of thunder the ocean dashed against the bluffs on which the castle
stood, and roared in the far recesses of those deep caverns that
perforate its cliffs of dark red basalt. The rain poured like a
cataract against the barred windows, and hissed in the wide chimney; the
mournful cry of the solan goose, and the shriek of the seamew, were
heard on the passing wind, as it dashed them with the surf against the
castle walls; and the streaming of the wax lights, and undulations of
the tapestry within, increased the dreary effect of the tempest without;
and its fury seemed the greater, from very contrast with the beautiful
evening which had preceded it.
The Earl, like other men of his time, was not without a tinge of
superstition; and the storm contributed greatly to increase his
irresolution.
"Being at Dunbar," says Mary in one of her letters, "we reproached him
with the favour we had always shewn him--his ingratitude, and all other
remonstrances that might serve to release us out of his hands; albeit we
found his doings rude, yet his words and answers were gentle, that he
would honour and serve us. He asked pardon for the boldness of
conveying us to one of our own houses, constrained by love, the
vehemence of which made him set apart the reverence which naturally he
bore us as our subject, as also the safety of his own life."
Thus far the artless Mary; but the papers of the worthy Magister Absalom
Beyer are more full in their details.
Pale, from the hurry of the journey, and the current of her own
thoughts, Mary stood in the centre of the hall, divested of her hat and
riding-habit, which had been drenched by rain. Her plain but rich dress
of black satin fell in deep and shining folds around her figure, but
presented nothing to indicate her rank; for, save her amber beads, her
gold crucifix, and celebrated diamond ring, she was without other
ornament than her own bright auburn hair. In some degree damp and
disordered, it fell in heavy braids upon her neck, which, on her ruff
being removed, contrasted by its delicate whiteness with her black satin
dress.
Bothwell had hurriedly thrown aside his wet armour, and assumed a
manteau, or robe of scarlet, which was trimmed with ermine, and usually
worn by knights upon state occasions; and it lent additional dignity to
his towering figure, as, with a beating heart, he approached Mary, and
welcomed her to the castle of Dunbar.
Her eyes were full of enquiry, and her mouth, half-opened, displayed all
her beautiful teeth; and Bothwell, dazzled and intoxicated, dreaded only
that his own eyes might too soon reveal the passion which now, when he
gazed upon its object, made every scruple to vanish.
"And now, Lord Earl," said the Queen gravely, but with a slight tinge of
her usual playfulness, "for what have we had this terrible ride to
Dunbar, passing in our hurry even the gates of our own palace and
capital? Now, say--for what didst thou bring me here?"
"To say, madam, that I love you with other sentiments than those a
subject bears a sovereign," replied the Earl, as he pressed her hand to
his heart, for at the end of that vast hall they were almost alone.
"Oh! thou too winning Mary," he added, in his low and most persuasive
tones; "I have long adored thee, and with a love surpassing that of
men."
Starting back a pace, the queen withdrew her hand; her brow crimsoned,
and her flashing eyes were firmly bent on Bothwell.
"Lord Earl," she replied, in a voice that trembled between anger and
dread, "what is this thou hast dared to do?"
"To love thee--is it a crime?"
"No, if it be such love as I may receive; but such is not thine, Lord
Earl."
"Oh! visionary that I have been!" exclaimed the astonished noble, as he
clasped his hands; "and to a dream have I given up my soul, my peace, my
honour! Oh, madam! shew me some way in which I may yet farther prove
the ardour of this passion, of which thou art the idol! Give me
sufferings to be borne--difficulties to surmount--dangers to encounter;
shew me battles to fight and fortresses to storm. Didst thou wish it, I
would invade England to-morrow, and carry fire and sword even to the
gates of York; for five hundred knights and ten thousand horsemen follow
my banner."
"_Je vous remercie!_" exclaimed Mary, with irony, as she turned away--"I
thank thee, Lord Earl; but ere I go to war with my good cousin
Elizabeth, I must punish my rebels at home."
"Oh, madam! thou, to win whose love I have dared so much--thou, the
object of my boyish dreams and manhood's bold ambition--towards whom I
have ever been borne by an irresistible and inevitable tide--the sure,
dark current of fatality--hear me? But look not upon me thus, for an
aspect so stony will wither my heart."
"Lord Bothwell," replied the Queen gravely; "thou deceivest thyself with
a volume of sounding words, but seek not to delude me, too. Till
morning, I will rest me in this, my castle of Dunbar; and to-morrow in
Holyrood will seek a sure vengeance for the raid of to-night."
"Sayest thou so, madam?" replied the Earl, whose proud heart fired for a
moment at her scorn; "then thine will be the greater remorse."
"Remorse? _mon Dieu!_" said Mary, laughing.
"Ah, madam! why didst thou encourage me to love thee?"
"I encourage you!" reiterated the Queen with astonishment. "Mother
Mary! thou ravest. Never! never! I needed not to encourage men to love
me."
"Thou didst so to me, madam. By God's death! thou didst; and it was
cruel to inspire me with a passion which thou couldst not return."
"Thou hast mistaken my too affable manner," replied the Queen; "but I
will not stoop to defend myself before thee, presumptuous vassal!"
Bothwell's spirit now fell as the queen's rose; for he felt certain
that, should she continue in this mood, he was lost.
Ambition and policy supplied him with that eloquence, of which, perhaps,
the excess of his romantic passion might have deprived him; and his
voice, ever persuasive and seductive, poured all his practised
blandishments like a flood upon her ear. Borne away by the tide of
feeling, he painted his torments, his ardour, his long-treasured love,
his stifled despair; and Mary listened with pity and interest, for her
heart was the gentlest of the gentle; and she saw in him a handsome and
gallant noble, who had drawn his sword in her service when a whole
peerage held aloof--who had shed his blood to uphold her authority--and
who had lately suffered deeply (so she thought) by the mere malevolence
of his enemies; but not one glance even of kindness would she bestow
upon him.
Even the bond signed by those reverend prelates, whom she almost
worshipped--those powerful peers, whom she sometimes respected, but more
often feared--and that politic brother, whom she had ever loved better
than herself--even that document was urged upon her in vain. It served
but to increase her anger, and she told Bothwell she "could never,
never, love him!"
"Madam, madam, repulse me not! Oh, thou knowest not how long, how
deeply, I have loved thee!"
"Summon my attendants! This night I will rest me here; but," she added
threateningly, "to-morrow is a new day; and thou, Lord Earl, mayest
tremble when I leave Dunbar!"
"Madam," replied the Earl proudly, but sadly, "from the hour my eyes
first opened on the light, I have never trembled; and now I swear to
thee, by the joys of heaven and the terrors of hell, thou shalt NEVER
leave Dunbar but as the bride of Bothwell!"
And turning, he retired abruptly.
*CHAPTER XIII.*
*THE CRY.*
She is a woman, therefore may be woo'd;
She is a woman, therefore may be won.
_Titus Andronicus._
That night, in his private apartment, Bothwell drank deeply with
Ormiston and Bolton.
The storm still raged without; the dash of the waves on the bluffs,
their clangour in the caverns below, and the mournful moaning of the
wind as it swept round the battlements above, were heard incessantly;
but the fire burned merrily on the broad flagged hearth; the hounds
yawned lazily as they stretched themselves before it; a supper of mutton
sottens, broiled capon, a solan goose, and pout-pie, lay untouched on a
buffet, which two oak wyverns upheld on their outspread wings.
The bright wines of Rochelle and Bordeaux sparkled as they were poured
from great Flemish jugs into the elaborately chased silver maizers, from
which the Earl and his friends were drinking--and drinking, as we have
said, deeply; Bolton, to drown the memory of a deed that was likely to
drive him distracted; Bothwell, to obtain nerve for whatever might
ensue; and Hob Ormiston, to please himself, and keep them company. After
a pause--
"Courage, brave Bothwell!" he exclaimed, striking the Earl on the
shoulder; "for thou seemest the chosen son of the fickle little
goddess."
"Fortune has been smiling on me of late; but, as I have told thee, I
begin to scorn her favour since the rejection of my suit by Mary."
"All coy reluctance. By St. Anthony's pig! were I thou"----
"Nay, Nay! Mary is above acting so childishly. But wert thou me, what
then?"
"By cock and pie! I would make her mine ere the sun rises from the sea
to-morrow."
"Peace!" said the Earl, through whose heart there thrilled a fierce and
sudden joy as Ormiston spoke.
"Take courage; for the same day that sees thee Duke of Orkney and Regent
of Scotland, beholds me Earl of Ormiston and Marquis of Teviotdale; and
by Tantony's bell and bones, and pig to boot, the sooner the better say
I, for every rood of my barony, main and milne, holm and haugh, are
mortgaged to the chin among the rascally notaries and usurers of
Edinburgh, whom the devil confound! What sayest thou, Bolton? Sorrow
take him! he is drunk and asleep. Poor fool! he hath never been himself
since that night. Hearken," continued this ruffian, approaching the
Earl, whom it was his interest to urge yet further on that desperate
course in which they had embarked together; "doth not the queen and her
sister, the Lady Argyle, sleep in the chambers of the Agnes tower?"
"Yes; so sayeth Sandy of Whitelaw, my seneschal. The queen is in the
vaulted chamber on the first floor; Jane of Argyle above."
"Well!" said Ormiston, fixing his keen dark eyes on those of the Earl.
"Well?" reiterated the Earl.
"It is folly to pause midway in the career of ambition; and it lies with
thyself to make this woman thine; for what is she but a pretty woman
after all? It lieth with thyself, I say, to make her thine, to end her
scruples, and to close for ever the web thou hast woven around her."
"Silence!" said the Earl, rising abruptly, but immediately reseating
himself; "silence! thy villanous counsels will destroy me."
"Destroy thee!" reiterated Ormiston. "Nay; but thy faintness of heart
will now, at the eleventh hour, destroy all those who follow thy banner
by knight's service and captainrie; by fear of Chatelherault and hatred
of Lennox. Let Mary once be thine, and she dare not punish, but rather,
for the reparation of her own honour, will be compelled to wed thee.
Think of her alluring loveliness; and to be so near thee--so completely
in thy power. Hah! art thou a child--a love-sick frightened boy--to sit
there with that lackadaisy visage, when the woman thou lovest so madly
is almost within arm's length? Go to! What a miserable thing is this!
to see a strong and proud man the slave of a passion such as thine--a
love so wild, so daring, so misdirected; his heart and soul absorbed by
a wayward woman, who perhaps secretly prizes, though she outwardly
affects to despise, the acquisition."
"Silence, I tell thee!" replied the Earl through his clenched teeth; but
Ormiston saw, by the deep flush in his cheek--by the light that sparkled
in his eye, and the tremour that passed over his frame, how deep was the
impression his words had made.
"Dost thou recoil? By St. Paul! the safety of thine own house, and that
of many a gallant baron, depends on the measures of this night; for
to-morrow she will leave Dunbar only to return with the royal banner and
all the crown vassals at her back. Take another maizer of the Rochelle,
while I leave thee to ponder over what I have said, for the night wears
apace."
"Begone, in God's name! and take Bolton with thee, for I would be
alone."
The powerful Ormiston bore away the lieutenant of the archers as if he
had been a child, and the Earl was left to his own reflections.
"He is right--he is right! To hesitate is to fall--delay is fraught
with danger; and to pause, is to be immediately overwhelmed by the
recoil of that fatality of which I have taken the lead. But--but--curse
thee, Ormiston! why did I listen to thee?"
He drank--again and again--to deaden alike the stings of conscience and
the whispers of honour--to fire yet farther his insane passion, and to
make, as it were, a tool of himself.
"Revenge!" he mused; "revenge and ambition spur me on, till the dread of
death and the ties of honour are alike forgotten. How irresistible has
been the fatality that has led me on, from what I was to what I am
to-night--a regicide! a traitor! Let me not think of it; still--still,
on this hand I glut my revenge on Morton and on Mar; on the other, I
grasp love and power like a kingly orb. It shall be so!" he exclaimed,
after a pause; "this night I am not myself--the hand of Destiny is upon
me."
He leaped from his chair, and threw off his ermined manteau; exchanged
his boots for soft taffeta slippers; he laid aside the sword and belt
that girt his powerful figure; he took his sheathed poniard in one hand,
a lighted cresset in the other, and, leaving his apartment by a private
stair which the arras concealed, rapidly traversed the corridors and
staircases that led to the queen's apartment.
His face was haggard--his hands trembled--his eyes were full of fire.
As he ascended softly, taking three steps at a time, he met Ormiston,
who, being well aware of the train of thought he had fired, was
loitering near to watch the explosion. He paused, and the blood rushed
to his brow at meeting even him at such a moment.
"Ha--whither goest thou?" he asked.
"To the tower of Black Agnes," replied Bothwell in a husky voice, while
he staggered from his emotions, and the effects of the wine.
"Thou darest then at last to act like a man."
"Like a fiend, if my fate wills it! What may I not dare now, after all
I have dared and done? But hark!" said the Earl, as a ghastly pallor
overspread his face; "didst thou hear?"
"What?"
"That mournful cry!"
"By the mass! I heard only the skirl of a wild sea-maw."
"Hah!" said the Earl, through his clenched teeth; "comest thou from thy
grave in yonder abbey church, to scare me from my purpose? Avaunt! thou
shalt see that I fear thee not, and thus will trample alike on the
vengeance of heaven, the fears of hell, the stings of conscience, and
the slavish laws of men!" and, brandishing his cresset, he sprang up the
staircase and disappeared.
Black Ormiston, that colossal ruffian, drew his long sword, and retired
into a shadowy part of the corridor to keep watch and ward. The storm
still rang without, though its fury was lessened, and coldly the fitful
moonlight gleamed upon the frothy waste of waters that boiled around the
caverned rocks. It shone at times through the strong iron gratings of
the staircase window, and glinted on the dark face, the keen eyes, and
bushy mustaches of the watcher, who ever and anon put forth his head to
listen.
Still the wind howled--the rain pattered and hissed at intervals, and
the mews shrieked like evil spirits as they were swept away on the
skirts of the hurrying blast; but, lo! there came a cry from the upper
chambers of that strong Saxon tower, that gave the listening bravo a
shock as of electricity.
A fainter succeeded, and a cold and sinister smile spread over the face
of Ormiston. * * * * *
*CHAPTER XIV.*
*HANS' PATIENCE IS REWARDED.*
While shunn'd, obscured, or thwarted and exposed,
By friends abandon'd and by foes enclosed;
Thy guardian council softens every care,
To ease soothes anguish, and to hope despair.
_Richard Savage._
The English pirate still lay in the offing at the mouth of the estuary,
and honest Hans Knuber, who, like all the skippers of that time, was his
own merchant and supercargo, dared not put to sea; and each fine sunny
day, while the fair wind blew down the river from St. Margaret's Hope,
he trod his little deck to and fro, with his hands stuffed into the
pockets of his chocolate-coloured small-clothes, his Elsinore cap pulled
well over his red eyebrows, and consoling himself by praying to St.
Mungo (who once had voyaged in these waters), and by swearing many a
round oath in guttural Norse at the obnoxious Englishman, whose broad
lateen sails, dark brown at sunrise, and snow-white at sunset, were
always visible, as he cruised under the lee of the May, that beautiful
isle of old Saint Adrian.
Meanwhile the sunny month of May approached, and when Hans thought of
the good prices his cargo of wheat and malt would bring in the market of
Kiobenhafen, his vexation increased hourly; and every morning he
solemnly gave over the Englishman to the devil and the jormagundr, or
great sea-snake, that lies coiled round the foot of the north pole, and
makes the whirlpool of Lofoden by wagging its tail.
During this, by the strength of his constitution and the care of Martin
Picauet, Konrad recovered strength daily. He shook off the torpor that
weighed upon his spirit; and, while he endeavoured to efface the image
of Anna from his memory, it was evident to Hans Knuber (and _he_ was no
subtle love casuist), that the prospect of returning to Norway and
meeting her again, contributed more than all the skill of the queen's
apothegar to make him a new man.
And though, at times, when bluff Hans would thump him between the
shoulders, and drink to Anna's health and his success, in their native
dricka or brown Scottish beer, he was wont earnestly to assert, that
were she queen of all Scandinavia, from the Naze of Norway to the Isles
of Lofoden, he could not, and would not, wed her, after all that had
passed; and he felt so: for now, deadened a little by absence, by bitter
recollection, and the excess of his first despair, there was at times
something of indignation mingled with his memory of her. At others, all
his old tenderness would painfully revive, and come gushing back like a
flood upon his heart; and she was then remembered only as the Anna of
his boyhood's days--the Anna of that early love, which had first been
told in whispers and confusion among the druid groves of Aggerhuis.
From time to time he heard tidings of Bothwell's daring deeds, but all,
of course, distorted or discoloured by the malevolence of the narrators;
for in that early age, when newspapers were unknown, the only means of
intelligence were the "common bruit," as rumour was named; and the
simple Norseman, who knew nothing of statecraft, of lawless ambition,
the lust of power, and the boldness of such a spirit as Bothwell, heard
with astonishment how he had slain the king of the land, by blowing his
palace, with all his court and attendants, to the number of thousands,
his guards, grooms, and horses, into the air; how he had seized the
queen and crown; and how he had strangled the young prince before her
eyes, because she had refused to marry him; and of how he had imprisoned
her in chains in a dark dungeon, where her food was bread and black
beer; and, assuming the sceptre, had seated himself on the throne. Poor
Hans trembled for his cargo of malt when he heard of these terrible
passages, prayed to St. Tradewell of Orkney, and wished himself safe at
home.
He and Konrad knew not how common was the stratagem of seizing the
Scottish sovereign in those days, and that the seizure of Mary had twice
before been attempted--once by the old Earl of Huntly, and once by her
brother Moray, on his rebellion in 1565; and consequently, had Mary
viewed Bothwell with any favour, there had been no necessity for his
wooing her at the head of a thousand horse.
Meanwhile, Hans waited anxiously the arrival of those French galleys,
which at times, under the pennon of the Chevalier de Villaignon, made
their appearance in the Scottish firth--for Scotland had then but six or
eight ships for military purposes, under the pennons of David Wood, Sir
Edmund Blackadder, Thomas Dixon, and Edward Robertson, who (though
Buchanan styles them "pirates of known rapacity") were Scottish
sea-officers, and vassals of the Lord High Admiral. These ships were
then in the Western seas; thus, the pirate of Hull, which was the bane
of Hans' existence, lay there unmolested, like a wolf waiting for his
prey, and the fishers from the New haven daily brought terrible accounts
of her crew; how they were plundering the coast about Crail--how they
cruised with a man hanging at each yard-arm--how her poop lanterns were
human skulls--and the skipper was said to be the devil himself; for he
came ashore every night, not in his jolly-boat, like any other
respectable shipman, but in his broad beaver inverted on the water, to
attend the witches of Pittenweem, who held the meeting in the weem, or
great cavern, below St. Mary's priory; and thus poor Hans was denied the
hope of escaping even in the night, by creeping along the shore, under
the brows of Kincraigie and Elie-ness on the north, or by the broad and
beautiful bay of Preston on the south; and so the time wore on--the
month of May was passing--and still the _Skottefruin_ of Bergen lay off
the New haven, with her canvass bent, her brown sides and curved deck
blistering in the summer sun.
At last there came tidings that the high admiral was about to put to
sea, and that five Scottish frigates were anchored near his castle of
Dunbar. Upon this, the pirate disappeared, and Hans Knuber rubbed his
eyes again and again, one morning, to assure himself that the offing was
clear. Then, impatient to bend his course homeward, he took immediate
advantage of the gentle summer breeze that blew from the western hills,
and spread his canvass on a beautiful morning in May--though a Friday,
of all days in the week, by ancient superstition, the most unpropitious
for putting to sea.
Then, with a heart that grew lighter as the Scottish mountains lessened
in the distance, Konrad hailed the blue sky and the dark ocean; for he
knew that, when land again was visible, it would be the pine-covered
hills and thunder-riven cliffs of his native Norway.
*CHAPTER XV.*
*THE LEGEND OF ST. MUNGO.*
A famous sanct St. Mungo was,
And ane cantye carle was he;
He drank o ye Molendinar burne,
Quhan he oouldna better prie!
_Ballad._
"Mass!" said Hans Knuber to Konrad, as they walked to and fro one day on
the lee side of his quarter-deck; "we have voyaged prosperously. I knew
I should not implore the aid of good St. Mungo for nought; though, poor
man! his work was like our anchorage in yonder firth--like to have no
end."
"Thou seemest ever in a rare mood now, Hans;" replied Konrad; "but what
made St. Mungo thy particular patron, and how came it that the work of
so holy a man was never done?"
"Why, Master Konrad, 'tis a long story, which I heard from a certain old
friar when my crayer was once discharging her cargo at the ancient
Stockwell bridge of Glasgow. I care not if I tell it thee to wile away
an hour or so; so here cometh like a rope out of the coil, with a wanion
on it!--the story I mean, not the saint--the Lord forbid! It happened
somewhere about the time that Erick Blodiaxe was among us here in
Norway--the year 530--a long time ago, Master Konrad."
We here present the legend, not in the words of honest Hans, but as we
find it in the MSS. of Magister Absalom, who has entitled it,
The Legend of St. Mungo.
In the days when Eugene III. was king of Scotland, and Lothus ruled the
race of the Picts, there was a certain holy woman who dwelt in a cavern
on the shore of the river Forth, above where the ruins of the Roman
invaders overlooked the mouth of the Carron.
The place was then all desolate, and the land was covered with wood from
the dark summit of the distant rock of Stirling, where there frowned the
fragments of a Roman tower, to the yellow shore of the river, where the
rippling waves rolled up in all their echoing loneliness.