‘Oh! is my basnet a widow’s curch,
Or my lance a wand of the willow tree,
Or my arm a lady’s lily hand,
That an English lord should lightly me?’
Unusual silence prevailed in the lofty hall of Hermitage, and the
dinner hour, commonly one of mirth and festivity, arrived with a solemn
gravity, by no means welcome to the light-hearted borderers. It was in
vain that large joints of beef and mutton steamed on the long tables,
and ample baskets, piled to the edge with coarse oaten bread, stood
side by side with deep measures of foaming ale below the salt, while
a modest display of plate, in which one or two church ornaments were
conspicuous, decked the upper end of the board. The preparations,
indeed, smacked of good cheer, but the hilarity which promotes
digestion was wanting.
The master-spirit, gloomy, morose, and preoccupied, walked to and fro
under the stag’s antlers, at the extremity of the hall, and no man
dared to question or interrupt his meditations.
Bothwell was indeed chafing to the verge of madness. In vain he had
submitted patiently to a mock imprisonment at the Queen’s pleasure;
in vain he had waited till days grew to weeks and weeks to months
for some acknowledgment from Mary of the injustice she had done
him--some expression of sorrow or sympathy for the loyal soldier and
devoted vassal. No acquittal came, no reprieve, no message. Desperate
and goaded he had escaped from his confinement at last, and fled
to Hermitage, where he now found himself, as autumn waned, in the
anomalous attitude of an attainted subject holding a royal fortress,
and a warden of the Marches, without the privilege of communicating
with his sovereign. It has been truly said that no position is so false
as that which entails responsibility without conferring authority, and
of this he found himself too keenly conscious. Neither was Bothwell’s
a nature to submit patiently to a slight. Hot-headed and irascible,
with strong feelings and a sad want of foresight, he could act, but
he could not endure. At this period he had indeed sufficient reason
to feel aggrieved, and he fretted like some wild animal in a cage.
It was noon; the guard was being relieved in the outer court. Bustle
reigned in the kitchen; two or three old hounds, with wistful faces,
licked their lips as they nosed the savoury preparations that emanated
from that department; hawks screamed and flapped their wings on the
perch; everything denoted the arrival of the most important hour in the
twenty-four.
By twos and threes brawny men-at-arms lounged into the hall and took
their places at the board. A year ago, shout and jest and schoolboy
prank would have been rife at such a moment; the earl’s laugh would
have been the loudest and his voice the gayest amongst them all; now
they watched him pacing silently to and fro, with looks askance. Taking
their cue from their chief, the boisterous riders were gloomy as mutes.
Bothwell turned suddenly and summoned his henchman.
‘Is the holy man not ready yet?’ said he, with something of irony in
his tone. ‘Ho! bid the knaves bring in the food. Cowl or cassock,
rochet and stole, or black Geneva gown, not one of them but comes to
corn as kindly as the longest-legged borderer that ever lifted a spear.
Bid them serve, Dick, in the devil’s name.’
‘Nay, James Hepburn,’ said a deep, stern voice at the earl’s elbow,
‘not in the name of the evil one, but in His from whom cometh all good.
Bless the food,’ he added, stretching both hands over the board which
was now spread, and shutting his eyes reverently while he prayed:
‘Bless those good things which are the product of thrift and honest
industry, and may every morsel turn to gall on the lip, and poison in
the breast, that is wrested by violence and bloodshed from the store of
the widow and the fatherless!’
‘Amen!’ ejaculated Bothwell, without pretending to conceal the sneer
on his lip, as he took his seat; whilst his retainers, glancing with
a comical mixture of respect and astonishment at a man who dared to
address their formidable chief in accents of reproach, seemed uncertain
how to receive a blessing of such doubtful import on the border. The
obvious course was to fall to without further ceremony; and soon the
clatter of knives and drinking-horns drowned all qualms of conscience,
if indeed such were experienced; ‘Dick-o’-the-Cleugh’ merely remarking,
as he filled his trencher, ‘that if all the beef in the larder that was
_lifted_ behoved to turn to gall, there wou’d be no want o’ mustard for
a whiley in Liddesdale.’
Evidently putting a strong constraint on himself, the earl proceeded
to entertain his guest with marked distinction and courtesy. Indeed,
after a time, the stately bearing and obvious sincerity of the man
could not fail to produce a favourable effect; and though Bothwell, for
political reasons, was disposed to court his good opinion, he could not
but confess to himself, that under that black robe and grave exterior,
lurked a spirit equal in point of courage, and far superior in energy,
perseverance, and force of character, to his own.
Even the rude borderers felt the influence of his presence. Although
the name of John Knox was ere this familiar in all men’s mouths,
through the length and breadth of Scotland, these lawless soldiers,
while professing, for the most part, the Reformed religion, which
combined in their eyes the intrinsic advantages of freedom, liberality,
and cheapness, were at heart wofully indifferent to its tenets, or its
obligations. They had thrown off with small compunction the shackles of
the Roman Catholic Church; they were not quite so ready, however, to
submit themselves to the discipline of that faith which had supplanted
it. In all violent and fundamental changes of opinion, the teachers
of a new doctrine have to contend with two serious difficulties: the
ill-judged warmth of their more zealous disciples, and the convenient
indifference of a large proportion of converts, who cannot be brought
to see the advantage of dissent, if it is to substitute one form of
government for another.
Physically, the great Scottish Reformer appeared scarcely equal to the
work he had engaged to perform. His spare frame was indeed sufficiently
ascetic to command respect; and his dignified bearing, well set off by
the close black gown, with its loose sleeves, which he chose to wear,
was not unworthy of the holy profession of which he was so zealous a
member; but his stature was low, and his bodily strength proportionate.
Nevertheless in his high grave brow, only partially covered by a close
black skull cap, there was rectitude, pitiless, indeed, of others’
weakness, but equally stern and uncompromising towards its own. The
bold features and pale colouring of the face, more remarkable than
comely, denoted energy with force of will; and though the mouth was
somewhat large and coarse, its expression was firm and daring in the
highest degree. His dark eyes, which it was his habit to fix intently
on those with whom he conversed, were brilliantly piercing, and in
the heat of argument or declamation shone and sparkled with an inward
flame. A flowing beard descended to his girdle, somewhat softening
the harshness of his features, and imparting a patriarchal dignity to
his whole person. There was but little appearance of versatility on
his immovable face, and yet John Knox, driven by his zeal into the
political stream, had been forced to trim his bark more than once
to suit the exigencies of the storm; and it may be that this very
consciousness added to the stern defiance of his bearing.
Without attempting to be ‘all things to all men,’ the Reformer never
forgot for an instant the one end and aim of his unceasing efforts, the
destruction of papacy in his native land; and if ever he did turn aside
for an advantage, or halt for a breathing-space, it was but to gather
fresh energies for the great work, and devote himself more unreservedly
to its accomplishment. If he was prejudiced, bigoted, and illiberal,
he was at least an honest man thoroughly in earnest.
The latter quality invariably wins respect in the rudest, as in the
most civilised societies, and even Earl Bothwell’s wild jackmen could
not withhold an involuntary homage from one whose peaceful profession,
while it did not affect his insensibility to physical danger, or his
coolness under trying circumstances, was followed out with an energy
and perseverance of which their own lawless pursuits afforded no
example. The Reformer, too, for all his infirmities, could back a horse
and fly a hawk with the best of them. His stirring life had given him
habits of activity and daring, whilst the energy of action was not
wanting, which is so useful an accessory to a keen intellect. Though he
ate sparingly, the preacher’s cup was filled and emptied with grave,
good fellowship, and he did not disdain to mingle in such mirth as was
restrained within the bounds of decorum. There was a spice of quaint
humour in his conversation that insensibly excited the attention of
the most careless listeners; and though he never so far forgot his
sacred office as to descend into buffoonery, he was no contemner of a
ludicrous illustration or a harmless jest.
The dinner, nevertheless, progressed wearily. The churchman’s presence
restrained that wild ribaldry which had been, of late, Bothwell’s only
attempt at gaiety; and when the jackmen had eaten their fill, and
satisfied their thirst, a gloomy silence once more pervaded the old
hall.
It was the practice at Hermitage to conclude every meal with the
standing toast of ‘Snaffle, spur, and spear;’ but to-day cups were
emptied less cordially than usual to the accustomed pledge, and a
long grace from Mr Knox immediately succeeding, it was received by
the listeners with more respect than attention. It was a relief to
all when the earl, calling for a basin and ewer, dipped his hands,
wiped his beard, and rose from table, summoning the Reformer to attend
him for a stroll upon the rampart, and whispering a few words to
‘Dick-o’-the-Cleugh’ as he passed out of the hall.
That worthy received his master’s commands with an appearance
of intense gratification, which communicated itself, as if by
electricity, to the majority of his comrades. Bustle and activity
seemed all at once to pervade the castle, and the merriment hitherto
stifled and repressed broke forth with renewed violence. The tramp of
horses and the clank of steel smote gratefully on ears in which such
sounds made the sweetest of music; and when the churchman crossed
the courtyard in search of his host, he found it filled by some two
score of well-mounted men-at-arms, drawn up in disciplined army, with
‘Dick-o’-the-Cleugh’ at their head.
The earl was giving his final orders to this leader with considerable
energy. He was in a towering passion, none the less unbridled that he
was not going to command the expedition himself.
‘Were he ten times warden,’ the Reformer heard him say, ‘he should
not drive horses, with impunity, from my side the March. Does my Lord
Scrope think that James Hepburn has been superseded at Hermitage? or
that I am a likely man to submit to the slight he has endeavoured to
put upon me? Faith, not while this arm of mine can lay lance in the
rest. If you come across the English warden, Dick Rutherford, you shall
cast James Hepburn’s defiance in his teeth. Within twenty-one days,
alone, or with his following, on foot or on horseback, with spear,
sword, or axe, and not more than three English miles from the border, I
challenge him to meet me, if he be a man, and “God defend the right!”
Have you picked the horses?’ he added, abruptly, and turning with a
soldier’s eye to scan the troop.
‘I cast the twa four-year-aulds,’ answered Dick, ‘an’ I waled the
soar[6] and the three bays, forbye the white-footed yane, an’ I’m
ridin’ Wanton Willie mysel’. Gin I track the drove to Peel-fell, will I
follow them into Cumberland?’
[6] Sorrel or chestnut--next to bay, the favourite colour of
the borderers.
‘Follow them to hell!’ answered Bothwell. ‘I will have that gray
gelding back if he is stabled in Carlisle. I’ll have him from under
Lord Scrope himself, if the Englishman never gets across a horse again.
What! there is peace between the two countries, more’s the pity, or
I had been at his castle-gate by this time with all Teviotdale at my
back; and so you may tell him, if you can meet with him under steel.’
‘They might ha’ been ta’en by the Langholme lads,’ interposed Dick,
whose spirits were rising considerably with the prospect of a foray,
but who looked upon the whole affair, nevertheless, as a matter of
business combined with wholesome recreation. ‘They lifted a score o’
runts frae “daft Davie,” in Lammas time, an’ took the vara’ coverlet
aff his wife’s bed. He saw it himsel’ at Dumfries, puir fallow!’
‘Nay, nay,’ answered Bothwell, ‘the Langholme riders do not come down
by the score, with dags, and petronels, and St George’s cross on their
basnets. If it’s not a warden-raid, as, indeed, it can hardly be,
it has been done by the warden’s orders; and he shall answer it to
me as sure as I serve Queen Mary! At least, with all her pride, she
shall know that Bothwell never suffered it to be lowered an inch,’ he
muttered between his teeth as he turned away.
‘Dick-o’-the-Cleugh’ put the men in motion and himself at their head.
As they emerged upon the open ground from the gray walls of the
square old keep, the slanting beams of an autumn sun gilded the brown
heather, and shed a soft lustre over the undulating moorland ere it
flashed from the steel armour of the troop. The riders were in high
spirits at the prospect of a change from their long period of inaction.
The horses snorted and shook their bridles gaily. It was a party of
pleasure and adventurous excitement to all concerned, and even now they
were anticipating their plunder and jesting about their profits. Only
one heart felt more softened than usual under its steel breastplate.
‘Dick-o’-the-Cleugh’ acknowledged the influence of the mellow sunlight
and the balmy breeze. Somehow the very earth and sky seemed to connect
themselves with a pair of laughing eyes and a shower of bright hair,
with a fairy figure tripping up the High Street, a basket on its arm;
or, as he had seen it first, shining like a vision of light in the
dark passages of Holyrood, with a voice that used to thrill so sweetly
once, that he never heard now but in his dreams. The henchman would
have fought like a lion, and yet he felt tenderly disposed towards all
living things. He would have met death more cheerfully than ever, yet
he seemed only to have learned the value of life within the last few
months; another contradiction--but is it not full of contradictions,
that engrossing folly in which the true believer is as sure to suffer
martyrdom as the false worshipper is to obtain his reward?
The earl and his visitor watched the troop defiling round the base of
a low acclivity that soon hid them from sight. As they disappeared,
Bothwell turned away with a bitter curse. He scarcely felt as if he
had a right to order an expedition on the border in the name of his
sovereign; and again Mary’s injustice and neglect rankled like a
poisoned shaft in his breast. But the earl was in no mood for balancing
probabilities or counting cost. The horses that had been driven were
his own, and he had reason to believe that Lord Scrope was not ignorant
of the theft. This was sufficient to rouse his ire to the utmost, and
he had despatched a force to follow and retake them, strong enough
to preclude the possibility of failure. It was maddening, though, to
be compelled to stay within the four walls of Hermitage, when his
retainers were in the field; maddening, all the more that his present
false position, as he argued, was owing to a queen’s injustice and a
woman’s ingratitude.
A few short turns upon the rampart, with the soft west wind fanning
his brow, restored his composure, and addressing his companion, he
professed his readiness to enter at once upon the business which had
brought the latter to Hermitage.
The preacher pointed to the surrounding scenery, the waving tracts of
moorland bathed in the lustre of an afternoon sun, the cattle feeding
securely in the green nooks and pasturage which broke the uniformity of
the undulating waste, the yellow patch of cultivation under the very
shadow of the keep, and the clear, autumnal heaven above all, pale and
serene, and dappled here and there by flaky clouds edged with gold.
‘It is not _my_ business,’ said the preacher, ‘nor is it _thine_, Lord
Warden, that hath brought me here, but the will of Him who holdeth this
glorious universe in the hollow of His hand. It is to do His work that
I have ridden through these wastes from dawn till mid-day, and that I
must depart again ere set of sun. I charge thee to aid me, heart and
hand, in the service of my Master!’
It is the misfortune of earnest men that, in this self-seeking world
of ours, they seldom obtain the credit they deserve for sincerity
and singleness of heart. Bothwell listened with outward respect, yet
unworthy suspicions _would_ not be kept down.
‘Now for some double-dyed intrigue,’ was his inmost thought, ‘some plot
set on foot by impenetrable Moray, not satisfied with his new earldom,
and turbulent Morton, with his own craft added to the recklessness
of all his Douglas ancestors, and Maitland, the skilful penman, the
subtle diplomatist, wise as the serpent and plausible as the father of
lies himself. They would fain make a cat’s-paw of rude James Hepburn,
for, doubtless, they want a bold heart and a ready hand to aid their
schemes, and they send this godly man, half-fanatic, half-hypocrite, to
feel if the tool be heated the right temper. I wot they may burn their
fingers, one and all of them, yet!’ But he only answered, abruptly--
‘I believe you are the friend of my house. You will counsel nothing
that can prejudice my honour, or my loyalty to the Queen.’
‘My great-grandfather, my gude-sire, and my father, have served your
family, James Hepburn, for three generations. Ay! served them when
their banner was waving in the fore-front of the battle, and the arrows
of the English archers were hailing against their harness like a storm
from hell. Do you think their blood is not boiling in my veins because
I wear a Geneva cassock for a steel breastplate? Do you think if my
forebears shrank not to ride through fire and water for the Hepburn, I
would fear to encounter death in his defence, much less would tempt him
to danger or disgrace? Nay, my lord earl, though the commands of _my_
Master are imperative, they will but lead to your aggrandisement in
this world, and your salvation in the next.’
John Knox paused and turned a scrutinising look on his companion’s face.
The latter plucked a morsel of grass from the rampart, and flung it on
the breeze.
‘Let us see how the wind blows,’ he replied, with a scornful laugh;
‘fair or foul, ye can trim your sails to it, all of ye, and I can ride
through a storm with the best!’
‘Nay!’ exclaimed the Reformer; ‘the labourer is worthy of his hire;
know ye not that the great trial is approaching between the powers of
darkness and the children of light? In France, the sovereign and his
ministers are determined to stifle the good cause with the strong hand,
and even now the blood of saints and martyrs crieth aloud from the very
stones in the streets of Paris. The scarlet woman who spreadeth her
mantle over the Seven Hills, and waveth her white arms abroad to lure
souls to perdition, seducing some with indulgences and driving others
to despair with her curse, is battling for her very existence, and that
of the reptiles she hath spawned, and who crawl around her feet. Here
in Scotland--ay, at Holyrood itself--hath not an image been erected
unto Baal? and is not the idolatry of the mass raised weekly by Mary
Stuart, whom men call Queen of Scotland, and who is herself a daughter
of perdition?’
‘Hold!’ exclaimed Bothwell, in a voice of thunder, and advancing a step
towards the speaker, as though about to hurl him from the rampart. He
restrained himself, however, with an obvious effort, and proceeded in
a calmer voice, ‘It was not to malign his Queen that you sought an
interview with the most devoted of her servants?’
Knox saw his zeal had carried him too far. The Reformer, like those
whose persuasion he reprobated, was somewhat prone to allow that ‘the
end justified the means.’ He retraced his steps, therefore, as it were,
and resumed more calmly--
‘Her Majesty must be saved from the influence of evil advisers. Why are
her communications with the bloody Guises so frequent? Why is Popish
Riccio all-powerful at Holyrood? Why is Bothwell virtually banished,
and well nigh attainted for a traitor? But because there is a schism in
the camp of the faithful, and a house divided against itself shall not
stand.’
‘The Queen has, indeed, dealt me scant justice,’ answered the earl,
musingly. ‘What would your employers have me do?’
‘I speak for myself,’ replied the other, ‘or rather I speak the words
that are borne in unto me by Him whose servant I am. What shall ye say
of a family in which brother is at variance with brother? of an army in
which troop falls away from troop, for some petty feud, when the enemy
is drawn up over against them in battle array? The nobles of Scotland
are gathering to the front for the defence of their souls’ liberties,
and the boldest spirit amongst them all keeps aloof here at Hermitage
because of a foolish brawl with a weak enthusiast who bore him no real
ill-will.’
‘I will never return to Holyrood,’ answered Bothwell, looking wistfully
towards the north while he spoke, ‘till the Queen sends for me herself
and acknowledges her injustice. I will never stretch the hand of
reconciliation to Arran till I have dealt him a buffet with a steel
gauntlet and a Jedwood axe in its grasp.’
‘Nay, nay,’ expostulated the Reformer; ‘shall the edifice that such as
you might rear on the goodly foundation of religious zeal, with the
barons of Scotland for your fellow-workmen, crumble away for want of
one stone in its right place? Once reconciled with Arran, the house
of Hamilton might easily be secured in your interest. I can take upon
myself to promise so much, or why am I here to-day? With Moray’s
good-will, Morton’s friendship, the duke’s aid, and the favour of the
godly throughout the kingdom, who so powerful at court as the Earl of
Bothwell? Would it not be well to teach the Queen (for her own welfare)
the indispensable lesson that a woman can only rule through the
influence of men--by the brain of the wise and the arm of the strong?
Would it not be well that Mary Stuart should learn, once for all, that
she must look to James Hepburn as her champion and her trust?’
The picture was painted in glowing colours, and set in a vivid
light. The temptation to such a nature as Bothwell’s was indeed of
the strongest. It thrilled through heart and brain, that imaginary
victory which should place in his power the option of humbling her
to the dust, by whom he felt so aggrieved, or, better still, of
foregoing his revenge and enjoying the nobler yet more complete triumph
of forgiveness to his Queen. Nevertheless, the feudal feeling of
resentment for an aspersion was still strong within him.
‘But he accused me of treason,’ urged the earl, lashing himself once
more into anger, ‘would have attainted me before the council as a
traitor to Queen Mary, as a rebel who meditated violence on her sacred
person!’
‘The dream of a madman!’ answered Knox. ‘You know well that the earl’s
health has long been failing, that he is of those who are scourged
and tormented in the body for the discipline of their souls. In his
paroxysms of insanity he is as one possessed, but they leave him like
the poor maniac from whom devils were cast out, “clothed and in his
right mind.” Nay, he did but accuse you of that which he had himself
meditated in his madness. The Earl of Arran did indeed entertain a wild
project to carry off the person of Mary Stuart, and immure her in some
stronghold at his pleasure. The scheme was that of a madman, and yet
might it have been feasible, nevertheless.’
Bothwell started, and turned pale. He could not trust himself to speak.
At that moment, wild phantom shapes, that had vaguely haunted him for
long, seemed suddenly to assume a distinct aspect of reality. Dropped
by an unconscious hand, the seed now struck root, that was hereafter
destined to bear such appalling fruit. The offspring of a chance word,
a wild and maddening vision took possession of his brain. He looked
around at the solid dimensions of his fortress; he counted the gallant
hearts within its walls, for whom his will was law; he thought of his
friends and following, his resources and his influence, his own daring
and his father’s brilliant crimes. One desperate cast for the great
stake; one bold swoop for the shrinking quarry; a few shots, a thrust
or two, a white form borne swiftly away at a gallop, and the sweet face
that had been a dream to him all his life might become a reality at
last!
Why, even crazed Arran had been man enough to entertain such a scheme,
whilst he, Bothwell, was eating his own heart here at Hermitage. Well,
stranger things had come to pass. He must watch and bide his time;
must be wary, vigilant; above all, must be patient. It was a stirring
season. For a bold man _nothing_ was impossible.
He replied at last, but cautiously and with reservations. If he
joined the Protestant party, agreeing to act with Moray, Morton,
and the rest, it must be under certain conditions; if he consented
to a reconciliation with Arran, it must be accompanied with sundry
stipulations which should be communicated hereafter at greater length.
Even Maitland could not have been more mysterious, and the Reformer
found himself wondering at the rapidity of a transformation which had
changed the wild, reckless, border noble into a cold and scheming
diplomatist.
He had attained his object, however, and that was enough for him.
With a firm persuasion that he was furthering the good work, he took
his leave of the earl, well-satisfied, resisting all hospitable
importunities to remain, and even declining the offer of an escort to
conduct him in safety through that lawless district.
‘My Master will care for me,’ said the preacher, as he prepared to
leave the castle on horseback when the shades of night were closing in.
‘He who has sent me on my mission will provide for the safety of His
servant!’ And so departed unarmed and alone.
Well might Morton hereafter pronounce over this dauntless nature its
well-known epitaph, ‘There lies one that never feared the face of man.’