‘In these wylde deserts where she now abode
There dwelt a salvage nation, which did live
On stealth and spoil, and making nightly rade
Into their neighbours’ borders.’--SPENSER.
A terrible legacy of the Hundred Years’ War, which, indeed, was not yet
entirely ended by the Peace of Tours, was the existence of bands of men
trained to nothing but war and rapine, and devoid of any other means of
subsistence than freebooting on the peasantry or travellers, whence they
were known as routiers--highwaymen, and ecorcheurs--flayers. They were
a fearful scourge to France in the early part of the reign of Charles
VII., as, indeed, they had been at every interval of peace ever since
the battle of Creci, and they really made a state of warfare preferable
to the unhappy provinces, or at least to those where it was not actually
raging. In a few years more the Dauphin contrived to delude many of
them into an expedition, where he abandoned them and left them to be
massacred, after which he formed the rest into the nucleus of a standing
army; but at this time they were the terror of travellers, who only
durst go about any of the French provinces in well-armed and large
parties.
The domains of King Rene, whether in Lorraine or Provence, were,
however, reckoned as fairly secure, but from the time the little troop,
with the princesses among them, had started from Nanci, Madame de Ste.
Petronelle became uneasy. She looked up at the sun, which was shining
in her face, more than once, and presently drew the portly mule she was
riding towards George Douglas.
‘Sir,’ she said, ‘you are the ladies’ squire?’
‘I have that honour, Madame.’
‘And a Scot?’
‘Even so.’
‘I ask you, which way you deem that we are riding?’
‘Eastward, Madame, if the sun is to be trusted. Mayhap somewhat to the
south.’
‘Yea; and which side lies Chalons?’
This was beyond George’s geography. He looked up with open mouth and
shook his head.
‘Westward!’ said the lady impressively. ‘And what’s yon in the
distance?’
‘Save that this land is as flat as a bannock, I’d have said ‘twas
mountains.’
‘Mountains they are, young man!’ said Madame de Ste. Petronelle
emphatically--‘the hills between Lorraine and Alsace, which we should be
leaving behind us.’
‘Is there treachery?’ asked George, reining up his horse. ‘Ken ye who is
the captain of this escort?’
‘His name is Hall; he is thick with the Dauphin. Ha! Madame, is he sib
to him that aided in the slaughter of Eastern’s Eve night?’
‘Just, laddie. ‘Tis own son to him that Queen Jean made dae sic a
fearful penance. What are ye doing?’
‘I’ll run the villain through, and turn back to Nanci while yet there is
time,’ said George, his hand on his sword.
‘Hold, ye daft bodie! That would but bring all the lave on ye. There’s
nothing for it but to go on warily, and maybe at the next halt we might
escape from them.’
But almost while Madame de Ste. Petronelle spoke there was a cry, and
from a thicket there burst out a band of men in steel headpieces and
buff jerkins, led by two or three horsemen. There was a confused outcry
of ‘St. Denys! St. Andrew!’ on one side, ‘Yield!’ on the other. Madame’s
rein was seized, and though she drew her dagger, her hand was caught
before she could strike, by a fellow who cried, ‘None of that, you old
hag, or it shall be the worse for thee!’
‘St. Andrew! St. Andrew!’ screamed Eleanor. ‘Scots, to the rescue of
your King’s sisters!’
‘Douglas--Douglas, help!’ cried Jean. But each was surrounded by a swarm
of the ruffians; and as George Douglas hastily pushed down some with
his horse, and struck down one or two with his sword, he was felled by a
mighty blow on the head, and the ecorcheurs thronged over him, dragging
him off his horse, any resistance on the part of the Scottish archers,
their escort, they could not tell; they only heard a tumult of shouts
and cries, and found rude hands holding them on their horses and
dragging them among the trees. Their screams for help were answered by
a gruff voice from a horseman, evidently the leader of the troop. ‘Hold
that noise, Lady! No ill is meant to you, but you must come with us. No;
screams are useless! There’s none to come to you. Stop them, or I must!’
‘There is none!’ said Madame de Ste. Petronelle’s voice in her own
tongue; ‘best cease to cry, and not fash the loons more.’
The sisters heard, and in her natural tone Eleanor said in French, ‘Sir,
know you who you are thus treating? The King’s daughter--sisters of the
Dauphiness!’
He laughed. ‘Full well,’ he answered, in very German-sounding French.
‘Such usage will bring the vengeance of the King and Dauphin on you.’
He laughed yet more loudly. His face was concealed by his visor, but the
ill-fitting armour and great roan horse made Jean recognise the knight
whose eyes had dwelt on her so boldly at the tournament, and she added
her voice.
‘Your Duke of the Tirol will punish this.’
‘He has enough to do to mind his own business,’ was the answer.
‘Come, fair one, hold your tongue! There’s no help for it, and the less
trouble you give us the better it will be for you.’
‘But our squire!’ Jean exclaimed, looking about her. ‘Where is he?’
Again there was a rude laugh.
‘Showed fight. Disposed of. See there!’ and Jean could not but recognise
the great gray horse from the Mearns that George Douglas had always
ridden. Had she brought the gallant youth to this, and without word or
look to reward his devotion? She gave one low cry, and bowed her head,
grieved and sick at heart. While Eleanor, on her side, exclaimed,
‘Felon, thou hast slain a nobleman’s brave heir! Disgrace to
knighthood!’
‘Peace, maid, or we will find means to silence thy tongue,’ growled the
leader; and Madame de Ste. Petronelle interposed, ‘Whisht--whisht, my
bairn; dinna anger them.’ For she saw that there was more disposition
to harshness towards Eleanor than towards Jean, whose beauty seemed to
command a sort of regard.
Eleanor took the hint. Her eyes filled with tears, and her bosom heaved
at the thought of the requital of the devotion of the brave young man,
lying in his blood, so far from his father and his home; but she would
not have these ruffians see her weep and think it was for herself,
and she proudly straightened herself in her saddle and choked down the
rising sob.
On, on they went, at first through the wood by a tangled path, then over
a wide moor covered with heather, those mountains, which had at first
excited the old lady’s alarm, growing more distinct in front of them;
going faster, too, so that the men who held the reins were half running,
till the ground began to rise and grow rougher, when, at an order in
German from the knight, a man leapt on in front of each lady to guide
her horse.
Where were they going? No one deigned to ask except Madame de Ste.
Petronelle, and her guard only grunted, ‘Nicht verstand,’ or something
equivalent.
A thick mass of wood rose before them, a stream coming down from it, and
here there was a halt, the ladies were lifted down, and the party, who
numbered about twelve men, refreshed themselves with the provisions that
the Infanta Yolande had hospitably furnished for her guests. The knight
awkwardly, but not uncivilly, offered a share to his captives, but
Eleanor would have moved them off with disdain, and Jean sat with her
head in her hands, and would not look up.
The old lady remonstrated. ‘Eat--eat,’ she said. ‘We shall need all our
spirit and strength, and there’s no good in being weak and spent with
fasting.’
Eleanor saw the prudence of this, and accepted the food and wine offered
to her; but Jean seemed unable to swallow anything but a long draught of
wine and water, and scarcely lifted her head from her sister’s shoulder.
Eleanor held her rosary, and though the words she conned over
were Latin, all her heart was one silent prayer for protection and
deliverance, and commendation of that brave youth’s soul to bis Maker.
The knight kept out of their way, evidently not wishing to be
interrogated, and he seemed to be the only person who could speak French
after a fashion. By and by they were remounted and led across some
marshy ground, where the course of the stream was marked by tall ferns
and weeds, then into a wood of beeches, where the sun lighted the
delicate young foliage, while the horses trod easily among the brown
fallen leaves. This gave place to another wood of firs, and though the
days were fairly long, here it was rapidly growing dark under the heavy
branches, so that the winding path could only have been followed by
those well used to it. As it became steeper and more stony the trees
became thinner, and against the eastern sky could be seen, dark and
threatening, the turrets of a castle above a steep, smooth-looking,
grassy slope, one of the hills, in fact, called from their shape by the
French, ballons.
Just then Jean’s horse, weary and unused to mountaineering, stumbled.
The man at its head was perhaps not attending to it, for the sudden pull
he gave the rein only precipitated the fall. The horse was up again in a
moment, but Jean lay still. Her sister and the lady were at her side
in a moment; but when they tried to raise her she cried out, at first
inarticulately, then, ‘Oh, my arm!’ and on another attempt to lift her
she fainted away. The knight was in the meantime swearing in German at
the man who had been leading her, then asking anxiously in French how
it was with the maiden, as she lay with her head on her sister’s lap,
Madame answered,
‘Hurt--much hurt.’
‘But not to the death?’
‘Who knows? No thanks to you.’ He tendered a flask where only a few
drops of wine remained, growling something or other about the Schelm;
and when Jean’s lips had been moistened with it she opened her eyes, but
sobbed with pain, and only entreated to be let alone. This, of course,
was impossible; but with double consternation Eleanor looked up at what,
in the gathering darkness, seemed a perpendicular height. The knight
made them understand that all that could be done was to put the
sufferer on horseback and support her there in the climb upwards, and
he proceeded without further parley to lift her up, not entirely without
heed to her screams and moans, for he emitted such sounds as those with
which he might have soothed his favourite horse, as he placed her on the
back of a stout, little, strong, mountain pony. Eleanor held her there,
and he walked at its head. Madame de Ste. Petronelle would fain have
kept up on the other side, but she had lost her mountain legs, and
could not have got up at all without the mule on which she was replaced.
Eleanor’s height enabled her to hold her arm round her sister, and rest
her head on her shoulder, though how she kept on in the dark, dragged
along as it were blindly up and up, she never could afterwards
recollect; but at last pine torches came down to meet them, there was
a tumult of voices, a yawning black archway in front, a light or two
flitting about. Jean lay helplessly against her, only groaning now and
then; then, as the arch seemed to swallow them up, Eleanor was aware of
an old man, lame and rugged, who bawled loud and seemed to be the
highly displeased master; of calls for ‘Barbe,’ and then of an elderly,
homely-looking woman, who would have assisted in taking Jean off the
pony but that the knight was already in the act. However, he resigned
her to her sister and Madame de Ste. Petronelle, while Barbe led the
way, lamp in hand. It was just as well poor Jeanie remained unconscious
or nearly so while she was conveyed up the narrow stairs to a round
chamber, not worse in furnishing than that at Dunbar, though very unlike
their tapestried rooms at Nanci.
It was well to be able to lay her down at all, and old Barbe was not
only ready and pitying, but spoke French. She had some wine ready, and
had evidently done her best in the brief warning to prepare a bed. The
tone of her words convinced Madame de Ste. Petronelle that at any rate
she was no enemy. So she was permitted to assist in the investigation
of the injuries, which proved to be extensive bruises and a dislocated
shoulder. Both had sufficient experience in rough-and-ready surgery,
as well as sufficient strength, for them to be able to pull in the
shoulder, while Eleanor, white and trembling, stood on one side with the
lamp, and a little flaxen-haired girl of twelve years old held bandages
and ran after whatever Barbe asked for.
This done, and Jean having been arranged as comfortably as might be,
Barbe obeyed some peremptory summonses from without, and presently came
back.
‘The seigneur desires to speak with the ladies,’ she said; ‘but I have
told him that they cannot leave la pauvrette, and are too much spent to
speak with him to-night. I will bring them supper and they shall rest.’
‘We thank you,’ said Madame de Ste. Petronelle, ‘Only, de grace, tell us
where we are, and who this seigneur is, and what he wants with us poor
women.’
‘This is the Castle of Balchenburg,’ was the reply; ‘the seigneur is the
Baron thereof. For the next’--she shrugged her shoulders--‘it must be
one of Baron Rudiger’s ventures. But I must go and fetch the ladies some
supper. Ah! the demoiselle surely needs it.’
‘And some water!’ entreated Eleanor.
‘Ah yes,’ she replied; ‘Trudchen shall bring some.’
The little girl presently reappeared with a pitcher as heavy as
she could carry. She could not understand French, but looked much
interested, and very eager and curious as she brought in several of the
bundles and mails of the travellers.
‘Thank the saints,’ cried the lady, ‘they do not mean to strip us of our
clothes!’
‘They have stolen us, and that is enough for them,’ said Eleanor.
Jean lay apparently too much exhausted to take notice of what was going
on, and they hoped she might sleep, while they moved about quietly. The
room seemed to be a cell in the hollow of the turret, and there were two
loophole windows, to which Eleanor climbed up, but she could see nothing
but the stars. ‘Ah! yonder is the Plough, just as when we looked out at
it at Dunbar o’er the sea!’ she sighed. ‘The only friendly thing I can
see! Ah! but the same God and the saints are with us still!’ and she
clasped her rosary’s cross as she returned to her sister, who was
sighing out an entreaty for water.
By and by the woman returned, and with her the child. She made a low
reverence as she entered, having evidently been informed of the rank of
her captives. A white napkin was spread over the great chest that served
for a table--a piece of civilisation such as the Dunbar captivity had
not known--three beechen bowls and spoons, and a porringer containing a
not unsavoury stew of a fowl in broth thickened with meal. They tried
to make their patient swallow a little broth, but without much success,
though Eleanor in the mountain air had become famished enough to make a
hearty meal, and feel more cheered and hopeful after it. Barbe’s evident
sympathy and respect were an element of comfort, and when Jean revived
enough to make some inquiry after poor Skywing, and it was translated
into French, there was an assurance that the hawk was cared for--hopes
even given of its presence. Barbe was not only compassionate, but ready
to answer all the questions in her power. She was Burgundian, but her
home having been harried in the wars, her husband had taken service as
a man-at-arms with the Baron of Balchenburg, she herself becoming the
bower-woman of the Baroness, now dead. Since the death of the good lady,
whose influence had been some restraint, everything had become much
rougher and wilder, and the lords of the castle, standing on the
frontier as it did, had become closely connected with the feuds of
Germany as well as the wars in France. The old Baron had been lamed in a
raid into Burgundy, since which time he had never left home; and Barbe’s
husband had been killed, her sons either slain or seeking their fortune
elsewhere, so that nothing was left to her but her little daughter
Gertrude, for whose sake she earnestly longed to find her way down to
more civilised and godly life; but she was withheld by the difficulties
in the path, and the extreme improbability of finding a maintenance
anywhere else, as well as by a certain affection for her two Barons,
and doubts what they would do without her, since the elder was in broken
health and the younger had been her nursling. In fact, she was the
highest female authority in the castle, and kept up whatever semblance
of decency or propriety remained since her mistress’s death. All this
came out in the way of grumbling or lamentation, in the satisfaction of
having some woman to confide in, though her young master had made her
aware of the rank of his captives. Every one, it seemed, had been
taken by surprise. He was in the habit of making expeditions on his
own account, and bringing home sometimes lawless comrades or followers,
sometimes booty; but this time, after taking great pains to furbish up
a suit of armour brought home long ago, he had set forth to the
festivities at Nanci. The lands and castle were so situated, that the
old Baron had done homage for the greater part to Sigismund as Duke of
Elsass, and for another portion to King Rene as Duke of Lorraine, as
whose vassal the young Baron had appeared. No more had been heard of him
till one of his men hurried up with tidings that Herr Rudiger had taken
a bevy of captives, with plenty of spoil, but that one was a lady much
hurt, for whom Barbe must prepare her best.
Since this, Barbe had learnt from her young master that the injured lady
was the sister of the Dauphiness, and a king’s daughter, and that every
care must be taken of her and her sister, for he was madly in love with
her, and meant her to be his wife.
Eleanor and Madame de Ste. Petronelle cried out at this with horror, in
a stifled way, as Barbe whispered it.
‘Too high, too dangerous game for him, I know,’ said the old woman. ‘So
said his father, who was not a little dismayed when he heard who these
ladies were.’
‘The King, my brother, the Dauphin, the Duke of Brittany--’ began
Eleanor.
‘Alas! the poor boy would never have ventured it but for encouragement,’
sighed Barbe. ‘Treacherous I say it must be!’
‘I knew there was treachery, ‘exclaimed Madame de Ste. Petronelle, ‘so
soon as I found which way our faces were turned.’
‘But who could or would betray us?’ demanded Eleanor.
‘You need not ask that, when your escort was led by Andrew Hall,’
returned the elder lady. ‘Poor young George of the Red Peel had only
just told me so, when the caitiffs fell on him, and he came to his
bloody death.’
‘Hall! Then I marvel not,’ said Eleanor, in a low, awe-struck voice. ‘My
brother the Dauphin could not have known.’
The old Scotswoman refrained from uttering her belief that he knew only
too well, but by the time all this had been said Barbe was obliged to
leave them, having arranged for the night that Eleanor should sleep in
the big bed beside her sister, and their lady across it at their feet--a
not uncommon arrangement in those days.
Sleep, however, in spite of weariness, was only to be had in snatches,
for poor Jean was in much pain, and very feverish, besides being greatly
terrified at their situation, and full of grief and self-reproach for
the poor young Master of Angus, never dozing off for a moment without
fancying she saw him dying and upbraiding her, and for the most part
tossing in a restless misery that required the attendance of one or
both. She had never known ailment before, and was thus all the more
wretched and impatient, alarming and distressing Eleanor extremely,
though Madame de Ste. Petronelle declared it was only a matter of
course, and that the lassie would soon be well.
‘Ah, Madame, our comforter and helper,’ said Elleen.
‘Call me no French names, dearies. Call me the Leddy Lindsay or Dame
Elspeth, as I should be at home. We be all Scots here, in one sore
stour. If I could win a word to my son, Ritchie, he would soon have us
out of this place.’
‘Would not Barbe help us to a messenger?’
‘I doubt it. She would scarce bring trouble on her lords; but we might
be worse off than with her.’
‘Why does she not come? I want some more drink,’ moaned Jean. Barbe did
come, and, moreover, brought not only water but some tisane of herbs
that was good for fever and had been brewing all night, and she was
wonderfully good-humoured at the patient’s fretful refusal, though
between coaxing and authority ‘Leddy Lindsay’ managed to get it taken
at last. After Margaret’s experience of her as a stern duenna, her
tenderness in illness and trouble was a real surprise.
No keys were turned on them, but there was little disposition to go
beyond the door which opened on the stone stair in the gray wall. The
view from the windows revealed that they were very high up. There was
a bit of castle wall to be seen below, and beyond a sea of forest, the
dark masses of pine throwing out the lighter, more delicate sweeps of
beech, and pale purple distance beyond--not another building within
view, giving a sense of vast solitude to Eleanor’s eyes, more dreary
than the sea at Dunbar, and far more changeless. An occasional bird was
all the variety to be hoped for.
By and by Barbe brought a message that her masters requested the ladies’
presence at the meal, a dinner, in fact, served about an hour before
noon. Eleanor greatly demurred, but Barbe strongly advised consent, ‘Or
my young lord will be coming up here,’ she said; ‘they both wish to have
speech of you, and would have been here before now, if my old lord were
not so lame, and the young one so shy, the poor child!’
‘Shy,’ exclaimed Eleanor, ‘after what he has dared to do to us!’
‘All the more for that very reason,’ said Barbe.
‘True,’ returned Madame; ‘the savage who is most ferocious in his acts
is most bashful in his breeding.’
‘How should my poor boy have had any breeding up here in the forests?’
demanded Barbe. ‘Oh, if he had only fixed his mind on a maiden of his
own degree, she might have brought the good days back; but alas, now
he will be only bringing about his own destruction, which the saints
avert.’
It was agreed that Eleanor had better make as royal and imposing an
appearance as possible, so instead of the plain camlet riding kirtles
that she and Lady Lindsay had worn, she donned a heraldic sort of
garment, a tissue of white and gold thread, with the red lion ramping
on back and breast, and the double tressure edging all the hems, part
of the outfit furnished at her great-uncle’s expense in London, but too
gaudy for her taste, and she added to her already considerable height by
the tall, veiled headgear that had been despised as unfashionable.
Jean from her bed cried out that she looked like Pharaoh’s daughter in
the tapestry, and consented to be left to the care of little Trudchen,
since Madame de Ste. Petronelle must act attendant, and Barbe evidently
thought her young master’s good behaviour might be the better secured by
her presence.
So, at the bottom of the narrow stone stair, Eleanor shook out her
plumes, the attendant lady arranged her veil over her yellow hair, and
drew out her short train and long hanging sleeves, a little behind the
fashion, but the more dignified, as she swept into the ball, and though
her heart beat desperately, holding her head stiff and high, and looking
every inch a princess, the shrewd Scotch lady behind her flattered
herself that the two Barons did look a little daunted by the bearing of
the creature they had caught.
The father, who had somewhat the look of an old fox, limped forward
with a less ungraceful bow than the son, who had more of the wolf. Some
greeting was mumbled, and the old man would have taken her hand to lead
her to the highest place at table, but she would not give it.
‘I am no willing guest of yours, sir,’ she said, perhaps alarmed at her
own boldness, but drawing herself up with great dignity. ‘I desire to
know by what right my sister and I, king’s daughters, on our way to King
Charles’s Court, have thus been seized and detained?’
‘We do not stickle as to rights here on the borders, Lady,’ said the
elder Baron in bad French; ‘it would be wiser to abate a little of that
outre-cuidance of yours, and listen to our terms.’
‘A captive has no choice save to listen,’ returned Eleanor; ‘but as
to speaking of terms, my brothers-in-law, the Dauphin and the Duke of
Brittany, may have something to say to them.’
‘Exactly so,’ replied the old Baron, in a tone of some irony, which she
did not like. ‘Now, Lady, our terms are these, but understand first that
all this affair is none of my seeking, but my son here has been backed
up in it by some whom’--on a grunt from Sir Rudiger--‘there is no need
to name. He--the more fool he--has taken a fancy to your sister, though,
if all reports be true, she has nought but her royal blood, not so much
as a denier for a dowry nor as ransom for either of you. However, this I
will overlook, dead loss as it is to me and mine, and so your sister,
so soon as she recovers from her hurt, will become my son’s wife, and
I will have you and your lady safely conducted without ransom to the
borders of Normandy or Brittany, as you may list.’
‘And think you, sir,’ returned Eleanor, quivering with indignation,
‘that the daughter of a hundred kings is like to lower herself by
listening to the suit of a petty robber baron of the Marches?’
‘I do not think! but I know that though I am a fool for giving in to my
son’s madness, these are the only terms I propose; and if you, Lady, so
deal with her as to make her accept them, you are free without ransom to
go where you will.’
‘You expect me to sell my sister,’ said Eleanor disdainfully.
‘Look you here,’ broke in Rudiger, bursting out of his shyness. ‘She is
the fairest maiden, gentle or simple, I ever saw; I love her with all my
heart. If she be mine, I swear to make her a thousand times more cared
for than your sister the Dauphiness; and if all be true your Scottish
archers tell me, you Scottish folk have no great cause to disdain an
Elsass forest castle.’
An awkward recollection, of the Black Knight of Lorn came across
Eleanor, but she did not lose her stately dignity.
‘It is not the wealth or poverty that we heed,’ she said, ‘but the
nobility and princeliness.’
‘There is nothing to be done then, son,’ said the old Baron, ‘but to
wait a day or two and see whether the maiden herself will be less proud
and more reasonable. Otherwise, these ladies understand that there will
be close imprisonment and diet according to the custom of the border
till a thousand gold crowns be paid down for each of these sisters of a
Scotch king, and five hundred for Madame here; and when that is like to
be found, the damoiselle herself may know,’ and he laughed.
‘We have those who will take care of our ransom,’ said Eleanor, though
her heart misgave her. ‘Moreover, Duke Sigismund will visit such an
offence dearly!’ and there was a glow on her cheeks.
‘He knows better than to meddle with a vassal of Lorraine,’ said the old
man.
‘King Rene--’ began Eleanor.
‘He is too wary to meddle with a vassal of Elsass,’ sneered the Baron.
‘No, no, Lady, ransom or wedding, there lies your choice.’
With this there appeared to be a kind of truce, perhaps in consequence
of the appearance of a great pie; and Eleanor did not refuse to sit
down to the table and partake of the food, though she did not choose to
converse; whereas Madame de Ste. Petronelle thought it wiser to be as
agreeable as she could, and this, in the opinion of the Court of the
Dauphiness, was not going very far.
Long before the Barons and their retainers had finished, little Trudchen
came hurrying down to say that the lady was crying and calling for her
sister, and Eleanor was by no means sorry to hasten to her side, though
only to receive a petulant scolding for the desertion that had lasted so
very long, according to the sick girl’s sensations.
Matters remained in abeyance while the illness continued; Jean had a
night of fever, and when that passed, under the experienced management
of Dame Elspie, as the sisters called her more and more, she was very
weak and sadly depressed. Sometimes she wept and declared she should die
in these dismal walls, like her mother at Dunbar, and never see Jamie
and Mary again; sometimes she blamed Elleen for having put this mad
scheme into her head; sometimes she fretted for her cousins Lilias and
Annis of Glenuskie, and was sure it was all Elleen’s fault for having
let themselves be separated from Sir Patrick; while at others she
declared the Drummonds faithless and disloyal for having gone after
their own affairs and left the only true and leal heart to die for
her; and then came fresh floods of tears, though sometimes, as she
passionately caressed Skywing, she declared the hawk to be the only
faithful creature in existence.
Baron Rudiger was evidently very uneasy about her; Barbe reported how
gloomy and miserable he was, and how he relieved his feelings by beating
the unfortunate man who had been leading the horse, and in a wiser
manner by seeking fish in the torrent and birds on the hills for
her refreshment, and even helping Trudchen to gather the mountain
strawberries for her. This was, however, so far from a recommendation to
Jean, that after the first Barbe gave it to be understood that all were
Trudchen’s providing.
They suspected that Barbe nattered and soothed ‘her boy,’ as she termed
him, with hopes, but they owed much to the species of authority with
which she kept him from forcing himself upon them. Eleanor sometimes
tried to soothe her sister, and while away the time with her harp. The
Scotch songs were a great delight to Dame Elspie, but they made Jean
weep in her weakness, and Elleen’s great resource was King Rene’s
parting gift of the tales of Huon de Bourdeaux, with its wonderful
chivalrous adventures, and the appearances of the dwarf Oberon; and she
greatly enjoyed the idea of the pleasure it would give Jamie--if ever
she should see Jamie again; and she wondered, too, whether the Duke of
the Tirol knew the story--which even at some moments amused Jean.
There was a stair above their chamber, likewise in the thickness of
the wall, which Barbe told them they might safely explore, and
thence Eleanor discovered that the castle was one of the small but
regularly-built fortresses not uncommon on the summit of hills. It was
an octagon--as complete as the ground would permit--with a huge wall and
a tower at each angle. One face, that on the most accessible side, was
occupied by the keep in which they were, with a watch-tower raising its
finger and banner above them, the little, squat, round towers around not
lifting their heads much above the battlements of the wall. The descent
on most of the sides was almost precipitous, on two entirely so, while
in the rear another steep hill rose so abruptly that it seemed to frown
over them though separated by a ravine.
Nothing was to be seen all round but the tops of trees--dark pines,
beeches, and chestnuts in the gay, light green of spring, a hopeless and
oppressive waste of verdure, where occasionally a hawk might be seen to
soar, and whence the howlings of wolves might be heard at night.
Jean was, in a week, so well that there was no cause for deferring the
interview any longer, and, indeed, she was persuaded that Elleen had not
been half resolute or severe enough, and that she could soon show the
two Barons that they detained her at their peril. Still she looked white
and thin, and needed a scarf for her arm, when she caused herself to be
arrayed as splendidly as her sister had been, and descended to the hall,
where, like Eleanor, she took the initiative by an appeal against the
wrong and injustice that held two free-born royal ladies captive.
‘He who has the power may do as he wills, my pretty damsel,’ replied the
old Baron. ‘Once for all, as I told your sister, these threats are of
no avail, though they sound well to puff up your little airs. Your own
kingdom is a long way off, and breeds more men than money; and as to
our neighbours, they dare not embroil themselves by meddling with us
borderers. You had better take what we offer, far better than aught your
barbarous northern lords could give, and then your sister will be free,
without ransom, to depart or to stay here till she finds another bold
baron of the Marches to take her to wife. Ha, thou Rudiger! why dost
stand staring like a wild pig in a pit? Canst not speak a word for
thyself?’
‘She shall be my queen,’ said Rudiger hoarsely, bumping himself down on
his knees, and trying to master her hand, but she drew it away from him.
‘As if I would be queen of a mere nest of robbers and freebooters,’ she
said. ‘You forget, Messires, that my sister is daughter-in-law to the
King of France. We must long ago have been missed, and I expect every
hour that my brother, the Dauphin, will be here with his troops.’
‘That’s what you expect. So you do not know, my proud demoiselle, that
my son would scarce have been rash enough to meddle with such lofty
gear, for all his folly, if he had not had a hint that maidens with
royal blood but no royal portions were not wanted at Court, and might be
had for the picking up!’
‘It is a brutal falsehood, or else a mere invention of the traitor
Hall’s, our father’s murderer!’ said Jean, with flashing eyes. ‘I would
have you to know, both of you, my Lords, that were we betrayed and
forsaken by every kinsman we have, I will not degrade the blood royal of
Scotland by mating it with a rude and petty freebooter. You may keep us
captives as you will, but you will not break our spirit.’
So saying, Jean swept back to the stairs, turning a deaf ear to the
Baron’s chuckle of applause and murmur, ‘A gallant spirited dame she
will make thee, my junker, and hold out the castle well against all
foes, when once she is broken in.’
Jean and Eleanor alike disbelieved that Louis could have encouraged this
audacious attempt, but they were dismayed to find that Madame de Ste.
Petronelle thought it far from improbable, for she believed him capable
of almost any underhand treachery. She did, however, believe that though
there might be some delay, a stir would be made, if only by her own
son, which would end in their situation being publicly known, and final
release coming, if Jean could only be patient and resolute.
But to the poor girl it seemed as if the ground were cut from under her
feet; and as her spirits drooped more and more, there were times when
she said, ‘Elleen, I must consent. I have been the death of the one true
heart that was mine! Why should I hold out any longer, and make thee and
Dame Elspie wear out your days in this dismal forest hold? Never shall I
be happy again, so it matters not what becomes of me.’
‘It matters to me,’ said Elleen. ‘Sister, thinkest thou I could go away
to be happy, leaving thee bound to this rude savage in his donjon? Fie,
Jean, this is not worthy of King James’s daughter; he spent all those
years of patience in captivity, and shall we lose heart in a few days?’
‘Is it a few days? It is like years!’
‘That is because thou hast been sick. See now, let us dance and sing, so
that the jailers may know we are not daunted. We have been shut up ere
now, God brought us out, and He will again, and we need not pine.’
‘Ah, then we were children, and had seen nothing better; and--and there
was not his blood on me!’
And Jean fell a-weeping.