The Lord of Dirleton’s Tale—The Bishop of Moray and his Clergy.
The Earl of Moray led him and his little force through the Meads of St.
John. That scene, lately so gay, was now considerably changed. Most of
the pavilions on the hither meadow had been struck, and the knights who
had occupied them had already left the ground with their people, whilst
others waited to join the line of march. The temporary bridge was there
to afford them a passage; but the demolition of the lists had been
already begun under the superintendence of the pursuivants, and others
of the heralds, to whom the property of the materials was an
acknowledged perquisite. The inhabitants of the little town of tents
and temporary huts were in humming motion, like a hive of bees that are
about to swarm. All were preparing to depart with lamentations, their
occupation being gone with the tournament that had assembled them; and
pack-horses, and wains, and rude carts without wheels, that were
dragged along the ground on the pointed extremities of the shafts
projecting behind, were loaded with the utmost expedition.
The street of the burgh presented a different picture. Thither the news
of the approaching war had not yet reached, and the townsmen rested
with blackened hands and faces from their melancholy work of clearing
out the burnt rubbish from the foundations of their houses, to gaze,
and wonder, and speculate on the armed force. Loud were the cheers with
which they greeted the Earl of Moray, and they were not tired with
these manifestations of their gratitude to their generous lord until
they had accompanied him for a considerable way beyond the eastern end
of the town. At the distance of some five or six miles from Forres the
Earl halted his men, just where the half-wooded and half-cultivated
country gave place to a bare heath of considerable extent, and where
the gentle breeze was permitted to come cool and unbroken against their
throbbing temples, after they were relieved from the thraldom of their
bassinets and morions; whilst the oaks that fringed the moor, and
straggled into it in groups and single trees, enabled them to find
sufficient shade from a now oppressive sun, to eat their morning’s meal
in comfort.
A pavilion was pitched for the reception of the nobles, knights, and
ladies, and, after partaking of the refreshment that was provided under
it, they wandered forth in parties to waste the time beneath the trees,
until the horses should have been fed, and everything prepared for
continuing the march. Sir Patrick Hepborne, having fallen into
conversation with De Vaux, the old Lord of Dirleton, wandered slowly
with him to a clump of trees at some distance, and they sat down
together on an old oak that had fallen by natural decay from the little
grove of gigantic trees that threw a shade over it. The place was
sufficiently retired to promise security from interruption, and
Hepborne longed much to obtain from his companion the distressing
history to which he and his lady had alluded on the evening of their
first meeting at Tarnawa. He felt it difficult, however, to hint at a
subject of which he already knew enough to satisfy him, that it could
not fail to be productive of painful emotions to his father’s old
friend, and he would have left it untouched had not accident led to it.
“That blasted moor, where tree grows not,” observed the Lord of
Dirleton, “and where, as thou see’st, the stunted heath itself can
hardly find food for life, amid the barren sand of which its soil is
composed, was cursed into sterility by the infernal caldron of the
weird-hags who, by their hellish incantations, did raise a poisonous
marsh-fire to mislead Macbeth; and did so drag him down from the path
of honour and virtue, to perish in a sea of crimes his soul would once
have shuddered at. See’st thou yonder huge cairn of stones? Some men
say that it marks the very spot where the foul crones first met him,
as, with his associate Banquo, he did return victorious from the
overthrow of the Danes, who did invade Fife, and whose bravest leaders
he sent to eternal repose in St. Colme’s Isle; it was there, I say,
that tradition reporteth they did appear to him, when, with the
flattering tongue of the great Tempter, they did salute him Thane of
Glammis and of Cawdor, and alswa King hereafter.”
“Tell me, I pray thee,” said Sir Patrick, “what make these soldiers who
do so crowd towards the cairn? Methinks some of them on horseback, and
some of them on foot, are riding and running full tilt around it, as if
in frolicsome chase of each other.”
The Lord of Dirleton was silent for some moments. He sighed, and, much
to Sir Patrick’s surprise, tears came into his eyes. He was deeply
affected for some moments.
“Thou must of needscost marvel, Sir Knight,” said he at length, “to see
me so much moved by a question the which is so simple in itself, and
the which did fall so naturally from thee. But thy wonder will cease
anon. Be it known to thee, that these men do run and ride in that
manner, in compliance with a well-received belief, that to surround the
cairn with three times three circuits, securely buys the happiness of
him who doth so, for the space of three times three months. Peraunter
thy marvel will now be enhanced, why I should have wept at the notice
of a practice so apparently harmless; but that thine astonishment may
forthwith cease, I shall haste me to tell thee the cause of these
tears. I am not sorry that I have been led thus accidentally to the
subject, sith I did well intend me to effund into thine ear, at first
fitting time, the circumstances of that bereavement of the which, when
I did once before obscurely hint to thee, thou didst then seem to wish
to hear more.”
The Lord of Dirleton paused, as if to recollect himself, and, after an
effort to master certain feelings that agitated him, he began his
narrative—
“It was about three months after the Lady of Dirleton had happily given
birth to her first daughter, that I left her and her baby in full
health, and soon afterwards travelled northward into these parts, with
mine early friend, John Dunbar, Earl of Moray. We had been at Lithgow
together, at the proclamation of King Robert, and I had yielded to my
Lord’s wishes, to bear him company for some few days at his Castle of
Tarnawa. After a short sojournance in his hospitable hall, I reached
this spot on my way homewards, and chancing to halt here, as we do now,
I was told of the virtues of the Witch’s Cairn. Bethinking me that it
was good to secure nine months of happiness at so easy a price, I
spurred my horse into a gallop, and began to course around it at full
speed.
“I had already encircled it twice three times, and had begun the
seventh round, when my horse was suddenly scared by the appearance of a
haggard female figure that arose from among the docks and clot leaves
in the middle of the heap, and glared fearfully at me. The animal
started so unexpectedly aside that he threw me from the saddle, and I
lay stunned by the severity of the fall. When my senses returned to me,
I found myself in the hands of my people, who were busied about me
under a tree. Convinced that it was some supernatural thing that had so
strangely crossed me, and put a period to mine attempt to work against
fate, I did eagerly demand of those about me what had become of the
unsightly witch. All agreed that she had limped slowly away before
their eyes until lost in the neighbouring wood; one or two there were
who did ween her to be no other than some ancient shepherdess or
nerthes-woman, who, wearied with watch, mought liggen her down to rest
there, and who had been frayed from her sleep by the sounding tramp of
my horse’s gallop; but the rest were of my mind, that she was verily
some evil witch, whose blasted form and eyne boded some dire malure.
“Sore oppressed with the belief of approaching calamity, I did hie me
back to mine own Castle of Dirleton, with a far heavier heart than I
had left it, dreading drearily as I went that I should learn some
dismal tidings when I should reach thither. But all was well; and as
things went not in anywise awry for some time, I began to laugh in
secret at my own apprehensions. Prosperity favoured me, indeed, in a
somewhat unusual manner. For six months was I blessed by a train of
good luck so unusual, that hardly a day passed without some happy or
favourable occurrence; but this was the very cause of awakening new
fears in me. If, said I, reasoning with myself—if the six withershin
circles round the Witch’s Cairn have had any influence in producing
this marvellous coil of good fortune, what will happen when the
spell-thread is unwound to the end, where it was so mysteriously
snapped? This seventh moon must be pregnant with some dire affliction.
“I trembled for its approach. It began—several days of it had already
stolen away—all was well, and I did again blush for my fears; but,
alas! they were too soon realised. One evening Sarah, the nurse of our
infant, was amissing with her charge. It grew late, and the Lady
Dirleton became frantic with the most cruel apprehensions. She insisted
on accompanying me out to search for the nurse and her babe. The alarm
spread, and not only the domestics but the whole vassals, largely
sharing in our affliction, turned out to aid us. All our efforts were
in vain, for a dark and stormy night came on; and on that wide plain
that stretcheth between the Castle and the sea, there was greater risk
of the seekers losing themselves than chance of their finding the woman
and the babe. The Lady Dirleton recklessly wandered until she was so
sore toil-spent that she was carried to the Castle almost insensible. I
did still continue my search in despair, in defiance of whirlwinds of
sand and red glaring flashes of lightning. Faint and distant screams
were heard by times ymeint with the blast. We followed in the direction
they went in, as well as the mirkness of the night might permit us to
do. Sometimes they would bring us down towards the shore of the sea,
where they were lost amidst the thunders of its waves rolling furiously
in on the beach. Anon we did hear them retreating inland, and we were
led by them, in a zig-zag course, hither and thither across the plain,
in idle pursuit. ‘The child! the babe!—ha, the murderer!—ha, blood,
blood, blood!—murder, murder!—the child, the child!’ were the fearful
words we caught from time to time, ymingled with wild unearthly cries.
Still we followed, and we shouted by times; but our shouts were
unheeded, albeit they must natheless have been heard by the person
whose voice reached our ears so strongly.
“At length, after a harrassing night of fruitless following, the voice
died away from us, and we groped wearily and hopelessly about until day
did gloomily dawn upon us. We again wandered down towards the shore,
and there descried a female figure, with torn garments and dishevelled
hair, running and leaping about with wild and irrational action among
the sand-heaps by the sea side. I thought of the hag of the Witch’s
Cairn, and my blood curdled within me.
“For some time we followed the figure, but almost with as little
success as we had before done in the darkness of night. At length, by
making a circuit around her, we came close upon her, where she had
seated herself on the top of a benty hillock. It was Sarah, the nurse
of our child. She rose wildly, by fits and starts, and waved her arms
high in the air, and gave streaming to the wind the infant’s sky-blue
mantle, the which was red with blood-stains. Her eyes were fixed in
vacancy, and she regarded us not as we approached her; but she screamed
and shrieked unintelligibly; and again she laughed loud and horribly at
intervals. We rushed upon her, and then it was we discovered that
reason had been reft from her. Her eyes glared wildly around on us all,
but she knew no one, and no syllable could now be extracted from her.
It was too clear, alas! that she had murdered mine infant in the sudden
frenzy that had seized her!”
“Blessed Virgin, protect us!” cried Sir Patrick Hepborne, horror-struck
with the Lord of Dirleton’s story.
“She was the daughter of an old and much attached domestic,” continued
de Vaux, “and she herself, devoted to us as a daughter, loved the
infant as her own. Nothing but madness could have driven her to do a
deed so horrible. Where she had disposed of the body of the poor
innocent we could never discover, though our search for it was
unceasing for some days. As for the wretched Sarah, whom God had so
visited as to make her no longer accountable for her actions, she was
brought back into the Castle, and put under that needful restraint to
the which she was subjected for many years thereafter. When she came to
be examined more narrowly, some one discovered a dreadful gash on her
right hand, as if given by a dagger, a circumstance the which did add
to the heap of mystery the truth was buried under, and engendered full
many a vague thought and idle surmise. I gave mine orders that some one
should be for ever on the watch by Sarah, night and day, to catch up
anything she might utter in her ravings, that might chance to
illuminate the darkness that hung over this heart-breaking calamity.
But albeit her voice was rarely silent for a moment, being unceasingly
poured forth in elritch screams of laughter when she was in her wildest
fits, or in piteous moaning and waymenting when she was low, yet did
she rarely mould it into words of meaning. Full oft would she take up
in her arms the mantle, the which she had never parted withal, and hush
it with sad lullaby, as if the child had been within it; and more than
once, when thus employed, she was seen to clasp it in agony to her
bosom, to look wildly on vacancy, and to stretch forth her arm, as if
dreading the approach of some one, and fleeing into the darksome corner
of her cell, she was heard to yell out, ‘Murderer!—ha! the babe, the
babe!—help, murder!—blood, blood!—my babe!’—and then she would lay open
the mantle, and gazing into it with frenzy, would increase her screams
to the very cracking of her voice, as if she had but that moment
discovered that the infant was gone.
“Thou mayest right well conceive, Sir Patrick,” continued the Lord of
Dirleton, after a pause, during which he yielded to the emotions so
powerfully excited by this recapitulation of the circumstances of this
so terrible affliction which had befallen him—“thou mayest easily
imagine, I say, what a deep, nay, fathomless tide of sorrow poured over
the souls of the Lady Dirleton and me. We loathed the very air of the
scene tainted by this dreadful tragedy. Anxious to escape from it, we
hastened abroad, and strove, by mixing in the society of a new world,
to blunt the pangs we suffered from the very souvenance of our home. I
need say no more, I wis, but to crave thy good pardon, Sir Patrick, for
drawing so hugely on thy patience by this long narration, the which, I
do natheless opine, hath not been altogether uninteresting to thee,
sith I have observed that thou hast, more than once, showed signs of
thy friendly sympathy for our misfortune.”
“In truth, my Lord, I am deeply affected by thy strange and melancholy
history,” replied Hepborne. “But what, I pray thee, hath become of
Sarah, thy child’s nurse, on whom so much mystery doth hang?”
“After many years of confinement, Sarah’s wudness did become more
tranquil; it seemed as if it was gradually worn out by its own fury.
Then did succeed the mantling and stagnant calmness of idiocy—and
seeing that she was no longer harmful, she was, by slow degrees,
permitted greater license, until at last she was suffered to go about
at the freedom of her own will. But will she seemed to have none.
Supported by the Lady Dirleton’s charity, and tended by her order, she
wandered to and fro in the neighbourhood of the Castle, like a living
clod, hardly ever exhibiting even a consciousness of existence.”
“And dost thou believe, my Lord,” demanded Hepborne, “that the wudness
of this poor afflicted wretch did verily work this sad malure to thee?
Or didst thou never entertain aught of suspicion of crime against any
who were more accountable for their deeds?”
“Ay,” replied the Lord of Dirleton, after a pause; “ay, we had
suspicions—horrible suspicions. My brother John, that is my
half-brother, for he was the son of my father by a woman of low birth
and infamous character, who, by sacrifice of virtue and afterwards by
her cunning, didst circumvent my father, then an old man, and did
induce him to patch up a marriage with her. After the death of my
father she would fain have kept the same place she had done during his
life; but as I had just then married me I could not insult my wife by
the introduction to her notice of a woman so notourly infamous. I
natheless did what in prudence I might for my brother, then a young man
of some eighteen or twenty winters. I took him under mine own roof,
where I in vain endeavoured to bring down his naturally haughty and
unbending temper, and to restrain the violence of his passions. I had
shown him an elder brother’s kindness from very boyhood, and methought
his heart did love me. But his wicked and infamous mother, stung with
the disgrace of being refused admittance within our gates, so worked
upon his young mind that she taught him to regard me rather as an enemy
than as a benefactor. Forgetful of the anxiety I did ever display for
the advancement of his fortunes and the improvement of his mind, he
became impatient of reproof, and ever and anon he was guilty of the
most gross and offensive insults to me, and yet more so to the Lady
Dirleton, against whom his mother’s hatred was more particularly
inflamed. Such ungrateful behaviour did naturally beget much unhappy
brawling, and high and bitter words often passed between us. At length
his daring arose to such a height that he presumed to usher in his
impure dam among the noble and honourable guests who assembled to
witness the ceremonial baptism of our infant. O’ermastered by rage at
the moment, and boiling with indignation, I forgot myself so far as to
give him a blow; and I did hound both of them straightway forth with
ignominious reproach from my walls. I saw not John ever again, yet I
had good cause to fear that he——But hold! my wife and daughter
approach; and, hark! the trumpets do sound for the march.”
As the Earls of Moray, Fife, Dunbar, and Douglas, who led the line,
were breaking through the oak forest through which they travelled for
some time after leaving the halting-place, the proud towers of Elgin
rose before them, and the tinkling of many a bell from its various
convents and churches told them that its inhabitants were already aware
of their approach. Soon afterwards the long train of a procession was
seen winding down from the entrance of the town, and as they drew
nearer they descried at the head of it the venerable Alexander Barr,
bishop of the diocese. He was accompanied by his twenty-two canons
secular, and various other members and servants of the Cathedral; and
after him came a body of Black Dominican Monks, followed by the Grey
Franciscan Friars, all marching in pairs. Ere the warlike body of
nobles, and knights, and men-at-arms had reached the bridge, the
procession had halted to receive them. The Bishop, in his episcopal
robes, sat, patiently waiting them, on a well-fed milk-white palfrey,
of sober and staid disposition, suited to his master’s habits. The Earl
of Moray hastened to dismount, and would have run to assist the Prelate
from his horse. But there was no pride in the old man, and seeing the
Earl’s intention, he quitted his saddle with an agility hardly to be
looked for from one of his years, and, hastening to meet his embrace,
bestowed his willing benediction on him, as well as on the Earls of
Fife, Dunbar, and Douglas, and those who followed them.
“My Lord Bishop,” said the Earl of Fife, “verily I did scarcely look
for this good countenance and gentle demeanour from thee, seeing how I
am sykered to him who hath wrought the Church so much foul wrong. But
thou well knowest——”
“Talk not of these matters, my Lord Earl of Fife, I beseech thee,”
cried the Bishop, interrupting him; “talk not of these matters now. We
shall have ample leisure to discuss these painful themes ere the hour
of couchee. Mount, I beseech thee, and let me now do what honour I may
to the son of my King, and to his noble brothers-in-law, the gallant
Earls of Douglas and of Moray, by escorting them to the Royal Castle.
Thy messengers, my Lord,” continued he, turning to Earl Moray, “did
out-run my tardy hospitality; for ere I gathered tidings of thy coming,
or could bestir myself to make fitting provision for thy reception, and
for the banqueting of these nobles, knights, and ladies, thy
preparations at the Castle were already largely advanced, else had I
assuredly claimed thee and all as my guests.”
“Of a truth, we are rather too potent a company to harass thee withal,”
replied the Earl of Moray; “and, as Constable of the Royal Castle here,
it would ill become me to shrink from the fulfilment of its
hospitality. Let us mount, then, and hie us thither.”
All being again in their saddles, those composing the procession turned
their faces towards the town, and began to move slowly onwards. The
black crosses on the humble white gowns of the Dominicans or Black
Friars, and the grey gown and cowl of the Franciscans—their meek and
world-contemning countenances—their bare feet, the soft tread of which
gave forth no sound—the humble banner of St. Giles, the tutelary saint
of the town, who was represented in his pastoral habit, holding a book
in his right hand, and a staff in his left, with the motto, “Sic itur
ad astra,” were all calculated to lead the mind far above the pomps of
this vain world, and were strangely contrasted with the fierce and
haughty looks of the warriors—their glittering armour—their nodding
plumes—the yell of the bugles—and the proudly-blazoned surcoats, and
shields, and banners, and pennons, which flared against the declining
sun, as if their glory had been made to endure even beyond that of the
blessed luminary itself.
They wound up the steep hill to the Castle, and there the religious
orders halted in two lines, facing each other, until the gaudy
war-pageant had passed inwards, with all its crashing clangour of
instruments, and all its flash and glitter. The holy brethren then
moved away in silence, disappearing in succession, like the waves that
follow the foaming surges raised on the bosom of a lone lake by the
fall of some mountain crag.
But there was one monk of the order of St. Francis there who staid not
with his brethren to gaze with lack-lustre eye on the ranks of the
warriors as they rode by. Deep excitation seemed suddenly to be
awakened in him by some passing object. With an agitated air, he
shrouded himself up in his grey cowl, and tightening his girdle of
ropes about his loins, he mingled with the ranks of riders, and glided
into the Castle.