‘Four-and-twenty nobles sit in the king’s ha’;
Bonnie Glenlogie is the flower amang them a’;
In cam’ Lady Jean, skipping on the floor,
And she has chosen Glenlogie ’mang a’ that was there.
‘Glenlogie! Glenlogie! an’ you will prove kind,
My love is laid on you; I’m telling you my mind:
He turned about lightly, as the Gordons does a’--
I thank ye, Lady Jean, my love’s promised awa’.’
Though it was mid-winter, the sun shone brightly as in June. The bold
outline of Arthur’s Seat cut against a cloudless sky; and a light air
from the opposite coast of Fife cleared the Firth of its accustomed
vapours, and brought out in fair relief the smiling bays and noble
headlands of its romantic shores. Far to the eastward, where a white
sail glistened in the sun, loomed the bluff island of the Bass, poised,
as it seemed, in mid-air by the magician’s art, so imperceptibly were
sea and sky blended together in the distant horizon; while beyond it,
North-Berwick Law reared its cone above the undulating line of coast
that stretched away to the southward till it faded from the sight.
To the west, the wooded shores, the jutting promontories, and the
sparkling water, combined to form a scene such as men imagine in their
dreams, shut in by the dark glades of Hopetoun and Dalmeny, dim, rich,
and beautiful, like a glimpse of fairy-land. With the castle of her
strength crowning her comely brow, the old town sunned her terraced
streets and high fantastic buildings in the warmth of noon, looking
down, as it were, with proud protection on the smooth lawns and dainty
gardens that adorned the palace of her kings. Like some rare jewel,
carved, rich, and massive, resting on a velvet cushion, lay the square
edifice of Holyrood on its green and level site. Though the stately
towers and delicate pinnacles of the Abbey were in deep shadow, the
sun shone gaily on the Queen’s Park beyond, crowded as it was with
masses of spectators and glittering with the brightest and fairest of
the Scottish nobility.
Barriers had been placed in this well-selected spot, lists for the
exercise of chivalry carefully laid out, and galleries erected for
the fairer portion of the assembly, whose applause was destined to
encourage the competitors and reward the successful.
The Queen and her maidens occupied the most prominent of these stages;
but Mary Stuart, true to the warlike predilections of her blood,
descended from her position of advantage, and, followed by her train,
proceeded in person to examine the arrangements for the pastimes, and
the dress and horses of those engaged.
Loud acclamations greeted her as she passed through the crowd. Though
habited in mourning, as was her custom, that bewitching face did
not fail to produce its usual effect, even on the strictest of the
Reformers. Here and there, indeed, some severer dame might shake her
head and purse up her lips in obvious disapproval of her sovereign, but
such demonstrations were confined to the female sex, and only to the
oldest and ugliest of _them_.
The tournament of the Middle Ages had ere this period fallen into
disuse. Gunpowder had already taught the warrior that his cumbersome
array of mail and plate was no secure defence, and although he had not
yet discarded corslet and head-piece, he was already beginning to learn
the lesson of modern warfare--that sagacity is as important a gift as
courage, and agility a more effective quality than strength. Perhaps
also the untoward accident that, within a few years, had deprived
France of her monarch, served to bring the tournament into disrepute;
and the Scotch, who, beside their tendency to imitate French manners,
were then, as now, somewhat of utilitarians, need not have been long
in arriving at the conclusion that such conflicts were a waste of
strength, courage, and mettle, both in man and horse.
Riding at the ring, however--an exercise requiring perfect horsemanship
and great dexterity in the use of the lance--long remained a favourite
amusement amongst the young Scotch lords. It was no easy task to
carry off, on the point of a spear, a ring scarce two inches in
diameter, suspended from a slackened cord, whilst moving at a gallop;
and the cavalier whose hand, eye, and seat were alike perfect enough
to accomplish this feat, would have been a formidable antagonist in
the crash of a real encounter--man to man and horse to horse, armed
_cap-à-pie_ in steel.
On the present occasion the amusement partook somewhat of the character
of a masque. The two Lords Stuart, in defiance of Mistress Alison
Craig’s prophecy, had not found themselves so tamed and spirit-broken
by marriage as to give up their favourite occupations, and had been
instrumental in setting on foot the pageant which had now collected
so motley a concourse in the Queen’s Park. Six gallants disguised as
amazons, had resolved to hold the lists against other six disguised as
savages, the victory to be decided by success in carrying off the ring.
The Queen herself had given the prize to be contended for--a gold heart
of exquisite workmanship, and a purse filled with broad pieces. To add
to the interest, a dozen of ladies chosen by lot, amongst whom were the
Queen and the Maries, had been entreated to select each one a champion,
and it was partly for this purpose that the train of female beauty,
with Mary Stuart at its head, now wound in and out amongst the barriers
which enclosed the lists, together with the domestics and horses of
those who were about to ride.
As she approached one of the savages, who was already in the saddle,
and poising his lance in his hand, the Queen started and turned pale
in obvious distress. She would have passed him without notice, but the
rider, whose wandering eye and excited gestures denoted that he ought
not to be at large, reined his horse across Her Majesty so as to oppose
her progress, and casting his lance at her feet, demanded to be chosen
her champion and her true knight.
The Queen drew herself up and looked really angry.
‘This is too much!’ said she. ‘How far has the Earl of Arran’s loyalty
and good conduct been so pre-eminent that he can dare to claim this
proud distinction? By the laws of chivalry every lady has the right to
her own choice, and here is mine.’
The Queen pointed to the nearest horseman as she spoke. He was richly
dressed as an amazon, and his glowing complexion and regular features
would have done no discredit even to one of those female warriors.
She had selected him at random as a proper rebuke to Arran’s insane
presumption, but, like many another act of her life, it was as untoward
as it was hasty. Chastelâr, for it was none other, sprang from his
horse, and knelt in acknowledgment at the Queen’s feet, laying his
lance down at the same time before her in an attitude expressive of
humility and adoration.
‘To the death!’ exclaimed the poet, literally kissing the hem of the
Queen’s garment ere he sprang once more into the saddle and forced his
horse in a series of managed bounds to the farther extremity of the
enclosure.
One of the maids-of-honour looked disappointed and distressed. Mary
Hamilton would fain have selected the Frenchman for her champion during
the day, a distinction which would probably make him her partner also
in the ball at night.
As the ladies passed on, the Queen’s half-brothers, both habited as
amazons, approached Her Majesty, dragging between them, with shouts and
laughter, a lad of some sixteen summers, whose fair, beardless face was
indeed blushing like a girl’s.
‘Choose him, madam!’ exclaimed the merry lords, in a breath, while the
younger, with a comical affectation of womanly reserve, spread his
gilded buckler before the lad’s crimson cheeks. ‘George Douglas has
never lifted spear before; he is indeed a redoubtable champion for a
queen.’
Tears of shame and vexation started to the boy’s eyes, yet he looked
pleadingly at his sovereign, as if with a confused hope that the great
ambition of his life might be realised.
Mary was always gentle and considerate. She smiled on him encouragingly.
‘It is mettle that makes the man-at-arms,’ said she. ‘I would have
chosen you, indeed, young sir, had these merry gossips of yours brought
you to me sooner. Never mind, you shall ride to-day for Mary Hamilton.’
The young eyes glistened with pride and happiness; the young heart
swelled. Those few kind words had riveted it for ever to the cause of
Queen Mary.
The English Ambassador, who, in compliance with the directions of
his Court, mingled in all the amusements at Holyrood, and who was as
skilled in arms as in policy, now presented himself before the ladies.
Mr Randolph’s costume, as one of the six savages, was remarkably
well-chosen and appropriate. A bear-skin hung from his shoulders, and
he had decked himself and his horse with wreaths of holly, of which
the red berries were strung and looped together as savages wear their
beads. He dropped on one knee to Mistress Beton, craving permission to
carry her good wishes with him in the ensuing courses; and Alexander
Ogilvy, in the dress of the opposite party, looked on and wished he was
an ambassador too, or at least might woo that haughty dame so frankly
without fear of a rebuff.
The lace on Mary Beton’s collar vibrated with pleasure as she bowed
a gracious affirmative. In truth the stately lady was insensibly
beginning to take no small pleasure in the attentions of her diplomatic
admirer.
Mary Seton, in the meantime, had been inspecting with sarcastic
scrutiny the persons and accoutrements of all the competitors. With a
stinging jest or biting retort she had refused to accept the homage of
one after another, and finally took as her knight one John Sempill,
an Englishman, who had sought refuge at the Court of Holyrood, a
plain, silent man, who appeared somewhat surprised to find himself in
a scene of merry-making, and whose only recommendation in the eyes of
the maid-of-honour must have been that he was the direct opposite of
herself.
There was yet one of the Maries who had not chosen her champion. All
unconscious that there could have been a witness to her _rendezvous_ in
the Abbey garden, Mary Carmichael rejected candidate after candidate,
in hopes the right one would apply at last. With a brighter eye and a
deeper colour than usual she followed in the train of her mistress,
and more than one gallant observed that he had never seen Mistress
Carmichael to such advantage, and were it not for the Queen, she would
carry off the palm of beauty from all upon the ground.
But the eye grew dim by degrees and the colour faded, as Walter
Maxwell, habited like a savage, remained aloof, standing apart, busy
with the caparison of his horse, and obviously anxious to avoid notice
and conversation. A sleepless night had somewhat paled his cheek, but
otherwise his look was as composed and reserved as usual. A manly
nature is as much ashamed of disclosing mental suffering as physical
pain.
The girl was puzzled; she could not understand him: yesterday, so kind
and loyal and frank; to-day, so distant and calm and cold. Had he been
the most experienced carpet-knight that ever made war upon the sex,
instead of an honest, true-hearted soldier, he could not have adopted
a better method of aggression. She had never felt so much engrossed
with him in her life. It is hardly fair to fight a woman with her own
weapons; but we imagine it discomfits them exceedingly, the more so
that they are well aware a man’s coldness, unlike their own, is the
result of real displeasure, and the forerunner of a rupture.
Eventually all the ladies had chosen but Mary Carmichael; all the
horsemen were selected but Walter Maxwell. She detached herself from
the rest, and walked to where he was standing apart, still fastening
his bridle and caressing his good horse.
She tried to speak in an easy, off-hand manner; but a duller ear than
his might have detected the forced tone of her voice.
‘They are mounting,’ said she; ‘you will be left out. Will you not be
my knight?’
‘For to-day,’ he answered, bowing low, and with a strained courtesy
more galling than actual rudeness.
Then he too sprang into the saddle and galloped off to join his
comrades. The girl bit her lip till the blood came; tears of shame and
vexation rose to her eyes; and yet she had never liked him so well as
at this moment.
The Queen with her ladies now returned to the gallery, from whence she
could have a good view of the sports, dispensing once more amongst
the crowd that good-humoured notice which is so fascinating from a
sovereign. Many a reflective Scotch face smoothed its rugged brows as
she passed; many a stern Protestant who followed weekly the vigorous
discourses of John Knox with approval in proportion to the strength of
their doctrine, and attention never diverted for a moment from the
profound casuistry of their arguments, looked after her with a wistful,
pitying admiration, as though loth to believe such a creature of light
could be a chosen tool of the arch-enemy, and a vessel of wrath doomed
to everlasting perdition. The younger members of the crowd blessed her
audibly, while here and there some godless jackman, ruffling it in
all the audacious freedom of inebriety, swore loudly that it was his
profession and his pastime to die for the Queen.
The Earl of Moray and his bride occupied the next seats to the royal
household. Matrimony had not altered the composure of the deep-scheming
earl. His own attire and that of his lady were of the gravest and most
sombre, rebuking by their austere simplicity the bravery of the Queen’s
immediate attendants.
Moray, while he kept well with the Court, was careful not to offend the
prejudices of the strict Protestant party, in whose ranks he felt lay
his chief strength, and while he smiled with a melancholy forbearance
on the gaieties of his brothers and his royal half-sister, he never
forgot for an instant the character he had assumed, of the rigid
guardian and upholder of religion; the man in whom the ‘country might
have confidence,’ the prop and stay of ‘the godly’ through the length
and breadth of Scotland. His bride, a comely, laughing lass when she
married him, was obviously taming down, day by day, to the required
pattern of decorum. Like some flower denied the sunlight, she was
fading from her youthful colour and brightness, into that premature
old age which is so pitiful to witness--the waning of the heart and
feelings before the face is wrinkled or the locks are gray.
And now the crowd are driven from the enclosure by a score of
men-at-arms wearing the royal livery. As these push their well-trained
horses amongst the foot-people, much elbowing and squeezing is the
result. The _lads_, as Scotchmen are termed up to the most advanced
period of life, bear the jostling good-humouredly enough; the lasses
laugh and shriek, and display extraordinary unsteadiness, and an
unusual craving for protection and support. But the lists are cleared
at last, and the troop of mounted masquers come down like a whirlwind,
in line, till they reach the Queen’s gallery, when they wheel to right
and left from their centre, and sweeping round at the same pace, take
up their respective positions at either extremity of the lists.
In Her Majesty’s gallery eager eyes are watching their movements. The
Queen and her ladies criticise both steeds and horsemanship pretty
freely, wagering gloves and trinkets on the result, but Mary Carmichael
sits pale and silent, and sees everything in a mist, because she cannot
keep back her tears.
The ring is up, and borne off fairly by several of the cavaliers. All
acquit themselves with knightly prowess, but some of the horses are
unsteady, and Lord John Stuart shooting at a gallop past the object,
of which he has only struck the outer edge, encounters amongst the
spectators the laughing face of Mistress Alison Craig.
‘Fie on ye!’ exclaims that unabashed dame, loud enough for the
discomfited nobleman to hear; ‘an’ ye ride no better than that, ye’ll
never wear the orange and black in your bonnet again on Leith Sands!’
He cannot choose but laugh as he recalls his prowess the year before
among the citizens while carrying the colours of the mercer’s daughter,
and Mistress Alison with becoming modesty puts down her wimple to hide
the cheek that has long since forgotten how to blush.
At last Mr Randolph, young George Douglas, Walter Maxwell, and
Chastelâr, alone remain to contest the prize. One failure withdraws
the competitor, and but these four have borne away the little circlet
at each attempt with graceful skill. The excitement amongst the ladies
increases visibly, and there is an obvious feeling in favour of the
handsome child, for he is scarcely more, who wears on his amazonian
helmet the Bleeding Heart of the House of Douglas.
The crowd, too, cheer the boy lustily. The people have alternately
loved and feared the Douglas since the days of ‘Good Lord James,’ but
their Scottish hearts warm to that grand old line, and the lad’s youth
and beauty are sure to tell on such an assemblage as the present. He
flushes to the eyes and casts a look at the Queen’s gallery, then
couches his lance and drives his horse furiously to his course.
Hand and seat and eye, all are true enough, but he is going a little
too fast, and the glittering object is missed by a hair’s-breadth. As
he leaps from the saddle at the end of his career, the boy bursts into
tears, and withdraws to hide his face amongst the crowd.
Mr Randolph also fails, but with a grace and dignity that in Mary
Beton’s opinion are more creditable than success itself.
Chastelâr, who, to the natural dexterity of a Frenchman, has added the
skill acquired by constant practice, once more carries off the ring,
and glances proudly at the Queen as he brandishes it aloft on the point
of his lance.
Again it is Maxwell’s turn to try his fortune. Mary Carmichael’s heart
beats painfully. If he wins the prize, how will he act? By all the laws
of chivalry he must lay the ring at her feet, and she must deliver
him the costly trophy. Already she anticipates the moment of triumph.
Shall she enjoy it coldly and with dignified displeasure, making him
as unhappy as she has been herself? No; she longs to forgive him,
and be friends. All these disquietudes are wholly unnecessary; as he
arrives within a stride of the object, his horse falls, rolls over him,
and both disappear in a cloud of dust. Mary Carmichael utters a faint
shriek, and then sits cold and rigid like a statue. At this moment the
Queen discovers the secret of her maid-of-honour.
Chastelâr then turns his horse round, carries off the ring once more,
and lays it at the Queen’s feet, his dark eyes flashing with excitement.
With the graceful courtesy that becomes her so well, Mary presents the
prize to the successful competitor.
‘One more trophy,’ says the Queen, ‘to the Troubadour, who wins all
hearts by the sweetness of his songs, and who wields the lance as
successfully as the pen.’
Chastelâr strives to speak in reply, but his voice fails him and he
turns ashy white. Mary Hamilton watching him from behind her mistress
almost expects him to fall from his horse. He recovers himself after
a short interval, and mutters a few unintelligible sentences; then
opening the purse, scatters its contents amongst the multitude, and
dismounting, falls upon his knees, and replaces the heart in the
Queen’s hands.
‘Will you not keep it, madam,’ says the poet, in a hoarse broken
voice, ‘a tribute from the humblest and most devoted of your
worshippers; fitting emblem of all Chastelâr has to give? A pure heart
of sterling gold is the most appropriate offering that can be presented
to the Queen of Grace and Beauty.’
Somewhat unprepared for the compliment, Mary accepts it with a little
confusion, and the crowd, shouting loudly, testify their approval of
the generosity as well as the prowess displayed by the Frenchman.
Some discontent has indeed been manifested at the success of a
foreigner, but the freedom with which the broad pieces have been
scattered about has rapidly converted all invidious demonstrations into
cordial applause. On such terms they would gladly see him win hearts
and purses every day.
Though stunned and shaken for the moment, Maxwell was not seriously
hurt. After changing his costume for his ordinary attire, he rejoined
the party of gallants and ladies that had congregated round the Queen.
A fall with a horse is no very serious affair to an accomplished
cavalier in the pride of youth and strength; his bearing was as
composed as usual, and save a mischievous glance from Mary Seton, and
a little short speech of condolence in which good-nature and sarcasm
were strangely mingled, little notice was taken of his mishap. While
the Queen, however, whose French education had not destroyed her
predilection for pedestrian exercise, made her way back to the palace
on foot, followed by her train, Mistress Carmichael lingered behind the
others till she found herself next to the fallen cavalier, and as he
walked on for a time without speaking, she summoned up courage at last
to take the initiative.
‘I must condole with my knight,’ said she; ‘he did his part well, and
had his horse not failed him I think we should have carried off the
prize.’
She spoke with a constrained effort at playfulness, and was conscious
that her heart beat very fast the while. Whence came this new feeling
of subjection? She never used to be afraid of him like this.
‘I should like to have won it for _your_ sake,’ he answered, but
very coldly and gravely. ‘You and I will have but little in common,
Mistress Carmichael, after to-day.’
‘What do you mean?’ she gasped, thoroughly frightened now, and too
anxious to be indignant; but ere he could reply the train of courtiers
had already dropped back to them, and Mary Carmichael was compelled to
join her companions with a weight of grievous apprehension at her heart.
Another sentence might perhaps have cleared up everything, or at least
put an end to doubts and misgivings; but how could he speak it with
a score of the sharpest ears at Court ready to catch every syllable
as it fell? Perhaps an explanation might never arrive, or if it did
would come too late; perhaps pride might rise up to prevent it, or
the opportunity never occur at all. And thus originate half the
misunderstandings and estrangements that embitter the whole existence
of those who, could they but speak three words to each other alone,
would never doubt or mistrust in their lives again.