It was already two hours after midnight when a hurried tread, distinct
from Alan's restless pacing, disturbed the watchers, and occasioned many
to raise themselves on their elbows and listen.
It came nearer and nearer, and very soon a young lad, recognized as Sir
Alan's page, was discerned, springing from crag to crag in breathless
haste, and finally threw himself at his sovereign's feet.
"It is not too late--up, up, and save her!" were the only words he had
power to gasp, panting painfully for the breath of which speed had
deprived him. His hair and dress were heavy with the damp occasioned by
the fog, and his whole appearance denoting no common agitation.
"Where?" "How?" "What knowest thou?" "Speak out." "What ailest thee,
boy?" were the eager words uttered at once by all, and the king and
others sprung to their feet, while Alan laid a heavy hand on the boy's
shoulder, and glared on him in silence; the lad's glance fell beneath
his, and he sobbed forth--
"Mercy, mercy! my thoughtlessness has done this, yet I guessed not,
dreamed not this ill would follow. But oh, do not wait for my tale now;
up, up, and save her ere it be too late!"
"And how may we trust thee now, an this is the effect of former
treachery?" demanded Robert, with a sternness that seemed to awe the
terrified boy into composure.
"I am not treacherous, sire. No, no! I would have exposed my throat to
your grace's sword rather than do a traitor's deed: trust me, oh, trust
me, and follow without delay!"
"Speak first, and clearly," answered Alan, fiercely; "even for my
mother's sake the sacred person of the King of Scotland shall not be
risked by a craven's word. Speak, an thou wouldst bid me trust
thee--speak, I charge thee."
"He is right--he is right; let him explain this mystery ere we follow,"
echoed round; and thus urged, the boy's tale was hurriedly told.
It was simply this. Some days previous, when wandering alone about the
rocks, he had met a woodman, whom he recognized as one of the retainers
of Buchan, and, as such, believed him as loyal and faithful to King
Robert's interest as himself and others in the countess's train. The man
had artfully evaded all young Malcolm's expression of astonishment and
inquiries as to why Donald MacAlpine, whom he well knew to be one of the
stoutest and most sturdy men-at-arms which the clan possessed, should
have taken to so peaceful an employment as cutting wood, and skilfully
drew from the boy much information concerning the movements of the party
to whom he belonged. Malcolm freely spoke of Sir Alan and the Countess
of Buchan, dilating with no little pleasure on his young master having
received knighthood at the hand of his king, and all the honors and
delights which accompanied it. Aware, however, of the dangers which
environed the Bruce, he spoke of him more cautiously, and the more
Donald sought to discover if the king were near at hand, the more
carefully did Malcolm conceal that he was, telling the woodman if he
wished to know all particulars, he had better turn his sickle into a
spear, his cap into a helmet, and strike a good blow for Scotland and
King Robert. This the man refused to do, alleging he loved his own
sturdy person and independent freedom too well to run his neck into such
a noose; that King Robert might do very well for a while, but eventually
he must fall into King Edward's hands. Malcolm angrily denied this, and
they parted, not the best friends imaginable. On reviewing all that had
passed, the boy reproached himself incessantly for having said too much,
and was continually tormented by an indefinable fear that some evil
would follow. This fear kept him by the side of the countess, instead
of, as was his wont, following Sir Alan to the chase. The increasing
darkness had concealed her from him, but he was the first to distinguish
her whistle. He had reached the spot time enough to recognize the
supposed woodman in the second speaker, and to feel with painful
acuteness his boyish thoughtlessness had brought this evil on a
mistress, to serve whom he would willingly have laid down his life.
Resistance he knew, on his part, was utterly useless, and therefore he
determined to follow their track, and thus bring accurate intelligence
to the king. The minds of the men preoccupied by the thought of their
distinguished prisoner, and the thickening gloom, aided his resolution.
Happening to have a quantity of thick flax in his pocket, the boy, with
admirable foresight, fastened it to different shrubs and stones as he
passed, and thus secured his safe return; a precaution very necessary,
as from the windings and declivities, and in parts well-nigh impregnable
hollows, into which he followed the men, his return in time would have
been utterly frustrated.
The gathering mist had occasioned a halt, and a consultation as to
whether they could reach the encampment to which they belonged, or
whether it would not be better to halt till dawn. They had decided in
favor of the latter, fearing, did they continue marching, they might
lose their track, and perhaps fall in with the foe. He had waited, he
said, till he saw them making such evident preparations for a halt of
some hours, that he felt certain they would not remove till daylight. It
was a difficult and precarious path, he said, yet he was quite sure he
could lead fifteen or twenty men easily to the spot, and, taken by
surprise, nothing would prevent the recovery of the countess: less than
two hours would take them there.
This tale was told in less time than we have taken to transcribe it, and
not twenty minutes after Malcolm's first appearance, the king and Sir
Alan, with fifteen tried followers, departed on their expedition. There
had been some attempt to dissuade the king from venturing his own person
where further treachery might yet lurk, but the attempt was vain.
"She has perilled her life for me," was his sole answer, "and were there
any real peril, mine would be hazarded for her; but there is none--'tis
but a child's work we are about to do, not even glory enough to call for
envy."
The fog had sufficiently cleared to permit of their distinguishing the
route marked out by Malcolm, but not enough to betray their advance,
even had there been scouts set to watch the pass. Not a word passed
between them. Rapidly, stealthily they advanced, and about three in the
morning stood within sight of their foes, though still unseen
themselves. There was little appearance of caution: two large fires had
been kindled, round one of which ten or twelve men were stretched their
full length, still armed indeed, and their hands clasping their
unsheathed swords, but their senses fast locked in slumber. Near the
other, her arms and feet pinioned, Alan, with a heart beating almost
audibly with indignation, recognized his mother. Two men, armed with
clubs, walked up and down beside her, and seven others were grouped in
various attitudes at her feet, most of them fast asleep. It was evident
that they had no idea of surprise, and that their only fear was
associated with the escape of their prisoner.
"They are little more than man to man," said the Bruce; "therefore is
there no need for further surprise than will attend the blast of your
bugle, Sir Alan. Sound the reveillé, and on to the rescue."
He was obeyed, and the slumberers, with suppressed oaths, started to
their feet, glancing around them a brief minute in inquiring
astonishment as to whence the sound came. It was speedily explained: man
after man sprang through the thicket, and rushed upon the foes, several
of whom, gathering themselves around their prisoner, seemed determined
that her liberty should not be attained with her life, more than once
causing the swords of the Bruce's followers to turn aside in their rapid
descent, less they should injure her they sought to save. Like a young
lion Alan fought, ably seconded by the king, whose gigantic efforts
clearing his path, at length enabled himself and Alan to stand uninjured
beside the countess, and thus obtain possession of her person, and guard
her from the injury to which her captors voluntarily exposed her. There
was at first no attempt at flight, although the Bruce's men carried all
before them; the men fell where they stood, till only five remained,
and these, after a moment's hesitation, turned and fled. A shrill cry
from Malcolm had turned the king's and Alan's attention in another
direction, and it was well they did so. Determined on foiling the
efforts of his foes, Donald MacAlpine, who was supposed to be among the
fallen, had stealthily approached the spot where the countess, overcome
with excessive faintness, still reclined, then noiselessly rising, his
sword was descending on her unguarded head, when Alan, aroused by
Malcolm's voice, turned upon him and dashed his weapon from his grasp,
at the same minute that the Bruce's sword pierced the traitor's heart:
he sprung in the air with a loud yell of agony, and fell, nearly
crushing the countess with his weight.
It was the voice of Alan which aroused that fainting heart. It was in
the bosom of her son those tearful eyes were hid, after one startled and
bewildered gaze on the countenance of her sovereign, who had been
leaning over her in unfeigned anxiety. A thicket of thorn, mingled with
crags, divided her from the unseemly signs of the late affray; but
though there was naught to renew alarm, it was with a cold shudder she
had clung to her son, as if even her firm, bold spirit had given way.
Gently, cheeringly the king addressed her, and she evidently struggled
to regain composure; but her powers of body were evidently so
prostrated, that her friends felt rest of some kind she must have, ere
she could regain sufficient strength to accompany them on their
wanderings. She had received three or four wounds in the mêlée, which
though slight, the loss of blood that had followed materially increased
her weakness, and the king anxiously summoned his friends around him to
deliberate on the best measures to pursue.
Amongst them were two of Sir Alan's retainers, old and faithful Scottish
men, coeval with his grandfather, the late Earl of Buchan. Devoted alike
to the countess, the king, and their country, they eagerly listened to
all that was passing, declaring that rather than leave the Lady Isabella
in a situation of such danger as the present, they would take it by
turns to carry her in their arms to the encampment. The king listened
with a benevolent smile.
"Is there no hut or house, or hunting-lodge to which we could convey
your lady," he asked, "where she might find quieter shelter and greater
rest than hitherto? An ye knew of such, it would be the wiser plan to
seek it at break of day."
A hunting-lodge, belonging to the Earls of Buchan, there was, or ought
to be, the old men said, near the head of the Tay, just at the entrance
of Athol Forest. It had not been used since their old master's days; he
had been very partial to it when a boy, and was continually there; it
had most likely fallen into decay from disuse, as they believed the
present earl did not even know of its existence, but that was all the
better, as it would be a still more safe and secure retreat for the
countess, and they were sure, when once out of the hollows and
intricacies of their present halting-place, they could easily discover
the path to it.
And how long did they think it would be, the king inquired, before their
lady could be taken to it? the sooner, they must perceive as well as
himself, the better for her comfort. He was relieved when they declared
that two days, or at the very utmost three, would bring them there, if,
as the old men earnestly entreated he would, they retraced their steps
to the encampment as soon as daylight was sufficiently strong for them
clearly to distinguish their path. This was unanimously resolved on, and
the few intervening hours were spent by the countess in calm repose.
Conscious that filial affection watched over her, the sleep of the
countess tranquillized her sufficiently to commence the return to the
encampment with less painful evidences of exhaustion. A rude litter
waited for her, in which she could recline when the pass allowed its
safe passage, and which could be easily borne by the bearers when the
intricacies of the path prevented all egress save by pedestrianism. It
had been hurriedly made by her devoted adherents, and soothed and
gratified, her usual energy seemed for the moment to return. By nine
o'clock forenoon all traces of the Bruce and his party had departed from
the glen, the last gleam of their armor was lost in the winding path,
and then it was that a man, who had lain concealed in a thicket from the
moment of the affray, hearing all that had passed, unseen himself, now
slowly, cautiously raised himself on his knees, gazed carefully round
him, then with a quicker but as silent motion sprung to his feet, and
raised his hands in an action of triumph.
"_He is_ amongst them, then," he muttered, "the traitor Bruce himself.
This is well. The countess, her son, find the would-be king--ha! ha! My
fortune's made!" and he bounded away in quite a contrary direction to
that taken by the Bruce.
The old retainers of Buchan were correct in their surmises. The evening
of the second day succeeding the event we have narrated brought them to
the hunting-lodge. It was indeed very old, and parts had fallen almost
to ruins, but there were still three or four rooms remaining, whose
compact walls and well-closed roofs rendered them a warm and welcome
refuge for the Countess of Buchan, whose strenuous exertions the two
preceding days had ended, as was expected, by exhaustion more painful
and overpowering than before.
The exertions of her friends--for the Bruce and his followers with one
consent had permitted their wanderings to be guided by the old
men--speedily rendered the apartments habitable. Large fires were soon
blazing on the spacious hearths, and ere night fell, all appearance of
damp and discomfort had vanished. The frugal supper was that night a
jovial meal; the very look of a cheerful blaze beneath a walled roof was
reviving to the wanderers; the jest passed round, the wine-cup sparkled
to the health of the countess, and many a fervent aspiration echoed
round for the speedy restoration of her strength; for truly she was the
beloved, the venerated of all, alike from her sovereign to his lowest
follower.
"Trust my experience, my young knight," had been the Bruce's address to
Alan ere they parted for the night. "A few days' complete repose will
quite restore your valued parent and my most honored friend. This
hunting-lodge shall be our place of rendezvous for a time, till she is
sufficiently restored to accompany us southward. You are satisfied, are
you not, with the diligence of our scouts?"
"Perfectly, your highness," was Alan's reply; for well-tried and
intelligent men had been sent in every direction to discover, if
possible, to what party of the enemy the captors of the Lady Isabella
belonged, and to note well the movements and appearance, not only of any
martial force, but of the country people themselves. They had executed
their mission as well as the intricate passes and concealed hollows of
the mountains permitted, and brought back the welcome intelligence, that
for miles round the country was perfectly clear, and to all appearance
peaceful. The hunting-lodge, too, was so completely hidden by dark woods
of pine and overhanging crags, that even had there been foes prowling
about the mountains, they might pass within twenty yards of its vicinity
and yet fail to discover it. The very path leading to the bottom of the
hollow in which it stood was concealed at the entrance by thick shrubs
and an arch of rock, which had either fallen naturally into that shape,
or been formed by the architects of the lodge. It seemed barely possible
that the retreat could be discovered, except by the basest treachery,
and therefore the king and Sir Alan felt perfectly at rest regarding the
safety of the countess, even though they could only leave with her a
guard of some twenty or thirty men.
So much was she refreshed the following morning, that the hopes of her
son brightened, and with that filial devotion so peculiarly his
characteristic, he easily obtained leave of absence from his sovereign,
to remain by the couch of his mother for at least that day, instead of
accompanying him, as was his wont, in the expeditions of the day. The
countess combated this decision, but in vain. Alan was resolved. He was
convinced, he said, her former capture, and all its ill consequences,
would not have taken place had he been by her side; and even were she
not now exposed to such indignity, she would be lonely and sad without
him, and stay, in consequence, he would. The king and his officers
approved of the youth's resolution, and reluctantly Isabella yielded.
About two hours before noon the Bruce and his companions departed,
desiring Sir Alan not to expect their return till near midnight, as they
intended penetrating a part of the country which had not yet been
explored; they might be a few hours sooner, but they scarcely expected
it. It was afterwards remembered that a peculiar expression of sadness
overclouded the countenance of the countess, as for a moment she fixed
her speaking eyes on the king's face when he cheerfully bade her
farewell, and said, in a low emphatic voice--
"Farewell, sire! It may be the hour of meeting is longer deferred than
we either of us now believe. Fain would I beseech your grace to grant me
one boon, make me but one promise ere you depart."
"Any boon, any promise that our faithful friend and subject can demand,
is granted ere 'tis asked," answered the king, without a moment's pause,
though startled alike at the expression of her features and the sadness
of her voice. "Gladly would we give any pledge that could in any way
bespeak our warm sense of thy true merit, lady, therefore speak, and
fear not."
"'Tis simply this, sire," she said, and her voice was still mournful,
despite her every effort to prevent its being so. "Should unforeseen
evil befall me, captivity, danger of death, or aught undreamed of now,
give me your royal word as a knight and king, that you will not peril
your sacred person, and with it the weal and liberty of our unhappy
country, for my sake, but leave me to my fate; 'tis a strange and
fanciful boon, yet, gracious sovereign, refuse it not. I mean not
treachery such as we have encountered, where your grace's noble
gallantry rescued me with little peril to yourself. No; I mean other and
greater danger; where I well know that rather than leave me exposed to
the wrath of my husband and Edward of England, you would risk your own
precious life, and with it the liberty of Scotland. Grant me this boon,
my liege, and perchance this heavy weight upon my spirit will pass and
leave me free."
"Nay, 'tis such a strange and unknightly promise, lady, how may I pledge
my word to its fulfilment?" answered Robert, gravely and sadly. "You bid
me pledge mine honor to a deed that will stain my name with an
everlasting infamy, that even the liberty of Scotland will not wash
away. How may I do this thing? You press me sorely, lady. Even for thee,
good and faithful as thou art, how may I hurt my knightly fame?"
"Sire, thou wilt not," she returned, still more entreatingly; "thy
brilliant fame, thy noble name, will never--can never, receive a stain.
I do but ask a promise whose fulfilment may never be demanded. I do but
bid thee remember thou art not only a knight, a noble, a king, but one
by whom the preservation, the independence of our country can alone be
achieved--one on whose safety and freedom depends the welfare of a
nation, the unchained glory of her sons. Were death thy portion,
Scotland lies a slave forever at the feet of England, and therefore is
it I do beseech thee, King of Scotland, make me this pledge. I know thy
noble spirit well, and I know thy too chivalric honor would blind thee
to a sense of danger, to a sense of country, duty, glory, of all save
the rescue of one who, though she be faithful to thee and to her
country, is but as a drop of water in the ocean, compared to other
claims. My liege, thy word is already in part pledged," she continued,
more proudly. "Any pledge or promise I might demand is granted ere it is
asked, your highness deigned to say; thou canst not retract it now."
"And wherefore shouldst thou, royal brother?" cheeringly interrupted
Alexander Bruce. "The Lady Isahella asks not unreasonably; she does but
suggest _what may be_, although that may be is, as we all know, next to
impossible, particularly now when nature has fortified this pleasant
lodge even as would a garrison of some hundred men. Come, be not so
churlish in thy favors, good my liege; give her the pledge she demands,
and be sure its fulfilment will never be required."
"Could I but think so," he replied, still gravely. "Lady, I do entreat
thee, tell me wherefore thou demandest this strange boon; fearest thou
evil--dreamest thou aught of danger hovering near? If so, as there is a
God in heaven, I will not go forth to-day!"
"Pardon me, gracious sovereign," answered Isabella, evasively; "I ask
it, because since the late adventure there has been a weight upon my
spirit as if I, impotent, of little consequence as I am, yet even I
might be the means of hurling down evil on thy head, and through thee on
Scotland; and, therefore, until thy promise to the effect I have
specified is given, I cannot, I will not rest--even though, as Lord
Alexander justly believes, its fulfilment will never be required. Evil
here, my liege, trust me, cannot be; therefore go forth in confidence. I
fear not to await your return, e'en should I linger here alone. Grant
but my boon."
"Nay, an it must be, lady, I promise all thou demandest," answered
Bruce, more cheerfully, for her words reassured him; "but, by mine
honor, thou hast asked neither well nor kindly. Remember, my pledge is
passed but for real danger, and that only for Scotland's sake, not for
mine own; and now farewell, lady. I trust, ere we meet again, these
depressing fancies will have left thee."
"They have well-nigh departed now, my liege; 'twas simply for thee and
Scotland these heavy bodings oppressed me. My son," she added, after a
brief pause, "I would your highness could prevail on him to accompany
you to-day. Wherefore should he stay with me?"
"Wherefore not rather, lady?" replied the king, smiling. "I may not
leave thee to thine own thoughts to weave fresh boons like to the last.
No, no! our young knight must guard thee till we meet again," and with
these words he departed. They did not, however, deter the countess from
resuming her persuasions to Alan to accompany his sovereign, but without
success. Isabella of Buchan had, however, in this instance departed from
her usual strict adherence to the truth, she did not feel so secure that
no evil would befall her in the absence of the Bruce, as she had
endeavored to make him believe.
Some words she had caught during her brief captivity caused her, she
scarcely knew why, to believe that the Earl of Buchan himself was in the
neighborhood; nay, that the very party which had captured her were
members of the army under his command. She had gathered, too, that it
was a very much larger force than the king's, and therefore it was that
she had made no objection to Robert's wish that she should rest some few
days in the hunting-lodge. She knew that, however her failing strength
might detain and harass their movements, Bruce and his followers would
never consent to leave her, unless, as in the present case, under a
comparatively comfortable roof and well-concealed shelter; and she knew,
too, that however she might struggle to accompany them in their
wanderings, the struggle in her present exhausted state would be utterly
in vain, and lingering for her might expose her sovereign to a renewal
of the ills with which he had already striven so nobly, and perchance to
yet more irreparable misfortune. The information of the scouts had
partially reassured her, at least to the fact that no immediate danger
was to be apprehended, and for a while she indulged the hope that safety
might be found in this hidden spot until the peril passed. She had full
confidence in the fidelity of the old retainers who had guided them to
the spot, and sought to feel satisfied that its vicinity was unknown to
the earl, her husband; but, whether from the restlessness of a slight
degree of fever, or from that nervous state of mind attendant on
worn-out strength, ere the Bruce departed the same foreboding came on
her again, and all her desire was the absence of her sovereign and his
followers, to have some hold upon his almost too exalted sense of
chivalry, which would prevent any rash act of daring on his part; and
this, as we have seen, she obtained.
Could she but have prevailed on her son to accompany them, she would
calmly and resignedly have awaited her fate, whatever it might be; but
the horror of beholding him a prisoner in the hands of his father--that
father perhaps so enraged at the boy's daring opposition to his will and
political opinions, that he would give him up at once to the wrath of
Edward--was a picture of anguish from which her mind revolted in such
intense suffering, she could not rest. She strove with the fancy; she
sought to rouse every energy, to feel secure in her present
resting-place. But who can resist the influence of feelings such as
these? What mother's heart cannot enter into the emotions of Isabella of
Buchan, as she gazed on her noble boy, improved as he was in manliness
and beauty, and with the dread anticipation of evil, believing only
absence could protect him; that perchance the very love which kept him
by her side would expose him to danger, imprisonment, and death? She did
not speak her fears, but Alan vainly sought to soothe that unwonted
restlessness. She had endeavored to secure the Bruce's safety by the aid
of Malcolm, the young page, by whose instrumentality she had been both
captured and released. Taking advantage of Sir Alan's absence, she had
called the boy to her side, and made him promise that, at the first
manifest sign of danger, he would make his escape, which, by his extreme
agility and address, would easily be achieved, seek the king, and give
him exact information of the numbers, strength, and situation of the
foes, reminding him, at the same time, of his solemn pledge. She made
him promise the profoundest secrecy, and adjured him at all hazards to
save the king.
The boy, affected by the solemnity of her manner, promised faithfully to
observe her minutest sign, and on the re-entrance of Sir Alan departed,
to marvel wherefore his lady should so have spoken, and examine the
localities around, as to the best means of concealment and escape.
The hours waned, and night fell, as is usual in October, some five hours
after noon, the gloom perhaps greatly increased by the deep shades in
which their place of concealment lay. Sir Alan roused the fire to a
cheerful blaze, and lighting a torch of pine-wood, placed it in an iron
bracket projecting from the wall, and amused himself by polishing his
arms, and talking in that joyous tone his mother so loved, on every
subject that his affection fancied might interest and amuse her. He was
wholly unarmed, except his sword, which, secured to his waist by a
crimson sash, he never laid aside; and fair and graceful to his mother's
eye did he look in his simple doublet of Lincoln-green, cut and slashed
with ruby velvet, his dark curls clustering round his bare throat, and
his bright face beaming in all the animation of youth and health,
spiritualized by the deeper feelings of his soul; and she, too, was
still beautiful, though her frame was slighter, her features more
attenuated than when we first beheld her. He had insisted on her
reclining on the couch, and drawn from her otherwise painful thoughts by
his animated sallies, smiles circled her pale lip, and her sorrows were
a while forgotten.
An hour, perhaps rather more, elapsed, and found the mother and son
still as we have described, There had been no sound without, but about
that period many heavy footsteps might have been distinguished,
cautiously, it seemed, advancing. Alan started up and listened; the
impatient neigh of a charger was heard, and then voices suppressed, yet,
as he fancied, familiar.
"King Robert returned already!" he exclaimed; "they must have had an
unusually successful chase. I must e'en seek them and inquire."
"Alan! my child!" He started at the voice, it was so unlike his
mother's. She had risen and flung her arm around him with a pressure so
convulsive, he looked at her with terror. There was no time to answer; a
sudden noise usurped the place of the previous stillness--a struggle--a
heavy fall; the door was flung rudely open, and an armed man stood upon
the threshold, his vizor up, but even had it not been, the heart of the
countess too truly told her she gazed upon her husband!