The Mystery of the Lady Beatrice—Arrival of the Nobles and
Men-at-Arms at Aberdeen.
The banquet, though sufficiently splendid, was tempered by moderation,
and the guests broke up at an early hour, for the Bishop took an
opportunity of signifying his wish to hold private council with the
Earls of Fife, Moray, Douglas, and Dunbar, and one or two of the other
nobles and knights whom he named. The hint was accordingly taken, and
the accommodation of the Castle being too confined for a company so
numerous, the Bishop of Moray consigned to the care of his canons the
duty of providing fit lodging for such as might be compelled to go into
the town. Though the apartments in the houses of these churchmen were
small, yet were they most luxuriously furnished for the times to which
this history refers.
As De Vaux, the Lord of Dirleton, was one of the few whom the Bishop
requested to aid him with his advice, the former remained for some time
at the Castle. His lady and daughter were therefore consigned to the
care of a rosy-faced, tun-bellied canon, who was ready with his
attendants to escort them to his antique mansion. As his lacqueys
lighted them along under the covered arcades lining both sides of the
streets, his gay smiles and gallant air sorted but indifferently with
the solemn religious grandeur that was everywhere spread over this
ancient episcopal town.
The subject of conference between the Bishop and the nobles was the
late outrages of the Wolfe of Badenoch. The good Bishop was himself
incapable of seeking vengeance, in as far as he as a mere man was
concerned. But he was zealous for the interests of that religion and of
that Church of which he was the minister; and being firmly resolved
that neither should be insulted with impunity, he stated to the Lords
and Knights his determination to go with them to Aberdeen, and to lay
the matter before the King. To such a step no objection could be urged
by those who heard him, and accordingly, after some conversation on
other matters, which continued to a pretty late hour, the party broke
up.
As the Lord of Dirleton was leaving the Castle, with the intention of
finding his way to the house of the canon, whither his lady and the
Lady Jane de Vaux had gone before him, he was suddenly addressed by
some one from behind, who, in a distinct but hollow tone, whispered in
his ear—
“Wouldst thou know aught of the fate of thy first-born daughter?”
“Ha! what canst thou tell me?” cried De Vaux, turning round with
inconceivable eagerness, and addressing a Franciscan monk who stood
behind him shrouded up in his cowl; “speak, I beseech thee, holy man,
what hast thou to tell of my first-born daughter?”
“Dismiss thine attendants,” replied the Franciscan calmly, “and follow
me to the church of Greyfriars; there shalt thou learn all that I have
to tell.”
“Get thee to thy lodgings,” cried the Lord of Dirleton to his people,
“and leave me with this holy monk. I would have converse with him
alone.”
“My Lord,” replied his esquire, “it were safer methinks to have thy
people about thee; treachery hath many disguises—there may be danger.”
“Talk not to me of danger,” cried De Vaux; “leave me, as I do command
thee.”
The esquire bowed, and retired with the valets and lacqueys who had
waited. The monk, who had stood aloof abiding his determination, now
moved away, and the Lord of Dirleton followed him. The streets were
deserted and silent, and the Franciscan staid not to speak, but glided
so quickly along as to defy all attempts at conversation on the part of
the knight who followed him. After threading through some narrow lanes
and uncouth passages, the Lord of Dirleton was led by his guide to the
door of the church of the Greyfriars, to which the monk applied a large
key that hung at his girdle, and after letting himself and the knight
in, he again locked it carefully behind him. The interior of the holy
place was dimly illuminated by the few lamps that were burning here and
there before some of the shrines, but the gloomy light was not even
sufficient to dissipate the shadows that hung beneath the arch of the
groined roof.
“Speak, quickly speak, father—in charity speak, and satisfy my
anxiety,” cried the old Lord of Dirleton, panting with the eagerness of
expectation, combined with the breathlessness of exertion. “What
knowest thou of the fate of my child?—Is she alive?—In mercy speak!”
The Franciscan shot a glance at De Vaux from under his cowl, and then
strode slowly up the nave of the Church until he came opposite to a
shrine dedicated to an image of the Virgin. There he halted, and
leaning against its iron screen with his back to the lamps, dropped his
head on his bosom, and seemed lost in thought for some moments.
“Oh, speak,” cried the Lord of Dirleton, following him—“Speak—does my
child live? my child Beatrice?”
“Thy child liveth not,” murmured the monk, in a deep sepulchral tone;
“’tis of her death I would tell thee.”
“Alas, alas! I did indeed fear so,” cried the Lord of Dirleton, deeply
affected. “I had indeed ceased to hope that she might be yet alive. Yet
even to know her fate were something amid the sad obscurity which hath
so long oppressed us. What canst thou tell me of her, holy father?”
“Thou hadst a brother,” said the Franciscan, slowly and solemnly.
“Alas! I had. I had indeed a brother,” cried De Vaux. “Then are my
fears but too just. It was he then who reft me of mine infant. Oh,
wretch, wretch, how couldst thou be so cruel!”
“It was he,” cried the monk, with a peculiar energy of manner, whilst
his eyes glared strangely from beneath his cowl as he spake; “it was
thy brother, who, in revenge for the blow he received from thine hand,
tore thine infant daughter from her nurse, and fled with her.”
“Then may God in His infinite mercy forgive him!” cried De Vaux,
clasping his hands together with strong agitation of manner; and,
dropping on his knees before the shrine of the Virgin, he buried his
face in his mantle, and gave way to his emotions.
“What! canst thou in truth forgive him, then?” cried the monk; “canst
thou in sincerity pray for his forgiveness in Heaven? Wouldst thou not
rather seek revenge against him—revenge, the which may ere long be put
within thy power—revenge, to which even I might peradventure help
thee?”
“And dost thou, the servant of Christ—thou who shouldst be the
messenger of peace—dost thou become a tempter?” cried De Vaux, looking
upwards at the monk with astonishment; “dost thou counsel revenge?—dost
thou become a pander to the most malignant of human passions, so as to
offer thyself to be the instrument who shall drag up my sinful, yet
perchance ere this, repentant brother, to dree my vengeance?”
“’Tis well,” replied the Franciscan coolly; “I did so speak but to
prove thy virtue, the which I do find to be great. Forgiveness is the
badge of our Christian faith, which it well becometh thee to wear; and
thou hast the jewel of its highest perfection, sith thou canst bring
thy mind to forgive him who was the murderer of thy first-born child.”
“The murderer of my child!” cried the wretched De Vaux, starting from
his knees, and pacing the church, wringing his hands. “Were my worst
fears true, then? was my innocent infant, my smiling cherub, was my
Beatrice murdered? The few words thou didst let fall had overpowered my
first suspicions, and had already engendered hopes that my brother’s
violence had at least stopped short of a crime so horrible. Murdered,
saidst thou? Oh, most foul, most foul! He whom I did love and cherish
from boyhood as my son—yea, loved as the issue of my own loins—in whose
nurture I so interested myself, and on whom I did propose to bestow
large possessions—What, the flesh of mine own father to murder my
helpless babe!”
“Thy forgiveness is indeed of most marvellous and unexampled
excellence,” cried the Franciscan in a whining tone, the true meaning
of which could hardly be interpreted; “wouldst thou, then, that thy
brother should be brought before thee, that he may receive full pardon
at thy hands for the cruel coulpe he hath committed against thee?”
“Nay, nay, nay,” cried the wretched Lord of Dirleton with rapid
utterance, “let me not see him—let me not see him. I loved the sight of
him once as the darling son of mine aged father—let me not see him now
as the murderer of my child. The taking of the life of my brother
cannot restore that of which he did bereave my Beatrice. As I hope for
mercy from on high, so do I forgive him. Let him then live and repent;
let him do voluntary penance, that his soul may yet meet with mercy at
Heaven’s high tribunal; but let me not see him. Had he only robbed me
of my child, I mought peraunter have been able to have yielded him my
forgiveness face to face; yea, and moreover to have extinguished all
animosity by weeping a flood of tears upon his bosom; for verily I am
but as a lone and bruised reed, and a brother’s returning love were a
healing balm worth the purchasing. But the murderer of my child—oh,
horrible!—let me not see him.”
The Franciscan drew his cowl more completely over his face, and stood
for some moments with his head averted, as if to hide those emotions to
which De Vaux’s agitation had given rise. Starting suddenly from the
position he had taken, he sprang forward a pace or two towards the Lord
of Dirleton, and then halted suddenly ere he reached him. De Vaux,
wrapped up in his own thoughts, was unconscious of the movement of the
monk. He threw himself again on his knees before the shrine of the
Virgin, and began offering up sincere but incoherent and unconnected
petitions, at one time for the forgiveness of his own sins, at another
for the soul of his murdered daughter, and again for mercy and pardon
from Heaven for the crimes of his brother. The Franciscan, with his
arms crossed over his breast, stood with his body gently bent over the
pious supplicant, absorbed in contemplation of him, and deeply moved by
the spectacle. A footstep was heard—the Lord of Dirleton’s ear caught
it too at length, and he arose hastily; but the Franciscan friar with
whom he had been holding converse was gone.
“Father,” said the knight eagerly to a brother of the convent who now
approached him from an inner door, “tell me, I pray thee, who was he of
thine order who passed from me but now?”
“Venerable warrior,” replied the monk with an air of surprise, “in
truth, I saw no one. May the blessing of St. Francis be with thee.
Peraunter thine orisons hath induced our Blessed Lady to send some
saint miraculously to comfort thee. Nay, perhaps St. Francis himself
may have been sent by the Holy Virgin to reward thy piety for thus
seeking her shrine at such an hour. Leave me something in charity for
our poor convent, and her blessing, as alswa that of St. Francis, will
assuredly cleave to thee.”
“Hath not one of thy brethren loitered in the streets until now?”
demanded the Lord of Dirleton.
“Nay,” replied the monk, “I this moment left the dormitory, where they
are all asleep. Trust me, they are not given to wander in the streets
at such an hour as this; and no one else could come hither, seeing that
the door of our church is carefully locked at night.”
The Lord of Dirleton was lost in thought for some moments; but,
recollecting himself, he gave gold to the begging friar, who received
it meekly. He then craved the monk’s guidance to the house of the
canon, where his lady and daughter were lodged; and the holy man,
taking a key from his girdle, unfastened the door of the church, and De
Vaux silently followed him, ruminating as he went on the mysterious
interview he had had, as well as on the sad story of his murdered
daughter, the whole of his affliction for whom had been so strangely
and so strongly brought back upon him.
In the morning, the march of the nobles, knights, and men-at-arms was
swelled by the presence of the Bishop of Moray, attended by a large
party of his churchmen and followers. The whole body reached the
ancient city of Aberdeen early on the fourth day, and Sir Patrick
Hepborne had reason to be fully satisfied with the gracious reception
he met with from King Robert. He was gladdened by a happy meeting with
his father, and with his friend Assueton, who had come to attend on His
Majesty.
“How fareth thine excellent mother, Assueton?” demanded Hepborne
jocularly; “thou hast doubtless ere this had enough of her good
society, as well as of thy home.”
“Nay, of a truth, my dearest bel ami,” replied his friend, “parfay my
conscience doth sorely smite me in that quarter. Verily, I have not yet
seen mine excellent mother. Day after day have I been about to hie me
to her, to receive her blessing; but something untoward hath ever
arisen to detain me; and just as I was about to accomplish mine intent,
I was hurried away hither by the King’s command. Perdie, I did never
before think that I could have complained of the sudden outbreak of
war; yet do I confess that I did in good earnest begrudge this
unlooked-for call most bitterly.”
“And hath love or filial affection the most to do in exciting thy
complaint, thinkest thou?” demanded Hepborne.
“Um! somewhat of both, perhaps,” replied Assueton gravely. “By St.
Andrew, but I am an altered man, Hepborne. Nay, smile not; or rather,
if it so pleaseth thee, smile as thou mayest list, for certes I am now
case-hardened against thy raillery.”