The Castle of Lochyndorbe—An Evening Episode on the Ramparts—The
Wolfe’s Raid on the Bishop’s Lands.
The evening’s banquet in the Castle of Lochyndorbe passed away pretty
much as the morning’s meal had done in the hunting pavilion, that is to
say, without anything very remarkable. The Lady Mariota, still devoting
all her attention to the page, left her son, Sir Andrew Stewart, to
entertain Sir Patrick Hepborne. Neither of the knights were disposed to
quaff those draughts of wine which the Wolfe of Badenoch himself seemed
to consider as essential to the comfort of life, and they soon
separated. Hepborne sat in his apartment for some time after Mortimer
Sang had left him, and then, falling into a train of reflection on the
events which had occurred to him since his return from France, and
perceiving that his clue of association must be fully unwound ere he
could hope to sleep, he walked forth to enjoy the balmy freshness of
the evening air, that he might give freer vent to his thoughts.
He got upon the rampart that looked out over the broader part of the
lake, and as he entered on one end of it, he was confounded—he could
not believe his eyes—but it certainly was the figure of the Lady
Eleanore de Selby that he beheld, leaning against one of the balistæ
near the farther angle of the wall. The waning moon shed a dim and
uncertain light; yet it was sufficient to convince him that the figure
he saw before him was the same that had made so powerful an impression
on his mind at Norham. She was wrapped in a mantle, with her head bare,
and her beautiful tresses flowing down in the same manner he had seen
them when blown by the breezes from the Tweed; and she seemed to look
listlessly out upon the wavelets that flickered under the thin and
scanty moonbeam, as they lifted themselves gently against the bulwark
stones under the wall. Apparently buried in thought, she was so
perfectly without motion that he began to doubt whether it was not a
phantom he beheld; nay, it was impossible she could be there in
substance—she whom he had left at Norham affianced as a bride. In those
days of superstition it is no wonder, therefore, that he should have
believed it was the Lady Eleanore de Selby’s spirit he saw, or, in the
peculiar language of his own country, her wraith. His manly blood ran
cold, and he hesitated for a moment whether he ought to advance. The
figure still remained fixed. Again the thought crossed him, that it
might possibly be the Lady Eleanore, and love urged him to approach and
address her; but then prudence came to caution him not to seem to see
her, lest he might be again subdued, and forget what he had discovered
at Norham. Thus tossed by doubt, until he could bear suspense no
longer, both superstitious awe and prudence yielded to the influence of
love, and, unable to restrain himself, he walked along the rampart
towards the figure. It seemed not to hear his step—it moved not till he
was within three or four paces, when it started at the sound of his
steps, and, turning suddenly towards him, displayed the countenance
of—the page, Maurice de Grey.
“Ah, Sir Patrick!” said the boy, and instantly applying his taper
fingers to his hair, he began twisting it up into a knot over his head,
accidentally assuming, as he did so, the very attitude in which
Hepborne had seen the lady when similarly employed on the rampart at
Norham.
“Maurice de Grey!” exclaimed Hepborne with extreme astonishment, “is it
you I see? Verily, thine attitude, boy, did so remind me of that in
which I once beheld thy cousin, the Lady Eleanore de Selby, that for a
moment I did almost believe it was really she who stood before me. I
did never remark before that thou dost wear thy hair so womanishly
long.”
Sir Patrick’s astonishment had been too great to permit him to remark
the page’s trepidation when first surprised by him, and before his
amazement had subsided, Maurice de Grey had time to recover himself.
“’Tis true,” said he, “Sir Knight, that I have always worn my hair
long, and put up in a silken net, being loth to cut it away, seeing it
was the pride of my mother’s heart; but, nathless, if thou dost think
it unmanly in me to wear it so, verily it shall be cut off before
to-morrow morning, that it may no longer offend thee. Yet I marvel much
what could possibly make thee to think that my cousin, the Lady
Eleanore, could be here in the Castle of Lochyndorbe; or how hast thou
perchance set thine eyes on her, so as to have so perfect a remembrance
of her figure as thou dost seem to preserve? I know that her father,
Sir Walter, doth take especial care that she shall never be seen by any
Scottish knight. Then by what accident, I pray thee, didst thou behold
her?”
Hepborne was considerably puzzled and perplexed by these naif questions
from the page. To have refused to reply to them at all would have been
the very way to have excited a thousand suspicions in the boy’s mind;
he, therefore, thought it better to answer him, and he wished to do so
in a calm and indifferent manner. But it was a subject on which he
could not think, far less talk, with composure, and, ere he wist, he
burst into an ecstacy of feeling that quite confounded the page.
“See her!” said he; “alas, too often have I seen the Lady Eleanore de
Selby for my peace. Never, never, shall peace revisit this bosom. She
is another’s; yet, nathless, must this torn heart be hers whilst it
shall throb with life.” And saying so, he covered his face with his
hands, and retreated some steps to hide the violence of his emotions;
but becoming ashamed of having thus exposed his secret to the page, and
made him privy to the extent of his weakness, he returned to the boy,
and found him weeping bitterly, apparently from sympathy.
“Maurice,” said Hepborne, calmly addressing him, “accident hath made
thee wring from me the secret of my love, as chance did also make me
tell thee yesternight, that I had cause to fear that the demoiselle who
hath so deeply affected me was not in truth altogether what she at
first appeared to me. As she is thy cousin, and so dear to thee as thou
dost now say she is, I would not willingly allow thee to suppose that I
have been estranged from her by mere caprice. I shall therefore tell
thee that the Lady Eleanore de Selby did give me good cause to believe
that my ardent protestations of love were not unpleasing to her; nay,
she even held out encouragement to the prosecution of my suit; and yet,
after all this ground of hope I did discover that she was affianced to
another knight, in whose arms I did actually behold her, as they parted
from each other, with many tears at the keep-bridge of Norham, on the
very morning when I and my friend left the place. Her emotions were too
tender to be mistaken. She it was who sported lightly with my heart,
not I with hers, for, had she not been faithless, I would have
sacrificed life itself for her love, and would have considered the
wealth of a kingdom but as dross compared with the possession of a
jewel so precious. Even as it is, I am doomed to love her for ever. I
feel it—I feel it here!” said he, passionately striking his heart—“I
can never, never cease to love her.”
The page seemed petrified with the charge brought against his cousin.
He grew faint, and staggered back a pace or two, until he was stayed by
the support he received from the balistæ; then panting for a moment he
was at length relieved by a flood of tears.
“Thou seest, Maurice,” said Hepborne, “the facts are too damning. It
would have been better for thee to have inquired less curiously. But
what figure is that which cometh yonder from the farther end of the
rampart?”
“Blessed Virgin,” cried Maurice de Grey, “’tis my perpetual torment,
the Lady Mariota. What shall I do? Methought I had escaped from her
importunity for this night at least.”
“Why shouldst thou not be able to bear with her?” said the knight;
“’tis a part of thy schooling, young man, to submit to mortification,
and, above all, to bear with unpleasant society, without losing a jot
of thy courtesy, especially where women are in question.”
“True, Sir Knight,” said the page, half whimpering, “but the Lady
Mariota hath actually made violent love to me. Oh, I cannot bear the
wretch.”
Hepborne could not help laughing at the ludicrous distress of the
youth, and he had hardly time to compose himself ere the Lady Mariota
came within speaking distance of them.
“So, so, thou art there, runaway?” said she to the page, as she passed
by Hepborne with a mere bow of acknowledgment, to get at Maurice, who
retreated towards the balistæ with his head down—“so thou art there,
art thou, Sir Scapegrace? Thou art a pretty truant, indeed,” continued
she, hooking him under one arm, and giving him a gentle slap on one
cheek. “But, thank my lucky stars, I have caught thee now, and verily
thou shalt not again escape me. I’faith thou shalt have thy wings
clipt, my little tom-tit; I shall have thee tied to my apron string,
that thou hop thee not away from me thus at every turning. I did but
let thee out of my sight for an instant, and whisk I find thee at the
very outermost verge of my circle. Nay, had it not been for these walls
and waters, in good truth thou mightest have been beyond my search ere
this. Come away, Sir Good-for-Nothing. Allons, make up thy mind to thy
chain; let me lead thee by it, and do not thou pull so.”
“Lady,” said Hepborne, “thou must have some mercy on the poor youth. He
hath so lately escaped from female thrall at home, that as yet he can
but ill brook anything that resembleth it. Leave him to me, I beseech
thee. At present he joys in the newly-acquired society of men; by
degrees he will come to feel how much more sweet and soothing are the
delights of women’s converse, and——”
“Nay, nay, Sir Knight,” said the Lady Mariota, interrupting him
hastily, “I shall not yield my control over the renegado, I promise
thee; he shall with me this moment. Come, along, Sir Page Maurice—come
along, I say. Thou art a pretty youth indeed! I have searched for thee
through every apartment, nay, through every creek and cranny in the
Castle; and now that I have found thee, by my troth, I shall not yield
thee up so easily. Come along, I say.” And like a bitch-fox dragging
off an unhappy kid, so did the Lady Mariota drag away the hapless
Maurice de Grey, in defiance of his lagging step, his peevish replies,
his hanging head, his pouting lip, and the numerous glances of vexation
he darted from under his eyelashes at his tormentor.
Hepborne retired to his repose, half amused and half angry with the
persecution inflicted on his poor page. Early next morning, Mortimer
Sang came to him with a courteous message from Sir Andrew Stewart,
begging to know if it was his pleasure to hunt for a few hours; and
Hepborne having cheerfully agreed to the proposal, the two knights met
alone at breakfast, and then crossed to the mainland with their horses,
hounds, hunting-gear, and a few attendants, to scour the neighbouring
forest for deer.
As they were returning homewards towards evening, they heard the
echoing sound of bugles.
“’Tis my father,” said Sir Andrew; “’tis the Earl returning with his
party from Badenoch; see, there they come, breaking forth from yonder
woodshaws.”
It was indeed the Wolfe of Badenoch; but he was now in a very different
array from that which he had first appeared in to Hepborne. He was clad
from head to foot in a complete suit of bright plate armour, and his
height and bulk seemed to be increased by the metamorphosis. He rode at
the head of a gallant troop of well-mounted and well-equipped spearmen,
after which marched a company of footmen, consisting of pole-axe-men,
and bowmen. His sons, Sir Alexander, Walter, and James, rode proudly by
his side. The cavalcade went at a foot pace, because a rabble of
bare-legged and bare-headed tatterdemalion mountaineers ran before
them, armed with clubs, goads, and pikes, and driving along a
promiscuous herd of cows, bullocks, sheep, and goats, of all different
ages and descriptions, which considerably retarded their march. A
bugle-man preceded the whole, bearing aloft an otter-skin purse on the
point of a spear. His banner waved in the middle of the clump of
spears; and in the rear of all followed a tired and straggling band of
men, women, and children, who were grieving loudly, and weeping sadly,
for some dire injury they had sustained, and vociferating vain appeals
in their own language to the stern Wolfe, who, with his vizor up, and
his brows knit, rode on unheeding them.
Ere the parties met, the two boys, Walter and James, galloped up to
meet their brother, Sir Andrew, and both began at once to shout out
their news to him—
“Oh, brother Andrew, brother Andrew, we have had such sport!” cried the
one.
“Nay, thou knowest not what thou hast lost, brother Andrew, by not
being with us,” cried the other.
“Father hath seized——” shouted Walter.
“The Earl hath taken possession of——” interrupted James.
“Tut, hold thy gabbling tongue, James, and let me tell,” responded
Walter.
“Nay, but I will tell it,” cried James lustily.
“By the holy Rood, but I will not be interrupted,” screamed out Walter.
“By the Bishop’s mass, then, but I will tell out mine own tale in spite
of thee,” bellowed James; “the Earl hath seized, I say——”
“Confound thee, then!” roared out Walter in a frenzy, and at the same
time bestowing a hearty thwack with the shaft of his spear across his
brother’s shoulders—“confound thine impudence, take that for thine
insolence.”
The no less irascible James was by no means slow in returning the
compliment, and they began to beat one another about the head with
great goodwill; nay, it is probable that their wrath might have even
induced them to resort to the points of their weapons, had they been
equal to the management of their fiery steeds; but the spirited animals
became restive in the bicker, and plunging two or three times, the
youths, more attentive to mauling each other than to their
horsemanship, lost their seats, and in one and the same instant both
were laid prostrate on the plain. Some of the followers of the hunting
party caught their palfreys, and raised the enraged boys, who would
have renewed their fight on foot had they not been held back.
“Oh, ye silly fools,” said Sir Andrew, smiling coolly and
contemptuously upon them; “as the old cock croweth, so, forsooth, the
chicks must needs ape his song. Have done with your absurd and impotent
wrath.” And leaving them in the hands of the attendants, he rode slowly
forward with Hepborne to meet his father.
“What!” demanded the Wolfe, laughing heartily, “were those cockerals
pecking at each other?”
“Yea,” replied Sir Andrew, “a trifling dispute between them, which I
have quashed.”
“Pshaw,” replied the Wolfe, “by the beard of my grandfather, but I like
to see their spirit; let not thy drowsy control quell it in them, son
Andrew. I would not have them tame kestrels like thee, for all the
broad lands of my father’s kingdom; so leave them to me to tutor, son
Andrew, dost hear?—Sir Patrick,” said he, turning to Hepborne, “I hope
thou hast not suffered in thine entertainment by mine absence? I should
crave thy pardon, I wis, for leaving thee so suddenly, and perhaps so
rudely; but I have let off my dammed-up wrath since I last saw thee,
and shall now be better company. By this trusty burly-brand, I have
shorn off the best plumes from the plump Bishop Barr; I have seized the
fat lands he held in the very midst of my Badenoch territory. By the
infernal fiends, I swore that he should pay for his busy intermeddling
in my family affairs, and by all the powers of darkness and desolation,
I have faithfully kept mine oath. I have hameled his pride, I trow. He
shall know what it is to have to do with the Wolfe of Badenoch. He
holds earth no more there. These are the custom-cattle of his lands,
and there dangleth the rent and the grassums gathered from his knave
tenants. Such of the churls who were refractory I have driven forth,
and put good men of mine own in their room. Begone with ye, ye
screaming pewits,” cried he, angrily turning towards the wretched train
of men and women who followed his party, and couching his lance as if
he would have charged furiously at them—“begone with ye, I say, or, by
the fires of the infernal realms, I will put every he and she of ye
instantly to the sword!”
The miserable wretches, without a house to go to, ran off into the
woods at his terrible threat, and the ferocious Wolfe rode on with his
party. When they came to the water’s edge, the bugles sounded, and a
boat being instantly manned by six rowers, the Wolfe called to Sir
Patrick Hepborne to go along with him, and they were wafted across in a
few strokes of the oar, leaving Sir Alexander Stewart and his brothers
to superintend the embarkation of the booty. All in the Castle was stir
and bustle the moment the owner of it appeared. The oldest man in it
seemed to be endowed with additional muscular action at the very
presence of the Wolfe. They were all ranked up to receive him as he
entered the gateway, and they followed him, and darted off one by one,
like arrows, in various directions, as he gave his hasty orders.