The Wolfe of Badenoch’s Hunting Encampment—Letter from King
Robert—Arrival at the Wolfe’s Stronghold.
The spot chosen for the Wolfe of Badenoch’s hunting encampment was
beautiful. The little rill came welling forth in one great jet, like a
copious fountain, from a crevice in the rocks that, rising like a mimic
castle, terminated the glen at its upper extremity. The bright greens
of the ivy, honeysuckle, and various creeping plants and shrubs that
climbed over its surface, blended with the rich orange, brown, and
yellow tints of the lichens that covered it. On the smooth flat sward,
a little in advance of this, was pitched the pavilion of the Wolfe
himself, with his banner waving before it. It consisted of three
apartments, the largest of which, occupying the whole front, was used
as the banqueting place, whilst the two others behind were devoted to
the private convenience and repose of the Earl and the Lady Mariota.
To the right and left of this central pavilion were the tents of the
five young knights. Of these the eldest, Sir Alexander Stewart,
afterwards Earl of Mar, had all the violence of his father’s temper;
Sir Andrew, the second, was cool, crafty, and designing; and Walter,
James, and Duncan, who were too young to have anything like fixed
characters, had all the tricks and pranks of ill-brought-up and
unrestrained youths, though Duncan, the youngest, had naturally rather
a more amiable disposition than any of the others.
Besides these tents, there were several more on the two flanks,
extending towards the extremity of the horns of the semi-circle,
occupied by squires, and the principal people of the Earl’s retinue.
Within a rocky recess at one side, almost shut out from view by the
embowering trees, a number of temporary huts were erected for culinary
purposes, as well as for lodging the great mass of the lower order of
attendants; and on the opposite side were extensive pickets, to which
the horses were attached in lines.
The night dropped fast down on that low and narrow spot, and, as the
cavalcade arrived, the people were already engaged in lighting a huge
bonfire in the centre of it, quite capable of restoring an artificial
day, and this immense blaze was to be kept up all night, partly for
purposes of illumination, and partly to keep off the wolves. The Earl
no sooner appeared, than all was clamour, and running, and bustle, and
confusion. He halted in front of the tents—the bugles blew, and the
squires and attendants ran to hold his stirrup. But he waited not for
their assistance. Ere they could reach him he sprang to the ground, and
lifting the Lady Mariota from off her palfrey, carried her into the
pavilion.
“Sir Patrick,” said he to Hepborne, as an esquire ushered him in, “thou
must bear with such rustic entertainment as we have to offer thee here
to-night. To-morrow we move to Lochyndorbe, where thou shalt be better
bestowed.”
Sir Patrick bowed; but he saw no lack of provision for good cheer as he
cast his eyes over the ample board, which was covered with a profusion
of silver utensils of all kinds, among which were strangely mingled
pewter, and even wooden trenchers, and where there were not only silver
flagons and mazers, but leathern black-jacks, wooden stoups, and
numerous drinking-horns, the whole being lighted by a silver lamp that
hung over the centre.
“What, in the fiend’s name, makes the feast to tarry?” cried the Wolfe
impatiently: “do the loons opine that we have no stomachs, or that we
are blocks of wood, that we can stand all day i’ the passes, and yet do
at night without feeding? The feast, I say—the feast! Nay, send me that
rascal cook here.”
The cook, sweating from his fiery occupation, was instantly brought
before him, trembling, carrying a stew-pan in one hand, and a long iron
gravy-ladle in the other, with his sleeves tucked up, and clothed in a
white apron and night-cap.
“Villain!” said the Wolfe, in a tremendous voice, “why are not the
viands on the table? By all the fiends of the infernal realms, thou
shalt be forthwith spitted and roasted before thine own fire, an we
have not our meal ere I can turn myself.”
The cook bowed in abject terror, and, as soon as he was beyond the tent
door, ran off, bawling to his assistants; and in a few minutes, a crowd
of lacqueys bearing the smoking-hot dishes came pouring into the
pavilion, heaping the board with them till it groaned again.
“Blow the bugle for the banquet,” cried the impatient Earl, seating
himself at the head of the table. “Sit thee down, Mariota, on my right
hand here; and do thou, Sir Patrick Hepborne, sit here on my left. The
boys and the rest may find places for themselves.”
“But where is thy gentle page, Sir Knight?” said the Lady Mariota to
Hepborne. “I pray thee let him sit down with us. Certes, he doth appear
to be come of no mean blood. Make me to know how the doced youth is
hight, I do beseech thee?”
“Lady,” said Sir Patrick, smiling, “he is called Maurice de Grey, a
truant boy of a good English house. His father is a gallant knight, who
governs the border strength of Werk. Tired of soft service as a page of
dames, he left his indulgent mother to roam into the world, and
chancing to encounter me, I adopted him as my page. In truth, though
young, he is prudent, and perdie, he hath more than once showed a good
mettle, and some spirit, too, though his thewes and muscles have hardly
strength enow, as yet, to bear it out.”
“Oh, fye on thee, Maurice de Grey,” said the lady, smiling graciously
on the page, as he entered among the crowd—“fye on thee, Maurice, I
say. Art thou so naughty as to wish to shun the converse of women at
thine age? Oh, shame to thy youth-hed. Parfay, I shall myself undertake
thy punishment, so sit thee down by me here, that I may school thee for
thy folly and want of gallantry.”
Maurice bowed respectfully, and immediately occupied the proffered
seat, where the lady did all in her power to gratify him by putting the
nicest dainties on his plate, and prattling many a kind and flattering
speech in his ear. Sir Alexander Stewart placed himself next to Sir
Patrick, and, though naturally fierce and haughty in his air, showed
every disposition to exert hospitable and knightly courtesy towards his
father’s guest. Below them, on both sides of the table, sat his
brothers; and the rest of the long board was filled up by the esquires
and other retainers, who each individually occupied the first room he
could find. For some time there was but little conversation, and
nothing interrupted the clinking of knives upon the trenchers but an
occasional pledge called for by the Wolfe, who, as he ate largely and
voraciously, drank long draughts too, to promote the easy descent of
the food into his capacious stomach. He continued to eat long after
every one else at table had ceased.
“Ha!” said he at length, as he laid down his implements of carving;
“quick! clear away those offensive fragments. Hey! what stand ye all
staring at? Remove the assiettes and trenchers, I say—Are ye deaf,
knaves?”
Every servile hand was upon the board in an instant, and the dishes and
plates disappeared as if by magic.
“Wine—Rhenish!—Malvoisie! Wine, I say!” vociferated the Wolfe. “What,
ye rogues, are we to perish for thirst?”
The silver flagons, stoups, and black-jacks were replenished with equal
celerity, and deep draughts went round, and the carouse became every
moment more fierce and frequent. The Lady Mariota Athyn rose to retire
to her own private quarter of the pavilion.
“Young Sir Page,” said she to Maurice de Grey, “wine wassail is not for
thee, I ween; thou shalt along with my boys and me, thou naughty youth;
thou shalt with me, I say. Verily, I condemn thee to do penance with me
and my damsels until the hour of couchee. Come along, Sir
Good-for-Nothing.”
The page arose, and went with the lady and her three younger sons, but
he seemed to go very unwillingly. In truth, he had received her little
attentions rather coldly; so much so, indeed, that Hepborne had felt
somewhat hurt at his seeming indifference.
After much wine had been swallowed, and a great deal of conversation
had passed about hunting and deeds of chivalry—
“And so thou goest to this tourney of my brother-in-law, the Earl of
Moray’s, Sir Patrick?” said the Wolfe.
“Such is the object of my journey, my Lord,” replied Hepborne.
“By St. Hubert! I have a mind to go with thee, were it only to show my
boys the sport,” replied the Wolfe. “But, by the thunder of Heaven! I
am not over well pleased with this same brother-in-law. The old man, my
doting liege-father, hath refused to add Moray Land to my
lieutenantship, which now lacketh but it to give me broad control from
the Spey to the Orcades; and, by my beard, I cannot choose but guess
that Earl John hath had some secret hand in preventing him. My sister
Margery denies this stoutly; but she would deny anything to keep fire
and sword from her lord’s lands. Yet may the hot fiend swallow me if I
ween not that I have hit the true mark in so suspecting.”
“By the red Rood, then, I would straightway tax him with it,” said Sir
Alexander Stewart.
“Nay, nay, meddle thou not, Sandy,” said the Wolfe. “I lack not thine
advice. This matter concerns not thee.”
“Concerns not me!” exclaimed Sir Alexander, hotly—“by the martyrdom of
St. Andrew, but it does though—it concerneth me mightily; yea, it
enchafeth me to see thee, my father, pusillanimously suffer thyself to
be agrutched and hameled in the extent of thy flight, an if thou wert a
coistril hawk, to be mewed by any he of the mark of Adam.”
“I tell thee, boy, thou art a silly fool,” roared out the Wolfe,
gnashing his teeth in a fury.
“If I am a fool, then,” said Sir Alexander, in no less a rage, “I am at
least wise enough to know from whom I have had my folly.”
The ferocious Wolfe could stand this no longer. His eyes flashed fire,
and, catching up a large silver flagon of wine, from which he had been
going to drink, he hurled it at his son’s head with so much celerity
and truth of aim that had not Hepborne raised his left arm and
intercepted it in its flight, though at the expense of a severe
contusion, the hot Sir Alexander would never have uttered a word more.
Heedless of the escape he had made, he rose to return the compliment
against his father; but Hepborne, and some of those nearest to him,
interfered, and with some difficulty the anger of both father and son
was appeased. It was a feature in the Wolfe’s character, and one also
in which his son Alexander probably participated, that, although his
passion was easily and tremendously excited on every trifling occasion,
so as to convert him at once into an ungovernable wild beast, capable
of the most savage and cruel deeds, yet there were times when he was
not unapt to repent him of any atrocious act he might have been guilty
of, particularly where his own family was concerned. He loved his son
Alexander—with the exception of the child Duncan, indeed, he loved him
more than any of the others, perhaps because he more nearly resembled
himself in temper. After the fray had been put an end to he sat for
some moments trembling with agitation; but, as his wrath subsided, and
he became calmer, he began to picture to himself his son stretched dead
at his feet by a blow from his own hand. His countenance became gloomy
and oppressed; he fidgetted upon his seat, and at length starting
hurriedly up—
“Depardieux, I thank thee, Sir Patrick,” said he, taking Hepborne’s
right hand, and squeezing it heartily—“depardieux, I thank thee for
having arrested a blow I should have so much repented—Alexander,”
continued he, going up and embracing his son, “forgive me, my boy; but
provoke not mine ire in the same way again, I beseech thee.”
“Nay, father,” said Sir Alexander, “perhaps I went too far; but, by the
mass, I was irritated by the thought that John Dunbar, Earl of Moray,
should have got between thee and the King with his silky curreidew
tongue.”
“Right, boy,” cried the Wolfe, relieved by finding a new outlet for his
rage, and striking the table furiously with his fist as he resumed his
seat—“right, boy: there it is. If I but find that my suspicions are
true, by the beard of my grandfather his being my sister Margery’s
husband shall not save him from my wrekery. But, Sir Patrick,”
continued he, after a short pause, “so please thee, let me see the old
man’s letter thou wert charged with, Knowest thou aught of its
contents?”
“No, my good lord,” said Hepborne, taking the embroidered silken case
that contained the King’s epistle from his bosom. “His Majesty put it
himself into my hands as I kissed his, to take my duteous leave, and
here it is as he gave it to me.”
The Wolfe glanced at the royal signet, and then, with his wonted
impatience, tore up the silk, and began to read it to himself. His brow
darkened as he went on, his teeth ground against each other, and his
lip curled with a growing tempest. At length he dashed down the King’s
letter on the table, and struck the board with his clenched fist two or
three times successively—
“Ha! see, Sir Knight, what it is thou hast brought me,” cried he, in a
fury so great that he could hardly give utterance to his words. “Read
that, read that, I say. By all the fiends, ’tis well I read it not at
first, ere I knew thee better, Sir Knight, or thou mightest have had
but a strange reception. Read it—read it, I say!”
Hepborne took up the letter, and read as follows:—
“To the High and Noble, our trusty and well-beloved son, Alexander
Stewart. Earl of Buchan, Earl of Ross, Lord of Badenoch, and our
faithful Lieutenant over the northern part of our kingdom, from the
bounds of the county of Moray to the Pentland Frith, these greeting—
“Son Alexander,—We do hope these may find thee well. It hath reached
our ears that thou dost still continue to keep abiding with thee thy
leman, Mariota Athyn. Though she, the said Mariota, be the mother of
thy five boys, yet is the noble Lady Euphame, Countess of Ross, thy
true and lawful wife; with her, therefore, it behoveth thee to consort,
yea, and her it behoveth thee to cherish: yet are we informed, and it
doleth us much that it should be so, that thou dost still leave her to
grieve in loneliness and solitude. Bethink thee that thou yet liest
under the threatened ban of holy Mother Church, and under the penalty
laid on thee by the godly Bishops of Moray and Ross for having cruelly
used her, and that thou dost yet underly, and art bound by their
sentence to live with her in a virtuous and seemly manner. Let not
gratitude permit thee to forget, also, that she did bestow upon thee
rich heritages in land, and that it is through her thou dost hold thy
title of Earl of Ross, which we did graciously confirm to thee. Return,
then, from thy wicked ways, and cleave unto thy lawful wife, to her
cherisaunce, as thou wouldst value our good favour, and as thou wouldst
give jovisaunce to these our few remaining years of eld. And so, as
thou dost obey these our injunctions, may God keep thee and thine in
health, and soften thine heart to mercy and godliness. So prayeth thy
loving father and King,
“Robert Rex.”
Hepborne laid down the King’s letter without venturing a single comment
on it, and it was instantly snatched up by Sir Alexander Stewart.
“What!” cried he with indignation, after glancing it over, “is our
mother, or are we, to be turned adrift from our father’s house like
ragamuffin quistrons, to beg our way through the world, to please a
doting old man?”
“Nay, sooner shall I pluck out every hair of this beard from my face,”
shouted the Wolfe in a fury, and tugging out a handful of it
unconsciously as he said so. “What! am I to be schooled by an old
bigoted prater at my time of life, and to be condemned to live with a
restless intriguing hag, who hath been the cause of so much vexation to
me! The red fiend shall catch me then! Not for all the bishops in
Mother Church, with the Orders four to boot, shall I submit me to such
penance. But, by all the powers of darkness, the split-capped Bishop of
Moray, Alexander Barr, shall suffer for this. He it is who hath been at
the bottom of it all; he it is who hath stirred up the King; and by the
infernal fires, he shall ere long undergo my wrekery. He hath been an
eternal torture to me; but, by my trusty burly-brand, I shall make the
craven, horrow lossel rue that ever he roused the Wolfe of Badenoch.”
He struck the table tremendously with his fist as he concluded. His
calling himself by his nom de guerre was with him like Jupiter swearing
by the river Styx. His people moved on their seats, put on stern brows,
and looked at one another, as if each would have said, “Brother, we
shall have something to do here.” The Earl himself snatched up a flagon
of Rhenish, and took a deep draught to cool his ire; then turning to
Hepborne—
“I bid thee good night, Sir Patrick,” said he; “thou hast no fault in
this matter; good night, I say.” Then turning to the rest—“See that Sir
Patrick Hepborne have the best quarters that may be given him. Good
night. By all the fiends, the white-faced hypocrite shall pay for it.”
And so saying, he disappeared into the inner apartment of the pavilion.
Immediately afterwards, the page and the three younger Stewarts came
forth. Sir Alexander still continued to fret and broil with the fury
which the King’s letter had excited in him; yet he neglected not the
civilities due to their guest. He gave orders that the youngest boy’s
tent should be prepared for Sir Patrick Hepborne, and that his
brothers, Duncan and James, should occupy one tent for the night; and,
leaving Sir Andrew Stewart to see that the stranger Knight was properly
accommodated, he made an exit similar to his father’s.
“’Tis an unfortunate weakness,” said Sir Andrew Stewart, as he
accompanied Hepborne to his tent, “’tis an unhappy weakness that so
cruelly besets my father and my brother Alexander; half the hours of
their lives are spent in temporary frenzy. It would be well for them if
they could bridle their passions.”
Hepborne found it difficult to reply; so changing the subject adroitly,
and thanking Sir Andrew for his courteous attention, he bade him good
night, and was glad to take refuge in the quiet of the tent that had
been prepared for him. Being indisposed for sleep, he called his page,
whose couch was in the outer apartment, and, ere they retired to rest,
their conversation ran as follows:—
“Maurice,” said the knight, “why didst thou show thyself so backward in
receiving the Lady Mariota’s favours? She seemed anxious to show thee
all manner of kind attention, yet thou didst repel her by thy very
looks.”
“Sir Knight,” said the page, “I like not that woman; she is not the
wife of the Earl of Buchan, and meseems it a foul thing to see her sit
in the seat of so honourable and virtuous a lady as the Countess of
Ross, queening it where she hath no claim but the base one that may
spring from her own infamy.”
“Thou art right, boy,” said Hepborne, “thou art right, in good truth;
but ’tis not for us to read moral lessons to our seniors. Where we see
positive harm, or glaring injury, done to any one by another, then it
behoveth a true knight to stay not his hand, but forthwith to redress
the grievance at peril of his life. But though he is not to court the
society of those who sin grossly, yet cannot he always eschew it, and
it falleth not within the province of a knight to read moral lectures
and homilies to every one he meeteth that may offend against God’s
laws; else might he exchange the helmet for the cowl. And, verily, he
should have little to do but to preach, since the wickedness of man is
so great, and so universal, that there is no one who might not call for
his sermons; yea, and while zealously preaching to others, he would
certainly fall into guilt himself. No, Maurice; let us take care to
live irreproachably; then let us suffer no one to do tyranny or
injustice to another; and having secured these important things, let us
leave all else to a righteous God, who will Himself avenge the sins
committed against His moral law. Yet do I much commend that virtuous
indignation in thee; and if thy love should ever haply run smooth, as I
sincerely pray that it may, I trust that thou wilt be a mirror of
virtuous constancy.”
The page clasped his hands on his breast, and, throwing up his eyes to
Heaven, “Grant but that my love may yet prosper,” said he, fervently;
“grant but that, ye blessed Virgin, and the sun shall not be more
constant to the firmament, than I shall be in the attachment to the
object of my affection! But couldst thou be constant, Sir Knight?”
added he, with a sigh.
“’Tis an odd question, boy,” said Hepborne, laughing. “I think I know
so much of myself as to say boldly that I could; and, verily, I would
never mate me where I weened there might be risk of temptation to aught
else. But, of a truth, I have not yet seen the woman of whom I might
think so highly as to risk chaining my virtue to her side.”
The page sat silent for some moments, and at length, turning to
Hepborne, “I have seen knights,” said he, “who did roune sweet speeches
in the ears of foolish maidens, who did swear potent oaths that they
did love them, and yet, when the silly pusels believed them, they would
laugh at their facile credence, and then, leaping into their saddles,
ride away, making mirth of the sad wounds they had caused. Say, Sir
Knight, couldst thou do this?”
“Depardieux, mon bel ami Maurice de Grey,” said the knight, laughing,
“methinks thou hast made thyself my father confessor to-night. What
meanest thou by these questions?”
“In truth, my dear master,” said the boy, “I do but ask, that I may
better myself by the wisdom of thine answers. How should I, an untaught
youth, ever become an honour to knighthood, as I hope one day to be,
save by thy sage precept and bright example?”
“Nay, then, sweet page,” said the knight, kindly, “I shall not deny to
answer thee. In good sooth, I have never yet been so base, nor could I
ever be guilty of so much wickedness.”
The page’s eyes brightened for a moment at the knight’s virtuous
assertion.
“There be women indeed,” continued Sir Patrick, “to whom it is even
dangerous for a courteous knight to address the common parlance of
courtly compliment, without instilling into them the vain belief that
their charms have wrought a conquest. Of such an innocent fault the
folly of many maidens may have made me guilty. Never, save once, did I
seriously love, and then, alas, I discovered that my heart had been
affected by an unworthy object, so that I did forthwith tear myself
from her.”
“Unworthy, didst thou say, Sir Knight?” cried the boy, earnestly; “and
who, I pray thee, could be so unworthy to thee?”
“Nay, my good Maurice,” said Hepborne, “that were truly to ask too
much. Were she as worthy as I did once esteem her, I would proudly
publish her name to the world; but after having said so much to her
dishonour, and now that she cannot be mine, her name shall never more
escape these lips whilst I think of her as I at present do, save when
’tis brought in accidentally by others, or when ’tis murmured in my
secret despair. But what ails thee, boy? Thou weepest. Tell me, I pray
thee, why thou shouldst now be thus drent in dreriment? What hast thou
to do with my love-griefs?”
“I but cry for pity, Sir Knight,” said the boy. “Thy tale, too, doth
somewhat touch mine own, and so doth it, peraunter, affect me the more.
May Heaven in its mercy clear away those cruel clouds that do at
present so darken our souls!”
“Amen!” said the knight fervently. “Then get thee to thy couch,
Maurice, for I will to mine.”
Sir Patrick Hepborne had already slept for a considerable time, when he
was awakened by the clamour of voices. This, perhaps, would have
excited little astonishment, had he not previously remarked the
uncommon degree of quietness that had been preserved in the little
encampment, the probable effect of the stern character and alert
discipline of him who was at the head of it. He sat up, and leaning for
some moments on his elbow to listen, he by and by heard the trampling
of steeds, and the bustle of preparation, as if for a departure. He
then called to the page, who answered him so immediately, that Hepborne
suspected, what was really the case, that he had not as yet slept.
“What noise is that we hear, Maurice?” said he.
“Methinks,” said the page, “it is some party that sets forth. Perhaps
it may be one moiety of the retinue who go before, to prepare those of
the Castle for the Earl’s coming.”
This very natural explanation satisfied Hepborne. He soon heard the
noise increase, and the neighing and prancing of the horses, with the
voices of many men, though their words were not intelligible; then he
heard a loud command to march, and the gallop of the troop died away
upon his ear, and then again all was quiet, and his repose was
uninterrupted until morning.
He was hardly dressed when Sir Andrew Stewart came courteously to offer
the usual morning compliments, and to conduct him to the great
pavilion.
“My father,” said he, “hath been called on urgent business into
Badenoch; he left this yesternight, to ride thither sans delay: my
brothers, Alexander, Walter, and James, also went with him; but he left
me here to do thee what poor hospitality I may until his return.
To-day, with thy good leave, we shall hie us to Lochyndorbe, and
to-morrow I hope he will be there to do the honours of the Castle in
his own person.”
This sudden departure of the Wolfe of Badenoch accounted to Hepborne
for the disturbance he had met with in the night. The Lady Mariota
received him graciously.
“But where is my handsome good-for-nothing page?” eagerly inquired she.
“Ah, there comes the naughty boy, I see. Come hither, Sir Scapegrace; I
trow I did school thee to some purpose yestreen; but parfay, thou shalt
have more on’t anon. Come hither, I say. Verily, the young varlet
hangeth his ears like a whelp that feareth the rod; but i’faith I am
not come to that yet,—though, never trust me,” added she, laughing,
“but thou shalt have it ere long, an’ thou be’st not more docile. Sit
thee down here, I say. And see now how, in hopes of thine amendment, I
have carved for thee the tenderest and whitest part of this black
grouse’s breast; yea, Sir Good-for-Nothing—with mine own fair fingers
have I done it.”
Maurice de Grey appeared more than half inclined to keep aloof from the
lady, notwithstanding all her kind raillery; but he caught his master’s
eye, and seeing that Sir Patrick seemed to wish that he should receive
her notice with a good grace, he put on the semblance of cheerfulness,
and took his seat by her accordingly.
The morning’s meal passed over without anything remarkable, the lady
devoting all her attention and all her trifling to Maurice de Grey, and
Hepborne being engaged in conversation with Sir Andrew Stewart; there
being no one else present but the boy Duncan. Soon afterwards, orders
were issued for the encampment to break up, and the attendants to
prepare themselves and their steeds for their departure. Much time was
lost until all the necessary arrangements were made. The sturdy sullen
loons were aware of the absence of the Wolfe, and revelled in the
enjoyment of the power, so seldom theirs, of doing things leisurely.
Besides, all the most active and intelligent persons of the suite were
gone. At length a string of little batt horses, pressed from the
neighbouring churls, were despatched with the most valuable and more
immediately necessary part of the moveables, and a few more were left
to bring up the tents and heavier articles, when additional aid should
arrive.
Meanwhile, the palfrey of the Lady Mariota was brought out, together
with two others for her maids; and the horses of the rest of the party
also appeared. Hepborne assisted the lady to mount, but though she
thanked him graciously for his courtesy, she was by no means satisfied.
“That white palfrey of thine, Sir Page Maurice,” said she, “seemeth to
have an affection for my pyeball; let them not be separated, I
pr’ythee. Mount thee, and be thou the squire of my body for this day.
Allons.”
Maurice was obliged to comply, and rode off with the lady at the head
of the cavalcade, followed by her son Duncan, and attended by the two
damsels, who seemed, by their nods and winks to each other, to imply
something extremely significant, yet understood by themselves alone.
Sir Patrick Hepborne rode next, with Sir Andrew Stewart. Their train
was meagre compared to that which Hepborne had seen the previous
evening; indeed, his own attendants formed by far the greater part of
the cortege that now accompanied them. Their route was by the same path
that Hepborne had approached the glen, until they reached the steep
side of the hill overhanging the head of it, whence he had first peeped
into it. They then continued onwards through the forest in the same
northern direction in which the guide was conducting the knight, at the
time he was diverted from his way by discovering the Wolfe’s hunting
camp.
They travelled through a great and elevated plain, covered by pine
trees so thickly as almost to exclude the sun, and even the hills that
bounded it were wooded to their very tops. At length they turned
towards an opening that appeared in the hills to their left, and,
winding over some knolls, began to catch occasional glimpses of an
extensive sheet of water, when the dark green fir tufts, now and then
receding from one another, permitted the party to look beyond them. In
a short time they reached the shore of the eastern end of Lochyndorbe,
about four miles in length, and of an oblong form. The hills bounding
it on the north and south arose with gentle slope. A considerable
island appeared near the upper or western extremity of the lake, a
short way from its southern shore, and entirely covered with the
impregnable Castle, of the same name with the sheet of water
surrounding it. In the vista beyond, a sloping plain appeared, with
high hills rising over it. The whole scene was one continued pine
forest, and as solitary and wild as the most gloomy mind could desire.
A group of firs, more ancient and enormous than the rest, occupied a
point of land, and were tenanted by a colony of herons; and the lonely
scream of these birds, and their lagging heavy flight, added to, rather
than enlivened the sombre character of the loch.
As they made their way up the southern shore, the enormous strength of
the Castle became more apparent at every step. It was, in fact, a royal
fortress, constructed for the purpose of sustaining regular and
determined siege. It occupied the whole island to the very margin of
the water, and its outer walls running, in long unbroken lines, from
one point to another, in successive stretches, embraced a space of
something more than two acres within them. On a low, round projection
of land, immediately opposite on the southern shore, and within about
two hundred yards of it, was situated an outwork, or sconce, erected
for the purpose of preserving the communication with the terra firma,
but yet of too little importance to be of any great benefit to an enemy
that might chance to possess himself of it, or to enable him to do much
injury to the Castle, even with the most powerful engines then in
use—particularly as the massive walls opposed to it presented a
straight, continuous, unbroken, and unassailable front. Here they found
several large and small boats in waiting for them; but there appeared
to be a great want of people to serve them.
“Methinks thou hast but a paltry crew for thy navy to-day, Master
Bruce?” said the Lady Mariota to an old grey-headed squire-seneschal,
who came to receive her.
“Madame,” said he, “my lord the Earl sent orders here last night for
the spears, axemen, and bowmen, to meet him early this morning on
Dulnan side. About an hundred good men of horse and foot marched
thither long ere the sun saw the welkin, so that we be but meagrely
garrisoned, else thou shouldst have been received with more honour.”
“Nay, then, since it is so,” said the lady, “let us cross as we best
may. That small boat will do for us, so lend me thine arm, Sir Page
Maurice.” And immediately entering the boat, she made the youth sit
beside her. Hepborne and Sir Andrew Stewart also embarked, and, leaving
the horses and attendants to follow at leisure, were pulled rapidly
towards the Castle by a couple of old boatmen. They landed on the
narrow strip of beach, extending hardly a yard from the walls, and that
only when the water was low, and were admitted through all the numerous
and potent defences of the deep gateway, by the warder, and one or two
men who kept watch. They then traversed the courts intervening between
the outer and inner walls, which were defended at all the salient
angles by immensely strong round towers, one of them completely
commanding the entrance. Then passing onwards, they came to the inner
gateway, through which they ascended into the central area of the
Castle, forming a large elevated quadrangle, surrounded by the
buildings necessary in such a garrison.
The Lady Mariota, still leaning on the arm of Maurice de Grey, led them
into that part of the square occupied by the Earl’s mansion, and soon
introduced them into a banqueting-hall of magnificent proportions, hung
round with arms, and richly furnished for the times we speak of, and
where, notwithstanding the draft made that morning on the forces of the
place, there was still a considerable show of domestics in waiting.
“Let us have the banquet immediately,” said the Lady Mariota to the
seneschal. “Sir Knight,” said she, turning to Hepborne, “if our
hospitality should lack its wonted comfort to-day, thou must lay it to
the account of our late absence from the Castle; and if it should want
its usual spirit, it must be set down to the score of the Earl’s
absence. But to-morrow both these wants shall be supplied. Andrew, thou
wilt see Sir Patrick Hepborne rightly accommodated. As for this naughty
page, Maurice de Grey, I shall myself see him fittingly bestowed in a
chamber near mine own, that I may have all proper and convenient
opportunity of repeating those lessons I have already endeavoured to
impress upon him. Come along then, good-for-nothing boy; come along, I
say.”
The page cast an imploring look at his master, who regarded it not;
then hanging his head, he followed the Lady Mariota with an unwilling
step, like a laggard schoolboy who dreads the ferula of his pedagogue;
whilst Hepborne was ushered to his apartment, where, having procured
the attendance of the faithful Mortimer Sang, he proceeded to array
himself in attire suitable to the evening.