Cry the wild war-note, let the champions pass,
Do bravely each, and God defend the right;
Upon Saint Andrew thrice can they thus cry,
And thrice they shout on height,
And then marked them on the Englishmen,
As I have told you right.
Saint George the bright, our ladies' knight,
To name they were full fain;
Our Englishmen they cried on height,
And thrice they shout again.
OLD BALLAD.
The extraordinary crisis mentioned in the preceding chapter, was the
cause, as may be supposed, of the leaders on both sides now throwing
aside all concealment, and displaying their utmost strength, by
marshalling their respective adherents; the renowned Knight of Douglas,
with Sir Malcolm Fleming and other distinguished cavaliers, were seen
in close consultation.
Sir John de Walton, startled by the first flourish of trumpets, while
anxiously endeavouring to secure a retreat for the Lady Augusta, was in
a moment seen collecting his followers, in which he was assisted by the
active friendship of the Knight of Valence.
The Lady of Berkely showed no craven spirit at these warlike
preparations; she advanced, closely followed by the faithful Bertram,
and a female in a riding-hood, whose face, though carefully concealed,
was no other than that of the unfortunate Margaret de Hautlieu, whose
worst fears had been realized as to the faithlessness of her betrothed
knight.
A pause ensued, which for some time no one present thought himself of
authority sufficient to break.
At last the Knight of Douglas stepped forward and said, loudly, "I wait
to know whether Sir John de Walton requests leave of James of Douglas
to evacuate his castle without further wasting that daylight which
might show us to judge a fair field, and whether he craves Douglas's
protection in doing so?"
The Knight of Walton drew his sword. "I hold the Castle of Douglas," he
said, "in spite of all deadly,--and never will I ask the protection
from any one which my own sword is competent to afford me."
"I stand by you, Sir John," said Aymer de Valence, "as your true
comrade, against whatever odds may oppose themselves to us."
"Courage, noble English," said the voice of Greenleaf; "take your
weapons in God's name. Bows and bills! bows and bills!--A messenger
brings us notice that Pembroke is in full march hither from the borders
of Ayrshire, and will be with us in half an hour. Fight on, gallant
English! Valence to the rescue! and long life to the gallant Earl of
Pembroke!"
Those English within and around the church no longer delayed to take
arms, and De Walton, crying out at the height of his voice, "I implore
the Douglas to look nearly to the safety of the ladies," fought his way
to the church door; the Scottish finding themselves unable to resist
the impression of terror which affected them at the sight of this
renowned knight, seconded by his brother-in-arms, both of whom had been
so long the terror of the district. In the meantime, it is possible
that De Walton might altogether have forced his way out of the church,
had he not been met boldly by the young son of Thomas Dickson of
Hazelside, while his father was receiving from Douglas the charge of
preserving the stranger ladies from all harm from the fight, which, so
long suspended, was now on the point of taking place.
De Walton cast his eye upon the Lady Augusta, with a desire of rushing
to the rescue; but was forced to conclude, that he provided best for
her safety by leaving her under the protection of Douglas's honour.
Young Dickson, in the meantime, heaped blow on blow, seconding with all
his juvenile courage every effort he could make, in order to attain the
prize due to the conqueror of the renowned De Walton.
"Silly boy," at length said Sir John, who had for some time forborne
the stripling, "take, then, thy death from a noble hand, since thou
preferrest that to peace and length of days."
"I care not," said the Scottish youth, with his dying breath; "I have
lived long enough, since I have kept you so long in the place where you
now stand."
And the youth said truly, for as he fell never again to rise, the
Douglas stood in his place, and without a word spoken, again engaged
with De Walton in the same formidable single combat, by which they had
already been distinguished, but with even additional fury. Aymer de
Valence drew up to his friend De Walton's left hand, and seemed but to
desire the apology of one of Douglas's people attempting to second him,
to join in the fray; but as he saw no person who seemed disposed to
give him such opportunity, he repressed the inclination, and remained
an unwilling spectator. At length it seemed as if Fleming, who stood
foremost among the Scottish knights, was desirous to measure his sword
with De Valence. Aymer himself, burning with the desire of combat, at
last called out, "Faithless Knight of Boghall! step forth and defend
yourself against the imputation of having deserted your lady-love, and
of being a man-sworn disgrace to the rolls of chivalry!"
"My answer," said Fleming, "even to a less gross taunt, hangs by my
side." In an instant his sword was in his hand, and even the practised
warriors who looked on felt difficulty in discovering the progress of
the strife, which rather resembled a thunder storm in a mountainous
country than the stroke and parry of two swords, offending on the one
side, and keeping the defensive on the other.
Their blows were exchanged with surprising rapidity; and although the
two combatants did not equal Douglas and De Walton in maintaining a
certain degree of reserve, founded upon a respect which these knights
mutually entertained for each other, yet the want of art was supplied
by a degree of fury, which gave chance at least an equal share in the
issue.
Seeing their superiors thus desperately engaged, the partisans, as they
were accustomed, stood still on either side, and looked on with the
reverence which they instinctively paid to their commanders and leaders
in arms. One or two of the women were in the meanwhile attracted,
according to the nature of the sex, by compassion for those who had
already experienced the casualties of war. Young Dickson, breathing his
last among the feet of the combatants, [Footnote: [The fall of this,
brave stripling by the hand of the English governor, and the stern
heroism of the father in turning from the spot where he lay, "a model
of beauty and strength," that he might not be withdrawn from the duty
which Douglas had assigned him of protecting the Lady of Berkely,
excites an interest for both, with which it is almost to be regretted
that history interferes. It was the old man, Thomas Dickson, not his
son, who fell. The _slogan_, "a Douglas, a Douglas," having been
prematurely raised, Dickson, who was within the church, thinking that
his young Lord with his armed band was at hand, drew his sword, and
with only one, man to assist him, opposed the English, who now rushed
to the door. Cut across the middle by an English sword, he still
continued his opposition, till he fell lifeless at the threshold. Such
is tradition, and it is supported by a memorial of some authority--a
tombstone, still to be seen in the church-yard of Douglas, on winch is
sculptured a figure of Dickson, supporting with his left arm his
protruding entrails, and raising his sword with the other in the
attitude of combat.]--_Note by the Rev, Mr. Stewart of Douglas_.] was
in some sort rescued from the tumult by the Lady of Berkely, in whom
the action seemed less strange, owing to the pilgrim's dress which she
still retained, and who in vain endeavoured to solicit the attention of
the boy's father to the task in which she was engaged.
"Cumber yourself not, lady, about that which is bootless," said old
Dickson, "and distract not your own attention and mine from preserving
you, whom it is the Douglas's wish to rescue, and whom, so please God
and St. Bride, I consider as placed by my Chieftain under my charge.
Believe me, this youth's death is in no way forgotten, though this be
not the time to remember it. A time will come for recollection, and an
hour for revenge."
So said the stern old man, reverting his eyes from the bloody corpse
which lay at his feet, a model of beauty and strength. Having taken one
more anxious look, he turned round, and placed himself where he could
best protect the Lady of Berkely, not again turning his eyes on his
son's body.
In the interim the combat continued, without the least cessation on
either side, and without a decided advantage. At length, however, fate
seemed disposed to interfere; the Knight of Fleming, pushing fiercely
forward, and brought by chance almost close to the person of the Lady
Margaret de Hautlieu, missed his blow, and his foot sliding in the
blood of the young victim, Dickson, he fell before his antagonist, and
was in imminent danger of being at his mercy, when Margaret de
Hautlieu, who inherited the soul of a warrior, and, besides, was a very
strong, as well as an undaunted person, seeing a mace of no great
weight lying on the floor, where it had been dropped by the fallen
Dickson, it, at the same instant, caught her eye, armed her hand, and
intercepted, or struck down the sword of Sir Aymer de Valence, who
would otherwise have remained the master of the day at that interesting
moment. Fleming had more to do to avail himself of an unexpected chance
of recovery, than to make a commentary upon the manner in which it had
been so singularly brought about; he instantly recovered the advantage
he had lost, and was able in the ensuing close to trip up the feet of
his antagonist, who fell on the pavement, while the voice of his
conqueror, if he could properly be termed such, resounded through the
church with the fatal words, "Yield thee, Aymer de Valence--rescue or
no rescue--yield thee! --yield ye!" he added, as he placed his sword to
the throat of the fallen knight, "not to me, but to this noble
lady--rescue or no rescue."
With a heavy heart the English knight perceived that he had lost so
favourable an opportunity of acquiring fame, and was obliged to submit
to his destiny, or be slain upon the spot. There was only one
consolation, that no battle was ever more honourably sustained, being
gained as much by accident as by valour.
The fate of the protracted and desperate combat between Douglas and De
Walton did not much longer remain in suspense; indeed, the number of
conquests in single combat achieved by the Douglas in these wars, was
so great, as to make it doubtful whether he was not, in personal
strength and skill, even a superior knight to Bruce himself, and he was
at least acknowledged nearly his equal in the art of war.
So however it was, that when three quarters of an hour had passed in
hard contest, Douglas and De Walton, whose nerves were not actually of
iron, began to show some signs that their human bodies were feeling the
effect of the dreadful exertion. Their blows began to be drawn more
slowly, and were parried with less celerity. Douglas, seeing that the
combat must soon come to an end, generously made a signal, intimating
to his antagonist to hold his hand for an instant.
"Brave De Walton," he said, "there is no mortal quarrel between us, and
you must be sensible that in this passage of arms, Douglas, though he
is only worth his sword and his cloak, has abstained from taking a
decisive advantage when the chance of arms has more than once offered
it. My father's house, the broad domains around it, the dwelling, and
the graves of my ancestors, form a reasonable reward for a knight to
fight for, and call upon me in an imperative voice the prosecute to
strife which has such an object, while you are as welcome to the noble
lady, in all honour and safety, as if you had received her from the
hands of King Edward himself; and I give you my word, that the utmost
honours which can attend a prisoner, and a careful absence of every
thing like injury or insult, shall attend De Walton when he yields up
the castle, as well as his sword to James of Douglas."
"It is the fate to which I am perhaps doomed," replied Sir John de
Walton; "but never will I voluntarily embrace it, and never shall it be
said that my own tongue, saving in the last extremity, pronounced upon
me the fatal sentence to sink the point of my own sword. Pembroke is
upon the march with his whole army, to rescue the garrison of Douglas.
I hear the tramp of his horse's feet even now; and I will maintain my
ground while I am within reach of support; nor do I fear that the
breath which now begins to fail will not last long enough to uphold the
struggle till the arrival of the expected succour. Come on, then, and
treat me not as a child, but as one who, whether I stand or fall, fears
not to encounter the utmost force of my knightly antagonist."
"So be it then," said Douglas, a darksome hue, like the lurid colour of
the thunder-cloud, changing his brow as he spoke, intimating that he
meditated a speedy end to the contest, when, just as the noise of
horses' feet drew nigh, a Welsh knight, known as such by the diminutive
size of his steed, his naked limbs, and his bloody spear, called out
loudly to the combatants to hold their hands.
"Is Pembroke near?" said De Walton.
"No nearer than Loudon Hill," said the Prestantin; "but I bring his
commands to John de Walton."
"I stand ready to obey them through every danger," answered the knight.
"Woe is me," said the Welshman, "that my mouth should bring to the ears
of so brave a man tidings so unwelcome! The Earl of Pembroke yesterday
received information that the castle of Douglas was attacked by the son
of the deceased Earl, and the whole inhabitants of the district.
Pembroke, on hearing this, resolved to march to your support, noble
knight, with all the forces he had at his disposal. He did so, and
accordingly entertained every assurance of relieving the castle, when
unexpectedly he met, on Loudon Hill, a body of men of no very inferior
force to his own, and having at their head that famous Bruce whom the
Scottish rebels acknowledge as their king. He marched instantly to the
attack, swearing he would not even draw a comb through his grey beard
until he had rid England of his recurring plague. But the fate of war
was against us."
He stopt here for lack of breath.
"I thought so!" exclaimed Douglas. "Robert Bruce will now sleep at
night, since he has paid home Pembroke for the slaughter of his friends
and the dispersion of his army at Methuen Wood. His men are, indeed,
accustomed to meet with dangers, and to conquer them: those who follow
him have been trained under Wallace, besides being partakers of the
perils of Bruce himself. It was thought that the waves had swallowed
them when they shipped themselves from the west; but know, that the
Bruce was determined with the present reviving spring to awaken his
pretensions, and that he retires not from Scotland again while he
lives, and while a single lord remains to set his foot by his
sovereign, in spite of all the power which has been so feloniously
employed against him."
"It is even too true," said the Welshman Meredith, "although it is said
by a proud Scotchman.--The Earl of Pembroke, completely defeated, is
unable to stir from Ayr, towards which he has retreated with great
loss: and he sends his instructions to Sir John de Walton, to make the
best terms he can for the surrender of the Castle of Douglas, and trust
nothing to his support."
The Scottish, who heard this unexpected news, joined in a shout so loud
and energetic, that the ruins of the ancient church seemed actually to
rock and threaten to fall on the heads of those who were crowded within
it.
The brow of De Walton was overclouded at the news of Pembroke's defeat,
although in some respects it placed him at liberty to take measures for
the safety of the Lady of Berkely. He could not, however, claim the
same honourable terms which had been offered to him by Douglas before
the news of the battle of Loudon Hill had arrived.
"Noble knight," he said, "it is entirely at your pleasure to dictate
the terms of surrender of your paternal castle; nor have I a right to
claim from you those conditions which, a little while since, your
generosity put in my offer. But I submit to my fate; and upon whatever
terms you think fit to grant me, I must be content to offer to
surrender to you the weapon, of which I now put the point in the earth,
in evidence that I will never more direct it against you until a fair
ransom shall place it once more at my own disposal."
"God forbid," answered the noble James of Douglas, "that I should take
such advantage of the bravest knight out of not a few who have found me
work in battle! I will take example from the Knight of Fleming, who has
gallantly bestowed his captive in guerdon upon a noble damsel here
present; and in like manner I transfer my claim upon the person of the
redoubted Knight of Walton, to the high and noble Lady Augusta Berkely,
who, I hope, will not scorn to accept from the Douglas a gift which the
chance of war has thrown into his hands."
Sir John de Walton, on hearing this unexpected decision, looked up like
the traveller who discovers the beams of the sun breaking through and
dispersing the tempest which has accompanied him for a whole morning.
The Lady of Berkely recollected what became her rank, and showed her
sense of the Douglas's chivalry. Hastily wiping off the tears which had
unwillingly flowed to her eyes, while her lover's safety and her own
were resting on the precarious issue of a desperate combat, she assumed
the look proper to a heroine of that age, who did not feel averse to
accept the importance which was conceded to her by the general voice of
the chivalry of the period. Stepping forward, bearing her person
gracefully, yet modestly, in the attitude of a lady accustomed to be
looked to in difficulties like the present, she addressed the audience
in a tone which might not have misbecome the Goddess of Battle
dispersing her influence at the close of a field covered with the dead
and the dying.
"The noble Douglas," she said, "shall not pass without a prize from the
field which he has so nobly won. This rich string of brilliants, which
my ancestor won from the Sultan of Trebisond, itself a prize of battle,
will be honoured by sustaining, under the Douglas's armour, a lock of
hair of the fortunate lady whom the victorious lord has adopted for his
guide in. chivalry; and if the Douglas, till he shall adorn it with
that lock, will permit the honoured lock of hair which it now bears to
retain its station, she on whose head it grew will hold it as a signal
that poor Augusta de Berkely is pardoned for having gaged any mortal
man in strife with the Knight of Douglas."
"Woman's love," replied the Douglas, "shall not divorce this locket
from my bosom, which I will keep till the last day of my life, as
emblematic of female worth and female virtue. And, not to encroach upon
the valued and honoured province of Sir John de Walton, be it known to
all men, that whoever shall say that the Lady Augusta of Berkely has,
in this entangled matter, acted otherwise than becomes the noblest of
her sex, he will do well to be ready to maintain such a proposition
with his lance, against James of Douglas, in a fair field."
This speech was heard with approbation on all sides; and the news
brought by Meredith of the defeat of the Earl of Pembroke, and his
subsequent retreat, reconciled the fiercest of the English soldiers to
the surrender of Douglas Castle. The necessary conditions were speedily
agreed on, which put the Scottish in possession of this stronghold,
together with the stores, both of arms and ammunition, of every kind
which it contained. The garrison had it to boast, that they obtained a
free passage, with their horses and arms, to return by the shortest and
safest route to the marches of England, without either suffering or
inflicting damage.
Margaret of Hautlieu was not behind in acting a generous part; the
gallant Knight of Valence was allowed to accompany his friend De Walton
and the Lady Augusta to England, and without ransom.
The venerable prelate of Glasgow, seeing what appeared at one time
likely to end in a general conflict, terminate so auspiciously for his
country, contented himself with bestowing his blessing on the assembled
multitude, and retiring with those who came to assist in the service of
the day.
This surrender of Douglas Castle upon the Palm Sunday of 19th March,
1306-7, was the beginning of a career of conquest which was
uninterrupted, in which the greater part of the strengths and
fortresses of Scotland were yielded to those who asserted the liberty
of their country, until the crowning mercy was gained in the celebrated
field of Bannockburn, where the English sustained a defeat more
disastrous than is mentioned upon any other occasion in their annals.
Little need be said of the fate of the persons of this story. King
Edward was greatly enraged at Sir John de Walton for having surrendered
the Castle of Douglas, securing at the same time his own object, the
envied hand of the heiress of Berkely. The knights to whom he referred
the matter as a subject of enquiry, gave it nevertheless as their
opinion that De Walton was void of all censure, having discharged his
duty in its fullest extent, till the commands of his superior officer
obliged him to surrender tho Dangerous Castle.
A singular renewal of intercourse took place, many months afterwards,
between Margaret of Hautlieu and her lover, Sir Malcolm Fleming. The
use which the lady made of her freedom, and of the doom of the Scottish
Parliament, which put her in possession of her father's inheritance,
was to follow her adventurous spirit through dangers not usually
encountered by those of her sex; and the Lady of Hautlieu was not only
a daring follower of the chase, but it was said that she was even not
daunted in the battlefield. She remained faithful to the political
principles which she had adopted at an early period; and it seemed as
if she had formed the gallant resolution of shaking the god Cupid from
her horse's mane, if not treading him beneath her horse's feet.
The Fleming, although he had vanished from the neighbourhood of the
counties of Lanark and Ayr, made an attempt to state his apology to the
Lady de Hautlieu herself, who returned his letter unopened, and
remained to all appearance resolved never again to enter upon the topic
of their original engagement. It chanced, however, at a later period of
the war with England, while Fleming was one night travelling upon the
Border, after the ordinary fashion of one who sought adventures, a
waiting-maid, equipped in a fantastic habit, asked the protection of
his arm in the name of her lady, who, late in the evening, had been
made captive, she said, by certain ill-disposed caitiffs, who were
carrying her by force through the forest. The Fleming's lance was, of
course, in its rest, and woe betide the faitour whose lot it was to
encounter its thrust; the first fell, incapable of further combat, and
another of the felons encountered the same fate with little more
resistance. The lady, released from the discourteous cord which
restrained her liberty, did not hesitate to join company with the brave
knight by whom she had been rescued; and although the darkness did not
permit her to recognise her old lover in her liberator, yet she could
not but lend a willing ear to the conversation with which he
entertained her, as they proceeded on the way. He spoke of the fallen
caitiffs as being Englishmen, who found a pleasure in exercising
oppression and barbarities upon the wandering damsels of Scotland, and
whose cause, therefore, the champions of that country were bound to
avenge while the blood throbbed in their veins. He spoke of the
injustice of the national quarrel which had afforded a pretence for
such deliberate oppression; and the lady, who herself had suffered so
much by the interference of the English in the affairs of Scotland,
readily acquiesced in the sentiments which he expressed on a subject
which she had so much reason for regarding as an afflicting one. Her
answer was given in the spirit of a person who would not hesitate, if
the times should call for such an example, to defend even with her hand
the rights which she asserted with her tongue.
Pleased with the sentiments which she expressed, and recognising in her
voice that secret charm, which, once impressed upon the human heart, is
rarely wrought out of the remembrance by a long train of subsequent
events, he almost persuaded himself that the tones were familiar to
him, and had at one time formed the key to his innermost affections. In
proceeding on their journey, the knight's troubled state of mind was
augmented instead of being diminished. The scenes of his earliest youth
were recalled by circumstances so slight, as would in ordinary cases
have produced no effect whatever; the sentiments appeared similar to
those which his life had been devoted to enforce, and he half persuaded
himself that the dawn of day was to be to him the beginning of a
fortune equally singular and extraordinary.
In the midst of this anxiety, Sir Malcolm Fleming had no anticipation
that the lady whom he had heretofore rejected was again thrown into his
path, after years of absence; still less, when daylight gave him a
partial view of his fair companion's countenance, was he prepared to
believe that he was once again to term himself the champion of Margaret
de Hautlieu, but it was so. The lady, on that direful morning when she
retired from the church of Douglas, had not resolved (indeed what lady
ever did?) to renounce, without some struggle, the beauties which she
had once possessed. A long process of time, employed under skilful
hands, had succeeded in obliterating the scars which remained as the
marks of her fall. These were now considerably effaced, and the lost
organ of sight no longer appeared so great a blemish, concealed, as it
was, by a black ribbon, and the arts of the tirewoman, who made it her
business to shadow it over by a lock of hair. In a word, he saw the
same Margaret de Hautlieu, with no very different style of expression
from that which her face, partaking of the high and passionate
character of her soul, had always presented. It seemed to both,
therefore, that their fate, by bringing them together after a
separation which appeared so decisive, had intimated its _fiat_ that
their fortunes were inseparable from each other. By the time that the
summer sun had climbed high in the heavens, the two travellers rode
apart from their retinue, conversing together with an eagerness which
marked the important matters of discussion between them; and in a short
time it was made generally known through Scotland, that Sir Malcolm
Fleming and the Lady Margaret de Hautlieu were to be united at the
court of the good King Robert, and the husband invested with the
honours of Biggar and Cumbernauld, an earldom so long known in the
family of Fleming.
The gentle reader is acquainted, that these are, in all probability,
the last tales which it will be the lot of the Author to submit to the
public. He is now on the eve of visiting foreign parts; a ship of war
is commissioned by its Royal Master to carry the Author of Waverley to
climates in which he may possibly obtain such a restoration of health
as may serve him to spin his thread to an end in his own country. Had
he continued to prosecute his usual literary labours, it seems indeed
probable, that at the term of years he has already attained, the bowl,
to use the pathetic language of Scripture, would have been broken at
the fountain; and little can one, who has enjoyed on the whole an
uncommon share of the most inestimable of worldly blessings, be
entitled to complain, that life, advancing to its period, should be
attended with its usual proportions of shadows and storms. They have
affected him at least in no more painful manner than is inseparable
from the discharge of this part of the debt of humanity. Of those whose
relation to him in the ranks of life might have ensured him their
sympathy under indisposition, many are now no more; and those who may
yet follow in his wake, are entitled to expect, in bearing inevitable
evils, an example of firmness and patience, more especially on the part
of one who has enjoyed no small good fortune during the course of his
pilgrimage.
The public have claims on his gratitude, for which the Author of
Waverley has no adequate means of expression; but he may be permitted
to hope, that the powers of his mind, such as they are, may not have a
different date from those of his body; and that he may again meet his
patronising friends, if not exactly in his old fashion of literature,
at least in some branch, which may not call forth the remark, that--
"Superfluous lags the veteran on the stage."
ABBOTSFORD, _September_, 1831.