The Freaks of Love at Hailes Castle—The Tournament at Tarnawa
announced.
The affliction which had so lately visited the elder Sir Patrick
Hepborne had made him avoid company, and Hailes Castle had consequently
been entirely without guests ever since his lady’s death. But it must
not be imagined that the evening of the hunting day passed dully
because the board was not filled. The sweet and soothing sorrow
awakened by tender and melancholy reflections soon gave way before the
joy arising from the return of Sir Patrick the younger. In those days
letters could not pass as they do now, with the velocity of the winds,
by posts and couriers, from one part of Europe to another; and, during
Hepborne’s absence, his father had had no tidings of his son, except
occasionally through the medium of those warriors or pilgrims who,
having fought in foreign fields, or visited foreign shrines, had
chanced during their travels to see or hear of him, and who came to
Hailes Castle to receive the liberal guerdon of his hospitality for the
good news they brought. The elder Sir Patrick, therefore, had much to
ask, and the son much to answer; so that the ball of conversation was
unremittingly kept up between them.
The Lady Isabelle was seated between her brother and his friend Sir
John Assueton, in the most provoking position; for she was thus placed,
as it were, between two magnets, so as to be equally attracted by both.
Her affection for Sir Patrick made her anxious to catch all he said,
and to gather all his adventures; whilst, on the other hand, Sir John
Assueton’s conversation, made up, as it in a great measure was, of the
praises of his friend, intermixed with many interesting notes on the
accounts of battles and passages of arms her brother was narrating to
her father, proved so seducing that she found it difficult to turn away
her ear from him. Nor were Assueton’s illustrations the less gratifying
that they often brought out the whole truth, where her brother’s
modesty induced him to sink such parts of the tale as were the most
glorious to himself. As for Assueton himself, he seemed to have become
a new man in her company. He was naturally shrewd, excessively
good-humoured, and often witty in his conversation, but he never in his
life before bestowed more of it on a lady than barely what the courtesy
of chivalry required. This night, however, he was animated and
eloquent; and the result was, that the Lady Isabelle retired to her
couch at an unusually late hour, and declared to her handmaiden, Mary
Hay, as she was undressing her, that Sir John Assueton was certainly
the most gallant, witty, and agreeable knight she had ever had the good
fortune to meet with.
“But thou dost not think him so handsome as thy brother Sir Patrick,
Lady?” said the sly Miss Mary Hay.
“Nay, as to that, Mary,” replied the Lady Isabelle, “they are both
handsome, yet both very diverse in their beauty. Thou knowest that one
is fair, and the other dark. My brother, Sir Patrick, and I, do take
our fair tint from our poor mother. Is it not common for fair to affect
dark, and dark fair? My father, thou seest, is dark, yet was my dear
departed mother fair as the light of day. Is it unnatural, then, that I
should esteem Sir John Assueton’s olive tint of countenance, his
speaking black eyes, his nobly-arched jet eyebrows, and the raven curls
of his finely-formed head, more than the pure red and white complexion,
the blue eyes and the fair hair of my dear brother? Nay, nay, my
brother is very handsome; but algate he be my brother, and though I
love him, as sure never sister loved brother before, yet must I tell
the truth, thou knowest, Mary; and, in good fay, I do think Sir John
Assueton by much the properer man.”
Hepborne had been by no means blind to that of which neither his sister
nor Sir John Assueton were, as yet, themselves aware. He saw the change
on Assueton with extreme delight. He enjoyed the idea of this
woman-hater being at last himself enslaved, and, above all, he rejoiced
that the enslaver should be his sister, the Lady Isabelle. He longed to
attack him on the subject; but, lest he might scare him away from the
toils before he was fairly and irrecoverably meshed, he resolved to
appear to shut his eyes to his friend’s incipient disease. As he went
with Sir John, therefore, to see him comfortably accommodated for the
night, he only indulged himself in a remark, natural enough in itself,
upon his wounded arm.
“Assueton,” said he, “wilt thou not have thine arm dressed by some
cunning leech ere thou goest to rest? Our chaplain is no mean
proficient in leechcraft; better take that rag of a kerchief away, and
have it properly bound up.”
“Nay, nay,” cried Assueton, hastily, “I thank thee, my good friend; but
’tis very well as it is. Thy sister, the Lady Isabelle, bound it up
with exceeding care; and in these cases I have remarked that there is
no salve equal in virtue to the bloody goutes of the wound itself. Good
night, and St. Andrew be with thee.”
“And may St. Baldrid, our tutelary saint, be with you,” replied
Hepborne, as he shut the door. “Poor Assueton,” said he then to
himself, with a smile, “my sister has cured one wound for him, only to
inflict another, which he will find it more difficult to salve.”
The next day being devoted to the gay amusement of hawking, was yet
more decisive of the fate of poor Sir John Assueton. He rode by the
side of the Lady Isabelle; and as the nature of the sport precluded the
possibility of her using that attention necessary to make her palfrey
avoid the obstacles lying in its way, or to keep it up when it
stumbled, Sir John found a ready excuse for again acting the part of
her knight; and, one-armed as he had been rendered by the bites of the
wolf, he ran all manner of risks of his own neck to save hers. Hepborne
was more occupied in regarding them than in the sport they were
following. He rode after the pair, enjoying all he saw; for in the
malicious pleasure he took in perceiving Assueton getting deeper and
deeper entangled in the snares of love, and its fever mounting higher
and higher into his brain, he almost forgot the toils he had himself
been caught in, and found a palliative for his own heart’s disease,
producing a temporary relaxation of its intensity. Thus then they rode.
When the game was on wing, the fair Isabelle galloped fearlessly on,
with her eyes sometimes following the flight of the falcon after its
quarry, but much oftener with her head turned towards Sir John
Assueton, whilst Sir John’s looks were fixed now with anxiety on the
ground, to ensure safe riding to the lady, and now thrown with
love-sick gaze of tenderness into the heaven of her eyes, for his had
no wish to soar higher.
In the evening, the Lady Isabelle and her knight were again left to
themselves by the father and son. Her brother’s tales were less
interesting to her than they had been the previous night, and though
Assueton talked less of his friend, yet she by no means found his
conversation duller on that account; nay, she even listened much more
intensely to it than before. The younger Sir Patrick, towards the close
of the night, begged of his sister to sit down to her harp, and when
she did so, Assueton hung over her with a rapture sufficiently marking
the strength of his new-born passion, and the little art he had in
concealing it.
Having been asked by her brother to sing, she accompanied her voice in
the following canzonette:—
Why was celestial Music given,
But of enchanting love to sing!
Ethereal flame, that first from heaven
Angels to this earth did bring.
What state was man’s till he received
The genial blessing from the sky?
What though in Paradise he lived?
Yet still he pined, and knew not why.
But when his beauteous partner came,
The scene, that dreary was and wild,
Grew lovely as he felt the flame,
And the luxuriant garden smiled.
Oh, Love!—of man thou second soul,
What but a clod of earth is he
Who never yet thy flame did thole,
Who never felt thy witchery!
Assueton’s applauses were more energetic, and his approbation more
eloquently expressed at the conclusion of this song, than Hepborne had
ever heard them on any former occasion. Though the theme was wont to be
so very unpalatable to him, yet he besought the Lady Isabelle again and
again to repeat it, and it seemed to give him new and increased
pleasure every time he heard it. At last the hour for retiring came,
and Hepborne inwardly rejoiced to observe a certain trembling in the
voices of both Assueton and his sister, as they touched each other’s
hands to say good night.
Sir Patrick Hepborne the younger had no sooner accompanied his friend
to his apartment than Assueton seated himself near the hearth, and put
up his feet against the wall, where he fell into a kind of listless
dream. Hepborne took a seat on the opposite side of the fire-place,
and, after he had sat silently watching him for some time, in secret
enjoyment of the state he beheld him reduced to, the following
conversation took place between them:—
“Well, Assueton,” said Hepborne, first breaking silence, and assuming
as melancholy a tone as the humour he was in would permit him to use,
“Well, mon bel ami, so we must part to-morrow? The thought is most
distressing. My heart would have urged me to press thee to a farther
sojourn with us at Hailes; but thou wert too determined, and urged too
many and too strong reasons for thy return home, when we last talked of
the matter, to leave room for hope that I might succeed in shaking thy
purpose. I see that of very needscost thou must go; nay, in good sooth,
thy motives for departure are of a nature that, feeling as I have
myself felt, I should inwardly blame thee were thy good nature to lead
thee to yield to my importunate entreaty. Yea, albeit thou shouldst
consent to stay with me, I should verily tine half the jovisaunce that
mought otherwise spring from thy good company; since, from the
all-perfect being I now hold thee to be, thou wouldst dwindle in my
esteem, and be agrutched of half the attraction thou dost possess in
mine eyes, by appearing to lose some deal of those strong feelings of
attachment for thy home, and for the scenes and friends of thy boyhood,
which thou hast hitherto so eminently displayed, and in which, I am led
to think, we do so much resemble each other. Having now had mine
somewhat satisfied, perdie, I could almost wish to boune me with thee,
were it only to participate in thine—were it only to see thee approach
the wide domains and the ancient castle of thine ancestors—to see thee
meet thy beloved mother, now so long widowed, and panting to press her
only child, her long absent son, to her bosom—to watch how thou mayst
encounter with old friends—to behold the hearty shakes of loving
souvenaunce, given by thy hand to those with whom thou hast wrestled,
or held mimic tourney when thou wert yet but a stripling. Oh, ’twould
be as a prolonging of mine own feelings of like sort to witness those
that might arise to thee. But the journey is too long for me to take as
yet; and besides, I cannot yet so soon leave my father and Isabelle.
Moreover, thou knowest that my heart yet acheth severely from the
wounds which it took at Norham. Heigh ho! But, gramercy, forgive me, I
entreat thee, for touching unwittingly on the (by thee) hated subject
of love, the which, I well know, is ever wont to erke thee.”
During this long address, Assueton remained with his heels up against
the wall, his toes all the time beating that species of march that in
more modern times has been called the devil’s tattoo, and with his eyes
firmly fixed on the embers consuming on the hearth.
“I hope, however, my dearest friend,” continued Hepborne, “that thou
mayest yet be able to return to me at Hailes. Thine affairs (though,
perdie, thou must have much to settle after such a succession, and so
long an absence), thine affairs, I say, cannot at the worst detain thee
at home longer than a matter of twelve months or so; after which (that
is, when thou shalt have visited thy friends in divers other parts) I
may hope perchance to see thee again return hither.”
Assueton shifted his position two or three times during this second
speech of Hepborne’s, always again commencing his devil’s tattoo on the
wall; but when his friend ceased, he made no other reply than—
“Umph! Ay, ay, my dear Hepborne, thou shalt see me.”
“My dear Assueton,” continued Hepborne, “that is but a loose and vague
reply, I ween. But, by St. Genevieve, I guess how it is. Thou hast
thoughts (though as yet thou wouldst fain not effunde them to me) of
returning to France in short space; and thou wouldst keep them sicker
in thy breast for a time, lest peradventure I should grieve too deeply
at thy so speedy abandonment of thy country.”
“Nay, nay,” said Assueton, hastily, “trust me I have no such emprize in
head.”
“What then can make thee so little satisfactory in thy reply?” said
Hepborne; “surely ’tis but a small matter to grant me; ’tis but a small
boon to ask of thee to return to Hailes Castle some twelve months or
year and half hence? I doubt me sore that thou hast been but half
pleased with thy visit here; and truly, when I think on’t, it has been
but a dull one.”
“Nay,” replied Assueton, eagerly interrupting him, “I do assure thee,
Hepborne, thou art grievously mistaken in so supposing. On the
contrary, my hours never passed so happily as they have done here;
nor,” added he, with a deep sigh, “so swiftly, so very swiftly.”
“’Tis all well in thee, Assueton,” said Hepborne, “’tis all well in
thee to use thy courtesy to say so; yet, I wot well, ’tis but to please
thy friend. Thou knowest that my father hath been so voracious in his
inquiries into the history of my life during my stay in France, that he
hath never suffered me to leave him, so that thou hadst neither his
good company nor my poor converse to cheer thee, but, much to my
distress, thou hast been left to be erked by the silly prattle and
trifling speech of that foolish pusel my sister Isabelle, worn out by
the which, ’tis no marvel thou shouldst now be thus moody, as I see
thou art; and to rid thyself of this dreriment of thine, it is natural
enow that thou shouldst be right glad to escape hence, yea, and sore
afraid ever to return here. But fear thee not, my friend; she shall not
stand long in thy way. She hath had many offers of espousal, on the
which my father and I are to sit in counsel anon, that is, when other
weightier matters are despatched; and as soon as we shall have time to
choose a fitting match for the maid, she shall forthwith be tochered
off. She cannot, then, remain much longer at Hailes than some three or
four weeks at farthest, to frighten from its hall my best and dearest
friend. So that if she be the hindrance to thy return thither, make no
account of her, and promise me at once that thou wilt come. By St.
Baldrid, we shall have a houseful of jolly stalwart knights to meet
thee there; and our talk shall be of deeds of arms, and tourneys, till
thy heart be fully contented.”
This speech of Hepborne’s very much moved Assueton. He shifted his legs
down from the wall and up again at least a dozen times, and his tattoo
now became so rapid, that it would have troubled the legions for whom
the march may have been originally composed to have kept their feet
trotting in time to its measure.
“Nay, verily, Hepborne,” said he seriously, “thou dost thy sister but
scrimp justice, methinks. The Lady Isabelle was anything but tiresome
to me; nay, if I may adventure to say so much, she hath sense and
judgment greatly beyond what might be looked for from her age and sex;
there is something most truly pleasing in her converse—something, I
would say, much superior to anything I have heretofore chanced to
encounter in woman. But, methinks thou art rather hasty in thy disposal
of her. The damosel is young enow, meseems, to be thrust forth of her
father’s boure, perhaps to take upon her the weight of formal state
that appertaineth to the Madame of some stiff and stern vavesoure.
Perdie, I cannot think with patience of her being so bestowed already;
’twould be cruel, methinks—nay, ’twould, in good verity, be most unlike
thee, Hepborne, to throw thy peerless sister away on some harsh lord,
or silly gnoffe, merely to rid thy father’s castle of her for thine own
convenience. Fie on thee; I weened not thou couldst have even thought
of anything so selfish.”
“Nay, be not angry, Assueton,” said Hepborne, “thou knowest that they
have all a wish to wed them. But ’tis somewhat strange, methinks, to
hear thee talk so; the poppet seems to have made more impression on
thee than ever before was made by woman. What means this warmth? or why
shouldst thou step forth to be her knight?”
“’Tis the part of a good knight,” replied Assueton hastily, “to aid and
succour all damosels in distress.”
“Nay, but not against a distress of the knight’s own fancying, yea, and
contrary to the wishes of the damosel herself,” replied Hepborne.
“What! wouldst thou throw down the gauntlet of defiance against thy
friend, only for being willing to give his sister the man of her own
heart?”
“And hath she then such?” exclaimed Assueton, his face suddenly
becoming the very emblem of woe-begone anxiety.
“Yea, in good truth hath she, Assueton,” replied Sir Patrick. “I did
but suspect the truth last night, but this day I have been confirmed in
it.”
“Then am I the most wretched of knights,” cried Assueton, at once
forgetting all his guards; and rising hastily from his seat, he struck
his breast, and paced the room in a frenzy of despair.
Hepborne could carry on the farce no longer. He burst into a fit of
laughter that seemed to threaten his immediate dissolution; then threw
himself on the couch, that he might give full way to it without fear of
falling on the floor, and there he tossed to and fro with the
reiterated convulsions it occasioned him. Assueton stood in mute
astonishment for some moments, but at last he began to perceive that
his friend had discovered his weakness, and that he had been all this
time playing on him. He resumed his seat and position at the hearth,
and returned again to his tattoo.
“So,” said Hepborne—“so—ha, ha, ha!—so!—ha, ha!—so!—Oh, I shall never
find breath to speak—ha, ha, ha! So, Sir John Assueton, the
woman-hater, the knight of Adamant, he who was wont to be known in
France by the surnoms of the Knight sans Amour, and the Chevalier cœur
caillou—who, rather than submit to talk to a woman, would hie him to
the stable, to hold grave converse with his horse—who railed roundly at
every unfortunate man that, following the ensample of his great
ancestor Adam, did but submit himself to the yoke of love—who could not
bear to hear the very name of love—who sickened when it was
mentioned—who had an absolute antipathy to it, as some, they knew not
why, have to cats or cheese—who, though he liked music to admiration,
would avoid the place if love but chanced to be the minstrel’s
theme;—he, Sir John Assueton, is at last enslaved, has his wounds bound
up by a woman, and wears her scarf—plays the lady’s knight, and leads
her palfrey rein—rownes soft things in her ear, hangs o’er her harp,
and drinks in the sweet love-verses she sings to him!”
“Nay, nay, Hepborne, my dearest friend,” said Assueton, starting up,
and clasping his hands together in an imploring attitude, “I confess, I
confess; but sith I do confess, have mercy on me, I entreat thee; ’tis
cruel to sport with my sufferings, since thou knowest, alas, too surely
that I must love in vain.”
“But, pr’ythee, ‘why shouldst thou afflict thyself, and peak and pine
for a silly girl?’” said Hepborne ironically, bringing up against him
some of the very expressions he had used to himself at Norham. “‘A
knight of thy prowess in the field may have a thousand baubles as fair
for the mere picking up; let it not erke thee that this trifle is
beyond thy reach.’” And then rising, and striding gravely up to
Assueton, and shaking his head solemnly—“‘Trust me, women are dangerous
flowers to pluck, and have less of the rose about them than the thorn.’
Ha, ha, ha! Oh, ’tis exquisite—by St. Dennis, ’tis the richest treat I
ever enjoyed.”
“Nay, but bethink thee, my dear friend,” said Assueton, with an
imploring look; “bethink thee, I beseech thee, what misery I am
enduring, and reflect how much thou art augmenting it by thy raillery.
Depardieux, I believe thou never didst suffer such pain from love as I
do now.”
“‘No, thank my good stars,’” said Hepborne, returning to the charge,
and again assuming a burlesque solemnity of air and tone, “‘and I hope,
moreover, I never shall be so besotted: it makes a very fool of a
man.’”
“Well, well,” said Assueton, sighing deeply, “I see thou art determined
to make my fatal disease thy sport; yet, by St. Andrew, it is but cruel
and ungenerous of thee.”
“Grammercy, Assueton, I thought my innocent raillery could do thee no
harm,” said Hepborne; “methought that ‘thou mightst be said to have no
ears for such matters.’ But if thou in good truth hast really caught
the fever, verily I shall not desert thee, ‘my friendship for thee
shall make me listen to thy ravings;’ yea, and ‘compassion for thy
disease shall make me watch the progress of its symptoms. Never fear
that I shall be so little of a Christian knight as to abandon thee when
thy estate is so dangerous.’ But what, I pr’ythee, my friend, hath
induced this so dangerous malady?”
“Hepborne,” replied Sir John, “thy angelic sister’s magnanimity, her
matchless beauty, her enchanting converse, and her sweet syren voice.”
“Ay, ay,” said Hepborne roguishly; “so ’twas her voice, her warbles,
and her virelays that gave thee the coup-de-grace? Nay, it must be
soothly confessed, thou didst hang over her chair to-night in a most
proper love-like fashion, as she harped it; yet her verses ‘were silly
enough in conscience, methought’—and then, thou knowest, thou dost
‘rarely listen to music when love or follies are the theme.’”
“Hepborne,” said Assueton gravely, and with an air of entreaty, “it was
not after this fashion that I did use thee in thine affliction at
Norham. Think, I beseech thee, that my case is not less hopeless than
thine. But who, I entreat thee, is the happy knight who is blessed by
the favouring smile of thy divine sister, of the Lady Isabelle
Hepborne, whom I now no longer blush to declare to be the most peerless
damosel presently in existence?”
“He is a knight,” replied Hepborne, “whose peer thou shalt as rarely
meet with, I trow, as thou canst encounter the make of my sister, the
Lady Isabelle. He is a proper, tall, athletic, handsome man, of dark
hair and olive complexion, with trim moustaches and comely beard—nay,
the very man, in short, to take a woman’s eye. Though as yet but young
in age, he is old in arms, and hath already done such doughty deeds as
have made him renowned even in the very songs of the minstrels.
Moreover, he is a beloved friend of mine, and one much approved of my
father, and he shall gladly have our consent for the espousal of my
sister.”
“Nay, then,” said Assueton, in the accents of utter hopelessness, “I am
indeed but a lost knight, and must hie me to some barren wilderness to
sigh my soul away. But lest my disease should drive me to madness, tell
me, I entreat thee, the name of this most fortunate of men, that I may
keep me from his path, lest, in my blind fury, I might destroy him in
some ill-starred contecke, and through him wrack the happiness of the
Lady Isabelle, now dearer to me than life.”
“Thou knowest him as well as thou dost thyself, my dear Assueton,” said
Hepborne. “Trust me, he is one to whom thou dost wish much too well to
do him harm. His name is—Sir John Assueton.”
“Nay, mock me not, Hepborne, drive me not mad with false hopes,” said
Assueton; “certes, thy raillery doth now exceed the bounds that even
friendship should permit.”
“Grammercy,” said Hepborne, “thou dost seem to me to be mad enough
already. What! wouldst thou quarrel with me for giving thee assurance
of that thou hast most panted for? By the honour of a knight, I swear
that Isabelle loves thee. ’Tis true, I heard it not from her lips; but
I read it in her eyes, the which, let me tell thee, inexperienced in
the science, and all unlearned in the leden of love as thou art, do
ever furnish by far the best and soothest evidence on this point that
the riddle woman can yield. Never doubt me but she loves thee,
Assueton. She drank up the words thou didst rowne in her ear with a
thirst that showed the growing fever of her soul. And now,” continued
he, as he observed the happy effects of the intelligence upon the
countenance of his friend—“and now, Assueton, tell me, I pr’ythee, at
what hour in the morning shall I order thine esquire and cortege to be
ready for thy departure?”
“Hepborne,” said Assueton, running to embrace him, “thou hast made me
the happiest of mortals. Go! nay, perdie, I shall stay at Hailes till
thou dost turn me out.”
“But, my dearest Assueton,” cried Hepborne, smiling, “consider thy
mother, and the friends and the scenes of thy boyhood—consider what
thou——”
“Pshaw, my dear Hepborne,” cried Sir John, interrupting him, “no more
on’t, I entreat thee. Leave me, I beseech thee, to dreams of delight.
Good night, and may the blessed Virgin and St. Andrew be thy warison,
for this ecstacy of jovinaunce thou hast poured into my soul.”
“Good night,” said Hepborne, with a more serious air—“good night, my
dear and long-tried brother-in-arms; and good night, my yet dearer
brother by alliance, as I hope soon to call thee.”
The meeting of the lovers on the next day was productive of more
interesting conversation than any they had yet enjoyed; and although
Assueton was, as his friend had said, a novice in the science and
language of love, yet he caught up the knowledge of both with most
marvellous expedition, and was listened to with blushing pleasure by
the lovely Isabelle.
As the party was seated at breakfast, the sound of trumpets was heard
followed by that of the trampling of horses in the court-yard, and
immediately afterwards a herald, proudly arrayed, and followed by his
pursuivants, was ushered into the hall.
“Sir Patrick Hepborne,” said he, “and you, Sirs Knights, I come to
announce to you and to the world, that on the tenth day of the next
month, the noble John Dunbar, Earl of Moray, will hold a splendid
meeting of arms on the mead of St. John’s; and all princes, lords,
barons, knights, and esquires, who intend to tilt at the tournament,
are hereby ordained to lodge themselves within his Castle of Tarnawa,
or in pavilions on the field, four days before the said tournament, to
make due display of their armouries, on pain of not being received at
the said tournament. And their arms shall be thus disposed: The crest
shall be placed on a plate of copper large enough to contain the whole
summit of the helmet, and the said plate shall be covered with a
mantle, whereon shall be blazoned the arms of him who bears it; and on
the said mantle at the top thereof shall the crest be placed, and
around it shall be a wreath of colours, whatsoever it shall please him.
God save King Robert!”
The herald having in this manner formally pronounced the proclamation
entrusted to him, was kindly and honourably greeted by Sir Patrick
Hepborne, and forthwith seated at the board and hospitably entertained,
after which he arose and addressed the knight.
“Sir Patrick Hepborne,” said he, “myself and my people, being now
refreshed, I may not waste my time here, having yet a large district to
travel over. I drink this cup of wine to thee and to thy roof-tree,
with a herald’s thanks for thy noble treatment. Say, shall the Lord of
Moray look for thy presence at the tourney? I know it would be his wish
to do thee and thine particular honour.”
“Of that I may judge by his sending thee to Hailes,” said Sir Patrick
courteously. “But in truth I cannot go. I must leave it to thee to tell
the noble Earl how sorely grieved I am to say so; but my heart ha’ been
ill at ease of late.”
“Thine absence will sorely grieve the noble Earl, Sir Knight,” replied
the herald, “but, natheless, I shall hope to see thy gallant son, and
the renowned Sir John Assueton, chiefest flowers in the gay garland of
Scottish knights, who shall that day assemble at St. John’s. Till then
adieu, Sirs Knights, and may God and St. Andrew be with ye all.”
The trumpets again sounded, and the herald, being waited on by the
knights to the court-yard, mounted his richly caparisoned steed, and
rode forth from the castle, again attended by all the pomp of heraldry.
“Assueton,” said Hepborne, with a roguish air of seriousness, as they
returned up stairs, “goest thou to this tourney?”
“Nay, of a truth,” replied Assueton, with his eyes on the ground. “I
cannot just at present yede me so far. Besides, these wounds in my
bridle-arm do still pain me grievously, rendering me all unfit for
jousting.”
“Then, as I am resolved to go,” said Hepborne, “I do beseech thee make
Hailes Castle thy home till my return, and play the part of son to my
dear father in mine absence.”