Meeting the Wolfe of Badenoch—The Cavalcade.
Hepborne and his page proceeded slowly down the margin of the lake,
preceded by their new guide; and as they looked back, they saw the
bright plaids of Duncan and Donald MacErchar winding up among the
rocks, and appearing on the face of the precipitous mountain like two
tiny red lady-bird beetles on a wall. The way towards the lower end of
the lake was rough and tiresome; but in due time they reached the place
where the party had spent the night, and where they found Mortimer Sang
looking anxiously out for their arrival. He had almost resolved to go
himself in quest of the knight, for he had strongly suspected
treachery, as his guide had more than once manifested symptoms of an
intention to escape from them during the previous night’s march, and
had been only prevented by the unremitting watch kept upon him by the
squire, and two or three of his most active and determined people, to
whom he had given particular instructions. This circumstance, coupled
with the subsequent discovery that the villain had gone off in the
night, the moment he had found an opportunity of doing so, had made
Sang so apprehensive of some villainy, that nothing would have kept him
with the party so long, had it not been for the remembrance of his
master’s strict orders to permit no consideration whatever to detach
him from them.
Poor Maurice de Grey was considerably fatigued, and required to be
indulged with a little rest ere they could set forward. At length the
whole party mounted and got in motion, and, taking their way slowly
down the glen, under their new and intelligent guide, they soon found
themselves buried in the endless pine forests. Game, both fourfooted
and winged, of every description, crossed their path in all directions.
Red deer, and roe deer, and herds of bisons, were frequently seen by
them; now and then the echoes were awakened by the howling of a rout of
gaunt and hungry wolves, sweeping across the glen in pursuit of their
prey; and often the trampling of their horses’ feet disturbed the
capercailzie, as he sat feeding on the tops of the highest firs, while
their palfreys were alarmed in their turn at the powerful flap of his
sounding wings, as they bore him rapidly away.
Leaving the deeper forests for a time, they climbed the mountain sides,
and, crossing some high ridges and elevated valleys where the wood was
thin and scattered, they again descended, and began to penetrate new
wildernesses of thick-set and tall-grown pine timber; until, after a
very long march, they arrived on the banks of the rapid Spey, where
they rested for a time, to refresh themselves and their horses. There
Angus procured a guide of the country for them, on whose fidelity he
could depend, and, having received a handsome remuneration from Sir
Patrick, returned the way he came.
They now crossed the river by a broad ford, and began winding through
the forests that stretched from its northern banks, and continued
gradually rising over its pine-covered hills. The day was approaching
its close as they were winding along the side of a steep hill, that
rose over the head of a deep but narrow glen, surrounded by fantastic
rocks shooting here and there from amongst the oak woods that fringed
its sides. Sir Patrick’s attention was attracted by the sight of some
white tents that were pitched on a small level area of smooth turf in
the bottom, where it was divided by the meanders of a clear rill.
“She be the Wolfe of Badenoch yonder,” said his guide, pointing
downwards with a face of alarm.
“The Wolfe of Badenoch!” cried Sir Patrick eagerly; “what, are those
the tents of the Earl of Buchan?” for he knew that the King’s son,
Alexander Stewart, Earl of Buchan and Lord of Badenoch, whom he was
about to visit, had obtained that nom de guerre from his ferocity.
“Ay, ay,” said the guide, “she’s right; tat’s the Earl of Buchan—tat’s
the Wolfe of Badenoch. Troth she’s at the hunts there. Uve, uve!”
“Then, mine honest fellow,” said Hepborne, “if those be indeed the
tents of the Earl of Buchan, thy trouble with us shall be soon ended.
Do but lead me down thither, and thou shalt be forthwith dismissed,
with thy promised warison.”
The guide paused and hesitated for a time, his countenance betraying
considerable uneasiness and apprehension; but at length he began slowly
to retrace his steps along the side of the hill, and, turning off into
a path that led down through the wood over a gentle declivity, he
finally brought them out into the bottom of the glen, about a quarter
of a mile below the spot where they had seen the tents. As they issued
from the covert of the trees into the narrow glade, the winding of a
bugle-mot came up the glen, and Sir Patrick halted for a few moments,
to listen if it should be repeated. By and by the neighing of steeds,
and a loud laughing and merry talking, announced the approach of a
crowd of people, who very soon appeared, filing round the turning of a
rock.
“Mercy be about her! yon’s ta Wolfe now,” cried the guide, in the
utmost trepidation; and, without waiting for reward or anything else,
he darted into the adjoining thicket and disappeared.
At the head of the numerous party that advanced came a knight, mounted
on a large and powerful black horse. And well was it indeed for the
steed that he was large and powerful, for his rider was as near seven
as six feet in height, while his body and limbs displayed so great a
weight of bone and muscle, that any less potent palfrey must have bent
beneath it. But the noble animal came proudly on, capering as if he
felt not the weight of his rider. The knight wore a broad bonnet,
graced with the royal hern’s plume, and a hunting-dress of
gold-embroidered green cloth, over which hung a richly ornamented
bugle, while his baldrick, girdle-stead, hunting pouch, anelace, and
dirk, were all of the most gorgeous and glittering materials. His boots
were of tawny buckskin, and his heels armed with large spurs of the
most massive gold. The furniture of his horse was equally superb, the
bits in particular being heavily embossed, and the whole thickly
covered over with studs and bosses of the same precious metal. His
saddle and housings were of rich purple velvet, wrought with golden
threads, and the stirrups were of solid silver.
But, accustomed as Sir Patrick Hepborne had been to all the proud pomp
and splendid glitter of chivalry, he minded not these trifling matters
beyond the mere observance of them. It was the head and face of the
person who approached that most particularly rivetted his attention.
Both were on a great scale, and of an oval form. The forehead was high
and retreating, and wore on it an air of princely haughtiness; the nose
was long and hooked; the lips were large, but finely formed; and the
mouth, though more than usually extended, was well shaped, and
contained a set of well-arranged teeth, of uncommon size and unsullied
lustre. The complexion was florid, and the hair, beard, whiskers, and
moustaches, all ample and curling freely, were of a jet black, that was
but slightly broken in upon by the white hairs indicating the
approaching winter of life. But the most characteristic features were
the eyes, which would have been shaded by the enormous eyebrows that
threw their arches over them, had it not been for their extreme
prominence. They were fiery and restless, and although their expression
was sometimes hilarious, yet they generally wore the lofty look of
pride; but it was easy to discern that they were in the habit of being
perpetually moved by an irritable and impatient temper, that was no
sooner excited than their orbs immediately assumed a fearful
inclination inwards, that almost amounted to a squint.
This knight, whom Sir Patrick immediately recognized, by the
description he had often heard of him, to be Alexander Stewart, Earl of
Buchan, the Wolfe of Badenoch, was about the age of fifty, or perhaps a
few years younger. By his side rode a lady, clad in a scarlet mantle,
profusely embroidered with gold, and seated on a piebald palfrey,
covered with trappings even more costly than those of the horse that
carried the Wolfe of Badenoch himself. She seemed to be approaching the
age of forty, and was slightly inclining to embonpoint, fresh in face
and complexion, and very beautiful. Behind them rode five gay and
gallant young knights, the eldest of whom might have been about twenty.
They were all richly apparelled, and accoutred in a taste somewhat
similar to that of the elder knight who rode before them, and were
mounted on magnificent horses, that came neighing and prancing along,
their impatience of restraint adding to the pleasure of their youthful
riders, especially of the younger, who were boys.
A large train of attendants followed, partly on horseback and partly on
foot. These were variously armed with hunting-spears, cross-bows, and
long-bows: and many of the pedestrians, who were coarsely clad, and
some of them even barefooted as well as bareheaded, led a number of
alloundes, raches, and sleuth-hounds, whilst others carried carcases of
red deer and roebucks, suspended on poles borne between two, as also
four-footed and feathered animals of chase, which had fallen victims to
the sport of the day.
All this, which has taken so much time to describe, was seen by Sir
Patrick Hepborne at a single glance, or at least he had sufficient
leisure to make himself master of the particulars ere the cavalcade
came up to him. As the Wolfe of Badenoch drew near, Sir Patrick
dismounted, and, giving his horse to his esquire, advanced towards him,
and paid him the respectful obeisance due to the King’s son.
“Ha!” cried the Wolfe, reigning up his curvetting steed; “who, in the
fiend’s name, may this be?”
“My noble Lord of Buchan,” said Hepborne, “I wait upon your Highness by
the especial desire of His Majesty the King, your royal father. Being
on my way to Moray Land, to be present at the tournament to be held by
the Earl of Moray on the Mead of St. John’s, I passed by Scone, to pay
mine humble duty at his Grace’s Court after my return from France,
where I have been for some of these late years; and knowing mine intent
of visiting these northern parts, your royal father did kindly bid me
seek your well-known hospitality as I should pass into Moray Land.
Moreover, he did honour me so far as to charge me with a letter under
his own signet, addressed for your Highness.—My name is Sir Patrick
Hepborne.”
The Wolfe fidgetted to and fro upon his horse, and displayed very great
impatience until the knight had finished.
“Ha!” said he, the moment he had done speaking—“ha! ’tis well. By my
trusty burly-brand, thou art welcome, Sir Patrick Hepborne. Thy name
hath a sweet savour with it for stark doughtiness in stiff stour, since
thou be’st, as I ween, the son of the bold Sir Patrick Hepborne of
Hailes. By my beard, thou art welcome,” said he again, as he stretched
out his hand to him. “As for the old man’s letter, we shall see that
anon when better place and leisure serve. Know this lady, Sir Patrick,”
continued he, turning towards her who rode with him; “she is the Lady
Mariota Athyn (of whom peraunter thou mayst have heard), and mother to
those five sturdy whelps who ride at my back, and who are wont to call
me father. But get thee to horse, Sir Patrick; the feast waits for us
ere this, and we can talk anon with our wine wassail. If thou hadst
done as much to-day as we have, and been as long from thy trencher, the
red fiend catch me but thou wilt think more of eating than of talking.
Get thee to horse, then, and on with us, I say; we are now but a short
space from the tents. To horse, then, to horse!”
Mortimer Sang brought up his master’s steed, Sir Patrick vaulted into
the saddle, and, being beckoned by the Wolfe to take his place beside
him, immediately obeyed. The Lady Mariota Athyn, who had eyed the
handsome Maurice de Gray, gave him a condescending signal to come to
her right hand, and in this order they rode up the glen, towards the
place where the tents were pitched, the knight’s party mingling as they
went with that of Lord Badenoch, according to the various conditions of
the persons who composed it.