The Banquet at the Castle—Alarm—Forres on Fire.
The banquet given daily by the noble Earl of Moray was in every respect
befitting the rank and splendour of the company assembled to partake of
it. On the raised platform, at the upper end of the hall of Randolph, a
table was placed transversely, to which was attached, at right angles,
a limb that stretched down the greater part of the pavement. One side
only of the upper, or cross table, was occupied; and opposite to the
centre of it were seated the Earl and Countess of Moray, in full view
of all their guests. With them sat the Earl of Fife, and all those who
could boast of royal blood or alliance; whilst both sides of the long
table were filled up by the rest of the nobles, and knights, and
ladies, who were marshalled according to their respective rank. The
shield of each chevalier, with his coat armour emblazoned on it, was
hung on a hook on the wall, opposite to the place occupied by him at
table; so that all might be known by their bearings.
Hepborne having been introduced to the party of William de Vaux, Lord
of Dirleton, led off his lady to the festive board.
“Sir Patrick Hepborne,” said the old knight to him, soon after they had
taken their places, “perhaps thou art aware that thine excellent father
and I were early friends? yea, well did I know thee, too, when thou
wert as yet but an unfledged falcon. Full often, perdie, hast thou sat
on these knees of mine, and many a hair, too, hast thou plucked in
frolic from this grizzled beard, the which was then, I’ll warrant thee,
as black as the raven’s back. Thou knowest that my domains of Dirleton,
and those of Hailes, stand within a fair degree of neighbourhood. Give
me leave then to drink this cup of Malvoisie to the better acquaintance
of friends so old.”
“I have often heard my father give utterance to many a kind and warm
remembrance of thy friendship for our house,” replied Sir Patrick, as
he prepared to return the Lord of Dirleton’s pledge; “and it giveth me
extreme joy thus unexpectedly to meet with one who deigned to bestow
notice upon my childhood, albeit I cannot recall the recollection of
the countenance of him who vouchsafed it.”
“Nay, thy memory was too young at the time, Sir Patrick, to have
received permanent impressions of any kind,” replied the Lord of
Dirleton; “and as we were soon after driven abroad by domestic
affliction, thou never hadst any opportunity of seeing me after thou
couldst observe and remember; for when we returned to Scotland again,
we discovered that thou hadst gone to the very country we had left.”
“I did hear of thy name from those who considered themselves highly
honoured by having enjoyed thy society during the time thou didst make
Paris thy residence,” said Hepborne.
“Yea, we knew many there,” replied the Lord of Dirleton, “many who were
worthy and amiable; yet none, I trust, who could dislodge the early and
fixed Scottish friendships we had formed. That between thy father and
me was so strong in its nature, that we longed to cement our families
irrevocably together; and I do well remember me, that when thou wert
but some two or three years old, and the Lady Dirleton had produced her
first child, a daughter, Sir Patrick and I did solemnly vow that, with
the blessing and concurrence of Heaven, thou and she should knit us
more closely by thy union, so soon as years should have ripened ye
severally into man and woman.”
“Alas!” interrupted the Lady Dirleton, the tears swelling in her eyes
as she spoke—“alas! it did not please Heaven to give its blessing or
its concurrence to our vows, or to lend its ear to our many prayers and
supplications for the fulfilment of our wishes. A cruel fate deprived
us of our infant daughter, and made me a wretchedly bereft and
grief-bywoxen mother. When I saw thee——”
“Leave off this sad theme, I do beseech thee, Maria,” said the old
knight, interrupting her, with eyes that streamed over as fast as her
own; “’tis but unmeet talk, I wis, for a festive scene like this. At
some other and more fitting time, Sir Patrick may be disposed to list
the story, and to sympathise with our dole and dreriment.”
By this time the more substantial part of the banquet had been removed,
a profusion of lights had changed the dim twilight of the place into
more than day, and healths and brimming goblets of wine were
circulating. Each knight was called upon to quaff a pledge to the
bright eyes that held him in thrall; and this public avowal of his
tender attachment was considered as a sort of prelude to the more
determined appeal he might be afterwards disposed to make in support of
her beauty and fame, at the point of his lance in the lists. Some there
were who, when it came to their turn, bowed silently, and permitted the
cup to pass by them; these, however, were few in number, and were such
as, from some private reason, wished to throw a veil of delicacy over
their attachment; but when Sir John Halyburton was called on, he arose
from the side of the blushing Jane de Vaux, and boldly proclaimed his
love and adoration of her to all present.
“I pledge this brimming mazer to the health of the peerless Lady Jane
de Vaux,” said he; “and as I now drink the cup dry for her sake, so am
I prepared to drain my life’s blood in her service.”
A murmur of approbation ran around the festal board. When it had
subsided,
“Sir Patrick Hepborne,” said the Earl of Moray, “wilt thou vouchsafe to
honour us with a cup to the fair enslaver of thine affections?”
Sir Patrick arose, and, putting his right hand over his heart, bowed
gracefully, and then seated himself in silence. In the former
instances, where knights had declined to speak, the Earl of Moray had
passed them by without further notice, but he was himself so
disappointed, and perceived disappointment so legibly written on the
faces of the company after Hepborne’s silent bow, that he could not
resist addressing him again.
“What, Sir Patrick,” said he, “hast thou then no lady-love, for the
sake of whose bright eyes we may hope to see thee bestirring thyself
sturdily in the lists?”
“My Lord Earl,” replied Hepborne, risingly modestly, “it will give me
joy to break a few spears, out of mere courtesy, with any knights who
may esteem mine arm worthy of being opposed to theirs.”
The Earl saw that it would be indelicate to press him further, and went
on to the conclusion of his circle of healths. The choir of minstrels,
who had already occupied the music gallery, had begun to make the
antique Hall of Randolph resound with their pealing preludes, when
their harmony was interrupted by a clamouring noise of voices from
without; and immediately a crowd of squires and domestics of all kinds
came rushing into the hall, exclaiming, “Fire, my Lord Earl of Moray,
fire!”
“Where—where—where is the fire?” burst from every mouth; and the ladies
shrieked, and many of them even fainted, at the very mention of the
word.
“The town of Forres is blazing,” cried half-a-dozen voices at once.
The utmost confusion instantly arose amidst the assemblage of nobles,
knights, and ladies. Out rushed the Earl of Moray, and out rushed such
of his guests as had no lady to detain them within. Hepborne, for his
part, happened by accident more than anything else, to follow his host
up a staircase that led to the battlements, which in daylight commanded
a view over the whole surrounding country; but the landscape was now
buried in darkness, save where a lurid blaze arose at three or four
miles’ distance in the direction of the eastern horizon, through which
appeared some of the black skeletons of the consuming tenements of
Forres, or where the broad and full estuary of the river reflected the
gleam which cast its illumination even over the houses of the seaport
of the distant point, and the wide ocean beyond it. Far off, shouts and
yells arose from different quarters of the circumjacent forest, as if
from people who were collecting, and hastening in dismay towards the
scene of the conflagration.
“Holy Virgin, defend us! what can have caused so sudden and
unlooked-for a calamity?” cried the Earl of Moray, in a tone of extreme
distress.
“Meseems it can hardly be the result of accident,” replied Hepborne,
“for the fire doth blaze in divers parts at once. Can it have been the
work of some enemy?”
“Enemy!” cried the Earl, “what enemy can there be here? And yet it may
have been done by some marauding band of plundering peelers. Yet that
seems impossible—it cannot be. But let me not waste time here, when I
can ride to the spot. Ho, there, in the court-yard—my horse, d’ye
hear?” shouted he over the battlements, and then rushed down stairs.
Sir Patrick followed him, with the determination of accompanying him to
the blazing town. Both speedily donned their riding gear and light
armour, and sallied forth. On the terrace they found a crowd of the
nobles and knights collected together in amazement. The Earl only
stopped to throw out a few hasty words of apology for so abruptly
leaving his guests, and then, accompanied by Hepborne, descended to the
court-yard, vociferating loudly for their horses. In a short time both
mounted and galloped off, attended by a few horsemen, who threw
themselves hastily into their saddles.
“Let us take our way by the Mead of St. John’s,” cried the Earl,
pushing his horse thitherward; “we can cross the river by the bridge,
and we shall then be able to alarm the people, who have there a
temporary abode at present. Their aid will be of much avail, if, as I
fear, all aid be not already too late.”
On they galloped through the dark alleys of the forest, every now and
then overtaking some straggler, who was hurrying on, out of breath, in
the direction they were going, shouting at intervals to those who had
outrun him, or who had lagged behind him; but when they reached the
Mead of St. John’s, those plains, which were lately so full of
animation, were now silent as death; not a human being seemed to have
remained within their ample circuit; all had been already summoned
away, some by anxiety to arrest the destruction of their houses and
goods, others by the charitable wish to assist in subduing the
conflagration, and others, again, by the nefarious desire and hope of
an opportunity of pilfering, but the greater number by that universal
human passion, curiosity.
“Let us hasten onwards to Forres, for there is no one here,” cried the
good Earl, after riding in vain over part of the ground, and knocking
and shouting at most of the temporary erections on the Eastern Mead, as
he swept past them. “This way, Sir Patrick; our road lies up this steep
bank; I hope some good may yet be done by the united force of such
multitudes. By St. Andrew, it was good they were here; and ’twill be a
lucky tournament if it be the means of stopping this sad malure.”
Sir Patrick followed him over some irregular hillocks, covered with the
forest; and, winding amongst them, they entered a defile, where the
trees grew thinner, giving place, in a great measure, to a natural
shrubbery, composed of scattered bushes of furze, broom, and juniper.
The fire had been all this time hid from their eyes, but it burst upon
them through the farther opening of the defile in all its terrific
grandeur, at about a mile’s distance. The destructive element had now
all the appearance of speedily gaining resistless dominion over the
little town, for the several independent detachments of flame which had
appeared in different parts of it, as they surveyed it from the Castle,
had now run together, and united themselves into one great sea of red
and overwhelming destruction, that heaved and tossed its tumultuous
billows high into the air. The appalling blaze filled up the entire sky
that was visible through the defile they were threading. Against the
bright field it presented, a dark group of armed horsemen were seen
standing on the path before them, where it wound from among the
hillocks, their figures being sharply relieved against the broad gleam
beyond. The Earl of Moray reined up his steed, but his previous speed
had been such that he was almost upon them ere he could check him.