‘“To arms!” the citizens bellow--“Alack!
These riders are loose in the town once more!”
But a good steel jack, and a friend to my back,
The Causeway I’ll keep in the teeth of a score.
For never another can ruffle it here,
Like the lads of the snaffle, spur, and spear.’
We have seen Bothwell in his harness,--the loyal nobleman, the true
knight, the Warden of the Marches, and Lieutenant of the Borders in the
service of his Queen. A different personage, in truth, from wild James
Hepburn, with his father’s hot blood rioting in his veins, and his
own propensities for evil, encouraged by a strong will and vigorous
temperament, acting on a bad education, a weak brain, and a heart with
just enough of good in it to make him lonely and unhappy.
Like his father, the profligate Earl Patrick, he was disposed by
nature to take a leading part in all scenes of turbulence and strife;
unlike that father, his better feelings would sometimes be permitted
to influence his policy, and weaken his determination. Earl Patrick
seems to have had a happy facility of ignoring all promises, bonds,
and even oaths, when their observance became inconvenient, and would
have scorned to allow his patriotism to stand for an hour in the way
of his advancement. His son, with all his faults, was a Scotchman at
heart; and, perhaps, like many another whose fate has served ‘to point
a moral or adorn a tale,’ it wanted but the difference of a hair’s
breadth, at the right moment, to have made him as good as he turned
out evil. Perhaps Bothwell’s real sphere was riding his war-horse in
mail and plate amongst the wild morasses of the marches. Perhaps he
was never so happy as when engaged in hand-to-hand conflict with some
daring marauder, a stalwart man-at-arms like himself--lance-thrust and
sword-stroke freely dealt and stoutly received with but little ill-will
on either side. Whilst his foe was in the saddle he would close with
him gallantly, striking fiercely, and shouting, ‘Queen Mary!’ but, down
upon the heather, the adversary of a moment ago became the helpless
friend, to be set upon a horse and borne gently to Hermitage, there to
be tended carefully till his wounds were cured, when he should be set
free at a trifling ransom, to meet and fight it out again.
’Twas a wild adventurous life that of a southern Scottish nobleman
in the days of the beautiful Stuart; yet not without its pleasures
and its charm. He lived in his old keep, a petty monarch within his
bounds, surrounded by adherents who would not scruple to shed every
drop of their blood in the service of their chief. Bold, athletic, and
self-reliant, he held his sway by the charter of his sword; he gained
his revenues by the unfailing influence of ‘snaffle, spur, and spear.’
For his relaxation, he leapt on a good horse, and cast his hawk into
the air, by the side of many a green nook and fresh brawling stream, or
holloaed his hounds on the slot of the flying deer, scouring over the
moorland, and bruising the fragrant heather beneath its hoofs. For the
business of life, the same good horse came round to the door, champing
under his steel frontlet, and the men-at-arms mustered on their bonny
bay geldings with laugh and jest, and loud anticipations of plunder.
The moon glinted coldly on steel jack and burnished head-piece as
they clattered off, and the morning sun rose on the troop returning
with its booty--driving jaded cattle before them with their long
lances--encumbered with panting, footsore sheep--household plenishing
on some of the saddles--armour hacked and besmirched--two or three
bloody sconces beneath draggled plumes--and here and there a led horse,
coming masterless home.
But the life was at least one of manhood and adventure; a good training
for a soldier, and an invigorating substitute for the debaucheries
in which, under other circumstances, these bold spirits would have
been prone to indulge. When a border noble, with his train, rode into
Edinburgh, the vintner hugged himself in his snow-white apron, and the
canny burgher made his doors fast ere it was yet twilight, and resolved
that no shouts for help on the causeway should lure him at night from
his chimney corner into the troubled street.
Walter Maxwell, proceeding quietly up the High Street, and ruminating,
not too pleasantly, on his prospects, found himself accosted by his new
friend, ‘Dick-o’-the-Cleugh,’ as he was about to turn into his solitary
lodging, and get through the evening as well as he could, reflecting
on two unpleasant subjects--the continued coyness of his lady-love and
his own diminished fortunes, for his employment at the Scottish court
was more honourable than lucrative. To be in love usually makes a man
unsociable; to be in debt often has a reverse effect. Maxwell, at all
events, felt little disposed for an evening spent in his own company.
‘I’ve been the length of Holyrood to see for you!’ exclaimed the
borderer with a boisterous welcome, ‘and here I happen on you like a
deer that’s ta’en the double when the bloodhound is off the slot. Come
away, man, come away; the warden’s gotten a grand spread the night, an’
I was bid to fetch ye, ’gin ye were in the Queen’s presence! And noo’,
ye’ll just gang in wi’ me; ye ken we’ve an awfu’ grip, we Liddesdale
lads! an’ I would like fine to see if ye can drink, man, as well as
ye can fight. I’m thinkin’ little Jock Elliott’s no forgotten ye, Mr
Maxwell!’ And Dick laughed heartily at the recollection of his first
acquaintance with his present companion.
Maxwell professed his readiness to accept the Earl’s invitation,
and linking his arm in that of the stalwart henchman, proceeded in
the direction of Bothwell’s lodging, the pair provoking no little
ill-will from divers armed retainers in the street, who recognised
the cognisance of the Hepburn, and some admiration from the maids and
matrons of the Old Town, the latter especially approving of Dick’s
stalwart proportions and comely, good-natured face.
‘Yon’s a proper man!’ observed a stout dame with her arms a-kimbo, to
a dishevelled and dirty lady, emptying a pail of water scarcely more
dirty than herself.
‘He’s no that ill,’ replied the other, desisting from her operations to
push back her tangled locks, that she might have a good look. ‘Lass!’
she added in shrill, impressive tones, ‘he’s a godless borderer. I ken
them fine by their ’spauld-pieces.[3] He’ll get his licks the night,
I’m thinkin’, an muckle guid may they do till him! It’s no sae saft
lyin’ on the causeway as doun amang the moss-hags at hame!’ After which
ill-omened sentiment, she retired abruptly, shutting her door with a
bang.
[3] Plates of steel that defended the arm and shoulder.
Honest Dick, however, took no notice of these and other less unpleasant
remarks, but strode boldly on, discoursing, between bursts of
merriment, on the encounter with little Jock Elliott, an assault of
which he seemed to entertain a highly facetious remembrance.
‘In here, man,’ said he, turning up one of those offshoots from the
main street, which is termed to this day ‘a close,’ and dragging
Maxwell after him with obvious glee. ‘I ken the place fine by the
weather-marks forenent the wa’. It’s an awfu’ toon this, for a body to
lose theirsel’! There’s runnin’ water too to guide a man,’ pointing
to a sluggish stream of filth that trickled under their feet; ‘but
it’s no that clear that it is in Liddesdale. Up the stair, man; yer’
welcome, nae fears!’
As Maxwell entered the apartment, a long, low room, plainly furnished
and crowded with armed men, he was cordially greeted by the earl’s
retainers, who had mustered in great force. They had seen his hand
keep his head, against heavy odds, and they warmed to him at once as a
kindred nature. Their meal seemed to be concluded, but the serious part
of the entertainment was yet to commence; and large jacks of strong
ale, with flasks of wine, standing at no great intervals on the board,
denoted ample means of quenching the thirst engendered by a long ride.
The warden rose to greet his new guest with frank courtesy, and bade
him to the upper end of the room, where he himself sat at a cross table
surrounded by the most distinguished of his guests.
Bothwell had doffed his usual attire of steel jack and head-piece;
he was now dressed in close-fitting doublet and hose, which set off
the strong proportions of his figure to great advantage. Without
pretensions to strict personal beauty, the warden had fine features,
and a bold, frank bearing, not unpleasing. Though he had lost one
of his eyes in a skirmish, the defect was scarcely observable, and
the slight scar, left by the wound on his cheek and eyebrow, rather
added to the characteristic expression of his face. It was that of a
daring, perhaps a reckless man, one who was inured to danger and used
to strife; yet was there something soft and even tender in his smile.
Flushed with wine, and exchanging broad jests of the coarsest with his
laughing guests, he looked a fitting leader in a revel or a charge;
and yet a close observer would have detected a hollow ring in the loud
laugh, a false note in the jovial strain, a capability for better
things than feasting and fighting, and a self-accusing consciousness
that it was lost and thrown away.
The mirth was at its highest. If Bothwell was splendidly dressed,
his costume was but sombre when compared with that of his princely
guest, the Marquis d’Elbœuf, who shone with satin and jewellery in all
the florid brilliancy of French decoration. If the warden’s draughts
were deep, and his toasts objectionable, the Lords John and Robert
Stuart, the Queen’s half-brothers, pledged him freely and out-talked
him shamelessly, with a happy mixture of juvenile thirst and royal
audacity. When Maxwell took his seat at the upper table, amidst these
and two or three more of the wilder gallants of the Court, the wine had
circulated freely, and the spirits of the party had risen to that point
at which discretion ceases to interfere, and reason begins to discover
that she has been all day in the wrong. D’Elbœuf flung himself into the
spirit of the scene with the keen zest of his nation. The Admiral of
France was the last man to refuse a challenge from friend or foe.
‘You shall pledge me in turn, Bothwell,’ said he, filling a large
silver measure with wine. ‘Every man of you shall do me reason. These
wild lads, who ought to be nephews of my own, and who drink as if they
were grandsons of Charlemagne; Mr Maxwell, there, who has just come
in, and must be suffocated with thirst; your huge squire of the body,
who might hold a cask; and all your gentlemen riders, rovers on land,
as their chief used to be at sea. What, Count Bothwell! We have not
forgotten the breeze off shore, and the bold Norwegian coast.’
‘Nay, Marquis,’ answered Bothwell, filling himself a bumper, ‘my
Liddesdale lads will drink any toast you please, if they like the
liquor. But down on the marches we have a saying that “he who rides in
the dark should dismount before daylight,” and faith, now that I am
on shore, I have forgotten all about the coast of Norway and the wild
North Sea, once for all.’
‘The toast! the toast!’ exclaimed Lord John Stuart. ‘Let us have
the drink first, marquis, and the tale of the warden’s wicked
doings afterwards. There’s something in this wine that makes a man
marvellously thirsty.’
‘Waifs and strays!’ replied the marquis, holding his beaker above
his head. ‘Count Bothwell first taught me the rights of an admiral
on neutral seas. Pledge me, gentlemen; the toast is quite in your
own line.’ And d’Elbœuf, laughingly heartily, set his cup on the
board--empty.
A dark flush swept over Bothwell’s brow. A man does not always like to
be reminded of his past exploits, but the company were clamorous for an
explanation of the Frenchman’s toast, and d’Elbœuf had drunk too much
wine to disappoint them.
‘We were lying off the coast of Norway,’ said the admiral, ‘and our
host here in his armed galliot, with the Lion of Scotland at the main,
was never tired of cruising about in search of adventures. He was
Admiral of Scotland, as I of France; but whilst I waited for fortune,
I think he followed the jade and grasped her by the hair. Some pirates
had fired a village and were carrying off the inhabitants, when your
warden here caught the knaves, red-handed, in the bay;--we make short
work with these gentry at sea, where ropes are so convenient, and he
strung them up to the yard-arm by dozens, like Normandy apples on a
tree. The poor captives were too rejoiced to go back to the ashes of
their dwellings; but a breeze springing up from the land, our friend
here was obliged to make sail, carrying off, inadvertently, two or
three trifles belonging to the village; amongst others, a fair girl
with blue eyes and golden hair, who had once inhabited the principal
house. I was on board the galliot some six weeks afterwards at an
entertainment given by our host, where we drank nearly as much wine
as we are like to do to-night, and this fair lass filled my cup and
emptied her own, nothing loth, as though she relished her wine and her
company. “But shall you not send her back?” said I to my host, seeing
that she had been already six weeks on board. “Shall you not send her
back before her friends lose patience and a complaint is made at Court,
and a coil, all for a pair of merry eyes and a wisp of yellow hair?”
“Not yet,” answered your warden. “Not yet. Do you not know that waifs
and strays belong to the admiral?”’
A loud laugh followed d’Elbœuf’s explanation. The sentiment was quite
in accordance with the company, and the point of his narrative, turning
as it did on an act of illegal appropriation, was hugely enjoyed by the
carousing borderers.
There were two exceptions, however, to the general merriment. Bothwell
looked grave, more sorrowful, perhaps, than displeased; and honest
‘Dick-o’-the-Cleugh,’ smiting a sledgehammer fist on the table that
made the beakers leap again, burst out--
‘Puir lassie! It’s ill liftin’ a bairn from the ingle, or a lamb from
the fauld!’
The wine was, by this time, producing its effect on the company. The
men-at-arms were beginning to flush and talk thick, descanting, without
much regard for listeners, on the merits of their horses and their
own prowess, both in fighting and carrying off the property of their
neighbours; the latter branch of their profession being obviously
esteemed equally honourable with, and the natural prelude to, or
consequence of, the former. Even Maxwell’s brain was somewhat heated;
albeit, he was naturally of a temperament on which wine is slow to take
effect, and his late arrival had spared him some of the pledges of the
borderers; although, to do them justice, they evinced a most hospitable
desire to make up for lost time. Bothwell, too, who had been plunged
in gloomy fits of abstraction, and who seemed to rouse himself with
difficulty from some engrossing subject of meditation, was now getting
as hilarious as the rest. D’Elbœuf was full of smiles and spirits, and
scraps of French songs, somewhat wasted on his audience; whilst Lord
John, whose ruling passion was of course in the ascendant, proposed
gravely to dance a measure amongst the jugs and drinking cups on the
table, and actually mounted a chair as the first step towards that
difficult performance.
At this juncture, a ray of moonlight streaming through the narrow
windows, athwart the glare of lamps and torches, gave a new turn to the
impulses of the merry-makers.
‘It’ll be a bra’ night this in Liddesdale,’ observed
‘Dick-o’-the-Cleugh,’ who was given to sentiment in his cups.
‘A rare night for a foray!’ exclaimed Lord Robert, producing from the
interior of his bonnet two or three black velvet masks, such as were
then frequently worn in cities by both sexes.
‘Shall we have a cruise, admiral?’ said Bothwell. ‘I doubt not I can
find you in vizards, for you and I are both well enough known in
Edinburgh to meet fewer friends than foes.’
D’Elbœuf agreed cordially to the proposal. Like his countrymen in
general, he was averse to continuous hard-drinking, and a night of
adventure in the town was more to his taste than a steady carouse with
these inexhaustible borderers. His host, too, appeared in the restless
mood of a man who has some secret pain goading him to action. The more
he drank, the fiercer seemed to grow the impulse to be doing. When
the arch-tempter wants a tool that shall be at once keen and strong,
he takes a bold vigorous nature; he humbles it in its own eyes; he
wounds it in its best affections; he whispers, ‘do to others as _they
have done_ unto you;’ then he tempers it in the furnace of memory, and
sharpens it carefully on the grindstone of remorse; finally, he steeps
it in rough strong wine; after that, it is fit for anything, and will
cut through steel harness and muslin fold with vindictive impartiality.
Masks for the party were soon produced in sufficient number, and these,
with their cloaks or plaids, would be disguise enough in the event of
the night’s amusement growing to a breach of the laws, such being, by
no means, an unlikely result. The warden desired his retainers to sit
still and continue drinking till his return--directions with which they
showed no unwillingness to comply; but as the masked party, brandishing
their torches, shouting, singing, and laughing, descended the stair
into the close, ‘Dick-o’-the-Cleugh’ whispered to Maxwell to get his
sword and accompany him.
‘There’ll be mair pows than ane crackit the night, or all’s done,’
remarked the borderer. ‘The warden’s no canny when he’s crossit. Aince
the whingars be oot, I’m no thinkin’ muckle o’ yon’ Frenchman, an’ thae
wild lads is clean wud wi’ drink. We’ll be nane the waur o’ a decent
body like yoursel’, Mr Maxwell, just to strike in an’ see fair play.’
With the exception of a slight delay in the close, to witness Lord
John’s performance of his promised hornpipe, the effect of which was
somewhat marred by the gutter traversing the pavement, nothing occurred
to check the progress of the rioters. Save for themselves, the street
lay utterly quiet and deserted in the cold moonlight. The party,
linking arms, reeled and swaggered on, followed, at no long interval,
by ‘Dick-o’-the-Cleugh’ and Maxwell, both tolerably sober.
Presently, Bothwell halted at the door of the only house from which
lights were shining.
‘What say you, gentlemen?’ laughed the warden. ‘I know Master Craig,
the mercer, well. It seems that he is expecting us. Shall we go in and
take our rere-supper with pretty Mistress Alison, his daughter?’
‘By all means!’ exclaimed d’Elbœuf. ‘The best dressed damsel that walks
the High Street on Sundays. I should know her anywhere by the orange
stripes on her farthingale.’
‘And the bonniest lass on Leith Sands at the merry-making to-day,’
added Lord Robert. ‘I little thought when I gave her her fairings this
morning, I should sup with her to-night!’
‘The neatest foot and the tightest stocking in the Old Town,’ said Lord
John, ‘and the best dancer to boot. Knock at the door, Bothwell, and
bid them let us in, in the devil’s name!’
Concealing themselves under the wall of the house, the party waited,
with much stifled merriment, the result of Bothwell’s application for
admittance.
His cautious knock was at first unanswered, but on repetition, the
light was observed to be obscured at one of the windows, and a female
head, scarcely so well arranged as that of Mistress Alison herself, was
thrust into the moonlight, the owner demanding, in a guarded whisper,
‘What’s your wull?’
‘Go down and unbar the door,’ answered Bothwell, in like tones of
secrecy, and pulling his mask carefully over his face. ‘We have come to
sup with your mistress.’
‘It’s the earl!’ the girl was heard to say, turning round obviously to
hold parley with some one in the room; and then another voice whispered
in softer tones, ‘Is it you, my lord?’
‘Why, of course it is!’ answered Bothwell, somewhat surprised,
nevertheless, that he should be so easily recognised.
‘I have expected you this hour and more,’ was the reply, as the two
figures moved at once from the window.
‘The devil you have!’ observed the warden, now completely puzzled;
‘then why don’t you come down and open the door?’
Presently bars were heard to be withdrawn, and the party of rioters, if
we may so term them, marshalled themselves in close order, prepared, if
necessary, to go in with a rush. The door, however, was only partially
unclosed, and the figure of a strapping serving-wench guarded the
narrow interstice. She seemed less satisfied than her mistress, and
inclined to hold further parley.
‘Hoo will I ken it’s you?’ said she, shading the candle with her large
coarse hand.
But the caution was too late. Lord John’s shoulder was by this time
applied to the door. Lord Robert blew out the candle, and the Admiral
of France, with characteristic gallantry and national politeness,
stifled the outcry of the astonished damsel in the dark.
The assailants had now gained the body of the place, still keeping
their masks on, and with noiseless footsteps they ascended the stair;
Maxwell and ‘Dick-o’-the-Cleugh,’ who had neither of them much stomach
for the adventure, remaining at the door to keep watch.
The others turned into a comfortable parlour in which fire and lights
were burning, as if to make them thoroughly at home. A delicate little
supper, with a flask or two of wine, stood on the table, and a very
smartly dressed lady, not without beauty of a bold, imposing style,
rose to welcome them.
As Bothwell entered, this gaudy-looking dame seemed about to rush
into his arms, but observing that he did not remove his mask, and was
accompanied by three or four others, she checked herself, and remained
standing in the middle of the room as if not altogether mistress of the
position.
The warden, bowing low, advanced to take her hand, and Mistress Alison
suffered him to do so, with an expression of ludicrous uncertainty on
her handsome face.
‘Will you not unmask, my lord?’ said she; ‘though late, you are
welcome, and so are your friends. Why did you bring them with you?’ she
added, in a troubled whisper.
It was impossible to carry on the deception any longer; and by this
time the laughter of the party had been so long smothered as to defy
further restraint. With many apologies and courtly compliments and
honeyed phrases, interrupted by bursts of merriment, one and all
unmasked, disclosing to the bewildered Mistress Alison the features of
quite another earl from her expected guest, and of three or four of
the wildest gallants at Holyrood, with whom, nevertheless, she was not
entirely unacquainted.
One of the most beautiful qualities in woman is her pliant nature, her
tendency to adapt herself to circumstances, the readiness with which,
in the absence of white bread, she contents herself with brown. Of
this amiable facility the mercer’s daughter now afforded a striking
instance. Bidden or unbidden, _here_ were the gallants,--good-looking,
amusing, and well-dressed; and _there_ was the supper. Mistress Alison
did not hesitate long.
‘You will not depart without breaking bread,’ said she, pointing to the
well-covered table, with courteous hospitality.
Lord Robert filled himself a bumper on the spot.
‘Pledge us, fair Mistress Alison!’ said he; ‘a cup of wine will restore
the bloom to that damask cheek, paled with the alarm of our sudden
arrival.’
The lady drank and smiled. It is but fair to observe that,
notwithstanding his lordship’s polite fiction, the ‘damask cheek’
had never paled, nor Mistress Alison lost her presence of mind for
an instant. Perhaps she was not entirely unused to these impromptu
supper-parties.
Merrily they sat down, heaping their cloaks, and swords, and masks in
the corner of the room, their hostess only stipulating against too much
noise, and insisting that her guests should not disturb the repose of
the honest mercer who slept above.
Mistress Alison seemed tolerably familiar with the private history of
her company, and the general gossip of the Court. As she displayed the
turn of her round arm, and close-fitting bodice, while filling plates
and drinking-cups, she had a jeer, or a sarcasm, or a compliment for
each. She congratulated d’Elbœuf on the conquest he had made of her
serving-woman, who, never having seen a live Frenchman before, gazed
at the admiral open-mouthed. She twitted the two Stuarts with their
approaching bondage that should put an end to all such midnight pranks.
‘For,’ said Mistress Alison, ‘in less than a week, ye’ll both be
dancing in fetters to the tune of “Wooed and married an’ a’,” and
the bonny brides will have gotten the two most graceless gallants in
Scotland for their grooms; and as sure as death, I’ll see the wedding,
if I creep into the palace through the buttery window! Ay, my Lord
Bothwell! you’re bold riders, you Hepburns; but the bonny lass that
thinks to tame wild John Stuart, is the boldest amongst you all. Well,
well! it’s a good steed that’ll gallop till dawn. Once she gets into
the saddle, she’ll daunton[4] him, never fear!’
[4] Daunton, to tame; or familiarly, to cow--from the French
_dompter_.
A loud laugh rewarded this sally at the expense of the young noblemen,
who were indeed making the most of their remaining hours of freedom;
and Lord John, who was about to marry Bothwell’s sister, was so
delighted with the conversation, that he took Mistress Alison’s hand
and proposed that they should dance a measure together on the spot.
But the lady had no intention that her agreeable visitors should remain
for too long a period. In the midst of her mirth she had never entirely
got rid of a certain air of apprehension, and twice or thrice she had
stopped in the middle of a sentence as if to listen. All at once she
turned pale, _really_ pale this time, and set her goblet down untasted.
‘For any sake! my lord,’ she exclaimed, with an imploring look at
Bothwell, ‘go your ways now. I can let you down the back stair. Go your
ways, gentlemen, I entreat you, or there will be blood spilt before
all’s done!’
Already the tramp of feet and altercation of voices had been heard in
the street; now the clink of steel fell familiarly on the ears of the
guests up-stairs. They rose to their feet, and commenced buckling on
their swords simultaneously.
‘We are, indeed, fortunate,’ observed d’Elbœuf in high glee; ‘a jovial
carouse, a delightful supper-party, and a midnight fray, all without
the slightest trouble or inconvenience.’
‘For the love of mercy, begone!’ pleaded Mistress Alison, pushing them,
one after another, to the door. ‘For _my_ sake, for _any_ sake, for
_all_ our sakes! They’re breaking in the door! They’re coming up the
stair! It’s the earl; as sure as death, it’s the earl!’
‘What earl?’ laughed Bothwell, carelessly, and yet curious to know the
name of the favoured nobleman, for whom the supper they had just eaten
was prepared.
‘The Earl of Arran, of course!’ replied Mistress Alison, blushing
through her tears. ‘It’s too late now, for their swords are out and
their blood up, and the street full of the red-handed Hamiltons! What
will I do? What will I do?’
Pending further measures, Mistress Alison covered her head with her
mantle and cried piteously.
Bothwell smiled grimly in his beard when he heard the name of Arran.
They were none of the best of friends, the Hepburns and the Hamiltons,
at any time. To-night, the warden’s heart thrilled with a fierce
pleasure at the thought of crossing swords with their chieftain’s son.
‘Draw, gentlemen,’ exclaimed Bothwell, putting himself at the head of
the party. ‘A Hepburn! a Hepburn to the rescue! draw, and follow me!’
Thus shouting, he rushed to the stair-head, followed by his friends,
who appeared, one and all, as ready for the fray as they had proved
themselves for the feast.
The door had, indeed, been broken open, but the narrow entrance was
still filled, and stoutly defended by the stalwart figure of the
warden’s henchman. Though the odds were fearfully against him, his
great strength and familiarity with his weapon had enabled him to make
a gallant defence against the assailants, who were closing round him.
At the first alarm (and the borderer’s quick ear had caught the step of
armed men approaching, long before they came in sight) he had entreated
Maxwell to return for the assistance of his comrades, who were sure to
be found still carousing in Bothwell’s lodging. That gentleman used his
own discretion in preferring to turn out the city-guard; but of this
intention the other was ignorant. ‘Dick-o’-the-Cleugh’ never doubted he
could keep the door single-handed till assistance should arrive.
Thrust and blow and parry succeeded each other with fearful rapidity.
The borderer was long of limb and in capital wind; moreover, his heart
was as true as the steel in his hand; but three or four to one will
beat the best of swordsmen, and he was overpowered at last, and driven
back towards the stair.
At this crisis a desperate charge of fresh combatants, led by Bothwell
from above, came opportunely to the rescue. It cleared the hall and the
door, which was instantaneously closed and barred by the ready-witted
serving-woman. Assailants and assailed now found themselves carrying on
the combat in the street.
The skirmish became general. The Hamiltons mustered in force, and came
swarming to the assistance of their kinsmen. Bothwell’s riders, too
disturbed from their carouse, arrived by twos and threes, and the
superiority of their arms and training made them formidable partisans.
Inured, as all Scotchmen were in those days, to blows and bloodshed,
strife was the natural element of the borderer, and, drunk or sober, he
was always ready for a fight.
The Old Town was soon disturbed from its repose--peaceful citizens
leaped from their beds, and ran to the windows; night-capped heads were
thrust out into the moonlight, to watch the tumult in the street below,
as it waved backwards and forwards in the vicissitudes of the struggle.
There was but little outcry; for men’s passions were thoroughly
aroused, and they were fighting to the death. Sometimes a hollow groan,
or a heavy fall on the stones, contrasted dully with the scuffle of
feet and the clash of steel. Sometimes a fierce oath accompanied a
shrewder blow than common, or a deadly thrust that had been driven
desperately home; but there were few shots exchanged, and in the
hand-to-hand conflict, the Hamiltons were gradually losing ground.
Once Bothwell succeeded in reaching his enemy, and exchanged a couple
of passes with Arran; but the Hamiltons rallied round their chieftain’s
son, and the warden, grinding his teeth with rage, was compelled to
forego his revenge.
Several wounded, and more than one corpse, encumbered the street; the
fray was getting serious, and even ‘Dick-o’-the-Cleugh’ seemed to think
it was an affair more of business than pleasure, when the common bell
began to toll loudly, and the city-guard, guided by Walter Maxwell, and
commanded by no less a personage than Lord James Stuart himself, made
its appearance on the scene.
These hardy burghers, well-armed, and confident in the sympathies,
and, if necessary, the assistance of the townsfolk, thrust themselves
boldly between the combatants; Lord James, on whose thoughtful brow
could be traced no more excitement than ordinary, himself striking up
the weapons of either party, as he bade them lay down their arms in the
Queen’s name.
Bothwell had just reached Arran for the second time. The warden’s eye
glared wickedly and the froth was white on his moustache. Arran, pale
as death, and with madness flaring in his looks, struggled to meet his
enemy, shouting wildly and incoherently in a paroxysm of insanity.
Their swords had actually crossed when Lord James struck in between.
His face was calm and unmoved; nay, there was a lurking satisfaction
in his eye, for, to the plotting diplomatist, there is always gain in
the differences of the powerful; but to-night it was Lord James’s cue
rather to stifle than foment such dissensions, and he wished also to
stand well with the citizens by quelling a disturbance that had alarmed
the town.
‘For shame, gentlemen,’ said he, beating down their weapons with the
sheathed sword. ‘For shame! you, Arran, her near kinsman; and you,
Bothwell, in whom she trusts. What will the Queen say when she hears of
it?’
The red blood faded from the warden’s angry brow at Mary Stuart’s name,
and sinking the point of his sword, he fell back with a look of deep
shame and contrition. In his fiercest moments that spell was sufficient
to make him docile as a child.
Not so Arran. With a wild shriek of rage, he darted a savage thrust
at the peace-maker, that, had it taken effect, might have spared
Scotland much bloodshed and Mary Stuart many a tear, for her wily
bastard-brother would never have moved again. It was not fated,
however, to reach its object; for ‘Dick-o’-the-Cleugh’s’ quick eye
caught the movement, and he parried it with a force and rapidity that
shivered Arran’s blade in pieces, and beat it from his hand. His
retainers now gathered round their leader, and forced him from the
ground, the unfortunate maniac raving and writhing in their grasp.
Bothwell, too, got his men in order, and withdrew them, submitting
patiently to the rebukes of Lord James. It is needless to observe,
that on the first appearance of their grave brother, the Lords John
and Robert had taken to flight, closely followed by d’Elbœuf, who did
not wish to figure as a brawler at his niece’s court. The warden alone
remained to bear the blame, and, now that the excitement had cooled, he
bitterly regretted what he had done.
As he was followed by his henchman, Lord James called the latter back.
‘Let me look in your face, good fellow,’ said he; ‘you have saved my
life to-night.’
‘The redder’s lick is aye the warst in the fray,’ answered the other,
good-humouredly; ‘and doubtless your honour was no takin’ notice, and
it must have gone clean through ye,’ he added, dogmatically.
‘You have saved my life,’ repeated Lord James. ‘I leave no scores
unpaid for, good or evil, and if ever the time should come, I shall not
forget the debt I owe you.’
But ‘Dick-o’-the-Cleugh’ shook his head doubtfully. ‘I’m no sae dooms
sure o’ that,’ said he, as he strode on after his chief. ‘An’ I wad
like ill to be beholden to a man that could part sic a bonny fray. Oh,
man!’ he added to Maxwell, who had now joined him, ‘what garred ye
bring in the burgher-guard? The drink was just dyin’ out in our lads,
and we wad ha’ gotten the grandest ploy I’ve seen sin’ I cam’ out of
Carlisle jail.’