The evening of this eventful day found the Scottish earls seated
together in a small apartment of one of the buildings adjoining the
royal palace, which in the solemn seasons we have enumerated was always
crowded with guests, who were there feasted and maintained at the king's
expense during the whole of their stay. Inconveniences in their private
quarters were little heeded by the nobles, who seldom found themselves
there, save for the purpose of a few hours sleep, and served but to
enhance by contrast the lavish richness and luxury which surrounded them
in the palace and presence of their king; but to the Earls of Buchan and
Fife the inconveniences of their quarters very materially increased the
irritability and annoyance of their present situation. Fife had
stretched himself on two chairs, and leaning his elbows on the broad
shelf formed by the small casement, cast many wistful glances on the
street below, through which richly-attired gallants, both on foot and
horseback, were continually passing. He was one of those frivolous
little minds with whom the present is all in all, caring little for the
past, and still less for the future. It was no marvel, therefore, that
he preferred the utter abandonment of his distracted country for the
luxury and ease attending the court and camp of Edward, to the great
dangers and little recompense attending the toils and struggles of a
patriot. The only emotion of any weight with him was the remembrance of
and desire of avenging petty injuries, fancying and aggravating them
when, in fact, none was intended.
Very different was the character of the Earl of Buchan; morose, fierce,
his natural hardness of disposition unsoftened by one whisper of
chivalry, although educated in the best school of knighthood, and
continually the follower of King Edward, he adhered to him first, simply
because his estates in England were far more to his taste than those in
Scotland, towards which he felt no filial tie; and soon after his
marriage, repugnance to his high-minded and richly-gifted countess,
which ever seemed a reproach and slur upon himself, kept him still more
aloof, satisfied that the close retirement in which she lived, the
desert and rugged situation of his castle, would effectually debar her
from using that influence he knew she possessed, and keep her wholly and
solely his own; a strange kind of feeling, when, in reality, the wide
contrast between them made her an object of dislike, only to be
accounted for by the fact that a dark, suspicious, jealous temper was
ever at work within him.
"Now, do but look at that fellow's doublet, Comyn. Look, how gay they
pass below, and here am I, with my new, richly-broidered suit, with
which I thought to brave it with the best of them--here am I, I say,
pent up in stone walls like a caged goldfinch, 'stead of the
entertainment I had pictured; 'tis enough to chafe the spirit of a
saint."
"And canst thou think of such things now, thou sorry fool?" demanded
Buchan, sternly, pausing in his hurried stride up and down the narrow
precincts of the chamber; "hast thou no worthier subject for
contemplation?"
"None, save thy dutiful wife's most dutiful conduct, Comyn, which,
being the less agreeable of the two, I dismiss the first I owe her small
thanks for playing the representative of my house; methinks, her
imprisonment would better serve King Edward's cause and ours too."
"Aye, imprisonment--imprisonment for life," muttered the earl, slowly.
"Let but King Edward restore me my good sword, and he may wreak his
vengeance on her as he listeth. Not all the castles of Scotland, the
arms of Scottish men, dare guard a wife against her husband; bitterly
shall she rue this deed."
"And thy son, my gentle kinsman, what wilt thou do with him, bethink
thee? Thou wilt find him as great a rebel as his mother; I have ever
told thee thou wert a fool to leave him so long with his brainstruck
mother."
"She hath not, she dared not bring him with her to the murderer of his
kinsman--Duncan of Fife, I tell thee she dare not; but if she hath, why
he is but a child, a mere boy, incapable of forming judgment one way or
the other."
"Not so much a child as thou thinkest, my good lord; some sixteen years
or so have made a stalwart warrior ere this. Be warned; send off a
trusty messenger to the Tower of Buchan, and, without any time for
warning, bring that boy as the hostage of thy good faith and loyalty to
Edward; thou wilt thus cure him of his patriotic fancies, and render
thine interest secure, and as thou desirest to reward thy dutiful
partner, thou wilt do it effectually; for, trust me, that boy is the
very apple of her eye, in her affections her very doting-place."
"Jest not, Duncan, or by all the saints, thou wilt drive me mad!"
wrathfully exclaimed Buchan. "It shall be as thou sayest; and more, I
will gain the royal warrant for the deed--permission to this effect may
shorten this cursed confinement for us both. I have forgotten the boy's
age; his mother's high-sounding patriotism may have tinctured him
already. Thou smilest."
"At thy marvellous good faith in thy wife's _patriotism_, good
kinsman--oh, well perchance, like charity, it covereth a multitude of
sins."
"What meanest thou, my Lord of Fife?" demanded Buchan, shortly and
abruptly, pausing in his walk to face his companion, his suspicious
temper instantly aroused by Fife's peculiar tone. "What wouldst thou
insinuate? Tamper not with me; thou knowest I am no subject for a
jest."
"I have but to look on thee to know that, my most solemn-visaged
brother. I neither insinuate nor tamper with your lordship. Simply and
heartily I do but give thee joy for thy faith in female patriotism,"
answered Fife, carelessly, but with an expression of countenance that
did not accord with his tone.
"What, in the fiend's name, then, has urged her to this mad act, if it
be not what she and others as mad as she call patriotism?"
"May not a lurking affection for the Bruce have given incentive to love
of country? Buchan, of a truth, thou art dull as a sword-blade when
plunged in muddy water."
"Affection for the Bruce? Thou art mad as she is, Duncan. What the foul
fiend, knows she of the Bruce? No, no! 'tis too wild a tale--when have
they ever met?"
"More often than thou listeth, gentle kinsman," returned Fife, with just
sufficient show of mystery to lash his companion into fury. "I could
tell thee of a time when Robert of Carrick was domesticated with my
immaculate sister, hunting with her, hawking with her, reading with her,
making favorable impressions on every heart in Fife Castle save mine
own."
"And she loved him!--she was loved," muttered Buchan; "and she vowed her
troth to me, the foul-mouthed traitress! She loved him, saidst thou?"
"On my faith, I know not, Comyn. Rumors, I know, went abroad that it
would have been better for the Lady Isabella's peace and honor if this
gallant, fair-spoken knight had kept aloof."
"And then, her brother, carest not to speak these things, and in that
reckless tone? By St. Swithin, ye are well matched," returned Buchan,
with a short and bitter laugh of scorn.
"Faith, Comyn, I love mine own life and comfort too well to stand up the
champion of woman's honor; besides, I vouch not for the truth of
floating rumors. I tell thee but what comes across my brain; for its
worth thou art the best judge."
"I were a fool to mine own interest to doubt thee now, little worth as
are thy words in common," again muttered the incensed earl, resuming his
hasty strides. "Patriotism! loyalty! ha, ha! high-sounding words,
forsooth. And have they not met since then until now?" he demanded,
stopping suddenly before his companion.
"Even so, fair kinsman. Whilst thou wert doing such loyal duty to
Edward, after the battle of Falkirk, forgetting thou hadst a wife and
castle to look after, Robert Earl of Carrick found a comfortable
domicile within thy stone walls, and in the fair, sweet company of thine
Isabella, my lord. No doubt, in all honorable and seemly intercourse;
gallant devotion on the one side, and dignified courtesy on the
other--nothing more, depend on't; still it seems but natural that the
memory of a comely face and knightly form should prove incentives to
loyalty and patriotism."
"The foul fiend take thy jesting!" exclaimed Buchan. "Natural, forsooth;
aye, the same nature that bade me loathe the presence, aye, the very
name of that deceiving traitress. And so that smooth-faced villain
Carrick found welcome in the castle of a Comyn the months we missed him
from the court. Ha, ha! thou hast done me good service, Lord of Fife. I
had not enough of injuries before to demand at the hand of Robert Bruce.
And for Dame Isabella, may the fury of every fiend follow me, if I place
her not in the hands of Edward, alive or dead! his wrath will save me
the trouble of seeking further vengeance."
"Nay, thou art a very fool to be so chafed," coolly observed Fife. "Thou
hast taken no care of thy wife, and therefore hast no right to demand
strict account of her amusements in thy absence; and how do we know she
is not as virtuous as the rest of them? I do but tell thee of these
things to pass away the time. Ha! there goes the prince's Gascon
favorite, by mine honor. Gaveston sports it bravely; look at his crimson
mantle wadded with sables. He hath changed his garb since morning.
Faith, he is a lucky dog! the prince's love may be valued at some
thousand marks a year--worth possessing, by St. Michael!"
A muttered oath was all the reply which his companion vouchsafed, nor
did the thunder-cloud upon his brow disperse that evening.
The careless recklessness of Fife had no power to lessen in the earl's
mind the weight of the shameful charge he had brought against the
countess. Buchan's dark, suspicious mind not alone received it, but
cherished it, revelled in it, as giving him that which he had long
desired, a good foundation for dislike and jealousy, a well-founded
pretence for every species of annoyance and revenge. The Earl of Fife,
who had, in fact, merely spoken, as he had said, to while away the
time, and for the pleasure of seeing his brother-in-law enraged, thought
as little of his words _after_ as he had _before_ they were uttered. A
licentious follower of pleasure in every form himself, he imagined, as
such thoughtless characters generally do, that everybody must be like
him. From his weak and volatile mind, then, all remembrance of that
evening's conversation faded as soon as it was spoken; but with the Earl
of Buchan it remained brooding on itself, and filling his dark spirit
with yet blacker fancies.
The confinement of the Scottish noblemen was not of long duration.
Edward, whose temper, save when his ambition was concerned, was
generally just and equitable, discovering, after an impartial
examination, that they were in no ways connected with the affairs in the
north, and feeling also it was his interest to conciliate the regard of
all the Scottish nobles disaffected to Bruce, very soon restored them
alike to their personal liberty and to his favor; his courteous apology
for unjust suspicion, frankly acknowledging that the news from Scotland,
combined with his irritating disease, had rendered him blind and
suspicious, at once disarmed Fife of wrath. Buchan, perhaps, had not
been so easily appeased had his mind been less darkly engrossed. His
petition, that his son might be sent for, to be placed as a hostage in
the hands of Edward, and thus saved from the authority of his mother,
whom he represented as an artful, designing woman, possessed of
dangerous influence, was acceded to on the instant, and the king's full
confidence restored. It was easy to act upon Edward's mind, already
incensed against Isabella of Buchan for her daring defiance of his
power; and Buchan did work, till he felt perfectly satisfied that the
wife he hated would be fully cared for without the very smallest trouble
or interference on his part, save the obtaining possession of her
person; that the vengeance he had vowed would be fully perfected,
without any reproach or stigma cast upon his name.
Meantime the exertions of the King of England for the suppression of the
rebels continued with unabated ardor. Orders were issued and proclaimed
in every part of England for the gathering together one of the noblest
and mightiest armies that had ever yet followed him to war. To render it
still more splendidly impressive, and give fresh incentive to his
subjects, whose warlike spirit he perhaps feared might be somewhat
depressed by this constant call upon them for the reduction of a
country ever rising in revolt, Edward caused proclamation to be
severally made in every important town or county, "that all who were
under the obligation to become knights, and possessed the necessary
means, should appear at Westminster on the coming solemn season of
Whitsuntide, where they should be furnished with every requisite, save
and except the trappings for their horses, from the king's wardrobe, and
be treated with all solemn honor and distinction as best befitted their
rank, and the holy vows they took upon themselves."
A proclamation such as this, in the very heart of the chivalric era, was
all-sufficient to engage every Englishman heart and soul in the service
of his king; and ere the few weeks intervening between Easter and
Whitsuntide were passed, Westminster and its environs presented a scene
of martial magnificence and knightly splendor, which had never before
been equalled. Three hundred noble youths, sons of earls, barons, and
knights, speedily assembled at the place appointed, all attended
according to their rank and pretensions; all hot and fiery spirits,
eager to prove by their prompt attendance their desire to accept their
sovereign's invitation. The splendor of their attire seemed to demand
little increase from the bounty of the king, but nevertheless, fine
linen garments, rich purple robes, and superb mantles woven with gold,
were bestowed on each youthful candidate, thus strengthening the links
which bound him to his chivalric sovereign, by the gratification of his
vanity in addition to the envied honors of knighthood. As our tale
relates more to Scottish than to English history, we may not linger
longer on the affairs of South Britain than is absolutely necessary for
the clear comprehension of the situation of her far less flourishing
sister. Exciting therefore as was the scene enacted in Westminster,
descriptive as it was of the spirit of the age, we are compelled to give
it but a hasty glance, and pass on to events of greater moment.
Glorious, indeed, to an eyewitness, must have been the ceremony of
admitting these noble and valiant youths into the solemn mysteries and
chivalric honors of knighthood. On that day the Prince of Wales was
first dubbed a knight, and made Duke of Aquitaine; and so great was the
pressure of the crowd, in their eagerness to witness the ceremonial in
the abbey, where the prince hastened to confer his newly-received
dignity on his companions, that three knights were killed, and several
fainted from heat and exhaustion. Strong war-horses were compelled to
drive back and divide the pressing crowds, ere the ceremony was allowed
to proceed. A solemn banquet succeeded; and then it was that Edward,
whose energy of mind appeared completely to have annihilated disease and
weakness of frame, made that extraordinary vow, which it has puzzled
both historian and antiquary satisfactorily to explain. The matter of
the vow merely betrayed the indomitable spirit of the man, but the
manner seemed strange even in that age. Two swans, decorated with golden
nets and gilded reeds, were placed in solemn pomp before the king, and
he, with imposing fervor, made a solemn vow to the Almighty and the
swans, that he would go to Scotland, and, living or dead, avenge the
murder of Comyn, and the broken faith of the traitorous Scots. Then,
with that earnestness of voice and majesty of mien for which he was
remarkable, he adjured his subjects, one and all, by the solemn fealty
they had sworn to him, that if he should die on the journey, they would
carry his body into Scotland, and never give it burial till the prince's
dominion was established in that country. Eagerly and willingly the
nobles gave the required pledge; and so much earnestness of purpose, so
much martial spirit pervaded that gorgeous assembly, that once more did
hope prevail in the monarch's breast, once more did he believe his
ambitious yearnings would all be fulfilled, and Scotland, rebellious,
haughty Scotland, lie crushed and broken at his feet. Once more his dark
eye flashed, his proud lip curled with its wonted smiles; his warrior
form, erect and firm as in former days, now spurned the couch of
disease, and rode his war-horse with all the grace and ease of former
years. A gallant army, under the command of Aymer de Valence, Earl of
Pembroke, had already been dispatched towards Scotland, bearing with it
the messengers of the Earl of Buchan, armed both with their lord's
commands and Edward's warrant for the detention of the young heir of
Buchan, and to bring him with all honor to the head-quarters of the
king. The name of Isabella of Buchan was subjoined to that of the Bruce,
and together with all those concerned in his rising proclaimed as
traitors and a price set upon their heads. This done, the king had been
enabled to wait with greater tranquillity the assembling of his larger
army, and after the ceremonials of Westminster, orders were issued for
every earl and baron to proceed with their followers to Carlisle, which
was named the head-quarters of the army, there to join their sovereign
with his own immediate troops. The Scottish nobles Edward's usual policy
retained in honorable posts about his person, not choosing to trust
their fidelity beyond the reach of his own eye.
Obedient to these commands, all England speedily appeared in motion, the
troops of every county moving as by one impulse to Carlisle. Yet there
were some of England's noblest barons in whose breasts a species of
admiration, even affection, was at work towards the very man they were
now marching to destroy, and this was frequently the case in the ages of
chivalry. Fickle as the character of Robert Bruce had appeared to be,
there was that in it which had ever attracted, riveted the regard of
many of the noble spirits in King Edward's court. The rash daring of his
enterprise, the dangers which encircled him, were such as dazzled and
fascinated the imagination of those knights in whom the true spirit of
chivalry found rest. Pre-eminent amongst these was the noble Earl of
Gloucester. His duty to his sovereign urged him to take the field; his
attachment for the Bruce would have held him neuter, for the ties that
bound brothers in arms were of no common or wavering nature. Brothers in
blood had frequently found themselves opposed horse to horse, and lance
to lance, on the same field, and no scruples of conscience, no pleadings
of affection, had power to avert the unnatural strife; but not such was
it with brothers in arms--a link strong as adamant, pure as their own
sword-steel, bound their hearts as one; and rather, much rather would
Gloucester have laid down his own life, than expose himself to the
fearful risk of staining his sword with the blood of his friend. The
deepest dejection took possession of his soul, which not all the
confidence of his sovereign, the gentle, affectionate pleadings of his
wife, could in any way assuage.