The Pursuit—Surprising the Camp.
But it is now time to state the circumstances of Assueton’s search, as
well as the cause of his abrupt departure. If Sir Patrick, on first
starting from the Castle, had been so little master of himself as to
lose time by galloping over ground where it was next to impossible his
daughter could be found, it was not at all likely that Sir John and his
people, strangers as they were to the neighbourhood, could make a
better selection. But it not unfrequently happens that chance, or
(which is a much better word for it) Providence, does more than human
prudence in such cases. After making two or three wild and rapid
circles through the woods in the immediate vicinity of the Castle, like
a stone whirled round in a sling, he flew off at a tangent southwards,
and accidentally hit upon a solitary cottage about a couple or more
miles from the Castle, where he learned that a small body of English
spearmen had halted that morning, and that the leader had made a number
of inquiries about the late and future motions of his friend the
younger Sir Patrick Hepborne, and himself. These were well enough
known, for the arrival of their young lord had excited universal joy
among the population of his father’s estate; the coming of the herald,
with Hepborne’s departure, were also matters too interesting to escape
circulation; and the churl of the cottage had told, without
reservation, all the circumstances to the strangers. He also learned
that the party had gone on to reconnoitre the Castle; and that
afterwards, as the rustic was making faggots at some distance from his
dwelling, he had seen them sweeping by towards England. Assueton could
not elicit from the peasant whether it had appeared to him that the
Lady Isabelle was with them, because the man had had but an indistinct
view of them as they rode through the woodlands; but he and his people
were agreed that these must have been the perpetrators of the outrage.
His judgment, now that it had a defined object, began to come into full
play. He saw that his own horse and the horses of his attendants were
too much spent to enable him to pursue on the spur of the moment, and,
had it not been so, that it would be vain to go on such an expedition
so slenderly accoutred and accompanied. He therefore galloped back to
the Castle as hard as the exhausted animal could carry him, followed at
a distance by his straggling men; and there he made those rapid
preparations and that hasty outset which we have already noticed.
The night became extremely dark before Assueton had gone many miles;
but, luckily for him, Robert Lindsay, the head forester, happened to be
one of his company, for without him, or some other guide equally well
acquainted with the country he had to travel over, his expedition must
have been rendered abortive. Even as it was, he found difficulty enough
in threading the mazes of the Lammermoors; and although Lindsay knew
every knoll, stone, bog, flow, and rivulet that diversified their
surface, they made divers deviations from the proper line, and were
much longer in crossing the ridge than they should have been if
favoured by the light of the moon. Towards morning they judged it
prudent to halt on the brow of the hills, ere they began to descend
into the lower and more level country, that they might make
observations by the first light, and determine both as to where they
were and as to their future movements.
As objects below them began to grow somewhat distinct, they found that
they had posted themselves immediately over the hollow mouth of a glen,
opening on the flat country, where a rivulet wound through some green
meadows; and they soon began to descry several tents, pitched together
in a cluster, with a number of horses picquetted around them.
“By’r Lady,” said Assueton, “yonder lie the ravishers. Let’s down upon
them, my brave men, ere they have time to be alarmed and fly.”
He gave his horse the spur, and galloped down the slope at a fearful
pace, followed by his party, and having gained the level, they charged
towards the little encampment with the swiftness of the wind. The
morning’s mist that hung on the side of the hill, and the imperfect
grey light, had prevented the sentinels who were on the watch from
seeing the horsemen approaching until they had descended; but they no
sooner observed them coming on at the pas de charge, than the alarm was
given and a general commotion took place among them. Out they came
pouring from the tents to the number of forty or fifty; and there was
such a hasty putting on of morrions and skull-caps, and seizing of
weapons, and loosing of halters, and mounting of the few that had time
to get on horseback, and such a clamouring and shouting, and so much
confusion, as assured Assueton an easy victory, though their numbers
were so much greater than his. He came on them at the head of his small
body like a whirlwind, and before half of them had time to turn out, he
was already within a hundred yards of their position. A few of them,
armed with spears, had formed in line before the tents, apparently with
the resolution of standing his charge, and at the head of these was an
old man, hastily armed in a cuirass. He stood boldly planted with a
lance in his hand, though his head was bare, and his white hairs hung
loosely about his determined countenance. Sir John Assueton was on the
very eve of bearing him and his little phalanx down before the
irresistible fury of his onset, when he suddenly pulled up his reins,
and halted his men.
“Sir Walter de Selby!” exclaimed he with astonishment, and raising his
visor, that he might the better behold him.
“Sir John Assueton!” cried Sir Walter, “I crave truce and parley.”
“Thou hast it, Sir Walter,” said Assueton, “but only on one condition,
that I see not any one attempt to escape hence, or stir from the
position he is now in, until all matters be explained betwixt us.
Pledge me thine honour that this shall be so, and I shall parley with
thee in friendship, till I shall see just cause for other acting. But,
by the Rood of St. Andrew, if a single knave shall seek to steal him
away, or to quit the spot of earth that now bears him, I will put every
man to death, saving thee only, whose white hairs and recent
hospitality are pledges for thy security. Advance, Sir Walter; I swear
by my knighthood that thy person shall take no hurt from my hands, or
from the hands of any of my people.”
“Thou comest, doubtless,” said Sir Walter, “to seek after the Lady
Isabelle Hepborne, the fair sister of thy friend Sir Patrick Hepborne.”
“I do,” said Sir John Assueton, eagerly; “and, by the blessed Virgin,
an she be not immediately delivered up scathless into my custody, I
will put every man but thyself to instant death. Shame, foul shame on
thee, Sir Walter, to be the leader in a foray so disgraceful as this.
Is this thy requital to Sir Patrick Hepborne for——? But, hold—I will
not in my friend’s name cast in thy teeth what he himself would scorn
to throw at thee.”
“Nay, Sir John Assueton, judge not so hastily, I entreat thee. What
didst thou see in my behaviour at Norham that should lead thee to
suspect me of the foul deed thou art now so ready to charge me withal?
Were I capable of any such, perdie, thou mightest well pour out all
this wrath and wrekery on this old head of mine. Listen to me, I
beseech thee, with temper, and thou shalt soon know that I have had no
hand in this unknightly outrage, the which nobody can more deplore than
I do. It was Sir Miers de Willoughby who carried off the lady—God pity
me for being related to one who could so disgrace me! But on him be the
sin and the shame of the act.”
“Nay, Sir Knight,” cried Assueton, hastily, “seeing that he did it in
thy company, thou canst not, methinks, shake thyself free of a share of
both. But where is the recreant, that I may forthwith chastise him? And
where is the lady? By all the saints in the kalendar, if she is not
instantly produced, I will make every man in thy troop breakfast upon
cold steel.”
“As God is my judge, Sir Knight,” said Sir Walter, “as God is my judge,
mine own afflictions weigh not more heavily on my old heart at this
moment than does the thought that I have been in some sort, though
innocently, the occasion of this outrage having been done against the
sister of the very knight for whom, of all others, gratitude would make
me think it matter of joy to sacrifice this hoary head to do him
service. There are some honourable gentlemen here present who can vouch
for me that, forgetful of mine own bereavement, and the direful
consequences that may follow it, I had resolved to abandon my own
quest, and to go forward this morning to Hailes Castle to inform Sir
Patrick Hepborne in person of all I know of this ill-starred and wicked
transaction; and if thou wilt but listen to me, I shall tell it thee in
as few words as may be.”
“But the lady, Sir Knight, the lady?” cried Assueton, in a frenzy;
“produce the lady instantly, else the parley holds not longer.”
“By mine honour as a knight,” cried the old man, “she is not here.”
“Not here!” exclaimed Sir John Assueton, “not here! What, hast thou
sent her forward to Norham? By the blessed bones of my ancestors,” said
he, digging his spurs through mere rage into his horse’s sides, and
checking him again, till he sprang into the air with the pain, “I shall
not leave a stone of it together. Its blaze shall serve to light up the
Border to-night in such fashion that every crone on Tweedside shall see
to go to bed by it.”
“She is not at Norham, Sir Knight,” said Sir Walter, calmly; “she is
not in my keeping, I most solemnly protest unto thee.”
“Where is she then, in the name of St. Giles?” cried Assueton. “Tell me
instantly, that I may fly to her rescue. Trifle no more with me, old
man; thou dost wear out the precious minutes. Depardieux, my patience
is none of the strongest e’en now; it won’t hold out much longer, I
tell thee, for I am mad, stark mad; so tell me at once where she is, or
my rage may overcome my better feelings.”
“Nay, Sir John Assueton,” said Sir Walter de Selby, with a forbearance
and temper that, old as he was, he could never have exercised had it
not been for the feeling of what he owed to Sir Patrick Hepborne and
the consciousness that present appearances warranted the suspicion of
his having been accessory to the outrage committed against the Lady
Isabelle; “I beseech thee, Sir John Assueton, command thyself so far as
to listen to me for but a very few minutes; hadst thou done so earlier,
thou hadst ere this known everything. Interrupt me not, then, I implore
thee, and thou shalt be the sooner satisfied. This is now the third
morning since—unfortunate father that I am—I discovered the sad malure
which hath befallen me, and that I was bereft of my daughter, the Lady
Eleanore, who had been mysteriously carried off during the night.
Certain circumstances———”
“Nay, but, Sir Knight,” said Assueton, interrupting him, “what is thy
daughter to me? What is she to the Lady Isabelle Hepborne? Ay, indeed,
wretch that I am, what is she in any way to the point?”
Sir Walter de Selby went on without noticing this fresh interruption.
“Certain circumstances led some of the people about me to believe that
thy friend, Sir Patrick, had had some hand in the rapt, and that he, or
some of his people, had returned at night, and, by some unexampled
tapinage, found means unaccountable to withdraw my daughter from the
Castle. In the frenzy I was thrown into by mine affliction, I was
easily induced to believe anything that was suggested to me; and,
getting together my people in a haste, I———”
“So,” cried Assueton, “I see how it is; a vile thrust of vengeance led
thee to make captive of the Lady Isabelle. Oh, base and unworthy
knight!”
“Nay, indeed, not so,” said Sir Walter, eager to exculpate himself; “I
have already vowed I had no hand in anything so base. ’Tis true, I set
out with the mad intent of besieging Hailes Castle, and demanding the
restoration of my daughter. To this I was much encouraged by Sir Miers
de Willoughby, who happened to be at Norham at the time, and who
offered to accompany me. I got no farther than this place that night;
and having had time to reflect by the way on the nature of the
enterprise I was boune on, as well as on the great improbability of so
foul suspicion being verified against a knight of thy friend Sir
Patrick’s breeding and courtesy, I resolved to proceed with the utmost
caution, lest I should even give cause of offence where no offence had
been rendered. As the most prudent measure I could adopt, and as that
least likely to excite alarm, I resolved to pitch my little camp in
this retired spot, and to send forward Sir Miers de Willoughby, who
readily volunteered the duty, towards Hailes Castle, to make such
inquiry of the peasants as might satisfy me of the truth or falsehood
of my suspicions; and this, thou must grant me, Sir John Assueton, was
as much delicacy as could be observed by me, in the anguished and
bleeding state of my heart for the loss of my only child, and the
impatience which I did naturally feel to gain tidings of her.” Here the
old man’s voice was for some moments choked by his tears; and Sir John
Assueton was so much moved by them that he spake not a word. Sir Walter
proceeded—
“De Willoughby returned here last night about sunset. He came to my
tent alone, and he did tell me that, from all he could learn, he
believed that my daughter had not been carried thither, either by Sir
Patrick or any other person. ‘But,’ added he, ‘be Sir Patrick Hepborne
guilty or innocent of this outrage against thee, I have made a capture
that will be either paying off an old score, or scoring the first item
of a new account against these Scots, for I have carried off the Lady
Isabelle Hepborne.’ Struck with horror, and burning with rage to hear
him tell this, I insisted on her being instantly brought to my tent,
that I might forthwith calm her mind, and take immediate steps to
return her in safety, with honourable escort, to her father. ‘Give
thyself no trouble about her,’ said the libertine, treating all I said
with contempt, ‘for ere this she bounes her over the Border, on a
palfrey led by my people.’ I was thunderstruck,” continued the old man;
“and ere I had time to recover myself so far as to be able to speak or
act, de Willoughby sprang to the door of the tent, and I heard the
clatter of his horse’s heels as he galloped off. I was infuriated; I
felt that he had basely made me the scape-goat to his own caitiff
plans, which I now began to suspect were not of recent hatching. I
despatched parties in every direction after him, but all of them
returned, one by one, without having gained even the least intelligence
of him. And all this is true, on the word of an old knight. God wot how
well I do know to feel for the father of the damosel, sith I do suffer
the same affliction myself.”
The old knight was overpowered by his emotions; and Assueton, who had
been at length prevailed on to hear his tale to an end, gave way at the
conclusion of it to a paroxysm of rage and grief, which might have well
warranted the bystanders in believing he was really bereft of reason.
He threw himself from his horse to the ground, in despair. Roger
Riddel, his esquire, a quiet, temperate, and, generally, a very silent
man, did all he could to soothe his master; and even old Sir Walter de
Selby, sorrowful as he himself was, seemed to forget his wretchedness
in endeavouring to assuage that which so unmanned the Scottish knight.
After giving way for some time to ineffectual ravings, the offspring of
intense feeling, and having then vented his rage in threats against Sir
Miers de Willoughby, Assueton began by degrees to become more calm, and
seeing the necessity of exerting his cool judgment, that he might
determine how to act, he was at length persuaded by Sir Walter de Selby
to go into his tent for a short time, till the horses and men could be
refreshed. Sir Walter had no disposition to screen his unworthy
relative from the wrath with which Assueton threatened him; or, if he
had, he conceived himself bound to make it give way to a sense of
justice. He therefore readily answered the Scottish knight’s hasty
questions, and told him that it was more than likely that the lady had
been carried to a certain castle belonging to de Willoughby, situated
about the Cheviot hills.
Assueton’s impatience brooked no longer delay. Accordingly, with a soul
agonized by the passions of love, grief, rage, and revenge, he summoned
his party to horse, and set off at a furious pace on his anxious and
uncertain quest.