‘“Fear ye nae that,” quo’ the laird’s Jock,
“A faint heart ne’er won a fair ladie;
Work thou within, we’ll work without,
And I’ll be sworn we’ll set thee free.”’
Our worthy friend, ‘Dick-o’-the-Cleugh,’ seemed strangely altered as
he rode back into Liddesdale. A moody man was Dick, and a silent;
no longer the jovial comrade and ‘devil-may-care’ trooper that the
other jackmen had heretofore known him, but a sulky and captious
fellow-traveller, an abrupt and peremptory martinet. The borderer
was beginning to find that he had a conscience, and to discover how
unpleasant are the remonstrances of that monitor when displeased. His
heart smote him sorely while he reflected on the part he had been
compelled to play with regard to Maxwell, a man whose whole character
had inspired him with admiration and respect, in whom also, as a
constant frequenter of the Court, he took an affectionate interest
that he did not care to analyse. And now he had lured this frank and
friendly soldier into a trap from which it was doubtful if he would
escape with life. The towers of Leslie were thick and lofty, and
well-guarded; the retainers of Rothes noted, like their chief, for an
unscrupulous recklessness and defiance of all consequences. What chance
for the naked prisoner in such a stronghold? Those damp and gloomy
vaults could keep a secret well. It needed no outrage, neither steel
nor poison, to silence an inmate for ever. The jailer had but to forget
a small black loaf, neglect to fill a shallow cruse of water, and who
would ever chronicle the prisoner’s agonies in a torturing, lingering
death? ‘Dick-o’-the-Cleugh’ turned sick and faint at the thought.
He had ample leisure to indulge these painful fancies, for the rapidity
with which Maxwell had been conveyed into Fife necessitated a slow
return, even on the same powerful horses that carried the men-at-arms
of Earl Bothwell. Ere the weary animals pricked their ears to welcome
the towers of Hermitage, Dick had come to a resolution which neither
discipline nor loyalty would have tempted him to abandon. His comrades,
more astonished than irritated at the change in one whom they had
been accustomed to consider the very pattern of a moss-trooper, shook
their heads, and whispered one another that ‘muckle Dick was _fey_,’
signifying _doomed_,--it being an old Scottish superstition that any
sudden and complete change in the disposition of an individual denotes
an early death. When Dick sat silent among the wassailers below the
salt, and passed the black flagon untasted by, many a roistering
associate looked a thought graver for the moment, as he pictured his
old comrade stretched upon the heather, with the pale gleam of death
upon his face, and a ‘false Southron’s’ lance through his body, a
thought graver perhaps, for an instant, till a coarse jest or a fresh
draught of ale brought him back to the gross and the material once more.
Hermitage Castle was no lightsome residence now. But for the return of
military duties and the clang of arms at stated intervals in the court,
it might have been a college or a monastery, so rarely was the voice of
merriment heard within its walls. No more hawking and hunting now. The
drawbridge had not been lowered, nor the portcullis raised, since Moray
took his departure with his solemn smile, following wild Rothes and his
spearmen at half-a-day’s interval, and leaving the lord of the castle
in a mood of such stern and sullen defiance as caused the boldest of
his retainers to shrink instinctively from his path. It seemed like
another life, that they used to lead long ago,--dashing out in the dewy
mornings with hawk on hand and hound at heel, or winding warily away in
warlike order at set of sun for a moonlight foray on the Southern side.
The rude spearmen consoled themselves with great meals of beef and
floods of ale, but the henchman’s platter often remained untouched, his
cup unfilled, whilst the lord of the castle himself spent whole days
of solitude in his own chamber, walking out at sunset to the northern
rampart, where he would pace up and down for hours, far into the night.
His good angel had abandoned Bothwell at last, yet the spirit had left
a gleam of his presence, a fragrance from its wings, about him still.
Fast in the toils of unscrupulous Moray, the earl could yet look back
with a painful longing to the days when he was a loyal subject and a
devoted knight to his beautiful Queen. At times he would be tempted to
forego ambition, pride, revenge, consistency, everything but his wild
unreasoning affection, and, galloping to Holyrood or Stirling, fling
himself at Mary’s feet, entreat her to forgive him, and pledge himself,
if it would make her happier, that he would never see her face again.
Yes, there were moments when the proud, strong man felt he would ask no
more welcome relief than to bow his head and pour his heart out like
a woman in tears before his Queen; but then he thought of Darnley’s
youthful beauty, and Darnley’s mocking smile--of the path that was
still open to himself if he would crush all such foolish weaknesses,
all such exaggerated notions of chivalry and forbearance. The fiend,
who is always at hand with his temptations, if a man gives him the
least encouragement, whispered in his ear that _nothing_ is impossible
to one who has no scruples, and who will ungrudgingly risk all; that
when honour, honesty, faith, and humanity are but rated as flimsy
superstitions to bind weak intellects, and crime itself is considered
simply as an untoward necessity or a decisive manœuvre, the will
becomes all-in-all, and the master-spirit, that can _dare_ boundlessly
and unflinchingly, may aspire to the fulfilment of its boldest wishes
and its wildest dreams. Bothwell, too, had been brought up in no
precise or scrupulous school. In his adventurous career on the North
Sea, many a scene of bloodshed and rapine had come under his notice,
and one who had accustomed himself to direct those predatory descents
on the Danish coast, which were but authorised acts of piracy after
all, was not likely to entertain much compassion for a woman’s shriek
or a man’s death-groan. It would have been no shrinking from bloodshed
that could have deterred Bothwell from any scheme on which he had once
thought well to enter.
Moray, too, had got the Earl completely in his hands. That wary
statesman, in whom the _suaviter in modo_ seems to have been admirably
combined with the _fortiter in re_, had the peculiar faculty of
acquiring unbounded influence over his associates, a power sometimes
observable in the calm impassive nature which never betrays its own
feelings. Whatever might be the plot on which he was engaged, how
high soever ran the waves through which the base-born Stuart steered
his bark, not a shade of trepidation was to be detected on his quiet
brow during its voyage, not a gleam of satisfaction when he had landed
his cargo safely in port. It may be that men felt, so long as their
interests were identical, they could _trust_ Moray not to betray
himself or them. It may be that, though sadly warped to evil, his was a
superior nature, born to command. Whatever was the cause, no intriguer
could be more plausible, no party-leader more successful.
And Bothwell, eager, hot-headed, vain, perhaps even romantic, was a
mere child in the hands of such a man as this. What could avail the
bluff straightforward courage of the swordsman against the diplomatic
_finesse_ of the equally bold but far more subtle statesman? It was
the old story of the long sweeping sabre against the delicate rapier
skilfully handled. The broad blade whistles through the air with mighty
strokes that would serve to cleave a head-piece or to lop a limb, but
ere it can descend amain, the thin line of quivering steel has wound
its sinuous way under the guard and through the joints of the harness,
and is drinking the streams of life-blood from the heart. Earl Bothwell
was bound hand and foot to the half-brother of his Queen.
All these intrigues and vexations goaded the warden to the verge of
madness. He could scarce bear to be noticed, much less addressed, by
his retainers; and it was with a fierce oath and a savage glare that
he accosted his henchman when the latter ventured to interrupt his
solitary walk, one summer’s evening, on the northern rampart.
The stars were coming out one by one in the soft twilight sky, and
the warden paced moodily to and fro, looking ever and anon wistfully
towards the north.
‘What lack ye, man, in the fiend’s name?’ exclaimed the earl, angrily.
‘Must every knave that clears a trencher come into my presence
unbidden? Silence, varlet, and begone!’
But Dick, too, had a sore heart and a perplexed brain, a combination
which renders a man somewhat careless of outward observances. He
was not to be daunted, even by the displeasure of his chief, and he
answered doggedly in return--
‘I’ll no be silent when it’s for the laird’s honour that I suld speak!
Oh! Bothwell, man, me an’ mine has served you an’ yours ever sin’
Scotland was a kingdom, I’m thinkin’. Will ye no hear me speak the day?’
Dick’s voice shook when he alluded to his feudal services. Stern as
the giant looked, he was hoarse and trembling with emotion. Something
in the warden’s breast responded to the appeal of his retainer, and he
answered with assumed impatience--
‘Say your say, man, in the devil’s name, who seems to be commanding
officer here; out with your report, if report it be, and have done with
it.’
‘I wad wage my life for you, Bothwell, and that ye ken fine,’ replied
Dick, with something almost like tears shining in his eyes. ‘I wadna
grudge to shed every drop of bluid I hae, just to keep ye frae
watting your foot. It’s no danger, an’ it’s no disgrace, an’ it’s no
death that wad daunton _me_ frae doing the laird’s bidding. No, no,
“Dick-o’-the-Cleugh” and Dick’s forbears ha’ eaten the Hepburn’s bread
and drunk frae the Hepburn’s cup ower lang for the like o’ that. But
it’s just rackin’ my heart to think o’ yon lad in the donjon-keep at
Leslie, and him breaking bread in the Hepburn’s hall, and setting his
trust on the Hepburn’s honour. And to think o’ the like o’ me pittin’
his feet in the fetters and his craig in a tow; I wish my hands had
rotted off at the elbows first!’
‘What would you have, man?’ said his chief, somewhat less impatiently
than the henchman had expected. ‘’Tis a mettled gallant, I grant ye,
and a far-off kinsman of my own. What, then? A soldier must take his
chance; ’tis but the fortune of war.’
‘An’ whan the leddies speir for their messenger at Holyrood, an’
the bonny Queen hersel cries, “Ou, he’s safe enough, I trusted him
to Bothwell;” how will we look if ever we come lilting into the
Abbey-yard, and can give no tidings of our guest?’
The warden’s brow softened, although he seemed considerably perplexed.
‘I would he were safe back again, Dick,’ replied he, ‘I care not who
knows it; but Rothes has a firm grip, and he would like well to make
favour with Moray, even though he should disoblige _me_. I wish poor
Walter may not be in a prison from which there is no breaking, at this
present speaking. Aye, Dick! times are changed since my father’s day.
Earl Patrick, now, if he had wanted anything from the proudest baron
in Scotland, would have gone and taken it with a hundred riders at his
back.’
Dick snapped his fingers in great glee. He was reading his chieftain’s
thoughts as he would have read the track of a herd of cattle driven but
yesterday into Cumberland.
‘It wadna tak’ a hundred men,’ said he, exultingly, ‘to lift the
plenishing of Leslie Hoos itsel’, though it were garrisoned with a’ the
loons in Fife. I wad but ask for Ralph Armstrong and “Lang Willie,” an’
maybe Little “Jock-o’-the-Hope,” to bring awa’ Maister Maxwell in a
whole skin, gin he lay in the heart o’ Carlisle jail!’
‘It might not be a bad ploy for some of our lads,’ answered Bothwell,
with rather a fierce smile. ‘Horses get fat and men lazy cooped up here
within four gray walls, and I might require man and horse in proper
trim before long. Hark ye, Dick! if ye want to go northward for some
ten days or so, I shall not ask ye where ye have been at your return.
No thanks! leave me, man! If it come to blows, that long body o’ yours
can take care of itself.’
For the next hour or two ‘Dick-o’-the-Cleugh’ looked like a different
person as he busied himself preparing man and horse for a march that
he determined should commence at nightfall. When the sun had set, and
the earl, after deeper potations than ordinary, had retired from his
habitual walk on the rampart, his henchman and three companions rode
steadily out of the castle-yard, followed by many inquiring looks
from their comrades, who, heartily wearied of their forced inaction,
beheld with strong feelings of envy the departure of the little
cavalcade. It consisted but of four individuals, nevertheless it
would have been difficult among all Lord Bothwell’s retainers to have
selected a more efficient-looking _quartette_. With the exception of
‘Dick-o’-the-Cleugh’ himself, Ralph Armstrong was esteemed the most
powerful man in Liddesdale; he was a stolid-looking fellow, too, with
considerable mother-wit concealed under a composure that nothing could
ruffle, and a courage that nothing could daunt. ‘Lang Willie,’ again,
was an exceedingly voluble and amusing companion, chiefly distinguished
for his extraordinary skill as a swordsman, and the readiness and
coarseness of his repartees. Little ‘Jock-o’-the-Hope,’ so called simply
because he was the youngest of the party, was an active, limber,
powerful fellow, with all the mettle of his twenty summers and the
sagacity of twice his age.
With such a following, and a moonless night in his favour, Dick would
have been nothing loth to lay a wager that he would cross the Southern
Border, and take Lord Scrope by the beard.
They rode all night merrily enough; steadily though, and careful not to
distress their horses. As they neared the capital, Dick’s spirits rose
visibly, and his comrades could not but remark on his resumption of his
old habits of good-fellowship; but at daybreak an incident occurred
which cast a gloom over the henchman’s superstitious nature, and
plunged him once more into that gloomy taciturnity which was so foreign
to his real disposition.
It was in the gray of the dawn. Dick was riding at the head of the
party, who followed in single file, for the tract lay through some
boggy and broken ground in which two horses could not go abreast.
Suddenly a hare that had been cropping the dank herbage thus early,
stole into the path in front of them, and leaped slowly along under the
very nose of the henchman’s charger. This, although an untoward omen,
was too common an occurrence to create alarm. There was an established
_formula_ for all such cases made and provided. Though too good a
Protestant to cross himself, Dick repeated the customary charm with
edifying gravity; but, as though in defiance, the hare still kept on
in front of them. At three different angles in the path she hesitated,
seeming about to turn off to right or left, and then hopped slowly
on in the direction they were travelling. The stout borderers grew
pale. It was even proposed that they should retrace their steps and
abandon the enterprise; but Dick suggested that as he was the person
immediately in front, his must be the entire risk, and the warning
must be especially intended for him. The others were well satisfied
to take this view of the matter, and presently they were discoursing
as blithely as before; but their leader felt a depression of spirits
creeping over him, which he strove in vain to overcome, and as the
gloom gathered darker and darker about him, he felt in the depths
of his rude nature that presentiment of coming death, which, let
philosophers say what they will, is no unusual precursor of the final
catastrophe.
His past life comes back to him with strange vividness as he rides
silently on. His father’s rude gray tower at the head of the glen; the
sunny, grassy nook, where he used to play, by the shallow burn, with
five sturdy urchins like himself, and one golden-haired brother, whom
they missed at last from amongst them, and told each other in awed
whispers, looking up at the sky the while, how ‘Willie was gone to
heaven.’ Till to-day he had almost forgotten the gleam of his father’s
broadsword, and the caresses of a gentle, care-worn woman who used to
hush him to sleep with low plaintive songs. He remembers, too, with
peculiar distinctness, that first ride on the tall bay gelding, and the
mimic lance with which he drove his imaginary foray.
These early memories are clearer to him now than many a real scene of
plunder and bloodshed in which he knows he has since taken too much
delight, but his devotion to his chief is as intense as ever, albeit
dashed with something of a melancholy tenderness that seems unnatural,
and derogatory to both.
Another figure, too, comes flitting across the borderer’s mental
sight--a figure that is seldom long absent from his dreams either by
day or night--a figure that he dares to dwell on now for the first time
these long weeks past without shame, because he feels that he is about
to vindicate his loyalty to all belonging to her, or to her Queen.
He can almost hear the ringing tones of her voice, can almost catch
the flutter of her dress. Surely he is bewitched! Bewitched, or else
irrevocably doomed to death. As he gathers a sprig of witch-elm and
fastens it in his morion, he says to himself that if he is really to
die, he should like to see Mary Seton just once again.