Waiting for the Spearmen—The Lady Isabelle’s Tale—The Fight.
The party led by Robert Lindsay marched off, and Roger Riddel proceeded
to seek out a retired spot where the Lady Isabelle might enjoy a little
rest. A mossy bank within the shelter of the wood was soon discovered,
and the knight and his fair companion seated themselves, whilst the
squire secured their horses at no great distance. Assueton was
extremely desirous to learn the history of the lady’s capture, and she
proceeded to satisfy him.
As she was passing through the woodlands, on her return towards Hailes
Castle, after parting from her brother, she was suddenly surrounded by
Sir Miers de Willoughby’s party, seized, put on horseback, and carried
rapidly off. She was compelled to travel all that day and next night,
halting only once or twice for a very short time, to obtain necessary
refreshment for the horses and the people; and early next morning they
arrived with her at the Castle of Burnstower, where, although every
comfort was provided for her, she was subjected to confinement as a
prisoner. Sir Miers de Willoughby had taken every opportunity that so
rapid a journey afforded, to tease her with offers of love and
adoration; and after they reached Burnstower he had spent several hours
in making his offensive addresses to her. The lady had repulsed him
with a spirit and dignity worthy the daughter of Sir Patrick Hepborne,
called upon him boldly to release her at his peril, and made a solemn
appeal to Heaven against his treachery and baseness. At length she was
relieved of his presence by his being called on some expedition, from
which, fortunately for her peace, he did not return till a very late
hour, and she saw no more of him that night. But next morning he came
again to her apartment, where he compelled her to listen for some hours
to addresses which she treated with scorn and indignation. He became
enraged, and, in his fury, talked of humbling her pride by other means
than fair speeches if he did not find her more compliant on his return
from an expedition he was about to proceed upon. She trembled to hear
him; but fortunately his immediate absence saved her from further
vexation, until she was finally rescued from the villain’s hands by Sir
John Assueton.
Having completed her narrative, the Lady Isabelle anxiously demanded a
similar satisfaction from Assueton, who gave her all the particulars of
his adventures, the recital being characterized by the modesty which
was natural to him. The lady shuddered and trembled alternately at the
perils to which he had been exposed on her account, and her eyes gave
forth a plenteous shower of gladness and of gratitude when he had
finished. He seized the happy moment for making a full declaration of
his passion, and he was repaid for all his miseries, fatigues, dangers,
and anxieties, by the soft confession he received from her.
After their mutual transports had in some degree subsided, Assueton
called Roger Riddel from the spot where, with proper attention to
decorum, he had seated himself beyond earshot of their conversation,
and interrogated him as to what had occurred to him and Lindsay. Their
story was short, and Roger, who was always chary of his words, did not
add to its length by circumlocution.
“Why, Sir Knight,” said he, “they carried us like bundles of straw to a
drearisome vault, and locked us up in the dark. Next day came one
Ralpho Proudfoot, with divers rogues—caitiff lossel had some old pique
at good Rob Lindsay—swore he would now be ywreken on him—threatened him
with hanging—and would have done it with his own hands then, but they
would not let him till he got his master’s warrant—swore that he would
get the warrant and do execution on Rob to-morrow. So we got beef and
ale to breakfast and supper, and slept till your honour wakened us to
wend with thee.”
Sir John now prevailed upon the Lady Isabelle to take a short repose,
whilst he and Riddel watched over her safety. In a little time
afterwards, Robert Lindsay returned at the head of his remounted
cavalry. Assueton was now himself again, and, with spirits light as
air, he and the lady got into their saddles, and proceeded slowly down
the glen. To prevent all chance of surprise, Robert Lindsay preceded
them with half the party as an advance guard, whilst Roger Riddel
brought up the rear with the remainder.
The night was so far spent that day dawned ere they had threaded the
pass that formed the entrance into the territory of Sir Miers de
Willoughby. The sun rose high in all its glory, and threw a flood of
golden light over the romantic scenery they were passing through. All
nature rejoiced under the benignant influence of his cheering rays; a
thousand birds raised their happy wings and melodious voices to heaven;
nay, all vegetable as well as animal life seemed to unite in one
general choir to pour out their grateful orisons. Nor did the souls of
the lovers refuse to join the universal feeling. They each experienced
inwardly a joy and a gratitude that surpassed all the power of
expression, but which was, perhaps, best uttered in that silent, but
not less fervent language used by the devout spirit, when, impressed
with a deep sense of the blessings it has received, it rises in secret
thanksgivings to its Creator. Each being thus separately occupied in
thought, they rode gently on until they had cleared the defiles, and
were entering the wider pastures, where the space in the bottom was
more extended, and the trees that clothed the sides of the hills, or
dropped down occasionally on the more level ground, grew thinner and
more scattered.
As they were entering one of those little plains through which the
stream they had followed meandered, they were surprised by the
appearance of a party of armed horsemen approaching from the other
extremity of it. Assueton immediately called forward his esquire.
“Riddel,” said he, “we know not as yet whether those who come towards
us may prove friends or foes; but be they whom they list, to thy
faithful charge do I consign the care and protection of the Lady
Isabelle; leave not her bridle-rein, whatever may betide. Take three of
the spearmen, and let her be always kept in the midst. Should that
bandon yonder, that cometh so fast, prove to be hostile, remember thou
art in no wise to act offensively unless the lady be attacked; but be
it thy duty, and that of those I leave with thee, to think only of
defending her to the last extremity. I shall myself ride forward with
the rest, to see who these may be.”
The Lady Isabelle grew pale with alarm, partly because her lover was
probably about to incur danger, but even yet more, if possible,
because, in the knight who was approaching at the head of the troop,
she already recognized the figure and arms of him from whose power she
had so lately escaped.
“Blessed Virgin protect us,” cried she, “’tis the caitiff knight de
Willoughby who advanceth!”
“Is it so?” cried Assueton, his blood boiling at the intelligence;
“then, by the Rood of St. Andrew, he shall not hence until I shall have
questioned him for his villainy.”
He stayed not to say more, but, galloping forward, he reined up his
steed in the middle of the way, and instantly addressed the opposite
leader.
“Halt!” cried he, in a voice of thunder; “halt, Sir Knight, if yet thou
mayest deserve a title so honourable; for, of a truth, thou dost not,
if thou art he whom I take thee to be. Say, art thou, or art thou not,
that malfaitour Sir Miers de Willoughby?”
“Though I see no cause why I should respond to a rude question rudely
put, yet will I never deny my name,” replied the other, “I am so hight.
And now, what hast thou to say to Sir Miers de Willoughby?”
“That he no longer deserves to be called a knight, but rather a caitiff
robber,” replied Assueton.
“Robber!” retorted the other; “dost thou call me robber, that dost wear
my baldrick and bugle hanging from thy shoulder?”
“Thine!” replied Assueton; “if they be thine, ’tis well thou hast noted
them so; I wear them as the gage of my revenge; and I have sworn to
wear them until thou payest dearly for the wrong thou hast done to the
virtuous Lady Isabelle Hepborne, for I speak not of the base treachery
thou didst use towards myself.”
“Nay, then,” replied de Willoughby, “it seems thou art determined that
we shall do instant battle. Come on, then.”
And so saying, he put his lance in the rest and ran his course at
Assueton. The Scottish Knight couched his, and, exclaiming aloud, “May
God and St. Andrew defend the right,” he put spurs to his horse and
rushed at his opponent. They met nearly midway. Sir Miers de
Willoughby’s lance glanced aside from Assueton’s cuirass, without doing
the firmly-seated knight the smallest injury; but Assueton’s point
entering on one side, between the joinings of Sir Miers’ helmet and
neck-piece, bore him headlong from his saddle, and stretched him,
grievously wounded, on the plain. Meanwhile, before Assueton had time
to recollect himself, on came the party of de Willoughby, and, with the
natural impression that he would dismount to put their leader to death,
charged him en masse. His own spearmen rushed to his rescue, but,
before they came, he had so well bestirred himself that he had
prostrated three or four of the enemy. The battle now became general;
but though the numbers were on the other side, yet the victory was very
soon achieved by the prowess of Assueton and his people, who left not a
man before them; all, save one only, being either thrown to the ground
or forced to seek safety in flight.
That one, however, was Ralpho Proudfoot, who at the first onset had
singled out Robert Lindsay, with a bloody thirst of long-cherished
hatred. Their spears having been splintered in the shock, he had
grappled Lindsay by the neck, and the latter seizing his antagonist in
his turn, they were both at once dragged from their horses. Rising
eagerly at the same moment, however, they drew their swords and
attacked each other. Some of Lindsay’s comrades having now no
antagonist of their own to oppose, were about to assist him.
“Keep off,” cried he immediately, “keep off, my friends, if ye love me;
one man is enow, in all conscience, upon one man; so let him kill me if
he can, but interfere not between us.”
They rained down their blows upon each other with tremendous force, and
the combat hung doubtful for a considerable time. Proudfoot’s
expression of countenance was savage and devilish. He tried various
manœuvres to break through Lindsay’s cool determined guards, but
without effect; and, being more desirous of wounding his adversary than
of saving himself, he received some severe thrusts. At length, as he
attempted to throw his point in on Lindsay’s body, he received a cut
from him that laid his arm open from the shoulder to the wrist, and at
once rendered it useless. The sword dropped from his hand, and,
fainting from the loss of blood that poured from his other wounds, he
staggered back a few paces, and fell senseless on the ground. The
generous Lindsay, forgetting the brutal threats Proudfoot had uttered
against him, ran up to his assistance.
“He was my companion when we were boys,” cried he; “oh, let me save him
if I can.”
And so saying, he ran to the stream, filled his morion with water, and
poured it on Proudfoot’s face. He then bathed his wounds, and bound up
his arm, and tried to staunch the bleeding from the thrusts he had
given him. Nor were his pious and merciful exertions unattended with
success. Proudfoot opened his eyes, and, his senses returning to him,
he gazed with silent wonder in the face of the man who had, a moment
before, fought so manfully against him, and who was now so humanely
employed in endeavouring to save his life, and assuage the acuteness of
his pains. His own villainous and cruel determinations against Lindsay,
which he had been contemplating, the having it in his power to carry
into execution that very night, now rushed upon his mind. His
conscience, long hardened by guilt and atrocity, was at once melted by
that single, but bright ray of goodness, which darted on it from the
anxious eye of Lindsay; and days long since past recurring to his
memory, he remembered what he had been, and burst into an agony of
tears.
Assueton had no sooner rid himself of his enemies than he went to
assist the wounded and discomfited Sir Miers de Willoughby; and on
unlacing his helmet, discovered, to his no small surprise, the features
of the very forester who guided him to Burnstower.
The evidence of Sir Miers de Willoughby’s villainy was now complete;
yet was not the gallant Assueton’s compassion for his hapless state one
atom diminished by the discovery. The wound in his neck, though not
mortal, bled most profusely, and he lay in a swoon from the quantity of
blood he had already lost. The Lady Isabelle and the esquire now coming
up, every means were used to stop the effusion, and, happily, with
success, but he still remained insensible. Assueton therefore ordered
his people to catch some of the horses of those who had fallen; and
having placed de Willoughby, Proudfoot, and one or two others of whose
recovery there seemed to be good hope, across their saddles, they
proceeded charily onwards, and after some hours’ slow travel, brought
them safely to Carham, and lodged them under the care of the Black
Canons of its Abbey.
Having rested and refreshed themselves and their horses there, they
crossed the Tweed, and being impatient to return to Hailes, that they
might relieve the anxious mind of the elder Sir Patrick Hepborne, they
arrived there by a forced march.
The joy of Sir Patrick at the unexpected return of his daughter may be
conceived. He had, as he resolved, gone in pursuit of Assueton, and had
used every means in his power to discover the direction in which the
Lady Isabelle had been carried; but all his efforts had been fruitless,
and they found him in the deepest despair. It is easy to guess what
happiness smiled upon that night’s banquet.