THE MILL ON THE BANNOCK.
"Oh, for a tongue to curse the slave
Whose treason, like a deadly blight,
Comes o'er the councils of the brave,
And blasts them in their hour of might."
All unaware that he was singled out and tracked, James rode from that
lost battle-field at a rapid trot, to reach the boats of Sir Andrew
Wood; and every sound that rose from the Roman Way and woke the
echoes of the Torwood--every shout and random shot of cannon or of
hand-gun, made his heart vibrate and leap within him; for even as his
own children did this good king love the people of his kingdom. His
heart was full of prayer and sorrow, and the resolution which he had
so often announced, of retiring to the court of his ally, Charles
VIII., was now stronger than ever within him. As he thought of this,
his saddened spirit rose, and he felt soothed by the beauty of the
evening. The gorgeous sunset shot upward with a thousand golden rays
behind the green peaks of the fertile Ochils, piercing the saffron
clouds like veils of shining gauze; the giant oaks of the Torwood,
many of them thirty or forty feet in circumference were rustling
their heavy foliage; the solemn Scottish firs were shaking their wiry
cones; and the perfume of the wild Gueldre roses loaded the evening
air.
The coo of the cushat dove, the plashing of the Bannock under its
pale green sauch-trees and white-blossomed hawthorns, the rocks
spotted with grey lichens and green moss, the flowers, the birds, the
foliage, the blue sky, the balmy air, and the beautiful mountains,
all spoke to the poor king of his native home and that beloved
Scotland which he had now resolved to leave for ever; and as he
approached the Bannockburn he leaped the grey charger--Lindesay's
last and fatal gift--across from bank to bank, and it cleared them by
one furious bound. This was near Beaton's Mill, which still remains
about one mile east from the field.
The mill was a strongly-built and old-fashioned house with
crow-stepped gables, a heavily thatched roof, deep windows obscured
by flour; a square ingle-lum, over which the green ivy clustered,
stood at one end, while its huge wooden wheel revolved merrily at the
other. Its snug and quiet aspect made the king think, with a sigh,
(as he shortened his reins and rode on,) how much the contented and
unambitious life of the occupant was to be envied.
Now it happened most unfortunately that Mysie Beaton, the gudewife of
the Milltoun, was filling a pitcher with water from the dam; and on
seeing an armed knight riding at full speed towards her, she uttered
a shriek of terror and tossed away the tin vessel, which clattered
noisily along the road, while she fled into her cottage adjoining the
mill.
Terrified by the rolling pitcher and the foolish woman's sudden cry,
the fiery grey horse swerved furiously round and threw his royal
rider heavily on the road, close to one of those boor-tree hedges
which generally in those days enclosed old gardens and barnyards in
Scotland.
Gawain Beaton, the miller, a stout ruddy man about forty years of
age, clad in a buckram gaberdine, which, like his beard and bonnet,
was whitened by flour and meal, sprang to the door on hearing his
wife cry and the armour clatter.
"Deevil mend thee, Mysie!" said he, angrily; "for thine eldritch
scraigh hath scared the horse and slain this comely gentleman!"
"Oh! I trow not," said the woman, in great terror.
"Weel may ye trow sae," said the miller, in some consternation on
beholding the excessive richness of the king's armour; "for if his
vassals come this gate they will level the mill to its grundstane; we
sall tyne our a', and hae to flee like maukins when the bratches are
on the bent."
"Rise, sir--oh! rise; for the love of St. Mary and St. Ringan say
where are ye hurt?" cried the miller's wife, kneeling down by the
prostrate man; but there came no reply from him, though she placed
her ear close to the barred umbriere of the closed helmet.
"Hoolie," said the honest miller to his buxom wife, from whose
usually pink cheeks the roses had now fled and left them white as her
coif of Mary of Gueldre's time; "Hoolie, gudewife, see ye nocht the
knicht is feckless and weak? Let us bear him in ayont the hallan,
and get ye the flask of usquebaugh and mak' him a milk posset."
While the fatal steed was galloping over the Carse, the miller and
his wife raised the body of the inanimate man; and bearing him in,
closed the mill-door, carefully secured its tirling-pin, and laid him
on their humble box-bed; and then while the kind and sympathizing
Mysie busied herself in making up a posset, the miller, her husband,
undid the clasps of the gorget and the back and breast-plates,
removing them all after taking off the helmet, which he did with
ease, as it was opened simply by throwing up the metonniere which
guarded the chin and throat, and which turned on the same screw with
the vizor.
On doing this the miller saw a pale and handsome face, surrounded by
thick, dark clustering hair, and a well-trimmed beard; but the
stranger was still senseless, and a streak of blood was flowing from
his mouth. On beholding so much manly beauty, the sympathy and
remorse of the miller's wife were greatly increased; and on her knees
she took the gauntlets off his hands and assisted Gawain to chafe
them, and to lave the patient's brow with cool water which he brought
from the Bannock in a black leather jack, about sixteen inches high;
and then slowly the object of their care began to revive.
"Eh! sirs--oh! sirs--St. Mary sain us!--to see that comely face sae
pale and sad!" exclaimed Mysie; "oh! withered be my tongue for
uttering that doolfu' cry!"
"And dule it may bring to us, Mysie my doo," said the miller; "if
some o' his lances pass this way--for his friends may slaughter us,
or their enemies may slaughter him--for we kenna whether he fought
this sorrowfu' day for the king--whom God bless--or the black-hearted
nobles; but his degree is doubtless high; look at that armour, Mysie;
ilka stud on't is pure gold, and the diamonds shine like stars on his
baldrick and dudgeon knife!"
"Alake, alake!" mourned Mysie, who deemed herself the source of all,
and whose sympathies were more and more excited by the apparent rank
of the unknown; "the sicht o' this winsome gentleman wi' his silken
hair bedabbled in bluid wad melt the heart o' a nether mill-stone."
"'Od, Mysie, I ken mine is loupin like a mill happer, and I wuss we
were weel clear o' this ravelled hesp."
"And some fair lady in Lawder or Angus will be sitting on the
tower-head wi' a fan in her hand, looking sadly owre moss and
muirland for you, my puir sir," said Mysie, passing her hand timidly
and kindly through James's silky hair. And now his senses began to
rally. "I am richt glad, Gawain dear, I hid _your_ steel bonnet and
harness this morning----"
"And keepit me frae fechting for our noble king--mair shame to you,
Mysie lass."
"Thanks, good people, thanks," murmured their patient, rising up
slowly on his elbow, and gazing about him with sad and heavy eyes.
He passed a hand across his damp and blood-stained brow, and looked
again at the low-roofed and clay-floored cottage, with its bunkers or
window-seats, its fir ambres and girnels, its Scottish fauldstools
and wide fire-place, before which lay the half of a cart-wheel as a
fender, and within which, though the month was June, there blazed a
fire of turf and bog-fir under a huge three-legged kail-pot that hung
on one of those wooden crocans, or crooks (last used in the
Hebrides), and then he turned again with surprise to his attendants.
"Honest people, accept my thanks, I pray you, for this great
kindness--but say, where am I?"
"In the mill-toun o' Bannock, gentle sir," said Mysie, making low
courtesy.
"How far from this day's field of sorrow?"
"Little mair than a mile, sir."
"He is a king's man," said the miller, with satisfaction.
"And who, gudeman, are you?" he asked, with mild dignity.
"Gawain Beaton, a puir miller, at your honour's service," said the
host, removing his dusty bonnet; "and this is Mysie, my gudewife,
sir."
"Here, then, I am safe. Thank God, I have not fallen among those who
boast of gentle blood and heraldic blazonry," replied the other,
while his eyes flashed.
"Gentle bluid--I dinna understand ye, sir. I am a far awa' cousin o'
the Beatons o' Balfour," said Gawain, proudly.
"What, art thou, too, infected by this absurdity? But, Gawain
Beaton, and thou, too, gudewife, if I live, shall find this service
faithfully and thankfully remembered; but I fear me my days cannot be
many now, for that fall from my horse has been a dreadful shock to
me."
"Oh say, gentle sir, what can we do for you," said Mysie. "Command
us--we are at your bidding."
"Then get me a priest, that I may confess."
"There is none nearer than Cambuskenneth or St. Ninian's Kirk," said
Gawain, taking his walking-staff and dagger; "yet I can soon reach
either; but may we ask your name, sir?"
"My gudeman, this day, at morn, I was YOUR KING," said James, with a
hollow voice and sorrowful emphasis, as he sank back on the coarse
box-bed.
Gawain stood as one terrified and confounded on hearing this; but
Mysie, his wife, burst into tears, and wringing her hands in great
fear and excitement, ran out upon the roadway as she heard hoofs
approaching.
"A priest," she cried, "a priest, for God's love and sweet St. Mary's
sake: a priest to confess the king!"
"To confess whom say ye?" cried the headmost of four armed horsemen,
who, with helmets open and swords drawn, galloped up to her in the
glooming.
"The king, the king, gude sirs--our puir and sakeless king!"
"And where is he, gudewife?"
"Lying in our pair bed--here, in here, ayont the hallan in my
gudeman's mill. Oh, sirs, for a priest!"
"Hush, woman, I am a priest," said the first, who was no other than
_Sir_ Hew Borthwick, with a glance of infernal import to his three
companions, as he leaped from his horse; "lead me to the king."
Borthwick entered the lonely mill, and his three companions, who were
no other than Sir Patrick Gray of Kyneff, Sir William Stirling of
Keir, and Sir James Shaw of Sauchie, after fastening their horses to
the hedge without, followed him beyond the _hallan_, or wooden
partition which formed the inner apartment.