THE
WOLFE OF BADENOCH
A Historical Romance of the
Fourteenth Century
BY
SIR THOMAS DICK-LAUDER, Bart.
Of Fountainhall
Complete Unabridged Edition
LONDON: HAMILTON, ADAMS & CO.
GLASGOW: THOMAS D. MORISON
1886
PREFACE TO FIRST EDITION.
The “Wolfe of Badenoch” was advertised in June, 1825, at which time it
was ready for the press. Since then, certain circumstances, easily
guessed at, have subjected it, with many a more important work, to an
embargo, from which critics may possibly say it should never have been
liberated. The author himself had forgotten it, until now that it has
been unexpectedly called for; and this must be his apology for that
want of revision which he fears will be but too apparent.
The author has been accused of being an imitator of the Great Unknown.
In his own defence, however, he must say, that he is far from being
wilfully so. In truth, his greatest anxiety has been to avoid intruding
profanely into the sacred haunts of that master enchanter. But let it
be remembered, that the mighty spirit of the magician has already so
filled the labyrinth of romance, that it is not easy to venture within
its precincts without feeling his influence; and to say that, in
exploring the intricacies of these wizard paths, one is to be denounced
for unwittingly treading upon these flowers which have been pressed by
his giant foot, amounts to a perfect prohibition of all entrance there.
In the “Wolfe of Badenoch,” the author has adhered strictly to
historical fact, as far as history or historical character has been
interwoven with his story. He has felt, indeed, that this scrupulosity
has considerably fettered his invention; and, had circumstances
permitted the public so to judge of his former production, some of the
remarks thrown out upon it would have been spared.
[Note to the present edition.—The author of course refers here to Sir
Walter Scott, at that time, one may almost say, inaugurating a new era
in historical romance. The “Wolfe of Badenoch” was first published in
1827 under circumstances of disadvantage, from having to stand the
contrast with the famous series of tales by the above distinguished
author. It, nevertheless, passed successfully through this trying
ordeal, and was most favourably reviewed in many critical publications,
some of which ranked it alongside the best productions of Sir Walter
Scott. A still more certain and gratifying estimate of its worth was
the favourable hold it took on public opinion, the work being
extensively read and successive editions speedily called for.]
CONTENTS.
CHAPTER I. PAGE
The Scottish Knights—Journeying Homewards—The Hostelry
of Norham Towers, 17
CHAPTER II.
The Host and the Hostess—Preparing the Evening Meal, 29
CHAPTER III.
The Knights Invited to Norham Castle, 33
CHAPTER IV.
The Evening Meal at the Castle—The Minstrel and the Tourney
of Noyon—Master Haggerstone Fenwick the Ancient, 39
CHAPTER V.
Night at the Castle—The Friar’s Visit to the Ancient, 47
CHAPTER VI.
Making Love on the Ramparts, 54
CHAPTER VII.
The Midnight Meeting in the Ancient’s Chamber—Strange
Proposal—A Dreadful Alternative, 61
CHAPTER VIII.
Arrival of Sir Rafe Piersie—The Challenge, 70
CHAPTER IX.
The Combat—Departure of the Scots—Master Kyle Swears by
St. Cuthbert, 77
CHAPTER X.
The Home of the Hepbornes—Remembrances of Childhood—The Old
Wolf-Hound, 84
CHAPTER XI.
The Wolf Hunt—A Desperate Encounter, 90
CHAPTER XII.
The Freaks of Love at Hailes Castle—The Tournament at
Tarnawa Announced, 97
CHAPTER XIII.
Sir Patrick Hepborne’s Departure for the North—Consternation
at the Castle, 109
CHAPTER XIV.
The Pursuit—Surprising the Camp, 115
CHAPTER XV.
Norham Castle again—The Ancient’s Divination—Sir Walter
Bewitched—The Franciscan Friar to the Rescue, 121
CHAPTER XVI.
Raising the Devil—Delivered to the Flames, 126
CHAPTER XVII.
Sir John’s Pursuit in Quest of the Missing Lady—The
Forester’s Hunting Camp—Sir Miers de Willoughby’s
Border Keep, 134
CHAPTER XVIII.
The Horrors of the Dungeon, 140
CHAPTER XIX.
Dawn in the Dungeon—An Appalling Sight—Rough Visitors, 147
CHAPTER XX.
A Dreadful Situation—Daniel Throckle the Old Jailor, 153
CHAPTER XXI.
Crooked-hold-him-fast—Making a Lantern of Burnstower Castle, 160
CHAPTER XXII.
Waiting for the Spearmen—The Lady Isabella’s Tale—The Fight, 166
CHAPTER XXIII.
Sir Patrick Hepborne’s Journey North—Passes through
Edinburgh—King Robert II.—The Wilds of the Highlands—The
Celtic Host, 171
CHAPTER XXIV.
Savage-looking Visitors—Night in the Highland Hostelry—
Wolf Dogs, 180
CHAPTER XXV.
Wild Scottish Bisons—Fight with a Bull—Cold and Fatigue, 184
CHAPTER XXVI.
The Evening Encampment—Treachery, 191
CHAPTER XXVII.
Another Night attack—A Desperate Encounter, 198
CHAPTER XXVIII.
Meeting the Wolfe of Badenoch—The Cavalcade, 205
CHAPTER XXIX.
The Wolfe of Badenoch’s Hunting Encampment—Letter from King
Robert—Arrival at the Wolfe’s Stronghold, 210
CHAPTER XXX.
The Castle of Lochyndorbe—An Evening Episode on the
Ramparts—The Wolfe’s Raid on the Bishop’s Lands, 224
CHAPTER XXXI.
The Lady Mariota and the Page—The Fury of the Wolfe, 231
CHAPTER XXXII.
Maurice’s Song—The Franciscan Friar—Excommunication, 238
CHAPTER XXXIII.
The Water Pit Vault—Friar or Devil, which? 247
CHAPTER XXXIV.
The Wolfe of Badenoch and the Earl of Moray, 251
CHAPTER XXXVI.
The Castle of Tarnawa—Distinguished Guests, 260
CHAPTER XXXVII.
The Banquet at the Castle—Alarm—Forres on Fire, 267
CHAPTER XXXVIII.
The Burning of the Church and Town of Forres, 272
CHAPTER XXXIX.
Sir Patrick and the Earl at Forres, 279
CHAPTER XL.
In the Countess of Moray’s Apartments—Sir Patrick gets
Quizzed, 283
CHAPTER XLI.
Rory Spears, the Earl’s Henchman, 288
CHAPTER XLII.
The Lovely English Damosel, 292
CHAPTER XLIII.
Mustering for the Tournament—The Proclamation—The Procession
at St. John’s Chapel, 293
CHAPTER XLIV.
The Italian Armourer—The Knight of Cheviot, 304
CHAPTER XLV.
The Tournament, 311
CHAPTER XLVI.
The English Ambassador and the Gallant Lindsay, 321
CHAPTER XLVII.
The Earl of Fife’s Council Meeting—The Challenge between
the Scottish and English Knights, 326
CHAPTER XLVIII.
The Departure from the Castle of Tarnawa—The Alarm of War, 333
CHAPTER XLIX.
The Lord of Dirleton’s Tale—The Bishop of Moray and his
Clergy, 342
CHAPTER L.
The Mystery of the Lady Beatrice—Arrival of the Nobles and
Men-at-arms at Aberdeen, 351
CHAPTER LI.
King Robert at Aberdeen—Duncan MacErchar again, 356
CHAPTER LII.
The Wolfe of Badenoch at Aberdeen—Father and Son, 366
CHAPTER LIII.
The English Lady’s Departure from Tarnawa Castle—The Crafty
Son of the Wolfe of Badenoch, 376
CHAPTER LIV.
Sir Andrew’s Deep-laid Plot—An Unexpected Arrival, 384
CHAPTER LV.
Travelling through the Wild Forest—A Dreadful Spectacle—
Arrival at the River Tweed, 394
CHAPTER LVI.
Old Acquaintances at the Hostel of Norham Tower—Great
Gathering at Jedworth—The Council of War, 402
CHAPTER LVII.
The Scots Besieging Newcastle—The Fight on the Walls, 415
CHAPTER LVIII.
Combat between Douglas and Hotspur—The Fight for the Pennon, 426
CHAPTER LIX.
The Battle at Otterbourne, 444
CHAPTER LX.
The Bishop’s Army—Sorrow for the Fate of the Heroic Douglas, 459
CHAPTER LXI.
The Field of Otterbourne after the Fight, 465
CHAPTER LXII.
Withdrawal of the Scots Army—Obsequies of the Gallant Dead—
The Mystery Solved, 471
CHAPTER LXIII.
The Scottish Knights at the English Court—The Wealthy London
Merchant—Combat on London Bridge, 485
CHAPTER LXIV.
Lady de Vere and her lovely Guest—Innocence and Purity
Endangered—The King’s Confessor and the Franciscan Friar, 506
CHAPTER LXV.
In the Dungeons of the Tower of London, 525
CHAPTER LXVI.
A Ship of Olden Times—Tempest Tossed—Arrival at the Maison
Dieu in Elgin, 529
CHAPTER LXVII.
The Wolfe of Badenoch again—The Burning of Elgin Cathedral, 536
CHAPTER LXVIII.
The Bishop’s Palace at Spynie—The Wolfe gets a Surprise, 547
CHAPTER LXIX.
Changes at the Castle of Lochyndorbe—The Wolfe tamed—Alarm
for the Lady Beatrice, 555
CHAPTER LXX.
Bishop Barr at Lochyndorbe Castle—Reception by the Wolfe, 566
CHAPTER LXXI.
The Scottish Knights in London—Father Rushak’s Tale, 576
CHAPTER LXXII.
At the Scottish Court—The Penitential Procession—Sir Patrick
and the Friar, 582
CHAPTER LXXIII.
Accusation made in presence of the King—The Challenge, 595
CHAPTER LXXIV.
The Missing Lady Beatrice, 604
CHAPTER LXXV.
The Ordeal of Battle, 608
CHAPTER LXXVI.
The Friar’s Tale—The Two Combatants—Lady Eleanore’s
explanation—All is well that ends well, 615
THE WOLFE OF BADENOCH.
CHAPTER I.
The Scottish Knights—Journeying Homewards—The Hostelry of Norham
Towers.
It was in the latter part of the fourteenth century that Sir Patrick
Hepborne and Sir John Assueton—two young Scottish knights, who had been
serving their novitiate of chivalry under the banners of Charles the
Sixth of France, and who had bled their maiden lances against the
Flemings at Rosebarque—were hastening towards the Border separating
England from their native country. A truce then subsisting betwixt the
kingdoms that divided Britain had enabled the two friends to land in
Kent, whence they were permitted to prosecute their journey through the
dominions of Richard II., attended by a circumscribed retinue of some
ten or a dozen horsemen.
“These tedious leagues of English ground seem to lengthen under our
travel,” said Sir John Assueton, breaking a silence that was stealing
upon their march with the descending shades of evening. “Dost thou not
long for one cheering glance of the silver Tweed, ere its stream shall
have been forsaken by the last glimmer of twilight?”
“In sooth, I should be well contented to behold it,” replied Hepborne.
“The night droops fast, and our jaded palfreys already lag their ears
from weariness. Even our unbacked war-steeds, albeit they have carried
no heavier burden than their trappings, have natheless lost some deal
of their morning’s metal, and, judging from their sobered paces,
methinks they would gladly exchange their gay chamfronts for the more
vulgar hempen-halters of some well-littered stable.”
“Depardieux, but I have mine own sympathy with them,” said Assueton.
“Saidst thou not that we should lie at Norham to-night?”
“Methought to cast the time and the distance so,” replied Hepborne;
“and by those lights that twinkle from yonder dark mass, rising against
that yellow streak in the sky, I should judge that I have not greatly
missed in meting our day’s journey to that of the sun. Look between
those groups of trees—nay, more to the right, over that swelling
bank—that, if I mistake not, is the keep of Norham Castle, and those
are doubtless the torches of the warders moving along the battlements.
The watch must be setting ere this. Let us put on.”
“Thou dost not mean to crave hospitality from the captain of the
strength, dost thou?” demanded Assueton.
“Such was my purpose,” replied Hepborne; “and the rather, that the good
old knight, Sir Walter de Selby, hath a fair fame for being no churlish
host.”
“Nay, if thou lovest me, Hepborne, let us shun the Castle,” said
Assueton. “I have, ’tis true, heard of this same Sir Walter de Selby;
and the world lies if he be not, indeed, as thou sayst, a hospitable
old knight. But they say he hath damsels about him; and thou knowest I
love not to doff mine armour only to don the buckram of etiquette; and
to have mine invention put upon the rack to minister to woman’s vanity.
Let us then to the village hostel, I entreat thee.”
“This strange unknightly disease of thine doth grow on thee, Assueton,”
said Hepborne, laughing. “I have, indeed, heard that the widowed Sir
Walter was left with one peerless daughter, who is doubtless the pride
of her father’s hall; nay, I confess to thee, my friend, that the
much-bruited tale of her beauty hath had its own share in begetting my
desire to lodge me in Norham; but since thou wilt have it so, I am
content to pleasure thee, trusting that this my ready penance of
self-denial may count against the heavy score of my sins. But
stay;—What may this be that lies fluttering here among the gorse?”
“Meseems it a wounded hawk,” said Assueton, stooping from his horse to
look at it.
“In truth, ’tis indeed a fair falcon,” said Hepborne’s esquire,
Mortimer Sang, as he dismounted to pick it up. “He gasps as if he were
dying. Ha! by’r Lady, but he hath nommed a plump partridge; see here,
it is dead in his talons.”
“He hath perchance come by some hurt in the swooping,” said Hepborne;
“Canst thou discover any wound in him?”
“Nay, I can see nothing amiss in him,” replied Sang.
“I’ll warrant me, a well-reclaimed falcon,” said Hepborne, taking him
from his esquire; “ay, and the pet of some fair damsel too, if I may
guess from his silken jesses. But hold—he reviveth. I will put him here
in the bosom of my surcoat, and so foster the small spark of life that
may yet remain in him.”
At this moment their attention was arrested by the sound of voices;
and, by the meagre light that now remained, they could descry two
ladies, mounted on palfreys, and followed by two or three male
attendants, who came slowly from behind a wooded knoll, a little to the
left of the path before them. Their eyes were thrown on the ground, and
they seemed to be earnestly engaged in looking for something they had
lost.
“Alas, my poor bird!” said one of the ladies, “I fear I shall never see
thee more.”
“Mary, ’tis vain to look for him by this lack of light,” said an
esquire.
“Do thou thy duty and seek for him, Master Turnberry,” said the second
lady, in a haughty tone.
“A murrain on’t!” said the esquire again; “this comes of casting a hawk
at a fowl at sundown.”
“I tell thee he must be hereabouts,” said the second lady again; “it
was over these trees that I saw him stoop.”
“Stoop! ay, I’ll be sworn I saw him stoop,” said the esquire. “But an I
saw him not dash his brains ’gainst one of those gnarled elms, my name
is not Thomas, and I have no eyes for falconry. He’s amortised, I
promise thee.”
“Silence, Master Turnberry,” said the same lady again; “thou givest thy
tongue larger license than doth well beseem thee.”
“By the Rood, but ’tis well to call silence,” replied the esquire,
sulkily, “and to me too who did verily steal these two hours’ sport of
hawking for thee at mine own proper peril.”
“Ay, stolen indeed were they on thy part, Master Turnberry,” replied
the same lady; “but forget not that they were honestly bought of thee
on ours.”
“Nay, then, bought or not,” said the esquire, “the last nail’s breadth
of thy merchandize hath been unrolled to thee. We must e’en clip short,
and haste us to Norham, else will Sir Walter’s grey beard become redder
than a comet’s tail with ire. Thou knowest this has been but a testy
day with him.”
“Peace with thy impudence, sir knave,” said the same lady hotly. “Dost
thou dare thus to speak in presence of the Lady Eleanore de Selby? A
greybeard’s ire shall never——”
“Nay, talk not so,” said the first lady, mildly interrupting her. “The
honest squire equeary hath reason. Though it grieveth me to lose my
poor falcon thus, we must e’en give him up, and haste us to the
Castle.”
“Stay, stay, fair damsel,” cried Hepborne, urging his steed forward
from the hollow bushy path where he and his party had hitherto remained
concealed, from dread of alarming the ladies, a precaution which he now
entirely forgot in his eagerness to approach her, whose person and
manners had already bewitched him. “Stay, stay—fly not, lady—your
hawk—your falcon!”
But the sudden appearance of armed men had so filled the ladies with
alarm, that they had fled at his first word; and he now saw himself
opposed by sturdy Squire Turnberry, who being too much taken by
surprise to catch the knight’s meaning, and taking it for granted that
his purpose was hostile, wheeled his horse round, and planting himself
firmly in the midst of the path, at the head of the grooms, couched his
hunting-spear, as if determined to prevent pursuit.
“What, ho! sir stranger knight—what seek ye, in the fiend’s name?”
demanded the squire, sternly.
“Credit me no evil,” said Sir Patrick. “It galleth me sore that mine
intemperate rudeness should have so frayed these beauteous damsels.
Mine intent was but to restore the fair lady’s lost falcon, the which
it was our chance to pick up in this hollow way. He had ta’en some
unseen hurt in swooping at this partridge, which he had nommed.”
“Nay, by the mass, but I thought as much,” said the squire.
“Tell the lovely mistress of this fair bird, that Sir Patrick Hepborne
willingly submits him to what penance she may enjoin for the alarm he
caused her,” said the knight; “and tell, too, that he gave life to her
expiring falcon, by cherishing it in his bosom.”
“I give thee thanks in mine own name, and that of the lady who owneth
the hawk,” said the esquire. “Trust me, thy sin will be forgotten in
the signal service thou hast done her. The bird, methinks, rouseth him
as if there were no longer evil in him.”
“Yea, he proyneth and manteleth him as if rejoicing that he shall again
embrace his lady’s wrist with his sengles,” said the knight. “Happy
bird! depardieux, but he is to be envied. Tell his fair mistress, that
if the small service it hath been my good fortune to render her, may
merit aught of boon at her hands, let my reward be mine enlistment in
that host of gallant knights who may have vowed devotion to her will.”
“Sir Knight,” said the squire, “I will bear thy courteous message to
her who owneth the falcon; and if I tarry not longer to give the
greater store of thanks, ’tis that the Lady Eleanore de Selby hath
spurred away so fast, that I must have a fiend’s flight if I can catch
her.” And turning his horse with these words he tarried not for further
parlance.
“’Tis a strange adventure, Assueton,” said Hepborne to his friend, as
they pursued their journey; “to meet thus with the peerless Eleanore de
Selby at the very moment she formed the subject of our discourse.”
“’Tis whimsical enow,” said Assueton, drily; “yet it is nothing
marvellous.”
“Albeit that the growing darkness left me but to guess at the
excellence of her features, from the elegance of her person,” continued
Hepborne, “yet do I confess myself more than half enamoured of her by
very intuition. Didst thou observe that her attendant who talked so
forwardly, though not devoid of grace, showed in her superior presence
but as a mere mortal beside a goddess?”
“Nay,” replied Assueton, “though I do rarely measure or weigh the
points of women, and am more versant in those of a battle-steed, yet
methought that the attendant, as thou callest her, had the more noble
port of the two.”
“Fie on thy judgment, Assueton,” cried Hepborne; “to prefer the saucy,
pert demeanour of an over-indulged hand-maid, to the dignified
deportment of gentle birth. The Lady Eleanore de Selby—she, I mean, in
the reddish-coloured mantle, she who wept for the hawk—was as far above
her companion in the elegance of her air, as heaven is above earth.”
“May be so,” replied Assueton with perfect indifference. “’Tis a
question not worth the mooting.”
“To thee, perhaps, it may be of little interest,” said Hepborne; “but I
could be well contented to be permitted to solve it in Norham Castle.
Why wert thou born with feelings so much at war with what beseemeth a
knight, as to make thee eschew all converse with those fair beings, the
sun of whose beauty shineth but to brace up the otherwise damp and
flaccid nerves of chivalrous adventure?”
“Nay, thou mightest as well demand of me why my raven locks are not as
fair as thine,” said Assueton with a smile; “yea, or bid him who is
born blind to will to see.”
“By Saint Baldrid, but I do pity thee as much as if thou wert blind,”
said Hepborne. “Nay, what is it but to be blind, yea, to want every
sense, to be thus unmoved with——”
“Ha! see where the broad bosom of Tweed at last glads our eyes,
glistening yonder with the pale light that still lingers in the west,”
exclaimed Assueton, overjoyed to avail himself of so happy an
opportunity of interrupting his friend’s harangue.
“Yonder farther shadowy bank is Scotland—our country,” cried Hepborne,
with deep feeling.
“God’s blessing on her hardy soil!” said Assueton, with enthusiasm.
“Amen!” said Hepborne. “To her shall we henceforth devote our arms,
long enow wielded in foreign broils, where, in truth, heart did hardly
go with hand.”
“But where lieth the hamlet of Norham?” inquired Assueton.
“Seest thou not where a few feeble rays are shed from its scattered
tenements on the hither meadow below?” replied Hepborne. “Nay, thou
mayest dimly descry the church yonder, sanctified by the shelter it did
of erst yield to the blessed remains of the holy St. Cuthbert, what
time the impious Danes drove them from Lindisferne.”
“But what, methinks, is most to thy present purpose, Sir Knight,”
observed Mortimer Sang, “yonder brighter glede proceedeth, if I rightly
guess, from the blazing hearth of Master Sylvester Kyle, as thirsty a
tapster as ever broached a barrel, and one who, if he be yet alive,
hath hardly, I wot, his make on either side the Border, for knavery and
sharp wit.”
“Pray heaven his sharp wit may not have soured his ale,” muttered Roger
Riddel, the laconic esquire of Sir John Assueton.
They now hastened down the hollow way that led to the village and soon
found themselves in its simple street.
“Ay,” exclaimed Sang, “by St. Andrew, but old Kyle’s gate is right
hospitably open. I promise ye, ’tis a good omen for Border quiet to
find it so. So please thee, Sir Knight, shall I advance and give note
of thine approach?”
“Do so,” said Hepborne, to the esquire, who immediately cantered
forward.
“Ho! house there!” cried Sang, halting in the gateway. “Come forth,
Monsieur, mine host of the hostel of Norham Tower. Where art thou, Mr.
Sylvester Kyle? Where be thine hostlers, drawers, and underskinkers?
Why do not all appear to do themselves honour by waiting on two most
puissant knights, for I talk not of their esquires, or the other
gentlemen soldiers of pregnant prowess, of the very least of whom it
were an honour to undo the spur?”
By the time that Sang had ended his summons, the party were at the
gate, and had leisure to survey the premises. A rude wall of
considerable length faced the irregular street of the village, having
the gateway in the centre. The thatch-roofed buildings within formed
the other three sides of the quadrangular court. Those to the right
were occupied as stables, and in those to the left were the kitchen,
and various other domestic offices; whilst the middle part was entirely
taken up by one large room, from whence gleamed the light of a great
fire, that burned on a hearth in the midst, shedding around a common
comfort on the motley parties of noisy ale-drinkers seated at different
tables.
“What, ho! Sylvester, I say—what a murrain keeps thee?” cried Sang,
although the portly form of the vintner already appeared within the
aperture of the doorway, like a goodly portrait in a frame, his
carbuncled face vying in lustre with the red flare of the torch he held
high in his hand. “Gramercy, Master Kyle, so thou hast come at last. By
the mass, but that paunch of thine is a right fair warrant for the
goodness of thine ale, yet it will be well that it do come quicker when
it be called for than thou hast.”
“Heyday, what a racket thou dost make, gaffer horseman!” cried Kyle.
“But the emptiest vessel doth ever make the most din.”
“Tut, man, thou hast hit it for once with thy fool’s head,” replied
Sang. “I am, as thou sayest, at this present, in very sober earnest, an
empty vessel; yea, and for that matter, so are we all. But never trust
me and we make not a din till we be filled. The sooner thou stoppest
our music, then, the better for thine ears, seeing that if we be forced
to pipe thus, and that thou dancest not more quickly to our call, thou
mayest perchance lose them.”
“By the mass, but thy music is marvellously out of tune, good fellow,”
replied the publican. “Thy screeching is like that of a cracked rebeck,
the neck of which must be hard griped, and most cruelly pinched, ere
its tone be softened. But of what strength is thy company?” continued
he, whirling his torch around so as to obtain a general view of the
group of horsemen. “By St. Cuthbert, I wish there may be stabling for
ye all.”
“Stabling for us all, sir knave?” cried Sang; “marry, thou dost speak
as if we were a herd of horses.”
“Cry you mercy, noble esquire,” rejoined Kyle. “An thou beest an ass,
indeed, a halter and a hook at the gate-cheek may serve thy turn, and
so peraunter I may find room for the rest.”
A smothered laugh among his comrades proclaimed Squire Sang’s defeat.
The triumphant host ran to hold Sir Patrick Hepborne’s stirrup.
“By the Rood,” cried the squire, as he dismounted, with a good-natured
chuckle at his own discomfiture—“by the Rood, but the rogue hath
mastered me for this bout. But verily my wit is fasting, whilst his, I
warrant, hath the full spirit of his potent ale in’t. Never trust me
but I shall be even with him anon.”
“Master Kyle,” said Assueton, to their host, as he ushered his guests
into the common room, “we should be glad to see some food. The rising
sun looked upon our last meal; so bestir thyself, I pr’ythee, goodman,
and let us know as soon as may be how we are to fare.”
“Room there, sirs, for two valiant knights,” cried Kyle, getting rid of
the question by addressing himself to a party seated at a table near
the hearth; “room, I say, gentlemen. What, are ye stocks, my masters?”
“Nay, treat not the good people so rudely,” said Hepborne, as some
eight or ten persons were hastily vacating their places; “there is room
enow for all. Go not thou, at least, old man,” continued he, addressing
a minstrel who was following the rest, his snowy locks and beard
hanging luxuriantly around a countenance which showed all the freshness
of a green old age; “sit thee down, I do beseech thee, and vouchsafe us
thy winning discourse. Where is the chevalier to whom a bard may not do
honour?”
The minstrel’s heart was touched by Sir Patrick’s kind words; his full
hazel eye beamed on him with gratitude; he put his hand to his breast,
and modestly bowed his head.
“My time is already spent, most gentle knight,” said he. “Ere this I am
looked for at the Castle; yet, ere I go hence, let me drink this cup of
thanks for thy courtesy. To thee I wish tender love of fairest lady;
and may thy lance, and the lance of thy brave companion, never be
couched but to conquer.” And so draining the draught to the bottom, he
again bowed, and immediately retired.
“So, Master Kyle,” said Assueton to the host, who returned at this
moment, after having ascertained the country and quality of his new
guests, “what hast thou in thy buttery?”
“Of a truth, Sir Knight, we are now but ill provided for sike guests,”
replied Kyle. “Had it been thy luck to have sojourned here yestere’en,
indeed, I wot ye mought ha’ been feasted. But arrives me my Lord Bishop
of Durham at the Castle this morning; down comes me the seneschal with
his buttery-men, and whips me off a whole beeve’s carcase; then in pour
me the people of my Lord Bishop—clerks, lacqueys, and grooms; bolt goes
me a leg of mutton here—crack goes me a venison pasty there—gobble goes
me a salmon in this corner, whilst a whole flock of pullets are riven
asunder in that; so that there has been nothing from sunrise till
sundown but wagging of jaws.”
“Marry, these church-followers are wont to be stout knights of the
trencher,” said Assueton, with a smile. “But let us have a supper from
what may be left thee, and that without more ado.”
“Anon, courteous Sir Knight,” said Master Kyle, with a grin. “But, as I
was a-saying, there hath been such stuffing; nay ye may know by the
clinking of their cans that the rogues drink not fasting. By the mass,
’tis easy to guess from the seas of ale they are swallowing, what
mountains of good provender they have to float in their stomachs. Why,
yonder lantern-jaws i’ the corner, with a mouth that opens as if he
would swallow another Jonas, and wangs like the famine-ground fangs of
a starving wolf—that same fellow devoured me a couple of fat capons
single-head; and that other churl——”
“Have done with thine impertinence, villain, said Assueton,
interrupting him; “have done with thine impertinence, I say, and let us
straightway have such fare as thou canst give, or by St. Andrew——”
“Nay, then, sweet sir,” replied the host, “there be yet reserved some
delicate pig’s liver for myself and Mrs. Kyle, but they shall be
forthwith cheerfully yielded to thy necessities.”
“Pestilence take thee, knave,” cried Assueton, “couldst thou not have
set them down to us at once, without stirring up our appetites to
greater keenness by thine enumeration of the good things that are gone?
Come, come, despatch—our hunger is beyond nicety.”
Sir John Assueton now sat down to put in practice that patience of
hunger, the exercise of which was one of the chief virtues of
knighthood. As for Sir Patrick Hepborne, his attention was so entirely
absorbed by a conversation that ensued at the adjoining table, to which
the Bishop’s people had retired, that he altogether forgot his wants.
“And was it thy luck to see the Lady Eleanore de Selby, Master Barton?”
demanded one of the persons of the dialogue; “Fame speaketh largely of
her perfections.”
“Yea, Foster, I did indeed behold her,” replied the other, who seemed
to be a person of more consequence than the rest. “When I entered the
Castle-hall this morning, to receive the commands of my Lord the
Bishop, she was seated between him and her father. They were alone, and
the old knight was urging something to her in round soldier-like terms;
but I gathered not the purport of his speech, for he broke off abruptly
as I appeared.”
“And is she so rare a beauty as folks do call her?” demanded Foster.
“Verily, so much loveliness did never bless these eyes before,” replied
Barton. “Yet was the sunshine of her face disturbed by clouds.
Tear-drops, too, had dimmed the lustre of her charms. But methought
they were more the offspring of a haughty spirit than of an afflicted
heart.”
“Nay, of a truth, they do say that she lacketh not haughtiness,”
observed Foster. “’Tis whispered that she hath already scorned some
noble knights who would fain have wedded the heiress of the rich Sir
Walter de Selby.”
“Nay, I warrant me she hath had suitors enow, and those no mean ones,”
replied Barton. “What thinkest thou of Sir Rafe Piersie, brother to the
gallant Hotspur? Marry, they say that he deigns to woo her with right
serious intent.”
“Sayest thou so?” exclaimed Foster; “then must the old knight’s gold
have glittered in the young knight’s eyes, that a proud-blooded Piersie
should even him thus to the daughter of him who is but a soldier of
Fortune.”
“Ay, and welcome, I ween, would the old knight’s hard-won wealth be to
the empty coffers of a younger brother who hath never spared expense,”
replied Barton.
“Yea, and high, I wot, mought Sir Walter’s hoar head be held with such
a gallant for his son-in-law,” observed Foster again.
“Trust me,” said Barton, “he would joyfully part with all the golden
fruits he hath gleaned from Scottish fields, to see this solitary scion
from his old stock grafted on the goodly and towering tree of
Northumberland. But they say that the Lady Eleanore is so hard to win,
that she even scorns this high alliance; and if I might guess at
matters the which to know are beyond my reach, I should say, hark ye,
that this visit of our Right Reverend Lord Bishop to Sir Walter de
Selby, hath something in it of the nature of an ambassage from the
Piersie touching this same affair.”
“I do well know our Right Reverend Lord’s affection for that house,”
said Foster.
“Nay, he doth stand related to the Piersie in no very distant degree,”
replied Barton.
“Perchance this marriage treaty then had something to do with the
lady’s tears,” observed Foster.
“Doubtless,” said Barton. “But I mistake if she carrieth not a high
brow that will be ill to bend. Her doting father hath been ever too
foolishly fond of her to thwart her will, till it hath waxed too strong
for his opposing. She will never yield, I promise thee.”
“Then hath our Bishop lost his travel,” said Foster. “But when
returneth our Reverend Lord homeward?”
“His present orders are for to-morrow,” replied Barton.
“How sayst thou, Assueton?” said Hepborne, in a whisper to his friend,
after the conversation between the two strangers had dropped; “how
sayst thou now? Did I right, think ye, to yield to thine importunity,
to shun the hospitality of Norham Castle, that we might hostel it so
vilely here i’ the nale of the Norham Tower? Dost thou not grieve for
thy folly?”
“Why, faith,” replied Assueton, “to thee it may be cause of some
regret; and I may grieve for thee, seeing that thou, an idolater of
woman’s beauty, hast missed worshipping before the footstool of this
haughty damsel. Thou mightest have caught a shred of ribbon from her
fair hand, perchance, to have been treasured and worn in thy helmet;
but, for mine own particular part, I despise such toys. Rough,
unribboned steel, and the joyous neighing of my war-steed, are to me
more pleasing than the gaudy paraments and puling parlance of love-sick
maidens.”
“Nay, then, I do confess that my desire to behold this rare beauty hath
much grown by what I have heard,” replied Hepborne. “Would that thou
hadst been less indolently disposed, my friend. We might have been even
now in the Castle; and ere we should have left it, who knows but we
might have rescued this distressed damosel from an alliance she
detesteth. Even after all these protestations to the contrary, thine
icy heart mought have been thawed by the fire of her eyes, and the
adventure mought have been thine own.”
“St. Andrew forbid!” replied Assueton. “I covet no such emprise. I
trust my heart is love-proof. Have I not stood before the
lightning-glances of the demoiselles of Paris, and may I not hold my
breastplate to be good armour against all else?”
“Nay, boast not of this unknightly duresse of thine, Assueton,” replied
Hepborne. “Trust me, thou wilt fall when thine hour cometh. But, by St.
Baldrid, I would give this golden chain from my neck—nay, I would give
ten times its worth, to be blessed with but a sight of her.”
“Ay,” said Assueton, “thou art like the moth, and wouldst hover round
the lamp-fire till thy wings were singed.”
“Pshaw, Sir Adamant,” said Hepborne, “thou knowest I have skimmed
through many a festal hall, blazing with bright eyes, and yet are my
opinions as whole as thine. But I am not insensible to woman’s charms
as thou art; and to behold so bright a star, perdie, I should care
little to risk being scorched by coming within the range of its rays.”
“Nay, then, I do almost repent me that I hindered thee from thy design
of quartering in the Castle,” said Assueton. “Thou mightest have levied
new war on our ancient and natural foemen, by snatching an affianced
bride from the big house of Northumberland.”
“Depardieux, but it were indeed a triumph, and worthy of a Scottish
knight, to carry off the Lady Eleanore de Selby by her own consent from
the proud Piersie,” said Hepborne. “But ’tis well enow to jest of.”
Whilst this dialogue was going on between the two friends, their
esquires entered the place. Mortimer Sang, after reconnoitring the
different tables, and perceiving that there were no convenient places
vacant, except at that occupied by the attendants of the Bishop, went
towards it, followed by his comrade Roger Riddel.
“By your good leave, courteous gentlemen,” said Sang, with a bow, at
the same time filling up an empty space with his person; “I hope no
objection to our joining your good company? Here, tapster,” cried he,
at the same time throwing money on the table, “bring in a flagon of
Rhenish, that we may wash away the dryness of new acquaintance.”
This cheering introduction of the two esquires was received with a
smiling welcome on the part of those to whom it was addressed.
“Come ye from the south, Sir Squire?” demanded Barton, after the wine
had silently circulated, to the great inward satisfaction of the
partakers.
“Ay, truly, from the south, indeed,” replied Sang, lifting the flagon
to his head.
“Then was I right, Richard, after all,” said Barton, addressing one of
his fellows. “Did I not tell thee that these strangers had none of the
loutish Scot in their gait?”
“Loutish Scot!” cried Sang, taking the flagon from his lips, and
starting up fiercely; “What mean ye by loutish Scot?”
Barton eyed the tall figure, broad chest, and sinewy arms of the
Scottish esquire.
“Nay, I meant thee not offence, Sir Squire,” replied he.
“Ha!” said Sang, regaining his good-humour; “then I take no offence
where none is meant. Your Scot and your Southern are born foes to fight
in fair field; yet I see no just cause against their drinking together
in good fellowship when the times be fitting, albeit they may be called
upon anon to crack each other’s sconces in battle broil. Thine hand,”
said he, stretching his right across the table to the Bishop’s man,
whilst he poised the flagon with his left. “Peraunter thou be’st a
soldier, though of a truth that garb of thine would speak thee to be as
much of a clerk as an esquire; but, indeed, an thy trade be arms, I am
bold to say, that Scotland doth not hold a man who will do thee the
petites politesses of the skirmish more handsomely than I shall, should
chance ever throw us against each other. Meanwhile my hearty service to
thee.”
“Spoke like a true man,” said Roger Riddel, taking the flagon from his
friend. “Here, tapster, we lack wine.”
“Nay, Roger,” said Sang, “but we cannot drink thus fasting. What a
murrain keeps that knave with the——Ha! he comes. Why, holy St. Andrew,
what meanest thou, villain, by putting down this flinty skim-milk?
Caitiff, dost take us for ostriches, to digest iron? Saw I not hogs’
livers a-frying for our supper?”
“Nay, good master Squire,” said the flaxen-polled lad of a tapster,
“sure mistress says that the livers be meat for your masters.”
“Meat for our masters, sirrah!” replied Sang; “and can the hostel of
Master Sylvester Kyle, famed from the Borders to the Calais Straits—can
this far-famed house, I say, afford nothing better for a brace of
Scottish knights, whose renown hath filled the world from Cattiness to
the land of Egypt, than a fried hog’s liver? Avoid, sinner, avoid; out
of my way, and let me go talk to this same hostess.”
So saying, he strode over the bench, and, kicking the rushes before him
in his progress towards the door, made directly for the kitchen.