor as he had
come, disdaining the help of any four-footed creature; the which was,
indeed, as well, for there were no more than a pair of Highland
shelties in the stables of the Larg, either of whom had been foundered
at the first bog by the weight of the armourer of Carlinwark.
When he was gone, we spoke with more ease of the strange forgetfulness
of Malise M‘Kim, and what it boded. For me I saw in it naught but
good. He had forgotten Magdalen, James Douglas, and all that had since
befallen. He had gotten what many pray for, more than for the
forgiving of their sins--that is, Forgetfulness.
But Sholto was not so sure. He foresaw a danger. In time of flood the
water will rise behind the dam, and the sluices were shut. The anger
was yet hot in his heart. With Maud or with the little children, even
with me, it vanished. The old nut-sweet nature came forth and sat in
the sun. But with his son, once or twice, a certain dangerous madness,
latent and essential, showed itself plainly. Added to this, Sholto
perceived a power of concealment altogether unlike the Malise we had
known, whose thought was a spoken word, and the word as like as not a
blow.
At anyrate we were all greatly relieved when the smith obeyed the
king’s mandate and strode away across the heather towards Carron.
Then on the fourth day thereafter came Laurence with news. His father
had arrived safely at Carron straths, where the new cannons were in
the making. He had looked with his usual contempt at the work which
had been done during his absence at the Larg of Kenmore. Without
saying a word to any as to his purpose, he had set off again for
Stirling. Then, on his return, he declared that in the new task the
king had set him, he would have none save his sons to help him, and
not even all of these. Laurence (who called himself Stewart) might, he
said, go and set up a forge for himself! Likewise Herries, who had in
a manner been Laurence’s favourite, might depart with him. There was
no room for Stewarts or Gordons in Malise M‘Kim’s forge!
The sudden ill-will with which Malise dismissed Laurence was easily
enough understood by us who had seen with pain the old man’s lapses of
memory. But it was easy to see that both Laurence and young Herries,
who had stood the burden and heat of the day at Thrieve, and
especially in the making of Mons Meg, were much discountenanced by the
armourer’s treatment of them.
But Laurence, at least, was not long so affected. He had the manifest
favour of the king, and for his fidelity and intelligence had been
promised the barony of Balveny--on condition that he should choose a
wife pleasing the king.
Concerning this Maud in especial loved to tease him, alleging that the
king had scores of Highland cousins, great and gaunt as pike staves,
all stalled like cows in a byre, and all to be pensioned off with a
man apiece and a forfeited forty-merk Douglas holding. And when, for
some reason, Laurence grew restive under these words of his
good-sister, Sholto, ever kind of heart, would cry from his
resting-chair, “Heed her not, Larry! I thought ye had more sense, man!
What is it to thee to bear that for an hour, which it hath been my lot
to hear ding-donging for years fifteen!”
Then would Maud toss her head and declare that she would go to her own
folk, taking the bairns with her. But at this Sholto would only laugh
the more and say, “Ay, Maud, will ye so?” As if he knew better--which
indeed he did.
And to his brothers Laurence and Herries, Sholto said kindly, “There
is little enough for you to get here, lads, on the rough side o’ the
Larg o’ Kenmore. These are not the fat lands of the Borel and of
Balmaghie. But there are at least twice twenty score o’ black-faced
sheep and routh o’ deer on the hills, and as for sport--the wild birds
o’ the lochs and the red grouse o’ the heather come clockin’ about the
very door!”
So for a time Herries accompanied the Kenmore herds to the hills,
helping them to make safe and commodious folds with closures of iron,
such as would prevent the wolves and foxes from entering. For it was
again the lambing-time, when was need of special care, the flocks
being of necessity abroad all through the night watches.
But being thus exiled, Laurence bode for the most part about the
house. And it is not strange that, Maud being much taken up with the
care of Sholto and with the learning of the bairns, it fell to him
once more to be much in my company.
Yet, among other things, I noted a curious shyness in all his
intercourse with me, almost something of apology and humility, as if
he were conscious of having done me some secret wrong. Though what
that could be it was not within my mind’s scope to imagine. At this
time also he would call me, “My Lady” and “My Lady Countess,” till I
had perforce to laugh at him and tell him that there was no “Lady
Countess” under the fell of the Larg--adding that I had now lost my
greatness and must be well content to be a sorner on the kindness of
my good friends Sholto and Maud. “But,” said I, “if so be that upon
occasion you have time to remember an old friend, one of a fallen
house--I pray you send us some of the beef and greens from the rich
pastures of Balveny to eat with our small ale. For ’tis you, Larry,
that are to be the great man now--carrying a king’s name and all the
rest of it!” So I continued, vexing him for my pleasure. “And then
your learning! Why, Laurence, lad, they will make a fighting
archbishop of you! For the vows of holiness, as I read them, though
stiff as to the shedding of blood, give a man every liberty to knock
out his adversary’s brains!”
“I thank you,” he said softly; “I have left all that behind me for
ever!” For some reason he loved not to be reminded of his monkish
life.
I can see him yet as he lay outstretched on the heather that day, his
eyes downcast, and his whole mien troubled. I knew by instinct that
there was something coming--something that he was ashamed to tell me.
But I was equally resolved that I would do nothing to aid him, or to
make his task easier. It was high on the side of the Larg Fell in a
favourite nook of mine. All my life I have loved falls of water--the
white foam plunging into the brown deeps of the pools, shaded with the
greenest of leaves, whispering and rustling. The love of such-like
hath worked into my soul--perhaps because I was born on the wide flats
of Dee, which the Douglases chose because they loved not to have aught
within sight to overtop their great arrogant selves, an it were not
their own castle of Thrieve.
Here, then, in a little linn were a few green birks about a rock on
which I could sit quite dry, and yet so near the water that, by
holding out my hand, I could feel the spray strike cool upon it, while
at my feet there was a smooth of turf for one of the bairns, or, as it
might be, Laurence to lie upon. I had chosen it so. A woman who hath
been twice wedded, and made as little out of it as I, may surely be
permitted to do something for herself ere she begins to grow old.
Laurence might still have been called the Young Man in Black, even as
at the taking of Thrieve. And I do think that ever after he conserved,
perhaps from his training of ecclesiast, a certain gentle
austerity--which to my eyes, at least, appeared very becoming. Slender
he was, but strong, a little pale, and with a deep line of thought
trenched between his brows. Beside him I felt very ignorant. Yet he
would never correct me nor directly counter me in the wildest or most
foolish things which I asserted. Only at some future time he would
lead the talk to the same subject, and with a certain instinct of
nobility which was natural to him, would in a breath lay the whole
clear and plain, without in the least appearing to reflect upon my
lack of knowledge.
Ah, what a pair of brothers were these two, Sholto and Laurence
M‘Kim--if only William and James Douglas had been like them! That is
what I was thinking as I sat there, holding out my hand fitfully, and
letting the spray of the waterfall drip between my fingers. Between
whiles I looked at Laurence. Then suddenly, to hide the sob that rose
in my throat, I took a handful of water and cast it laughingly upon
him. For of the brothers Sholto was Maud’s from the first, and as to
this Laurence--who would claim him? Had I not as mickle right as any?
Then the devil entering into me, I put a question to him, swiftly,
without taking time to count the cost, as, indeed, I always did such
things.
“Laurence,” said I, “were you ever in love?”
He lifted his head as if to reproach me. Then, thinking better of it,
he only shook his head.
“And yet, willy-nilly, you must marry?” I went on to tempt him. “The
king has given you Balveny and its barony on such and such conditions.
Only I advise you not to marry for love. That is the easiest way to
make shipwreck of the king’s favour. Stick to one of Maud’s Highland
Stewarts--the king’s kin, with a pedigree as long as her nose, and
rank high as her cheek-bones!”
“I shall not marry,” he answered, slowly picking the fronds from a
bracken one by one and throwing them into the linn. “I shall not bide
longer in Scotland than is necessary! I will e’en go and take service
with the King of France. He hath made me advances already, hearing
doubtless some bruit of the battering of Thrieve with the great
cannon”--
He stopped short, doubtless seeing some pain on my face.
“Leave Scotland,” I cried, “leave me! I had--never--thought--it
of--you, Laurence! Though why, I know not. You are free. None can say
but you are free to come and go. But--but--then I shall have none to
think of me--care for me! I thought you did, Laurence!”
In a moment he had thrown himself again at my feet. He had stood up
while I was speaking, as if against his will erected and elated by my
words. Now he was kneeling at my knees, his hands clasped as before an
altar and all the soul of him in his eyes.
“Margaret,” he said, “do not say that. It is wrong to say that. I love
you--God knows--I who have no right to love you! I have loved you ever
since I was a lad in the smithy, and saw you over the shoulders of the
men-at-arms sitting beside the Queen of Beauty at the great tourney.
Yet I who love you thus am as a dog, a mean thing before you. You will
spurn me when you know. And justly. I have here with me a letter from
your husband in England. I have brought it three times to the Larg.
Thrice I have carried it away again. I feared--ah, how I feared--that
he summoned you to him in England--_and_--_that you would go!_”
He paused, all shaking with the vehemence of his emotion. His hair
clung dankly about his brow.
“God’s grace!” he murmured, “I could not do it. I could not give it.
But I am stronger now. There is your letter, Lady Margaret. And try to
forgive the man who goes from you wretched and heartbroken. As God is
in His heaven, I will aid you to return to your husband. I will make
it my sacrifice so to do. Then after that”--
He stopped, with the mere force of putting restraint upon his emotion.
For to Laurence M‘Kim these things came hard, being by nature reticent
and of few words--that is, in the things nearest his heart, though
light enough in other matters.
But I laughed, knowing James Douglas.
“Open and read the letter,” I bade him. “He that was my husband is
little likely to send across the Border any such invitation to
Margaret Douglas. Open--read! Why, man, wherefore do you shake? Can
you not read? Are you not a clerk? Have you forgotten your letters?
Open, I say!”
Yet, for all that, he would not. So at the last I snatched the letter
from his hand, broke the seal, and bade him read.
I knew James Douglas’s scrawl. He ever wrote as if with the point of
his dagger, or, rather, with a wooden skewer picked from a butcher’s
stall in the market-place.
Then Laurence read aloud the words which I append hereto.
“Dear Cozin Marget,--I write to tell you that I am marriet to poor
Jack Neville’s Anne, she that was Anne Holland. I ken weel that ye
will mak no wry nor scurvy faces over this news, but, contrarywise, be
heart-glad no longer to be tied to one who is for ever tripping and
stumbling towards the left hand.
“Cozin Marget, I wish ye weel. I wad that it had been in my
wig-wagging nature to be a better man to you. But now I must e’en do
the best I can for poor Jack Neville’s Anne. She is bonnie for a widow
woman, and young also--but hath brocht me no portion. If you have
aught that you can spare in your stocking-foot, pray remember your
loving Cozin James. For in truth I am in hard case for two or three
hunder pound. The king hath given me his Order of the Garter for a bit
battle I focht for him near to Shrewsbury, and for cutting aff a
Welshman’s head. But I had rather he had given me the five hunder rose
nobles he promised me than a hale cart-load of Garters.
“But this one I did give to poor Jack Neville’s Anne to bind up her
stockings withal. And, indeed, it was from certain giff-gaff and
merriment we had between us anent the matter in poor Jack Neville’s
sometime rose garden that Anne and I came to be marriet.
“I hope, dear cozin, you will not go into a nunnery. To my mind there
is no sense in such places--but instead, I prithee, go find a better
man than me! All the same, fair day or foul day, I am resolvit to do
the best I can for poor Jack Neville’s Anne.
“Whilk Receive from Your Loving Cozin,
“James of Douglas.
“_Above all do not forget the siller._ John Tweedie, a merchant of
barkit skins in the Wellgate at Carlisle town, is a safe man to send
it by, and kens me weel. If it is a maitter of a thousand merks, so
mickle the better.
“_Written from my lodgings in Southwark Borough Town, where Anne and I
would do not ill, an it were not for our poverty. Aprile the_ 30_th._”
* * * * * * *
Never did changes more curious come over any man’s face in the same
space of time than those which passed over Laurence M‘Kim’s as he
stood before me reading and re-reading James Douglas’s letter. I admit
that I watched him somedeal mischievously, and at the end I fairly
broke into a tempest of laughter.
But Laurence did not laugh. He took the matter with great seriousness,
not knowing my husband James as I did, nor comprehending his nature.
“Then you are a free woman!” he said, folding up the letter with an
exceeding attention to the folds.
“I am, or I shall be soon!” answered I, without taking my eyes off his
face. Then all at once I remembered the phrase in James Douglas’s
letter, twice repeated, how he must try now to do his best for poor
Jack Neville’s Anne!
At that there came a wicked thought into my head.
“Laurence,” I said, going up to him softly and looking into his eyes,
somewhere in the middle way betwixt tears and laughter, “if I ask you
a question, will you give me a true answer?”
“That I will!” he said. “What is it?”
“But it is a favour I have to ask!” I continued. “Will you grant it?”
“An it involved the damnation of my soul!” he said, with the same
convincing quiet.
“_Then will you, too, do the best you can for poor Jack Neville’s
Anne?_”