The queen and her companions were conveyed in detachments from the
palace and town of Scone, the Bruce believing, with justice, they would
thus attract less notice, and be better able to reach the mountains in
safety. The Countess of Buchan, her friend Lady Mary, Agnes, and
Isoline, attended by Sir Nigel, were the first to depart, for though she
spoke it not, deep anxiety was on the mother's heart for the fate of her
boy. They mostly left Scone at different hours of the night; and the
second day from the king's arrival, the palace was untenanted, all signs
of the gallant court, which for a brief space had shed such lustre, such
rays of hope on the old town, were gone, and sorrowfully and
dispiritedly the burghers and citizens went about their several
occupations, for their hearts yet throbbed in loyalty and patriotism,
though hope they deemed was wholly at an end. Still they burned with
indignation at every intelligence of new desertions to Edward, and
though the power of Pembroke compelled them to bend unwillingly to the
yoke, it was as a bow too tightly strung, which would snap rather than
use its strength in the cause of Edward.
A few weeks' good nursing from his mother and sister, attended as it was
by the kindness and warm friendship of the sovereign he adored, and the
constant care of Nigel, speedily restored the heir of Buchan, if not
entirely to his usual strength, at least with sufficient to enable him
to accompany the royal wanderers wherever they pitched their tent, and
by degrees join in the adventurous excursions of his young companions to
supply them with provender, for on success in hunting entirely depended
their subsistence.
It was in itself a strange romance, the life they led. Frequently the
blue sky was their only covering, the purple heath their only bed; nor
would the king fare better than his followers. Eagerly, indeed, the
young men ever exerted themselves to form tents or booths of brushwood,
branches of trees, curiously and tastefully interwoven with the wild
flowers that so luxuriantly adorned the rocks, for the accommodation of
the faithful companions who preferred this precarious existence with
them, to comfort, safety, and luxury in a foreign land. Nature, indeed,
lavishly supplied them with beautiful materials, and where the will was
good, exertion proved but a new enjoyment. Couches and cushions of the
softest moss formed alike seats and places of repose; by degrees almost
a village of these primitive dwellings would start into being, in the
centre of some wild rocks, which formed natural barriers around them,
watered, perhaps, by some pleasant brook rippling and gushing by in
wild, yet soothing music, gemmed by its varied flowers.
Here would be the rendezvous for some few weeks; here would Margaret and
her companions rest a while from their fatiguing wanderings; and could
they have thought but of the present, they would have been completely
happy. Here would their faithful knights return laden with the spoils of
the chase, or with some gay tale of danger dared, encountered, and
conquered; here would the song send its full tone amid the responding
echoes. The harp and muse of Nigel gave a refinement and delicacy to
these meetings, marking them, indeed, the days of chivalry and poetry.
Even Edward Bruce, the stern, harsh, dark, passioned warrior, even he
felt the magic of the hour, and now that the courage of Nigel had been
proved, gave willing ear, and would be among the first to bid him wake
his harp, and soothe the troubled visions of the hour; and Robert, who
saw so much of his own soul reflected in his young brother, mingled as
it was with yet more impassioned fervor, more beautiful, more endearing
qualities, for Nigel had needed not trial to purify his soul, and mark
him out a patriot. Robert, in very truth, loved him, and often would
share with him his midnight couch, his nightly watchings, that he might
confide to that young heart the despondency, the hopelessness, that to
none other might be spoken, none other might suspect--the secret fear
that his crime would be visited on his unhappy country, and he forbidden
to secure her freedom even by the sacrifice of his life.
"If it be so, it must be so; then be thou her savior, her deliverer, my
Nigel," he would often urge; "droop not because I may have departed;
struggle on, do as thy soul prompts, and success will, nay, must attend
thee; for thou art pure and spotless, and well deserving of all the
glory, the blessedness, that will attend the sovereign of our country
freed from chains; thou art, in truth, deserving of all this, but I--"
"Peace, peace, my brother!" would be Nigel's answer; "thou, only thou
shalt deliver our country, shall be her free, her patriot king! Have we
not often marked the glorious sun struggling with the black masses of
clouds which surround and obscure his rising, struggling, and in vain,
to penetrate their murky folds, and deluge the world with light, shining
a brief moment, and then immersed in darkness, until, as he nears the
western horizon, the heaviest clouds flee before him, the spotless azure
spreadeth its beautiful expanse, the brilliant rays dart on every side,
warming and cheering the whole earth with reviving beams, and finally
sinking to his rest in a flood of splendor, more dazzling, more imposing
than ever attends his departure when his dawn hath been one of joy. Such
is thy career, my brother; such will be thy glorious fate. Oh, droop not
even to me--to thyself! Hope on, strive on, and thou shalt succeed!"
"Would I had thy hopeful spirit, my Nigel, an it pictured and believed
things as these!" mournfully would the Bruce reply, and clasp the young
warrior to his heart; but it was only Nigel's ear that heard these
whispers of despondency, only Nigel's eye which could penetrate the
inmost folds of that royal heart. Not even to his wife--his Margaret,
whose faithfulness in these hours of adversity had drawn her yet closer
to her husband--did he breathe aught save encouragement and hope; and to
his followers he was the same as he had been from the first, resolute,
unwavering; triumphing over every obstacle; cheering the faint-hearted;
encouraging the desponding; smiling with his young followers, ever on
the alert to provide amusement for them, to approve, guide, instruct;
gallantly and kindly to smooth the path for his female companions,
joining in every accommodation for them, even giving his manual labor
with the lowest of his followers, if his aid would lessen fatigue, or
more quickly enhance comfort. And often and often in the little
encampment we have described, when night fell, and warrior and dame
would assemble, in various picturesque groups, on the grassy mound, the
king, seated in the midst of them, would read aloud, and divert even the
most wearied frame and careworn mind by the stirring scenes and
chivalric feelings his MSS. recorded. The talent of deciphering
manuscripts, indeed of reading any thing, was one seldom attained or
even sought for in the age of which we treat; the sword and spear were
alike the recreation and the business of the nobles. Reading and writing
were in general confined to monks, and the other clergy; but Robert,
even as his brother Nigel, possessed both these accomplishments,
although to the former their value never seemed so fully known as in his
wanderings. His readings were diversified by rude narratives or tales,
which he demanded in return from his companions, and many a hearty laugh
would resound from the woodland glades, at the characteristic humor with
which these demands were complied with: the dance, too, would diversify
these meetings. A night of repose might perhaps succeed, to be disturbed
at its close by a cause for alarm, and those pleasant resting-places
must be abandoned, the happy party be divided, and scattered far and
wide, to encounter fatigue, danger, perchance even death, ere they met
again.
Yet still they drooped not, murmured not. No voice was ever heard to
wish the king's advice had been taken, and they had sought refuge in
Norway. Not even Margaret breathed one sigh, dropped one tear, in her
husband's presence, although many were the times that she would have
sunk from exhaustion, had not Isabella of Buchan been near as her
guardian angel to revive, encourage, infuse a portion of her own spirit
in the weaker heart, which so confidingly clung to her. The youngest
and most timid maiden, the oldest and most ailing man, still maintained
the same patriotic spirit and resolute devotion which had upheld them at
first. "The Bruce and Scotland" were the words imprinted on their souls,
endowed with a power to awake the sinking heart, and rouse the fainting
frame.
To Agnes and Nigel, it was shrewdly suspected, these wanderings in the
centre of magnificent nature, their hearts open to each other, revelling
in the scenes around them, were seasons of unalloyed enjoyment,
happiness more perfect than the state and restraint of a court.
Precarious, indeed, it was, but even in moments of danger they were not
parted; for Nigel was ever the escort of the Countess of Buchan, and
danger by his side lost half its terror to Agnes. He left her side but
to return to it covered with laurels, unharmed, uninjured, even in the
midst of foes; and so frequently did this occur, that the fond,
confiding spirit of the young Agnes folded itself around the belief that
he bore a charmed life; that evil and death could not injure one so
faultless and beloved. Their love grew stronger with each passing week;
for nature, beautiful nature, is surely the field of that interchange of
thought, for that silent commune of soul so dear to those that love. The
simplest flower, the gushing brooks, the frowning hills, the varied hues
attending the rising and the setting of the sun, all were turned to
poetry when the lips of Nigel spoke to the ears of love. The mind of
Agnes expanded before these rich communings. She was so young, so
guileless, her character moulded itself on his. She learned yet more to
comprehend, to appreciate the nobility of his soul, to cling yet closer
to him, as the consciousness of the rich treasure she possessed in his
love became more and more unfolded to her view. The natural fearfulness
of her disposition gave way, and the firmness, the enthusiasm of
purpose, took possession of her heart, secretly and silently, indeed;
for to all, save to herself, she was the same gentle, timid, clinging
girl that she had ever been.
So passed the summer months; but as winter approached, and the prospects
of the king remained as apparently hopeless and gloomy as they were on
his first taking refuge in the mountains, it was soon pretty evident
that some other plan must be resorted to; for strong as the resolution
might be, the delicate frames of his female companions, already
suffering from the privations to which they had been exposed, could not
sustain the intense cold and heavy snows peculiar to the mountain
region. Gallantly as the king had borne himself in every encounter with
the English and Anglo-Scots, sustaining with unexampled heroism repeated
defeats and blighted hopes, driven from one mountainous district by the
fierce opposition of its inhabitants, from another by a cessation of
supplies, till famine absolutely threatened, closely followed by its
grim attendant, disease, all his efforts to collect and inspire his
countrymen with his own spirit, his own hope, were utterly and entirely
fruitless, for his enemies appeared to increase around him, the autumn
found him as far, if not further, from the successful termination of his
desires than he had been at first.
All Scotland lay at the feet of his foe. John of Lorn, maternally
related to the slain Red Comyn, had collected his forces to the number
of a thousand, and effectually blockaded his progress through the
district of Breadalbane, to which he had retreated from a superior body
of English, driving him to a narrow pass in the mountains, where the
Bruce's cavalry had no power to be of service; and had it not been for
the king's extraordinary exertions in guarding the rear, and there
checking the desperate fury of the assailants, and interrupting their
headlong pursuit of the fugitives, by a strength, activity, and
prudence, that in these days would seem incredible, the patriots must
have been cut off to a man. Here it was that the family of Lorn obtained
possession of that brooch of Bruce, which even to this day is preserved
as a relic, and lauded as a triumph, proving how nearly their redoubted
enemy had fallen into their hands. Similar struggles had marked his
progress through the mountains ever since the defeat of Methven; but
vain was every effort of his foes to obtain possession of his person,
destroy his energy, and thus frustrate his purpose. Perth, Inverness,
Argyle, and Aberdeen had alternately been the scene of his wanderings.
The middle of autumn found him with about a hundred followers, amongst
whom were the Countess of Buchan and her son, amid the mountains which
divide Kincardine from the southwest boundary of Aberdeen. The remainder
of his officers and men, divided into small bands, each with some of
their female companions under their especial charge, were scattered over
the different districts, as better adapted to concealment and rest.
It was that part of the year when day gives place to night so suddenly,
that the sober calm of twilight even appears denied to us. The streams
rushed by, turbid and swollen from the heavy autumnal rains. A rude wind
had robbed most of the trees of their foliage; the sere and withered
leaves, indeed, yet remained on the boughs, beautiful even in, their
decay, but the slightest breath would carry them away from their
resting-places, and the mountain passes were incumbered, and often
slippery from the fallen leaves. The mountains looked frowning and bare,
the pine and fir bent and rocked in their craggy cradles, and the wind
moaned through their dark branches sadly and painfully. The sun had,
indeed, shone fitfully through the day, but still the scene was one of
melancholy desolation, and the heart of the Countess of Buchan, bold and
firm in general, could not successfully resist the influence of Nature's
sadness. She sat comparatively alone; a covering had, indeed, been
thrown over some thick poles, which interwove with brushwood, and with a
seat and couch of heather, which was still in flower, formed a rude
tent, and was destined for her repose; but until night's dark mantle was
fully unfurled, she had preferred the natural seat of a jutting crag,
sheltered from the wind by an overhanging rock and some spreading firs.
Her companions were scattered in different directions in search of food,
as was their wont. Some ten or fifteen men had been left with her, and
they were dispersed about the mountain collecting firewood, and a supply
of heath and moss for the night encampment; within hail, indeed, but
scarcely within sight, for the space where the countess sate commanded
little more than protruding crags and stunted trees, and mountains
lifting their dark, bare brows to the starless sky.
It was not fear which had usurped dominion in the Lady Isabella's heart,
it was that heavy, sluggish, indefinable weight which sometimes clogs
the spirit we know not wherefore, until some event following quick upon
it forces us, even against our will, to believe it the overhanging
shadow of the future which had darkened the present. She was sad, very
sad, yet she could not, as was ever her custom, bring that sadness to
judgment, and impartially examining and determining its cause, remove it
if possible, or banish it resolutely from her thoughts.
An impulse indefinable, yet impossible to be resisted, had caused her to
intrust her Agnes to the care of Lady Mary and Nigel, and compelled her
to follow her son, who had been the chosen companion of the king.
Rigidly, sternly, she had questioned her own heart as to the motives of
this decision. It was nothing new her accompanying her son, for she had
invariably done so; but it was something unusual her being separated
from the queen, and though her heart told her that her motives were so
upright, so pure, they could have borne the sternest scrutiny, there was
naught which the most rigid mentor could condemn, yet a feeling that
evil would come of this was amongst the many others which weighed on her
heart. She could not tell wherefore, yet she wished it had been
otherwise, wished the honor of being selected as the king's companion
had fallen on other than her son, for separate herself from him she
could not. One cause of this despondency might have been traced to the
natural sinking of the spirit when it finds itself alone, with time for
its own fancies, after a long period of exertion, and that mental
excitement which, unseen to all outward observers, preys upon itself.
Memory had awakened dreams and visions she had long looked upon as dead;
it did but picture brightly, beautifully, joyously what might have been,
and disturbed the tranquil sadness which was usual to her now; disturb
it as with phantasmagoria dancing on the brain, yet it was a struggle
hard and fierce to banish them again. As one sweet fancy sunk another
rose, even as gleams of moonlight on the waves which rise and fall with
every breeze. Fancy and reason strove for dominion, but the latter
conquered. What could be now the past, save as a vision of the night;
the present, a stern reality with all its duties--duties not alone to
others, but to herself. These were the things on which her thoughts must
dwell; these must banish all which might have been and they did; and
Isabella of Buchan came through that fiery ordeal unscathed, uninjured
in her self-esteem, conscious that not in one thought did she wrong her
husband, in not one dream did she wrong the gentle heart of the queen
which so clung to her; in not the wildest flight of fancy did she look
on Robert as aught save as the deliverer of his country, the king of all
true Scottish men.
She rose up from that weakness of suffering, strengthened in her resolve
to use every energy in the queen's service in supporting, encouraging,
endeavoring so to work on her appreciation of her husband's character,
as to render her yet more worthy of his love. She had ever sought to
remain beside the queen, ever contrived they should be of the same
party; that her mind was ever on the stretch, on the excitement, could
not be denied, but she knew not how great its extent till the call for
exertion was comparatively over, and she found herself, she scarcely
understood how, the only female companion of her sovereign, the
situation she had most dreaded, most determined to avoid. While engaged
in the performance of her arduous task, the schooling her own heart and
devoting herself to Robert's wife, virtue seemed to have had its own
reward, for a new spirit had entwined her whole being--excitement,
internal as it was, had given a glow to thought and action; but in her
present solitude the reaction of spirit fell upon her as a dull,
sluggish weight of lead. She had suffered, too, from both privation and
fatigue, and she was aware her strength was failing, and this perhaps
was another cause of her depression; but be that as it may, darkness
closed round her unobserved, and when startled by some sudden sound, she
raised her head from her hands, she could scarcely discern one object
from another in the density of gloom. "Surely night has come suddenly
upon us," she said, half aloud; "it is strange they have not yet
returned," and rising, she was about seeking the tent prepared for her,
when a rude grasp was laid on her arm, and a harsh, unknown voice
uttered, in suppressed accents--
"Not so fast, fair mistress, not so fast! My way does not lie in that
direction, and, with your leave, my way is yours."
"How, man! fellow, detain me at your peril!" answered the countess,
sternly, permitting no trace of terror to falter in her voice, although
a drawn sword gleamed by her side, and a gigantic form fully armed had
grasped her arm. "Unhand me, or I will summon those that will force
thee. I am not alone, and bethink thee, insult to me will pass not with
impunity."
The man laughed scornfully. "Boldly answered, fair one," he said; "of a
truth thou art a brave one. I grieve such an office should descend upon
me as the detention of so stout a heart; yet even so. In King Edward's
name, you are my prisoner."
"Your prisoner, and wherefore?" demanded the countess believing that
calmness would be a better protection than any symptoms of fear. "You
are mistaken, good friend, I knew not Edward warred with women."
"Prove my mistake, fair mistress, and I will crave your pardon," replied
the man, "We have certain intelligence that a party of Scottish rebels,
their quondam king perhaps among them, are hidden in these mountains.
Give us trusty news of their movements, show us their track, and Edward
will hold you in high favor, and grant liberty and rich presents in
excuse of his servant's too great vigilance. Hearest thou, what is the
track of these rebels--what their movements?"
"Thou art a sorry fool, Murdock," retorted another voice, ere the
countess could reply, and hastily glancing around, she beheld herself
surrounded by armed men; "a sorry fool, an thou wastest the precious
darkness thus. Is not one rank rebel sufficient, think you, to satisfy
our lord? he will get intelligence enough out of her, be sure. Isabella
of Buchan is not fool enough to hold parley with such as we, rely on't."
A suppressed exclamation of exultation answered the utterance of that
name, and without further parley the arms of the countess were strongly
pinioned, and with the quickness of thought the man who had first spoken
raised her in his arms, and bore her through the thickest brushwood and
wildest crags in quite the contrary direction to the encampment; their
movements accelerated by the fact that, ere her arms were confined, the
countess, with admirable presence of mind, had raised to her lips a
silver whistle attached to her girdle, and blown a shrill, distinct
blast. A moment sufficed to rudely tear it from her hand, and hurry her
off as we have said; and when that call was answered, which it was as
soon as the men scattered on the mountain sufficiently recognized the
sound, they flung down their tools and sprung to the side whence it
came, but there was no sign, no trace of her they sought; they scoured
with lighted torches every mossy path or craggy slope, but in vain;
places of concealment were too numerous, the darkness too intense, save
just the space illumined by the torch, to permit success. The trampling
of horses announced the return of the king and his companions, ere their
search was concluded; his bugle summoned the stragglers, and speedily
the loss of the countess was ascertained, their fruitless search
narrated, and anxiety and alarm spread over the minds of all. The agony
of the youthful Alan surpassed description, even the efforts of his
sovereign failed to calm him. Nor was the Bruce himself much less
agitated.
"She did wrong, she did wrong," he said, "to leave herself so long
unguarded; yet who was there to commit this outrage? There is some
treachery here, which we must sift; we must not leave our noble
countrywoman in the hands of these marauders. Trust me, Alan, we shall
recover her yet."
But the night promised ill for the fulfilment of this trust. Many hours
passed in an utterly fruitless search, and about one hour before
midnight a thick fog increased the dense gloom, and even prevented all
assistance from the torches, for not ten yards before them was
distinguishable. Dispirited and disappointed, the king and his
companions threw themselves around the watchfires, in gloomy meditation,
starting at the smallest sound, and determined to renew their search
with the first gleam of dawn; the hurried pace of Alan, as he strode up
and down, for he could not rest, alone disturbing the stillness all
around.