The Burning of the Church and Town of Forres.
“By’r Lady, but the bonfire brens right merrily,” cried a stern voice,
which they immediately knew to be that of the Wolfe of Badenoch. “Ha!
is’t not gratifying to behold? Morte de ma vie, see there, son
Alexander, how the Archdeacon’s manse belches forth its flaming bowels
against the welkin. By St. Barnabas, but thou mayest tell the very
blaze of it from that of any other house, by the changes produced in it
from the abundant variety of ingredients that feed it. Thou seest the
cobwebby church consumeth but soberly and meekly as a church should;
but the proud mansion of the Archdeacon brenneth with a clear fire,
that haughtily proclaims the costly fuel it hath got to maintain it—his
crimson damask and velvets—his gorgeous chairs and tables—his richly
carved cabinets—his musty manuscripts, the which do furnish most
excellent matter of combustion. By the mass, but that sudden quenching
of the flame must have been owing to the fall of some of those swollen
down-beds, and ponderous blankets, in which these lazy churchmen are
wont to snore away their useless lives. But, ha! see how it blazes up
again; perdie, it hath doubtless reached the larder; some of his
fattest bacon must have been there; meseems as if I did nose the
savoury fumes of it even here. Ha! glorious! look what a fire-spout is
there. Never trust me, if that brave and brilliant feu d’artifice doth
not arise from the besotted clerk’s well-stored cellars. Ha, ha, ha!
there go his Malvoisie and his eau-de-vie. The vinolent costrel’s
thirsty soul was ever in his casks; so, by the Rood, thou seest, that,
maugre every suspicion and belief to the contrary, it hath yet some
chance of mounting heavenward after all. Ha, ha, ha! by the beard of my
grandfather, but it is a right glorious spectacle to behold.”
“My Lord brother-in-law,” cried the Earl of Moray, in a voice of horror
and dismay, as he now advanced towards the group, “can it be? Is it
really thou who speakest thus?”
“Ha, Sir Earl of Moray,” cried the Wolfe, starting and turning sharply
round, “what makest thou here, I pray thee? Methought that ere this
thou wert merry in thy wine wassail?”
“Nay, perhaps I should have been so,” replied the Earl of Moray
temperately, “had not news of yonder doleful burning banished all note
of mirth from my board. Knowest thou aught of how this grievous
disaster may have befallen?”
“Ha, ha, ha! canst thou not guess, brother of mine?” cried the Wolfe,
with a sarcastic laugh.
“I must confess I am not without my fears as to who did kindle yonder
wide-spreading calamity,” said the Earl of Moray gravely; “yet still do
I hang by the hope that it was impossible thou couldst have brought
thyself to be the author of so cruel, so horrible, so sacrilegious a
deed. Even the insatiable thirst of revenge itself, directed as it was
against one individual, could hardly have led thee to wrap the holy
house of God, and the dwellings of the innocent and inoffensive
burghers, in the same common ruin with the tenements belonging to those
whom thou mayest suspect as being entitled to a share of thy vengeance.
’Tis impossible.”
“Ha! by the flames of Tartarus, but it is possible,” cried the Wolfe,
gnashing his teeth; “yea, and by all the fiends, I have right starkly
proved the possibility of it too. What! dost think that I have spared
the church, the which is the very workshop of these mass-mongering
magpies? Or was I, thinkest thou, to stop my fell career of vengeance,
because the beggarly hovels of some dozen pitiful tailors, brogue-men,
skinners, hammermen, and cordwainers, stood in my way?—trash alswa, who
pay rent and dues to this same nigon and papelarde Priest-Bishop, who
hath dared to pour out his venomous malison on the son of a King—on the
Wolfe of Badenoch! By all the infernal powers, but the surface of the
very globe itself shall smoke till my revenge be full. This is but a
foretaste of the wrekery I shall work; and if the prating jackdaw’s
noxious curse be not removed, ay, and that speedily too, by him that
rules the infernal realms, I swear that the walthsome toad and all the
vermin that hang upon him shall have tenfold worse than this to dree!”
“Alexander Stewart!” cried a clear and commanding voice, which came
suddenly and tremendously, like that of the last trumpet, from the
summit of the knoll immediately above where the group was standing.
There was an awful silence for some moments; a certain chill of
superstitious dread stole over every one present; nay, even the
ferocious and undaunted Earl of Buchan himself felt his heart grow cold
within him, at the almost more than human sound. He looked upwards to
the bare pinnacle of the rising ground, and there, standing beside a
scathed and blasted oak, he beheld a tall figure enveloped in black
drapery. The irregular blaze of the distant conflagration came only by
fits to illumine the dusky and mysterious figure, and the face, sunk
within a deep cowl, was but rarely and transiently rendered visible by
it, though the eyes, more frequently catching the light, were often
seen to glare fearfully, when all the other features were buried in
shade, giving a somewhat fiendish appearance to the spectre.
“Alexander Stewart!” cried the thrilling voice again; “Alexander
Stewart, thou grim and cruel Wolfe, when will the measure of thine
iniquity be filled up? Thou sweepest over fair creation, levelling
alike the works of God and man, regardless of human misery, like the
dire angel of destruction; the very green of the earth is turned into
blood, and hearts are rent beneath every tramp of thy horse’s hoofs:
yet art thou but as a blind instrument in the hands of the righteous
Avenger; and when thou shalt have served the end for which thou wert
created, verily thou shalt be cast into eternal fire. If thou wouldst
yet escape the punishment which speedily awaits thine atrocities,
hasten to bow, in penitence, before those altars thou hast dared to
pollute, and make full reparation to the holy ministers of religion for
the unheard of insults and injuries thou hast offered them. Do this, or
thine everlasting doom is fixed; death shall speedily overtake thee,
and thou shalt writhe amidst the ineffable torments of never-ceasing
flames.”
As the voice ceased, there arose from the distant town a strong and
more enduring gleam of light, which rendered visible every little
broom-blossom and heath-bell that grew upon the side of the knoll, and
threw a pale, but distinct illumination over the features of the
figure.
“Holy Virgin! blessed St. Andrew! ’tis the mysterious Franciscan,”
whispered several of the Earl of Buchan’s attendants, as they crossed
themselves, in evident alarm.
“Ha! is it thee, thou carrion chough?” cried the Wolfe of Badenoch,
recovering from the surprise and dismay into which he had been plunged
by so unexpected and fearful a warning from one whom he had not at
first recognized; “ha! morte de ma vie,” cried he, couching his lance,
digging the spurs deep into his horse’s flanks, and making him bound
furiously up the slope of the knoll; “by all the furies, thou shalt not
’scape me this bout, an thou be not a very fiend. Haste, Alexander,
ride round the hill.”
“This way, villains,” cried Sir Alexander Stewart instantly, obedient
to his father’s command; “this way, one-half of ye, and that way the
other half. Let not the caitiff escape us; take him alive or dead; by
the mass, it mattereth not which.”
Divided into little parties, the Wolfe’s attendants spurred off to
opposite points of the compass, in order to encircle the hill. The
figure had already disappeared from the pinnacle it stood on, but the
furious Earl of Buchan still pushed his panting horse up the steep
ascent, until he disappeared over the top. The Earl of Moray and Sir
Patrick Hepborne remained for some time in mute astonishment, perfectly
at a loss what to think or how to act. Shouts were heard on all sides
of the hillock; but in a short time they ceased, and the individuals of
the Wolfe of Badenoch’s party came dropping in one by one, with faces
in which superstitious dread was very strongly depicted.
“Didst thou see him?” demanded one. “Nay, I thank the Virgin, I saw him
not,” replied another. “Whither can he have vanished?” cried a third.
“Vanished indeed!” cried a fourth, shuddering, and looking over his
shoulder. “Ave Maria, sweet Virgin, defend us, it must have been a
spirit,” cried another, in a voice of the utmost consternation.
“Hold your accursed prating,” cried the Wolfe of Badenoch, who now
appeared, with his sons clustered at his back, all bearing it up
boldly, yet all of them, even the stout Earl himself, much disturbed
and troubled in countenance. “Ha!” continued he, “by all that is good,
there is something strange and uncommon about that same friar. I know
not well what to think. I bid thee good-bye, brother-in-law; I wot, we
part but as half friends; yet commend me to Margery. Sir Patrick
Hepborne, when it pleaseth thee to come to Lochyndorbe, thou shalt be
right welcome. Allons, son Alexander, we must thither to-night yet for
our hostelry; so forward, I say;” and saying so, he rode away at the
head of his party.
“Rash and intemperate man,” cried the good Earl of Moray, in a tone of
extreme distress and vexation, as he turned his horse’s head towards
Forres, “what is it thou hast done? Into what cruel and disgraceful
outrage hath thy furious wreken driven thee. The very thought of this
ferocious deed being thine, is to me more bitter than ligne-aloes. The
noble and the peasant must now alike hold thee accursed for thy red
crimes. Hadst thou not been my wife’s brother, and the son of my liege
lord the King, I must of needscost have done my best to have seized
thee straightway; but Heaven seemeth to be itself disposed to take
cognizance of thy coulpe, for in truth he was more than mortal
messenger who pronounced that dread denunciation against thee.”
The solemn silence with which these words were received by Sir Patrick,
showed how much his thoughts were in unison with those of the Earl.
“But let us prick onwards,” cried Lord Moray, starting from his musing
fit; “every moment may be precious.”
They had not gone many yards, when they heard the mingled sound of
numerous voices, and found themselves in the midst of a great crowd of
people of all ages, and of both sexes, who, idle and unconcerned, had
taken post on the brow of the hill, and now stood, or lay on the ground
in groups, calmly contemplating the rapid destruction that was going on
in the little town, and giving way to thoughtless expressions of wonder
and delight, at the various changes of the aspect of combustion.
“Why stand ye here, idlers?” cried the Earl of Moray, riding in among
them, and stirring up some of them with the shaft of his lance; “come,
rouse ye, my friends; shame on you to liggen here, when ye might have
bestirred ye to save the town; come, rouse ye, I say.”
“Nay, by the mass, I’ll not budge,” cried one. “’Tis no concern of
mine,” cried another. “Nay, nor of mine,” cried a third. “I do but come
here to sell my wares at the tourney,” cried a fourth.
“Depardieux, but every mother’s son of ye shall move,” cried the Earl,
indignant at their apathy.
“And who art thou, who dost talk thus high?” gruffly demanded one of
the fellows, as he raised a sort of pole-axe in a half-defensive and
half-menacing attitude.
“I am John Dunbar, Earl of Moray,” replied the Earl resolutely; “and by
St. Andrew, if ye do not every one of you make the best of your way to
Forres sans delay, and put forth what strength ye may to stop the
brenning of the poor people’s houses and goods, I will order down an
armed band from the Castle, who shall consume and burn to tinder every
tent, booth, bale, and box, that now cumbereth the meads of St. John.
“Will ye on with me now, knaves, or no?”
“Holy Virgin, an thou be’st the good Earl,” cried the fellow, lowering
his pole-axe, “I humbly crave thy pardon; verily we are all thine
humble slaves. Come, come, my masters, run, I pray ye, ’tis the good
Earl John. Fie, fie, let’s on with him, and do his bidding, though we
bren for it.”
“Huzza for the good Earl John—huzza! let’s on with the good Earl of
Moray,” cried they all.
“Mine honest men,” cried the Earl, “I want not thy services for nought.
Trust me, I shall note those who work best, and they shall not go
guerdonless; and if ye should all be made as dry as cinders, by hard
and hot swinking, ye shall be rendered as moist as well-filled sponges,
with stout ale, at the Castle, after all is over.”
“Huzza for the good Earl John! huzza for the good Earl of Moray!”
shouted the rabble; and he rode off, followed by every man of them,
each being well resolved in his own mind to earn his skinful of beer.
As the Earl and Sir Patrick were pushing up towards the ridge along
which the town was situated, the shouts of men, and the dismal screams
and wailings of women and children, arose from time to time from within
it. The good nobleman redoubled his speed as he heard them, and the
party soon reached the main street, the scene of confusion, misery, and
devastation. The way was choked with useless crowds, who so encumbered
those who were disposed to exert themselves, that little effectual
opposition could be given to the fury of the fire. Amidst the shrieks
and cries which burst forth at intervals from the mob, the Earl’s ears
were shocked by the loud curses on the Wolfe of Badenoch that were
uttered by the frantic sufferers. But no sooner was he recognized than
his arrival was hailed with acclamations of joy and gratitude, which
drowned the expression of every other feeling.
“Here comes the good Earl”—“The Virgin be praised—blessed be St.
Laurence that the Earl hath come”—“Ay, ay, all will go well now sith he
is here”—“Stand aside there—stand aside, and let us hear his commands.”
The Earl and Sir Patrick Hepborne hastily surveyed the wide scene of
ruin, and were soon aware of its full extent. The manse of the
Archdeacon, to which the incendiaries had first set fire, was already
reduced to a heap of ashes. The priest who owned it had fled in terror
for his life when it was first assailed; and the greater part, if not
all the population of the little burgh having been employed on the Mead
of St. John’s in the preparations for the tournament, or in loitering
as idle spectators of what was going on there, little interruption was
given to the vengeful Wolfe of Badenoch in his savage work. He and his
troop were tamely allowed to stand by until they had seen the residence
of the churchman so beleagured by the raging element, that little hope
could remain of saving any part of it. He next set fire to one end of
the church; and ere he and his party mounted to effect their retreat,
they fired one or two of the intervening houses. Many of the tenements
being of wood, and the roofs mostly thatched with straw, the fire
spread so rapidly as very soon to form itself into one great
conflagration, that threatened to extend widely on all sides. Still,
however, it was confined to one part of the town, and there yet
remained much to save. Hitherto there had been no head to direct, but
the moment the Earl appeared all were prepared to give implicit and
ready obedience to his orders. He took his determination in a few
minutes, and, imparting his plan to Hepborne, they proceeded to carry
it into instant execution.
The portion of the street that was already in flames had been abandoned
by the people, the fire having gained so hopeless an ascendancy there
that all efforts to subdue it would have been vain. The Earl therefore
resolved to devote his attention to confining it within its present
limits. He stationed himself within a few yards of that extremity which
they had first reached, and, having ordered the crowd to withdraw
farther off, he brought forward the useful and active in such numbers
as might be able to work with ease, and he began to pull down some of
the most worthless of the houses. Hepborne, in the meanwhile, called
together a few hardy and fearless-looking men, and followed by these
and Mortimer Sang, who was rarely ever missed from his master’s back
when anything serious or perilous was going forward, he proceeded, at
the risk of life, to ride down the narrow street, between two walls of
fire, where blazing beams and rafters were falling thick around them.
His chief object was to get to the farther boundary of the
conflagration, and he might have effected this by making a wide circuit
around the town; but, besides gaining time by forcing the shorter and
more desperate passage, the generous knight was anxious to ascertain
whether, amidst the confusion that prevailed, some unfortunate wretches
might not have been left to their fate among the blazing edifices.
He moved slowly and cautiously onwards, his horse starting and prancing
every now and then as the burning ruins fell, or as fresh bursts of
flame took place; and, steering a difficult course among the smoking
fragments that strewed the street, or the heaped-up goods and
moveables, which their owners had not had time to convey farther to
some place of greater security, he peered eagerly into every door,
window, and crevice, and listened with all his attention for the sound
of a human voice. More than once his eyes and his ears were deceived,
and he frequently stopped, in doubt whether he should not rush boldly
through fire and smoke to rescue some one whom his fancy had caused
him, for an instant, to imagine perishing within. His mind being so
intensely occupied, it is no wonder that he could pay but little
attention to his own preservation; and accordingly he received several
rude shocks, and was at last fairly knocked down from his saddle by the
end of a great blazing log, which grazed his shoulder as it descended
from a house he was standing under. Mortimer Sang caught the reins of
his master’s horse, and Sir Patrick was speedily raised from the ground
by the people who were near him; and he regained his seat, having
fortunately escaped with some slight bruises received from the fall,
and a contusion on his shoulder, arising from the blow given him by the
beam.