‘But had I kenn’d or I cam’ frae hame,
How thou unkind wad’st been to me,
I would have kept my Border-side,
In spite of all thy peers and thee.’
‘Hood her up, Dick! The worthless haggard! Like all her sex, I would
not trust her a bow-shot out of hearing of the whistle, out of sight
of the lure. Curse her! I should have known she was but a kestrel. By
the bones of Earl Patrick, she shall never strike quarry in Liddesdale
again!’
The warden was in a towering passion. His favourite hawk, a bird that
he had chosen to name ‘The Queen,’ had not only missed the wild-fowl at
which he had flown her, but spreading her broad pinions to the wind,
had sailed recklessly away for several miles ere he could recover
her, a salvage that had only been made at considerable expenditure of
patience and horseflesh.
He was now standing by the side of his panting steed at the head of one
of those deep, grassy glens which give such a pastoral character to
the wilds of the Scottish Border. A severe and exhausting gallop the
warden must have had, to judge by the condition of the bonny bay, whose
heaving sides were reeking and lathered with sweat; yet the good horse
pawed, snorted, shook himself, and got back his wind, ere the rider
recovered his temper.
‘Dick-o-the-Cleugh,’ too, had mercifully taken his long body out of
the saddle, and was now busy replacing hood and jesses on the recent
captive.
‘There’s no siccan a falcon ’twixt here and Carlisle,’ said Dick,
smoothing with no ungentle hand the neck plumage of the refractory wild
bird. ‘Whiles she’ll gang her ain gate when she misses her stoop, and
what for no? A falcon’s but a birdie when a’s said and done, and she’s
just the queen of falcons; bonny and wilful, as a queen behoves to be!’
Bothwell turned angrily upon his follower. The warden’s temper had
become more violent and uncertain than ever.
‘Hood her up, man, I tell thee!’ said he, with an oath or two, ‘and
fasten up my girths; it is time we were back at Hermitage.’
Thus speaking, he threw himself into the saddle, and, followed by his
henchman, proceeded down the glen at a gallop.
The earl was at this period of his reckless and chequered life,
perhaps more than at any other, a dissatisfied and miserable man.
After his imprisonment in Edinburgh Castle subsequent to his brawl
with the Hamiltons, an imprisonment he felt he did not deserve, at
least at the hands of the Queen, he had returned to his fastness in
Liddesdale, where he had been obliged to remain in a state of seclusion
and inaction, extremely galling to one of his adventurous nature and
ardent temperament. Here he received no direct communication from Mary
herself, a neglect which irritated whilst it distressed him; and he
only heard of her continued displeasure through others in whom he could
place no reliance, and whose interest he more than half suspected it
was to create dissension and mistrust between him and his Sovereign. He
then went for a short period into France, hoping, perhaps, that this
self-imposed exile might elicit a recall to Holyrood; but finding no
notice taken of his movements, and assured on all sides of the Queen’s
continued coldness, he returned to his strong Castle of Hermitage in
a maddening state of uncertainty as to the future position he should
assume. The wild borderers were all as devoted as ever to their chief.
He had at no time been actually deprived of his office as Warden of
the Marches and Lieutenant of the Southern Border, nor had he been
superseded, was it probable that a successor could be found bold
enough to take upon him the duties of the office. Accordingly the
earl remained at Hermitage in the anomalous position of a sovereign’s
representative whilst held to be an avowed rebel to that sovereign’s
authority; in the agitating dilemma of one who is at variance with the
person to whom he is most devoted on earth, and whom self-love forbids
to offer that reparation which pride whispers may be contemptuously
refused.
The warden galloped on in silence for several minutes, till the nature
of the ground and the jaded condition of his good horse brought him
perforce to a more sedate pace. With an impatient jerk at the bridle
and a curse on the stumble that provoked it, he relapsed into a walk,
and summoning ‘Dick-o’-the-Cleugh’ to his side, proceeded to vent the
remainder of his petulance on his companion. That worthy’s good-humour,
however, was proof against all such attacks, and Bothwell, calming
down after a time, took back the favourite falcon to his own wrist,
and began to caress the bird whose wild flight had so much aroused his
wrath.
‘’Tis a royal pastime, in good truth, Dick,’ said he, as they emerged
from a deep, narrow glen, and beheld spread out before them a broad
expanse of moorland, patched and brown and sombre, yet suggestive
of sport and freedom, a sound sward whereon to breathe a horse, and
a soft gray winter’s sky in which to watch the flight of a hawk. ‘I
would rather be here in the saddle than mewed up in the old keep over
yonder,’ pointing while he spoke to the square towers of Hermitage,
looming dim and grand in the distance; ‘would rather handle any weapon
than a pen, and track any slot rather than unravel a cipher. I marvel
that the Earl of Moray can keep his chamber, as he doth, the live-long
day, writing, plotting, calculating; never a stoup of wine to cheer his
heart, never a breath of the free air of heaven to cool his brow. I’ll
wager you a hundred merks, Dick, that how long soever he remains in my
poor castle he never sets foot beyond the moat till the stirrup cup is
in his hand.’
‘The brock[9] likes fine to lie at earth,’ answered Dick, with a loud
laugh, ‘and I doubt there’s no a brock in Liddesdale that’s a match for
the Earl of Moray in takin’ his ain part. But hegh! Warden, there’s
a sight for sair een!’ exclaimed the henchman, interrupting himself
suddenly. ‘See to yon canny lad ridin’ down the glen; if yon’s no
Maister Maxwell, may I never lift cattle nor plenishing more! I wad
ken the back o’ him ’mang a thousand. ’Odd, man! but ye’re welcome to
Liddesdale again.’
[9] The badger.
In truth, while the borderer spoke, Maxwell made his appearance on
the track that led to Hermitage, exchanging, as soon as he spied the
earl and his henchman, for a brisk hand-gallop the more steady pace
at which he had been prosecuting his journey. The greeting between
the kinsmen was sufficiently cordial, between ‘Dick-o’-the-Cleugh’ and
the new arrival, of the most boisterous and demonstrative nature. The
rough borderer would have been at a loss to explain to himself why he
entertained so warm a regard for Walter Maxwell. As the three rode
slowly on together towards Hermitage, the emissary thought it a good
time to broach the business which had been entrusted to him by his
sovereign.
Slowly pacing over the open moor, where everything breathed peace and
repose, where not a tuft of heather stirred in the soft still air,
and the call of a moor-fowl or the dull flap of a heron’s wing alone
broke the surrounding silence; where the softened gleams of a winter
sun came down in sheets of mellowed light, and heaven above and earth
below seemed wrapped in security and content, Maxwell poured into no
inattentive ears the tale that was rousing all the fiercest passions of
our nature in the heart of one of his listeners.
Bothwell, after bidding him a hearty welcome to the border, heard him
patiently and in silence, with an enforced composure that was more
ominous of subsequent evil than would have been the wildest outbreak of
that wrath which he suppressed with such an effort. His jaded horse,
indeed, felt his rider’s thighs tightening on him like a vice as the
tale proceeded, and exerted himself gallantly to meet the unusual
pressure; but only a very close observer could have marked, by the
clenched jaw, the widened nostril, and dilated eye, that every word was
driving its sting deeper and deeper, poisoned and festering, into the
warden’s heart.
Once indeed when a brighter gleam of sunshine than ordinary lighted up
the moor, and the old towers of Hermitage coming into view imparted a
picturesque and even beautiful aspect to the scene, Bothwell looked up
to heaven as if in helpless expostulation with the mocking sky, and
then in one bitter and defiant smile, took leave for ever of those
nobler and better feelings which had hitherto redeemed his character
from utter reprobation.
It was at this moment that Maxwell urged his kinsman to forward him at
once upon his journey.
‘I will but break bread with you, my lord,’ said he, ‘and so with a
fresh horse speed my way to the southward once more; mine errand brooks
no delay, and he that goes wooing for a queen must not let the grass
grow under his feet while he is about it.’
‘Is her Grace indeed so hurried?’ answered Bothwell with an evil sneer.
‘Can she not wait a matter of twenty-four hours, more or less, for
this long smooth-faced lad on whom she has set her princely heart so
wilfully? God speed the royal wedding, say I, and good luck to the
bold suitor who would lie in a queen’s bed! Here, Dick, your horse is
fresher than mine; gallop on to the Castle and bid them prepare for
Master Maxwell’s refection; see, too, that the Lord Rothes’ men and
horses be well looked to if they be come. I have guests to-night with
me at Hermitage, Walter; I pray you be not so niggardly as to depart
without a supper and a night’s rest. It is ill travelling on the Border
after nightfall, and I will speed you on by sunrise to-morrow with the
best horse in my stable and a guard of my own men. And now that long
knave is out of ear-shot, tell me, Master Maxwell, is this marriage but
an affair of state and policy? or doth the Queen seem to affect it for
herself? Is her heart in it, think you?’
While he asked the question Bothwell busied himself about the hawk
on his wrist, it may be to conceal the trembling of his lip, which
extended itself even to his hands, for his strong fingers seemed unable
to take off her hood or loose the fastenings that secured her jesses.
‘In faith,’ answered Maxwell honestly, ‘her Grace bade me make no
secrets with your lordship. When she spoke of marriage her colour went
and came like a village maid’s going a-maying; I reck but little of
such follies,’ he added with a sigh, ‘but if you ask me the truth, I
think, Queen though she be, she loves him as a woman should love the
man whom she bids to share a throne.’
Bothwell swore such a fearful blasphemy that his companion, whose
attention had been somewhat engrossed by the irregularities of the
track, looked up astonished in his face. The earl excused himself by
vowing that his falcon had struck her talons into his arm.
‘The foul-hearted haggard!’ he exclaimed, flinging the bird violently
from him into the air; ‘let her fly down the wind to the Solway an’
she will! She may stoop on the southern side ere I whistle for her; no
such false kestrel shall ever perch on wrist of mine again.’
The hawk soared freely up into the soft calm sky, then spreading her
wings to the breeze, sailed gallantly away to the westward, and was
soon out of sight.
Maxwell was too good a sportsman not to be surprised at such an action
on the part of his host, but attributed it to one of those outbreaks of
temper in which he had heard the earl was prone to indulge; and as they
now proceeded to the Castle at a gallop by the warden’s desire, who
spurred his tired horse with savage energy, he had no opportunity of
pursuing the subject on which they had been engaged.
That evening, however, there was much consternation amongst the
retainers on discovering that ‘the Queen’ was missing from her mews;
much discussion as to who should take upon himself the perilous task
of informing the chief of his loss; much astonishment at Bothwell’s
unexpected answer to the stammering varlet who apprised him of it--
‘May the foul fiend fly away with every feather of her! Never speak of
her again! Go fetch me a stoup of wine.’
In the meantime the earl and his guest sprang from their reeking horses
at a postern-door, which admitted them privately into the Castle of
Hermitage. Already its courtyard was filled with the retinue of the
Lord Rothes, a powerful Fifeshire baron, who had even now arrived
with no inconsiderable following, on a visit to the disgraced warden.
His men were well-armed and determined-looking, their horses strong,
swift, and of considerable value. It argued little for the repose of
the country, when lord met lord upon a peaceful visit, with fifty or a
hundred spears at his back.
Extorting an unwilling promise from Maxwell that he would partake of
his hospitality for one night, a concession only made by the latter
on the express agreement that relays of horses should be sent forward
immediately to enable him to prosecute his journey with extraordinary
speed on the morrow, Bothwell placed his guest in the hands of an
elderly person, whose black velvet dress, white wand, and grave
manners, could only belong to the _major-domo_.
‘See my cousin well bestowed in the eastern turret,’ said the warden,
‘and bid them serve supper without delay. Tell Lord Rothes I will give
him a welcome to my poor house the instant I have doffed my soiled
riding-gear. Bring me the key of the wicket in the winding-stair, and
tell “Dick-o’-the-Cleugh” to have six picked men and horses ready
to-morrow at daybreak.’
With many grave deliberate bows the old man received the orders of
his chief, and then preceded Maxwell solemnly to his chamber, while
Bothwell, with swift irregular strides, betook himself up a winding
staircase to a chamber in a remote tower of the Castle.
Knocking, but not waiting for permission to enter the apartment, he
walked hastily to a table at which a man sat writing, who looked up on
his approach. Then, with an expression of irritation and impatience at
the calm face that met his own, Bothwell flung himself into a chair,
and commenced pulling and twisting the long moustaches that overhung
his mouth.
Moray, for it was the Queen’s illegitimate brother, whose occupation
the warden had interrupted, looked at his host with his usual wary
scrutinising expression, that seemed to extract the thoughts of others,
but afforded no clue to his own. It was a handsome face, too, this mask
so well adapted to conceal the workings of a mind in which diplomacy
stifled every instinct of manhood, every chivalrous spark of honour,
loyalty, and good faith. The bright fair complexion, the regular
features, the keen gray eyes, deep-set, and glittering with scornful
humour, forcibly repressed, the thin closed lips, shutting in, as it
were, upon an ill-omened smile, and the broad square chin, denoted
rather the daring schemer than the dashing soldier, the wary politician
to whom, so as it led at last to his object, the path was none the less
welcome for being devious, rather than the stout-hearted champion who
would break his own way for himself through every obstacle, with his
own right hand.
Gravely and plainly dressed, though in a rich suit of sad-coloured
velvet, adorned with costly pearls, the figure that supported this
inscrutable face was formed in fair and graceful proportions. The
manners of the man were those of an accomplished courtier, dashed with
something of that stealthy gravity which marks the Romish priest; yet
Moray was now of the strictest amongst the Reformers.
‘A shining light,’ so said the followers of John Knox, ‘an advanced
disciple and assured professor of the true faith!’
‘Mine host appears disturbed,’ said Moray, in the low impressive tone
which acted as a sedative on all who came within its influence. ‘What
ails ye, my Lord Earl? Hath your falcon flown so high a pitch she will
perch on your wrist no more? or have our friends on the southern side
so far forgotten themselves as to drive a raid across the Border?
I think we have influence with the English Queen for “heading and
hanging” at Carlisle as promptly as at Jedburgh!’
Bothwell winced. Hating the intrigues in which he found himself
involved; balancing, as it were, on the verge of a precipice to which
his passions hurried him, and from which his better nature held him
back, he loathed in his heart the master-spirit that he was yet fain to
obey. The demon was under the spell of the magician, but his submission
was as unwilling as it was complete. He burst out angrily--
‘See to what your schemes and your intrigues have led at last! Is this
the upshot of my Lord of Moray’s plotting and counter-plotting, and
Randolph’s promises, and Maitland’s crabbed ciphers? Faith! a couple of
hundred spears and a closed horse-litter would have done the work long
ago far better than all your bonds and all your treaties. And now it is
too late. The noblest Queen in Europe, the fairest woman on earth, is
to be wasted on a half-witted boy, a beardless minion of the English
Court. Out upon you, Earl Moray! I have worn steel since I was twelve
years old, and man hath never so deceived me yet. Again I cry shame on
you! Answer me how you will!’
If Moray was startled at the intelligence or angered at the manner in
which it was conveyed, neither sensation was suffered to betray itself
for an instant. He smiled pleasantly on his chafing companion, and
answered composedly--
‘All’s not lost that’s in hazard. Surely no lord in Scotland knows this
better than the warden of the marshes. Tell me the worst intelligence
you have gained, and how you learned it.’
Moray’s brow grew darker and darker as his host detailed to him, not
without violent gestures and many a wrathful expletive, all he had
gathered from Maxwell concerning the Queen’s proposed marriage. Whether
new to him or not, the intelligence seemed to give him great concern,
and once, although it was now twilight, he turned his face from the
window so as to conceal its expression from his dupe. When Bothwell had
finished his story there was a dead silence for a few minutes. He had
lashed himself into a violent passion; he was now calming down into a
sullen despair. Moray’s face, on the contrary, wore a brighter look
after he had ruminated a while, but his voice was as cold and distinct
as ever when he spoke again.
‘And the messenger is here, you say--here, in this very castle. Lord
Bothwell, if we gain time, we can place the pieces on the chess-board
for ourselves. Your borders here are not without their disadvantages.
’Tis bad travelling for single horsemen; they may be robbed of letters
and even jewels. Nay, if they make much resistance they are sometimes
heard of no more. ’Tis a numerous family, the Maxwells, and a loyal.
One more or less makes no such great odds.’
‘Nay, nay, he is my kinsman,’ urged Bothwell, who perfectly understood
the dark suggestion of his guest, but to whose frank and ardent nature
such counsels were most distasteful. ‘Besides, she trusted me; she
trusted me. My Queen’s own words were, that “she could depend upon me
more securely than on any lord in Scotland.”’
‘You best know the value of the stake you play for,’ answered Moray,
with a very sinister smile, ‘and the amount you are willing to set
against it. Master Maxwell is a trusty messenger, no doubt, and will
do his part faithfully, an’ he get not his throat cut ere he reach
Carlisle. Should this marriage ever take place, it will be prudent,
Lord Bothwell, for you to make early court to young Henry Stuart. He
has a noble future before him in truth. The crown-matrimonial of one
kingdom; the crown in reversion of another; a Catholic alliance, or I
am much deceived, with France, Spain, and Austria; lastly, no small
temptation, Lord Earl, to young blood, Her Grace, my sister, the
fairest woman in Europe, for a bed-fellow. In good faith the prize is
worth struggling for!’
The arm of the chair which Bothwell held broke short off in his hand.
‘Enough!’ he exclaimed, ‘it shall never be. What! am I not warden
here? Have I not power of life and death on the marches? But no blood
shall be shed; no blood, Moray. Can we not bestow him in safe keeping?
Counsel me, my lord, for I am at my wits’ end.’
Moray laughed outright.
‘I will tell you a story,’ said he, whilst he shuffled his papers
together and tied them up, preparatory to changing his dress for
supper. ‘When we were studying at college in France, my brothers and
I had great dread that the prize would be carried off by one of our
companions who had more book-learning than all the rest of us put
together; well, we invited the clever youth to an entertainment, and we
drenched his brains with wine--just such a red generous Bordeaux as I
saw a runlet of pierced only yester even here in the buttery--then we
tied him on a horse, a sorry French nag enough, but able to carry him
some ten leagues away into the country, where we left him to sleep off
his carouse. When he returned next day the examinations were over, and
I myself, for as dull as you may think me, had taken the first prize.
All is fair in love and war, my lord. The curfew is already ringing; it
is time for both of us to meet Rothes at the supper-table.’
The hint was not thrown away upon Bothwell.
‘I will bestow him securely,’ said he, as a bright idea seemed to
flash across him; and he too departed hastily to make preparations for
meeting his guests at supper.
Contrary to the usual custom of Hermitage, this meal, instead of
being served in the great hall and shared with Bothwell’s jackmen and
retainers, was brought into a smaller apartment furnished with extreme
splendour, and as near an approach to luxury as the times and locality
permitted. This was perhaps done as a compliment to the presence of
Moray, who was already beginning to accustom the nobility to his
assumptions, and while he treated them with the outward cordiality of
an equal, to cozen them insensibly of the attentions due to a superior.
The dishes were served with great pomp by the grave _major-domo_
and two staid attendants splendidly dressed; the Lord Rothes, a dark
handsome man, with a sinister expression of countenance, sat on the
left hand of his host, Maxwell faced the latter, and the Queen’s
half-brother was in the place of honour on his right; also Moray’s
chair was somewhat higher than those of his companions, and of a
different form.
When the meal was over, the wine, according to custom, circulated
freely; whatever designs might be lurking in the breasts of the four
men, the conversation was merry and jovial enough, embracing the usual
topics of hawk and hound and horseflesh, with a good-humoured gibe or
two at the opposite sex, and a free criticism of their charms.
Maxwell might be pondering on the difficulties of his task; Moray
weaving additional meshes in that web which entangled himself at last;
Rothes reflecting on his frailties or his debts his past follies or his
coming embarrassments; and Bothwell eating his own heart in combined
pique, disappointment, and vexation; but each man filled his cup, and
pushed round the flask, and passed his frank opinion or his loud jest,
with a merry voice, an open brow, and a cordial smile upon his face.
When the wine began to take effect, Maxwell excused himself from
further participation in the carouse, and asked permission to retire
on the plea of his early departure in the morning. After a faint
resistance exacted by the laws of hospitality, Bothwell acceded freely
to his request; meditating, as he did, a foul treachery against him,
the earl felt his cousin’s absence would be a relief. Moray, indeed,
would have had small hesitation in so spicing his wine that he would
need a sleeping-draught no more, and few scruples would have deterred
Rothes from ridding himself of a troublesome guest with six inches
of cold steel; but the lord warden had still some rough soldier-like
notions of fair play about him, and had not lost all at once every
trace of the chivalry and manhood that had made him heretofore the
stoutest champion of his Queen.
When Maxwell had retired, his host sat moodily for a while, wrapped
in meditation, drinking cup after cup in gloomy silence, and playing
ominously with the haft of his dudgeon-dagger, a weapon that was never
for an instant laid aside.
Moray seemed to divine his thoughts. After a few whispered words
to Rothes, who treated the whole affair as an excellent jest, he
observed in a cold measured voice, and as if continuing the thread of a
conversation in which they had already been engaged.
‘You cannot so prudently bestow him here, my lord, though it were a
good jest to keep a queen’s ambassador mewed up in a queen’s fortress,
and the prisoner would be well lodged with his affectionate kinsman.’
‘Why not?’ demanded Bothwell, rather fiercely. ‘The walls of Hermitage
are pretty strong, my lord, and these riders of mine are held to have a
somewhat close grip when once they lay hold.’
‘Nevertheless,’ argued the other, ‘this would be the first place
suspected. Nay, it might be well that you should even deliver up the
Castle to Her Majesty with a clean breast. I have thought more than
once of urging you to demand an audience at Holyrood, to resign your
lieutenancy or obtain a just acknowledgment of your loyalty from my
royal sister.’
Bothwell’s face brightened.
‘True!’ he exclaimed, dashing his heavy hand on the board. ‘We must
have no stolen horse in the stall when the ransom is told down! A clean
breast and a “toom-byre,”[10] as we say here on the Border. I must send
him elsewhere.’
[10] An empty cow-house.
Rothes filled his cup, with a laugh.
‘I can lodge him at Leslie,’ said he; ‘any kinsman of Lord Bothwell’s
is welcome in my poor house. “Food and wine he shall not lack,” as the
old song says; ay, and a bed too, my lord, if so you will it, that
shall serve him till doomsday.’
Bothwell flushed dark red with wrath and shame.
‘Not a hair of his head must be jeopardied!’ he exclaimed passionately;
then controlling himself, added in a more friendly tone, ‘I am beholden
to you, Leslie, nor will I forget your courtesy. I shall, indeed,
commit my kinsman to your care for a brief space. Four of my knaves,
commanded by one whom I can trust, shall convoy him to-morrow into
Fifeshire; though its lord is here with so gallant a following, Leslie
House is, doubtless, not left ungarrisoned.’
‘Trust me for that!’ answered Rothes, an evil sneer again marring the
beauty of his countenance. ‘They are peaceful knaves enough, the
men of Fife, yet they would like well to harry the old corbie’s nest
up yonder, and clear off scores for a few of Norman’s doings, to say
nothing of my own. It will be long, though, ere they crack the stones
of my poor fortalice with their teeth, and I care not to ride in Fife
without some fifty spears at my back; there are more than as many there
even now. Hark ye, Bothwell, take my signet-ring here; give it to your
lieutenant, and he will find himself at Leslie House “master and more.”’
Moray, pretending not to listen, now asked for more wine with a great
assumption of joviality and recklessness. A close observer, though,
might have remarked that he scarce touched his own cup with his lips,
whilst he encouraged his companions, who indeed were nothing loth, to
empty theirs again and again. Artfully leading the conversation to the
Queen’s possible marriage, to her different suitors, and other topics
connected with Mary, he watched Bothwell writhing under the torture,
and drowning his sufferings in revelry, with covert interest tinged by
a sardonic amusement.
It was midnight ere the reckless orgie broke up, when Moray, calm,
cool, and smiling, bade his companions a placid ‘good night;’ while
Rothes, flushed and boisterous, trolled off a ribald drinking-song;
and Bothwell, in whom wine had been powerless to drown the stings of
conscience, sought his solitary chamber with keen remorse and torturing
self-reproach gnawing at his heart.