Sir Patrick Hepborne’s Journey North—Passes through Edinburgh—King
Robert II.—The Wilds of the Highlands—The Celtic Host.
Our history now returns to the younger Sir Patrick Hepborne, whom we
left about to commence his journey towards the North. He had no sooner
parted from his sister, the Lady Isabelle, and joined his esquire and
cortege, under the trees by the side of the Tyne, than he espied a
handsome youth, clad in the attire of a page, who came riding through
the grove towards a ford of the river. He was mounted on a sorry
hackney, carrying his valise behind him, and was guided by a clown, who
walked by his bridle. The boy showed symptoms of much amazement and
dismay on finding himself thus so unexpectedly surrounded by a body of
armed men; and he would have dropped from his horse, from sheer
apprehension, had not Sir Patrick’s kind and courteous salutation
gradually banished his alarm.
“Who art thou, and whither goest thou, young man?” demanded the knight,
in a gentle tone and manner.
“I am a truant boy, Sir Knight,” replied the youth, in a trembling
voice; “I have fled from home that I might see somewhat of the world.”
“And where may be thy home?” demanded Sir Patrick.
“On the English bank of the Tweed,” replied the boy.
“Ha!” exclaimed Sir Patrick, “and why hast thou chosen to travel into
Scotland, rather than to explore the Southern parts of thine own
country?”
“Verily, because I judged that there was less chance of my being looked
for on this side the Border,” replied the boy. “Moreover, the peace
that now prevails hath made either side safe enow, I hope, for travel.”
“Nay, that as it may happen,” said the knight. “But why didst thou run
away from thy friends, young man? Was it that thou wert evil-treated.”
“Nay, rather, Sir Knight, that I was over charily cockered and cared
for,” replied the boy; “more especially by my mother, at home, who, for
dread of hurt befalling me, would give me no license to disport myself
at liberty with other youths. I was, as it were, but a page of dames.
But, sooth to say, I have been long tired of dames and damosels, and
knitting, and broidery, and all the little silly services of women.”
“Nay, in truth, thou art of an age for something more stirring,”
replied Sir Patrick; “a youth of thine years should have to do with gay
steeds, and armour, and ’tendance upon knights.”
“Such are, indeed, the toys that my heart doth most pant for,” replied
the boy; “and such is mine excuse for quitting home. I sigh for the gay
sight of glittering tourneys, and pageants of arms, and would fain
learn the noble trade of chivalry.”
“If thou hast no scruple to serve a Scottish Knight,” replied Sir
Patrick, “that is, so long as until the outbreak of war may call on
thee to appear beneath the standard of thy native England, I shall
willingly give thee a place among my followers; and, by St. Genevieve,
thou dost come to me in a good time, too, as to feats of arms, being
that I am now on my way to the grand tournament to be held on the Mead
of St. John’s. So, wilt thou yede with me thither, my young Courfine?”
The boy made no reply, but hung his head, and looked abashed for some
moments. “Ha! what sayest thou?” continued the knight; “wilt thou wend
with me, or no? Thine answer speedily, yea or nay, young man, for I
must be gone.”
“Yea, most joyfully will I be of thy company, Sir Knight,” replied the
boy, his eyes glistening with delight; “and while peace may endure
between our countries, I will be thy true and faithful page, were it
unto the death.”
“’Tis well, youth,” replied Sir Patrick; “but thou hast, as yet,
forgotten to possess me of thy name and parentage.”
“My name, Sir Knight,” replied the boy, with some confusion and
hesitation—“my name is Maurice de Grey—my father, Sir Hargrave de Grey,
is Captain of the Border Castle of Werk—and the gallant old Sir Walter
de Selby, Captain of the other Border strength of Norham, is mine
uncle.”
“Ha! is it so?” exclaimed Hepborne, with great surprise and
considerable agitation—“Then thou art cousin to the La——? then thou art
nevoy to Sir Walter de Selby, art thou? Nay, now I do look at thee
again, thou hast, methinks, a certain cast of the features of his
family. Perdie, he is a most honourable sib to thee. Of a truth thou
art come of a good kindred, and if thou wilt be advised by me, sweet
youth, thou wilt straightway hie thee back again to thine afflicted
mother, doubtless ere this grievously bywoxen with sorrow for loss of
thee.”
“Nay, good Sir Knight, I dare not now adventure to return,” replied the
boy; “and sith thou hast told me of that tourney, verily thou hast so
much enhanced my desire to go with thee, that nothing but thy refusal
of what thou hast vouchsafed to promise me shall now hinder me.”
“Had I earlier known of whom thou art come, youth,” replied Sir Patrick
gravely, “I had been less rash in persuading thee with me, or in
’gaging my promise to take thee; but sith that my word hath already
passed, it shall assuredly be kept; nor shall thy father or mother have
cause to regret that thou hast thus chanced to fall into my hands.
Come, then, let us have no more words, but do thou dismiss thy rustic
guide, and follow me without more ado.”
The youth bowed obedience, and taking the peasant aside, gave him the
reward which his services had merited, and, after talking with him for
some little time, sent him away, and prepared to follow his new master.
Meanwhile, Sir Patrick called Mortimer Sang, and gave him strict
charges to care for the boy.
“Be it thy duty,” said he to him, “to see that the young falcon be well
bestowed by the way. Meseems him but a tender brauncher as yet; he must
not be killed in the reclaiming. Let him be gently entreated, and
kindly dealt with, until he do come readily to the hand.”
All being now in readiness, the troop moved forward; and Sir Patrick
Hepborne, who wished to know something more of his newly-acquired page,
made the boy ride beside him, that they might talk together by the way.
Maurice displayed all the bashfulness of a stripling when he first
mixes among men. He hung his head much; and although the knight’s eye
could often detect his in the act of gazing at him, when he thought he
was himself unobserved, yet he could never stand his master’s look in
return, but dropped his head on his bosom. The knight, however, found
him a lad of intelligence and good sense much beyond his years, and ere
they had reached Edinburgh, the boy had perfectly succeeded in winning
Sir Patrick’s good affections towards him.
On their arrival in the capital, Sir Patrick bestowed on the page a
beautiful milk-white palfrey, of the most perfect symmetry of form and
docility of temper, and added rich furniture of velvet and gold to
complete the gift. He accoutred him also with a baldrick, and sword and
dagger, of rare and curious workmanship—presents which seemed to have
the usual effect of such warlike toys on young minds, when the boy is
naturally proud of assuming the symbols of virility. He fervently
kissed the generous hand that gave them, and blushed as he did so; then
mounting his palfrey, he rode with the knight up the high Mercat
Street, to the admiration of all those who beheld him. The very
populace cheered them as they passed along, and all agreed that a
handsomer knight or a more beautiful page had never graced the crown of
their causeway.
Yet though the boy seemed to yield to the joy inspired by the
possession of these new and precious treasures, his general aspect was
rather melancholy than otherwise, and Hepborne that very evening caught
him in tears. He dried his eyes in haste, however, as soon as he saw
that he was observed, and lifting his long dark eye-lashes, beamed a
smile of sunshine into the anxiously inquiring face of his master.
“What ails thee, Maurice?” said Hepborne, kindly taking his hand—“what
ails thee, my boy? Thy hand trembles, and thy cheeks flush—nay, the
very alabaster of thine unsullied forehead partake of the crimson that
overrunneth thy countenance. ’Tis the fever of home-leaving that hath
seized thee, and thou weepest for thy mother, whom thou hast left
behind thee; silly youth,” said he, chuckling him gently under the
chin, “’tis the penalty thou must pay for thy naughtiness in leaving
them. Doubtless, thou hast made them weep too. But say if thou wouldst
yet return? for if thou wouldst, one of mine attendants shall wend with
thee, and see thee safe to Werk; and——”
“Nay, good Sir Knight,” cried the boy, interrupting him, “though I weep
for them, yet would I not return to Werk, but forward fare with thee.”
“Nay,” said Hepborne, “unless thou shouldst repent thee of thy folly,
sweet youth, I shall leave thy disease to run its own course, and to
find its own cure. And of a truth, I must confess, I should part with
thee with sorrow.”
“Then am I happy,” cried the boy, with a sudden expression of delight:
“Would that we might never part!”
“We shall never part whilst thou mayest fancy my company,” said
Hepborne, kissing his cheek kindly, and infinitely pleased with the
unfeigned attachment the boy already showed him. “But youth is fickle,
and I should not choose to bind thy volatile heart longer than it may
be willing; for it may change anon.”
The boy looked suddenly to heaven, crossed his hands over his breast,
and said earnestly, “I am not one given to change, Sir Knight; thou
shalt find me ever faithful and true to thee.”
After leaving Edinburgh, Hepborne travelled by St. Johnstoun, and
presented himself before King Robert the Second at Scone, where he then
happened to be holding his court. The venerable monarch received him in
the most gracious and flattering manner.
“Thy renommie hath outrun thy tardy homeward step, Sir Knight,” said
His Majesty, “for we have already heard of thy gallant deeds abroad.
Perdie, we did much envy our faithful ally and brother of France, and
did grudge him the possession of one of the most precious jewels of our
court, and one of the stoutest defences of our throne. We rejoice,
therefore, to have recovered what of so good right belongeth to us, and
we hope thou wilt readily yield to our command that thou shouldst
remain about our royal person. Since old age hath come heavily upon us,
marry, we the more lack such staunch and trusty props.”
“My Most Gracious Liege,” said Hepborne, “I shall not be wanting in my
duty of obedience to your royal and gratifying mandate. At present I go
to attend this tourney of my Lord of Moray’s, and I go the more gladly,
that I may have an opportunity of meeting with my peers of the
baronage, of Scottish chivauncie, whom my absence in France hath
hitherto prevented my knowing. Having your royal leave to follow out
mine intent, I shall straightway render myself in your grace’s
presence, to bow to your royal pleasure.”
“By doing so, Sir Patrick,” said the King, “thou wilt much affect us to
thee. We have of late had less of thy worthy father’s attendance on our
person than we could have wished. Mansuete as he is in manners, sage in
council, and lion-hearted in the field, we should wish to see him
always in our train. But we grieve for the sad cause of his retirement.
Thy virtuous mother’s sudden death hath weighed heavily on him, yet
must he forget his grief. Let a trental of masses be said for her
soul;—he must bestir himself anon, and restore to us and to his country
the use of those talents, of that virtue and bravery with which he hath
been so eminently blessed, and which were given him for our glory and
Scotland’s defence. If thou goest by the most curt and direct way into
Moray Land, thou wilt pass by our son Alexander Earl of Buchan’s Castle
of Lochyndorbe. Him must thou visit, and tell him that we ourselves did
urge thee to claim his hospitality.”
Hepborne readily promised that he would obey His Majesty’s injunctions
in that respect, and took his leave, being charged with a letter for
the Earl, from the King, under his private signet.
His route lay northwards, through the centre of Scotland. As he
journeyed onwards, through deep valleys and endless forests, and over
high, wide, and barren wastes, he compared in his own mind the face of
the country with the fertile regions of France, which he had so lately
left. But still, these were the mountains of his fatherland that rose
before his eye, and that name allied them to his heart by ties
infinitely stronger than the tame surface of cultivation could have
imposed. His soul soared aloft to the summits of the snow-topt
Grampians, where the hardy and untameable spirit of Scotland seemed to
sit enthroned among their mists, and to bid him welcome as a son.
He made each day’s journey so easy, on account of the tender page, that
a week had nearly elapsed ere he found himself in the upper part of the
valley of the Dee. It was about sunset when he reached a
miserable-looking house, which had been described to him as one
accustomed to give entertainment to travellers. It was situated under
some lofty pines on the edge of the forest. The owner of this mansion
was a Celt; a tall, stout, athletic man of middle age, clad in the garb
of the mountaineers. Having served in the wars against the English, he
had acquired enough of the Southron tongue to enable Hepborne to hold
converse with him. The knight and the page (whom, notwithstanding his
injunction to Mortimer Sang, he had yet kept always within his own eye)
were ushered together into a large sod-built apartment, where a
cheerful fire of wood burned in the middle of the floor. The squire and
the rest of the party were bestowed in a long narrow building of the
same materials, attached to one end of it. The night had been chilly on
the high grounds they had crossed, and the fire was agreeable. They sat
them down, therefore, on wooden settles close to it, and the rude
servants of their host hastened to put green boughs across the fire,
and to lay down steaks of the flesh of the red-deer to be cooked on
them.
Meanwhile the host entered with a wooden stoup in his hand, and poured
out for them to drink, into a small two-eared vessel of the same
material. The liquor was a sort of spirit, made partly from certain
roots and partly from grain; and was harsh and potent, but rather
invigorating. Hepborne partook of it, but the page would on no account
taste it.
“Fu?” said Duncan MacErchar, for that was their host’s name, “fu! fat
for will she no drink?”
“He is right,” said Hepborne; “at his age, water should be his only
beverage.”
The host then went with his stoup to offer some of its contents to the
knight’s followers, most of whom he found less scrupulous than the
page. During his conversation with the men, he soon learned who was
their master; but he had no sooner heard the name of Hepborne than he
became half frantic with joy, and hastily returned into the place where
Sir Patrick was sitting.
“Master Duncan MacErchar,” said Hepborne to him as he entered, “thou
must e’en procure me some mountaineer who may guide me into Moray Land.
I be but a stranger in these northern regions, and verily our way among
the mountains hath been longer than it ought, for we have been often
miswent. Moreover, I am altogether ignorant of thy Celtic leden, so
that when we have had the good fortune to meet with people by the way,
we have not been able to profit by the information they could give us.”
“Ugh!” cried MacErchar, with a strong expression of joy, and rubbing
his hands as he spoke; “but she’ll go with her hersel, an naebody else
can be gotten to attend her. Ugh ay, surely she’ll do that and twenty
times more for ony Hepborne, and most of all for the son of the noble,
and brave, and worthy Sir Patrick, and weel her part. Och ay, surely!”
“And how comest thou to be so very friendly to the Hepbornes, and,
above all, to our family?” demanded Sir Patrick.
“Blessings be upon her!” said MacErchar, “she did serve mony a day with
her father, the good and the brave Sir Patrick, against the English,
and mony was the time she did fight at her ain back. She would die
hersel for Sir Patrick, or for ony flesh o’ his.”
Hepborne’s heart immediately warmed to the honest Celt; he shook him
cordially by the hand, and MacErchar’s eyes glistened with pleasure.
“Depend on it, Master MacErchar,” said he, “my father shall know thine
attachment to him.”
“Ou fye,” said MacErchar, “it would be an honour and a pleasure for her
to see Sir Patrick again, to be sure!—ugh ay!” And he stopped, because
he seemed to lack language to express all he felt.
“Thou livest in a wild spot here,” said Hepborne; “but thou art a
soldier, and hast travelled.”
“Ou ay, troth she hath done that,” said Duncan, with a look of
conscious pride; “troth hath she travelled mony a bonny mile in
England, not to talk o’ Ireland, where she did help to take
Carlinyford. Troth she hath seen Newcastle, and all there-abouts, for
she was with the brave Archembald Douglas, the Grim Lord of Galloway.
Och! oich! it was fine sport!—She lived on the fat o’ the land yon
time; and, u-hugh! what spuilzie!—ay, ay, he! he! he!”
“Thou didst march into England, then, with the French auxiliaries who
came over to St. Johnstoun under Jean de Vian, Comte de Valentinois?”
demanded Sir Patrick.
“Ou ay, troth she was with the Frenchmens a long time,” said
MacErchar—“Peut Parley Frenchy, hoot ay can she. Fair befall them, they
helped to beleaguer and to sack two or three bonny castles. Ugh! what
bonny spuilzie! sure, sure!”
He laid his finger with great significancy against his nose, and,
having first shut the door, he lifted a brand from the fire, and went
to one end of the apartment. There he removed a parcel of faggots that
lay carelessly heaped up against the wall, and, lifting a rude frame of
wattle that was beneath them, uncovered an excavation in the earthen
floor, from which he brought out a massive silver flagon, one or two
small silver mazers, and several other pieces of valuable spoil; and
besides these, he produced a plain black bugle-horn, and two or three
coarse swords and daggers.
“Troth she would not show them to everybody,” said he; “but she be’s an
honourable knight, and Sir Patrick’s son;—she hath no fear to show the
bonny things to her. But she has not had them out for mony a day syne.”
Hepborne bestowed due admiration on those well-earned fruits of Master
Duncan MacErchar’s military hardships and dangers. Though of less
actual value to the owner than the wooden vessel from which he had so
liberally dealt out his hospitable cup at meeting, yet there was
something noble in the pride he took in showing them. It was evident
that the glory of the manner of their acquisition gave them their chief
value in his eyes; for it was not those of most intrinsic worth that
were estimated the highest by him.
“See this,” said he, lifting the plain black bugle-horn; “this be the
best prize of them all. She took this hersel off a loon that fought and
tuilzied with her hand to hand; but troth she tumbled him at the
hinder-end of the bicker. Fye, fye, but he was a sorrowful mockel stout
loon.—This swords, an’ this daggers, were all ta’en off the loons she
killed with her nain hand.—But uve, uve! she maunna be tellin’ on her,
though troth she needna fear Sir Patrick Hepborne’s son. But if some of
the folks in these parts heard of these things, uve, uve! they wouldna
be long here.”
Saying this, he hastily restored the articles of spoil to the grave
that had held them, and putting down the wattle over them, he threw
back the billets into a careless heap against the wall.
“Thy treasure is so great, Master MacErchar,” said Hepborne, “that thou
art doubtless satisfied, and wilt never again tempt thy fate in the
field?”
“Hoot toot!” cried MacErchar, “troth she’ll be there again or lang; she
maun see more o’ the Southrons yet or she dies. But uve, uve! what for
is there nothing for her to eat?”
He then burst out in a torrent of eloquence in his own language, which
soon brought his ragged attendants about him, and the best that he
could afford was put on a table before Sir Patrick and the page. Cakes
made of rough ground oatmeal, milk, cheese, butter, steaks of deer’s
flesh, with various other viands, with abundance of ale, appeared in
rapid succession, and both knight and page feasted admirably after
their day’s exercise. Hepborne insisted on their host sitting down and
partaking with them, which he did immediately, with a degree of
independent dignity that impressed Sir Patrick yet more strongly in his
favour.