‘We are the boys that can wrestle and ride,
Empty a saddle, and empty a can,
Keeping the rights of the border side,
Warden to warden, and man to man;
Never another go welcome here
As the lads of the snaffle, spur, and spear.’
At the time of which we write there were few worse places wherein
to be benighted than that wild district on the borders of England
and Scotland, appropriately called the ‘Debatable Land.’ Bleak and
barren, on a gusty evening late in autumn, a less desirable locality
for the traveller could scarcely be imagined; and he must have been
a hardy adventurer who would not have preferred the dirtiest corner
of the smokiest hostelry to the uncertain track that led through
its morasses, especially on a tired horse. Such was the reflection
uppermost in Walter Maxwell’s mind as he marked the dusky horizon
becoming more and more indistinct, and calculated the diminishing
chances of his reaching the Castle of Hermitage, where he had hoped
to find rest and refreshment with his kinsman, James Hepburn, Earl of
Bothwell, and, doubtless, in that country where horses were so easily
come by, a fresh mount to take him northward on the morrow. No longer
an archer of the Scottish Guard, Maxwell was on his way to Edinburgh
from the English seaport at which he had landed in returning from
France. With his reputation as a soldier and his family connexions, he
had little doubt but that he would be welcome at Holyrood; and indeed,
had it been otherwise, an indefinable attraction, that he would not
have confessed, seemed to draw him irresistibly towards the Scottish
capital.
During the whole of his journey, however, by land and sea, his
destination had never seemed so remote, nor the likelihood of his
reaching it so small, as at present.
‘Hold up, you brute!’ said Maxwell, as he felt if the straps of his
corslet were secure and his sword loose in its sheath, whilst his poor
horse took that opportunity of floundering on its head.
‘Hold up! If you fall you’ll never get up again; and unless mine host’s
directions were inspired by beer and brandy, we must be a good way off
Hermitage yet. Happily the moon is rising every minute. Well, you were
a good beast this morning, though you’re not worth your four shoes now!’
While he spoke, he patted the poor animal on the neck, and, as if
encouraged by the caress, it pricked its ears and mended its pace of
its own accord.
Maxwell was too old a soldier not to be on the alert in such a
situation: it was with a feeling more of annoyance than surprise
that he heard the tramp of horses advancing at a rapid pace over the
sounder sward he had left behind him; and whilst he shortened his reins
and hitched his sword-belt to the front, it was but with a dogged
consciousness that, though he meant to fight to the last, he was sure
to get the worst of it, outnumbered, and on a tired horse.
He had, however, the caution to halt on the far side of some broken and
boggy ground; so that the new comers, whom he now made out to be but
two, must attack him at a disadvantage, if they intended violence; and
he thought how he could best separate them, that they might not both
set on him at once.
The horsemen, however, halted immediately they caught sight of him, and
the foremost called out in a loud, frank voice, undoubtedly English in
its tone--
‘Is it friend or foe? A man must be one or other in the Debatable Land!’
‘Friend!’ answered Maxwell confidently, adding, as an earnest of his
sincerity, ‘Keep near the big stone, or you’ll go in up to your girths!’
Following his advice, the horseman and his attendant, who appeared
nothing more than a simple domestic, emerged upon sound ground. The
former was admirably mounted, and although his dress denoted the
gentleman rather than the soldier, he sat his horse with the ease of a
skilful cavalier.
Maxwell made out also in the moonlight that he was perfectly armed,
wearing both pistols and rapier, and carried a small valise, with
somewhat ostentatious care, on the saddle in front of him.
‘Friend!’ he repeated, bowing ceremoniously, as he brought his horse
alongside Maxwell’s, ‘foes are more plentiful in this district on
a moonlight night. We may meet some gentlemen hereabouts who would
give us anything but a “Highland welcome.” As we are going in the
same direction, by your good leave we will travel together. Union is
strength; although,’ he added, glancing at the other’s tired horse,
‘haste is not speed.’
His manner was courtly, or rather courtier-like, in the extreme, and
Maxwell saw at a glance he had to do with one of the porcelain vessels
of the earth; yet there was a conventional tone of indifference, a
something of covert sarcasm, and implied superiority in his voice, that
jarred upon the franker nature of the soldier.
They rode on, however, amicably together--the attendant, a burly
Southron, apparently by no means easy either in mind or body, keeping
close behind his master. The latter was bound, he said, for Hermitage,
which he hoped to reach before midnight, and he seemed to treat his
new companion with a shade more deference when he learned that Maxwell
was a kinsman of the redoubted Earl of Bothwell.
Some men have a knack of extracting information without affording any
in return, and this faculty appeared to be largely possessed by the
well-mounted traveller, who, while he conversed with the ease and
freedom of a thorough man of the world, dropped every now and then a
leading question that denoted an insatiable and unscrupulous curiosity.
The Scotch have generally an insurmountable dislike to being ‘pumped,’
and Maxwell, whose shrewdness soon perceived his new friend’s intention
of subjecting him to that process, resented it by an increased reserve,
which subsided ere long into an almost unbroken silence.
They rode on for some time, accordingly, interchanging only an
occasional remark--the stranger accommodating his horse’s pace to
that of his new acquaintance, whilst his servant jogged painfully
along behind him, suffering obviously from abrasion, the curse of
unpractised riders, and seeking relief, as well by sighs and groans,
as by fruitless changes of position in the saddle. The moon shone out
brightly, and its light enabled Maxwell to examine the face and figure
of his comrade.
He was a spare man, of less than middle age, with the marks of good
breeding apparent in his thin, sharp features, and small feet and
hands. His figure, though too angular, was sufficiently graceful; and
his face, though pale, bore the clear hue of a healthy and enduring
constitution;--although he would have been a well-looking man enough,
but for the restless expression of his small gray eyes, which peered
from under the straight thick eyebrows with a vigilance amounting to
suspicion, and the thin, firmly-compressed lips, a little drawn in at
the corners, as if by an habitual sneer.
Maxwell, accustomed, in his warlike life, to judge of men at a glance,
found himself vaguely speculating on an exterior beyond which he could
not penetrate. The shaven lip and cheek denoted a man of peaceful
profession; but the finished horsemanship, the hanging of the sword,
the readiness with which his hand sought his pistol-holsters, savoured
of the soldier. Again, his thoughtful brow and worn face might well
become some distinguished scholar or man of science; but the tone
of his conversation, and the levity of his bearing, contradicted the
supposition that he could belong to the ‘wise ones of the earth.’
He seemed conscious, too, of his new friend’s observation, and more
inclined to court than shrink from it, as if priding himself on the
impenetrable reserve, with which he could combine an appearance of
extreme cordiality. The restless eyes, however, were not still for an
instant; and the soldier, in the midst of his speculations, was equally
startled and shamed by the observation which aroused him, and proved
that the civilian’s vigilance had been far more active than his own.
‘I thought so!’ said the latter, speaking in quiet, rapid tones. ‘There
are night-hawks abroad, as usual, in this cursed wilderness. Did you
not see the glitter of a head-piece over the height yonder? Now, if
these are jackmen out on their own account, you and I will have to
trust to the speed of our horses, which is doubtful, and our knowledge
of the locality, which is negative--this poor devil will have his
throat cut to a certainty.’
Even at this disagreeable juncture, the man spoke in a bantering tone,
as it were between jest and earnest. His servant, a stout, able-bodied
fellow enough, regarded his master with a ludicrous expression of
dismay.
‘Your horse is fresh, and looks like a good one,’ answered Maxwell,
somewhat contemptuously; ‘keep round the shoulder of that hill, and
you will find a beaten track that leads to Hermitage. At least, so
they directed me. Mine is tired; I _can’t_ run; so I _must_ fight. If
I arrive not by daybreak, you will know what has become of me, and can
tell the Warden he should keep better order on the Marches.’
The other laughed outright.
‘A sharp pair of spurs are no bad weapons on occasion,’ said he; ‘but
I am much afraid I must trust to other friends to-night.’ He laid his
hand on his holsters, and continued, ‘Those fellows will come in again
in front of us, and I had rather face every outlaw in Britain, from
Robin Hood downwards, than turn back into the wilderness. Let us halt
for a minute. I can hear the tramp of their horses even now.’
As the three drew up under the shadow of some rising ground, they
could distinctly hear the gallop of horses and the clatter of arms on
the other side of the acclivity.
‘There are half a score at least,’ observed Maxwell, with increasing
animation. ‘You are quite right--they want to intercept us in the pass
yonder. What say you, sir? Shall we pay them in steel or silver? for
metal they will have. Can your servant fight?’
‘Like a devil,’ answered the other, ‘when it is impossible to run away;
and, faith, he’ll be between two fires to-night, for I can hear a body
of horse in our rear as well. What say you, Jenkin? Had you not rather
be lying drunk in the filthiest gutter in Eastcheap than make your bed
here on the heather, with a rough-footed borderer to pull your boots
off, and an Armstrong’s lance through your body to make you sleep well?’
The man gave a sulky grunt in answer. He was evidently irritated at the
heartless levity of his master, but he looked all the more dogged and
resolute, and seemed likely to fight till the last. The night wind,
too, bore on their ears the tramp of a body of horse behind them; and
it was simply a question whether it were not better to charge through
those in front, and take their chance.
After a hurried consultation, they agreed to ride steadily forward to
the pass, at a good round pace, yet not fast enough to convey the idea
of flight. If their enemies were there before them, they must charge
without hesitation and try to cut their way through, the Englishman
remarking with grim sarcasm, that ‘the Warden was likely to have a good
appetite if he waited supper until his guests arrived.’
As the three wayfarers neared the pass, the dusky forms of their
enemies were already drawn up in its shadow; and a shot, fired at
Maxwell, which cut the ribbon from his sleeve, sufficiently denoted
their intentions. A voice, too, from the midst of the little black mass
was heard to exclaim, in more polished language than might have been
expected--
‘Dead or alive, Rough Rob! take the man in the centre, and let the
others go free!’
‘Thank you,’ observed the Englishman, who occupied that position
between his servant and Maxwell, adding, through his set teeth, ‘I
shall owe you one, whoever you are, and pay it before I’ve done with
you, or my name is not Thomas Randolph!’
Maxwell heard the promise, but had no time for astonishment at thus
finding himself the companion of Elizabeth’s ambassador to the Scotch
court under such uncomfortable circumstances, inasmuch as a grim
borderer, on a tall bay horse, was already within lance’s length of
him, and in another stride his own tired animal was rolling on the
heather, and he was defending himself as well as he could on his feet.
Two or three shots were fired, the flashes from the pistols and
musquetoons lighting up the faces of the combatants, as they rode
to and fro through the skirmish. With the exception, however, of
Mr Randolph’s first shot, which made ‘Rough Rob’s’ good gray mare
masterless, the fire-arms did little damage, save rendering three or
four of the horses perfectly unmanageable.
As Maxwell shifted his ground, and traversed here and there, parrying
with his sword the thrusts of his adversary’s long lance, a tall man
rode up to him, and shouting, ‘A Carmichael!’ seemed about to cut him
down; then, as if perceiving his mistake, he checked his raised arm,
and turned upon Mr Randolph, whom he attacked with considerable energy,
shouting his war-cry, as though from the force of habit, once more.
The latter defended himself valiantly, but notwithstanding the
assistance of his servant who fought with the cool intrepidity of an
Englishman in a difficulty, he had too great odds to contend with,
and must have fared badly, had not assistance come from an unexpected
quarter at the very moment when honest Jenkin fell from the saddle with
an awkward knock on his pate from the back of a Jedwood axe, running
his assailant through the arm, however, as he went down.
Mr Randolph’s bridle had already been seized, and the valise torn
from his saddle by the tall man who seemed to command the party. Both
Maxwell and the ambassador were now surrounded and nearly overpowered,
when two more horseman, followed by a numerous troop of cavalry, came
galloping up from the rear, and charged into the _mêlée_, with a
violence that made a clean breach through the outlaws. One of them, a
gigantic borderer, with a broad, good-humoured face, rolled Maxwell’s
antagonist, horse and man, to the ground, knocking the rider down again
with the butt end of his lance, when he strove to rise; whilst the
other, a tall cavalier magnificently accoutred, turned Mr Randolph’s
horse courteously out of the press, dealing one of his assailants a
buffet, that must have cut him in two, had it not been mercifully
delivered with the flat of the sword, and rebuking the others in a
voice of authority that all seemed to recognise. Indeed, a cry of ‘the
Warden! the Warden!’ was by this time passed from lip to lip amongst
the outlaws, and horses’ heads were already turned, and spurs plied
to seek safety in flight. For the third time, too, to-night, Maxwell
heard the name spoken which kindled so many recollections in his
breast. Disembarrassed of his enemies by the rescue that arrived so
opportunely, he noticed the Warden ride rapidly up to the leader of
the band, and say in a low voice, ‘_You_ here, Carmichael! for shame!’
after which, the other turned rein, and galloped off at the utmost
speed, accompanied by all his followers save two, one of whom was dead,
and the other disabled. It struck him also that the pursuit was not
nearly so vigorous as might have been expected from the rescue, and
that the Warden appeared far more anxious to pay every attention to
Mr Randolph than to take vengeance on those who had attacked him. The
latter had never lost his _sang froid_ during the encounter, and was,
if possible, more self-possessed than usual at its termination.
‘Your Scottish welcomes, my Lord Earl,’ said he, ‘are hearty, though
rough. I never was more glad to see your lordship. It is fortunate for
us all, except this gentleman, whose acquaintance I regret to have made
so inopportunely, that you came to-night somewhat further than the
drawbridge to meet your guests.’ As he spoke he pointed to the dead
body of ‘Rough Rob,’ which was lying at his horse’s feet.
‘Who is it?’ asked Bothwell of his henchman anxiously, ere he replied
to the courtier; and the gigantic horseman who had rescued Maxwell,
dismounting, turned the dead man’s face to the moonlight.
‘It is but “Rough Rob,”’ replied he, carelessly, after a brief
examination of the corpse. ‘A likely lad too, though he was a kinsman
of my ain. Ay, Rob, thou’rt out of the saddle at last, man; but I would
like weel to ken wha’s gotten the gude gray mare.’
‘Secure the other rascal,’ said the Warden, turning his horse’s head
homeward. ‘Let Dick Rutherford and two more jackmen bring him on in the
rear. Help Mr Maxwell to his horse, some of you, and leave that carrion
to the crows.’
The cavalcade was now set in motion, Bothwell and Mr Randolph riding
together in front; the former, after a hasty greeting to his kinsman,
appearing to devote his whole attention to the ambassador. Maxwell,
whose relationship to the Warden made him an object of interest to the
jackmen, came on in the rear at a slower pace, for his horse was now
completely exhausted. He was, however, accompanied by the borderer who
had rescued him, and who seemed to have taken a great fancy to him for
his swordsmanship.
Dick Rutherford, or, as he was more commonly called,
‘Dick-o’-the-Cleugh,’ set much store by that cool courage which he
himself possessed in no common degree; and as he looked on every
hand-to-hand encounter in the light of a pastime, at which he was
himself a first-rate performer, so he could never withhold a certain
amount of facetious approbation from any other skilful player at the
game. He was, at this period, the Warden’s henchman or principal
man-at-arms, and would have followed his chief to the death, for
Bothwell had the knack of winning the hearts of his retainers by a rude
cordiality and boisterous frankness akin to their own.
The Warden could drain a deeper cup, back a wilder horse, and couch a
heavier spear than the rudest of his jackmen; his fine manly person,
great strength, and soldier-like bearing, fascinated while they
controlled these savage natures; and whatever deep designs may have
lurked beneath this frank exterior, James Hepburn seemed to have no
ambition beyond the reputation of being the boldest borderer on the
Marches. He would ride alone, or attended only by ‘Dick-o’-the-Cleugh,’
through the worst of these lawless districts, and the latter was never
tired of detailing the hand-to-hand encounters with freebooters, in
which the Warden had come off victorious. Dick, too, was an adept in
all the intricacies of his profession. He could follow a trail like a
bloodhound, fight like a demon, and drink and ride like--a borderer.
With all this, his great strong body contained a soft heart, and an
inexhaustible fund of good-humour.
After looking at Maxwell in silent admiration for a space of five
minutes, he began--
‘I would ha’ wagered a hundred merks now that there wasna’ a man in
Scotland could ha’ kept little Jock Elliott at half-sword like that;
and he on his white-footed gelding with his long lance in his hand.
Jock will no’ hear the last o’ it from me in a hurry. I trow he’s found
his match o’ this side Teviotdale, brag how he may!’
‘You know him, then?’ asked Maxwell, somewhat surprised to discover
such an intimate acquaintance with an outlaw on the part of the
Warden’s henchman.
‘Know him?’ repeated the other; ‘he broke my head at Bewcastle market
only yesterday was three weeks; but I’m thinking, I’m even with ye now,
Jock, my man! All in good part though,’ he added, ‘for little Jock
Elliott’s a canny lad, and a far-off cousin o’ my ain.’
‘_Little_ Jock Elliott!’ observed Maxwell in return. ‘Why, he looked to
me nearly as big a man as yourself.’
‘It’s a name he got when a boy,’ answered the borderer, ‘to know him
from his brother, big Jock Elliott, that’s gone to his rest. Ye see
they were all Elliotts and Armstrongs that were in the slack[2] the
night, _forbye_ “Rough Rob,” and he was a Rutherford,--more shame till
him that let himself get guided that way by a Southron!’
[2] The pass.
‘I heard another name too,’ said Maxwell, whose curiosity was
thoroughly aroused. ‘Who was the tall man that seemed to be the leader
of the party? the man that rode by me just before you struck in so
opportunely, and shouted, “A Carmichael!” when he drew his sword.’
‘Oh! it would be just one o’ the Carmichaels that happened there
by chance,’ replied Dick, with an expression of hopeless stolidity
overspreading his broad countenance; and Maxwell, seeing it would
be useless to question him further on that subject, turned the
conversation to the more congenial topics of horses and weapons, and
the advantages and disadvantages of the new-fashioned musquetoon. In
this manner they journeyed on in rear of the party till the dark towers
of Hermitage loomed against the midnight sky, and the clatter of the
drawbridge, as it was lowered, together with a considerable bustle
inside the walls, announced that preparations were being made for their
entrance.
Bothwell and Randolph, who had been riding at the head of the party,
halted at the postern until the rest came up, and the former proceeded
to muster his troop once more ere they crossed the bridge. Maxwell
remarked that the prisoner had escaped, but as no one else seemed to
take any notice of the circumstance, he discreetly held his tongue.
Whilst the gates were being opened, and the drawbridge secured,
operations which occupied a considerable time, Bothwell welcomed his
guests formally to his ‘poor tower,’ addressing himself, as before,
more particularly to Randolph.
‘I regret much,’ said he to the latter, ‘that your duty compels you
to be in the saddle again to-morrow at daybreak; but he who serves
a Queen, as well I know, must never flag for an hour in his zeal.
It shall be my care to provide you with a proper escort, and my own
henchman shall accompany you to Edinburgh.’
Randolph thanked the Warden courteously.
‘Your kinsman,’ said he, ‘will perhaps accompany me. He, too, as he
tells me, has urgent affairs in the capital, and I could not wish a
stouter escort if I carried a king’s ransom along with me.’
Maxwell accepted the offer eagerly, notwithstanding the earl’s
hospitable objections; and Bothwell, as they turned to cross the
drawbridge, once more expressed his sorrow that the English ambassador
should have been attacked within his jurisdiction.
‘I must take yet stricter order with these knaves,’ said the Warden;
‘there are too many broken men still in the Debatable Land who get
their living by what they can lift. Your valise is gone, but that we
can easily replace. I fear, however, that it contained something more
valuable than wearing apparel. Despatches probably for the Queen,
and--and--Lord James, Her Majesty’s half-brother?’
Mr Randolph could not repress a sneer.
‘Certain letters,’ he answered, ‘indeed there were, of no great
value to those knaves, if, as your lordship seems satisfied, they are
illiterate freebooters who cannot read. I have a few more here,’ he
added, pointing to a packet that peeped from his boot; ‘and, indeed,
the only one of importance is written in a cipher with which I myself
am unacquainted. Your lordship need not, therefore, be uneasy about the
safety of my despatches.’
Bothwell looked considerably put out, though he strove to mask his
annoyance under an affectation of great cordiality; and Randolph, as he
followed him into the castle, seemed hugely to enjoy the discomfiture
of his host.