King Robert at Aberdeen—Duncan MacErchar again.
The evening was beautiful, when the loyal inhabitants of Aberdeen, who,
by their King’s temporary residence among them, were rendered eagerly
alive to every little movement regarding him, began to be aware that
something was in contemplation, from observing a slender guard of
spearmen marching forth from the Castle, and forming in single files at
about a yard between each, so as to enclose an extended oblong space on
the upper part of the street. The populace began to crowd towards the
barrier of spears, in expectation of something interesting, and soon
formed a dense mass everywhere behind it. The houses overlooking the
spot began to be filled with guests, too, who were glad to claim
acquaintance with their inmates, for the sake of procuring places at
the windows, which were all of them quickly occupied, as well as every
one of those antique and curiously applied outer stairs and whimsical
projections that characterized the city architecture of the period.
Idle speculation became rapidly busy among the anxious gazers. All
hoped they were to see the King, yet few thought the hope well founded;
for the infirmities of age had so beset His Majesty that he was but
little equal to undergo the labour of the parade attendant on his
elevated rank, far less to endure public exhibitions of his person.
All doubt was soon put to an end, however. A distant flourish of
trumpets was heard, and martial music followed, swelling and growing
upon the ear as it slowly approached from the innermost recesses of the
Castle. It burst forth with shriller clangour, and the performers
presently issued from the Castle, preceding a grand procession of
nobles, knights, and ladies, habited in the most magnificent dresses,
followed by a small body of guards, in the midst of whom there was a
splendid litter, having the Royal Arms, surmounted by the Crown of
Scotland, placed over its velvet canopy. It was borne by twelve
esquires, in the richest Royal liveries. Murmurs of self-congratulation
and joyful greeting began to run around the assemblage of people; but
when the litter was set down in the middle of the open space, and
Robert II., their beloved monarch, the observer of justice, whose ears
were ever open to the complaints of his meanest subjects, and of whom
it was even commonly said that he never spoke word that he performed
not—when the good King of Scotland was assisted forth from his
conveyance, deafening shouts rent the air, and were prolonged
unceasingly, till the lungs of the shouters waxed weary from their
exertions.
The reason of the monarch thus taking the air before his people, was to
give confidence to the good citizens of Aberdeen, amidst the
exaggerated rumours of invasion, by showing himself so surrounded by
his dauntless barons.
The infirm old King, plainly habited in a purple velvet mantle, lined
with fur, and purple silk nether garments, with grey woollen hose,
folded amply over them, for the comfort of his frail limbs, leaning
upon his son the Earl of Fife, and partly supported by his
much-favoured son-in-law, the Earl of Moray, took his broad hat and
plume with dignity from his head, and, showing his long snowy hair,
bowed gracefully around to the people, and then began to walk slowly
backwards and forwards, aiding himself partly with his son’s arm and
partly with a cane, now stopping to converse familiarly with some of
the ladies, or of the many nobles and knights by whom he was attended,
or halting occasionally, as if suddenly interested in some person or
thing he noticed among the crowd, and then again resuming his walk with
all the marks of being perfectly at home among his people. The show, if
show it might be called, went not on silently, for ever and anon the
enthusiasm of the vulgar getting the better of their awe for majesty,
their voices again rose to heaven in one universal and startling peal.
The gallant groups of nobles and knights, who, by their numerous
attendance on the King, gave strength to the throne in the eyes of the
people, were also hailed with gratifying applause; and even some of the
more renowned leaders among them were singled out and lauded by the
plaudits of the spectators. Among these the Douglas was most
prominently distinguished, and the good John Dunbar, Earl of Moray, had
his ample share.
How important do the smallest, the most pitifully trifling
circumstances of a King’s actions appear in the eyes of his people! All
those of his nobles or knights to whom Robert chanced particularly to
extend his Royal attention, were it but for a minute, were noted by the
shrewd observation of the Aberdonienses as among the favoured of the
Court, and many a plan was hatched by individuals among the spectators
for winning their patronage. Not a movement of His Majesty, not a turn,
not a look, escaped remark, and the mightiest results were augured from
signs the most insignificant.
It happened that Sir Patrick Hepborne was standing with his father not
far from the lower extremity of the open space, when the King came up
to them. He had particularly noticed both of them before; and the
acclamations of the people, who knew the deeds of the elder knight, and
already loved the younger for his father’s sake, showed how much their
hearts beat in unison with this mark of their Sovereign’s approbation.
But now the King had something more to say to Sir Patrick the elder
than merely to honour him in the eyes of the people, with an appearance
of familiarity. He really wanted his advice with regard to the proposed
armament, and to have his private opinion of certain matters ere the
council should sit. With monarchs, opportunities of private conference
with those they would speak to, are difficult to be commanded without
remark; their actions, and the actions of those about them, are watched
too closely to permit them to be approached without begetting
speculation. A politic King is therefore obliged to catch at and avail
himself of moments for business which are perhaps but ill suited for
it; and it is often in the most crowded assemblage that they run the
smallest risk of suspicion of being engaged in anything serious.
Robert, leaning on his two attendants, stood unusually long in
conference with the Hepbornes. The fatigue and pain which he suffered
in his limbs, by being detained in the standing posture for so great a
length of time, was sufficiently manifest from the uneasy lifting and
shifting of his feet, though his countenance, full of fire and
animation when he spoke himself, and earnestly fixed in attention to
what Sir Patrick Hepborne said to him in return, had no expression in
it that might have led the spectator to believe that it was at all
connected with the frail and vexed limbs that supported it, but which
it seemed to have altogether forgotten in the intensity of the interest
of the subject under discussion.
While the personages of this group were thus engaged, a considerable
movement in that part of the crowd near them, followed by some
struggling and a good many high words, suddenly attracted their notice.
A momentary expression of anxiety, if not of fear, crossed the wan
features of royalty. The Earl of Moray and the two Hepbornes showed by
their motions that they were determined to secure the King’s safety at
the risk of their own lives; for, with resolute countenances, they laid
their hands on their swords, and stepped between him and the point from
which the danger, if there was any, must come, and to which their eyes
were directed. The Earl of Fife acted independently. He made a wheel,
which was difficult to be explained, but halted and fronted by the side
of his father again, immediately in rear of the Earl of Moray and his
two companions. The crowd, within a few yards of them, still continued
to heave to and fro as if in labour, and at last a bulky figure
appeared in the ancient Highland costume, and worming his way forward
to the line of guards, immediately endeavoured to force a passage
through between two of them. The two soldiers joined their spears to
each other, and each of them grasped a butt and a point the more
effectually to bar his progress. Undismayed by this their resolution,
he in an instant put a hand on a shoulder of each of them, and raised
himself up with the determined intention of hoisting himself over the
obstruction. This action of his, however, was immediately met by a
simultaneous and equally decisive movement on the part of the two
guards. Just as he had succeeded in throwing one leg over the
impediment, they, by a well-concerted effort, lifted him vigorously up,
and horsed him upon the shafts of the coupled spears, amid the laughter
of the surrounding populace. After some moments of rueful balancing
upon his uneasy and ticklish saddle, during which he seemed to hang in
dreadful doubt on which side he was to fall, his large body at last
overbalanced itself, and he rolled inwards towards the feet of the
King, and those who were standing with him. The whole was the work of a
moment.
A loud murmur, mingled with the shrieks of “Treason—traitorie!” arose
among the anxious people; and all bodies, heads, and eyes were bent
towards the scene of action, in dread lest something tragical should
follow. The two guards pressed forward to transfix the unceremonious
intruder with their spears as he lay on the ground.
“Back,” cried Sir Patrick Hepborne the younger, bestriding his body
like a Colossus; “back, I say, this man must not be hurt; he means no
evil; I will answer for him with my life.”
“Secure him at least, Sir Patrick,” cried the Earl of Fife.
“My Lord, I will be his security,” replied Sir Patrick. “He is a good
and loyal subject, and nothing need be apprehended from him.”
“Is he not mad?” demanded Fife, with some anxiety. “Methinks his eye
rolls somewhat wildly. By the mass, I like not his look overmuch.”
“Be assured, my Lord, I well know the man,” replied Sir Patrick,
stooping to assist him to rise.
“Out fie!” cried Duncan MacErchar, who now stood before them, smoothing
down his quelt, and blowing the dust with great care off a new suit of
coarse home-spun tartan, that, with his rough raw-hide sandals, suited
but ill with the splendid sword and baldrick that hung on him, and the
richly-jewelled brooch that fastened his plaid; “Och, oich! Sir
Patrick—ou ay, ou ay—troth, she be’s right glad to see her honour
again. Uve, uve, ye loons,” continued he, addressing the two soldiers
who had made so powerful a resistance to his entrance, “an she had kend
that ye were going to give her sike an ill-faur’d ride as yon, and sike
an ugly fling at the end o’t, by St. Giles, but she would have crackit
yere filthy crowns one again others like two rotten eggs. But, oich, is
she weel?” cried he, again turning eagerly towards Sir Patrick Hepborne
the younger. “Troth she did hear of the gatherin’, and so she e’en came
down here to see if King Roberts was for the fechts. And oich, she was
glad to see her honours again, and the ould mans Sir Patricks yonder;
but, uve, uve, she has had a sore tuilzie to get at her.”
“I rejoice to see thee, Master MacErchar,” said Hepborne, hastily
waving him away, under the strong impression of the necessity of
ridding the King’s presence of him, without a moment’s delay; “but the
present time and place ill befitteth for such recognition. Retire then,
I do beseech thee, and seek me on some other occasion. Thou mayest ask
at the Castle gate for mine esquire Mortimer Sang, whom thou knowest;
he will bring thee to me at such time as may be convenient for me.”
“Uve, uve!” cried Duncan MacErchar, the warm sparkle gradually
forsaking his eye, as Hepborne spoke, leaving him much abashed with a
reception, for the coldness of which he had been little prepared; “oit,
oit—ou ay—surely—troth she’ll do that. She’s not going to plague her
honour’s honour a moment. She’s yede her ways hame again to her nain
glen as fast as her legs can carry her. That she will—surely, surely.
But, by the blessed mass, had she but kend that she sould be any
hinderance to her honour, she sould not have yalt so far to fartigue
her with a sight of her. But she did bid her be sure to claim ken o’
her in ony place, and before ony body.”
“Yea, I did so,” replied Hepborne, vexed to see that he still remained
in the King’s presence, and rather provoked at his boldness, not being
aware that poor Duncan was perfectly ignorant that one of the four
persons before him was His Majesty—“I did indeed bid thee do so; but
verily I looked not for thine audacious approach before such eyes.”
“And fat was Duncan MacErchar to mind fat other lord-bodies might be
standing by, when her father, the noble Sir Patrick Hepborne, and at
whose back she used to fight, was before her eyne?” replied the
Highlander, a little out of temper. “Uve, uve!—surely, surely, Sir
Patrick Hepborne, that did lead her on to the fechts, is mokell more to
her than ony lord o’ them a’—ay, than King Robert himsel, gin she were
here, as she’s in yon braw box yonder. Sure she did ken hersel the
bonny Earl John Dunbar there, right brave and worthy knight; and feggs
she kens that she’s not the noblemans that will scorn a poor man. And
as for that pretty gentleman, and that douce discreet auld carle in the
purple silken hauselines and the grey hose, they may be as good as him
peraunter, but surely, surely, they cannot be better. Na, troth, but
they must be mokell waur than him, an they would be for clapping their
hands on the mouth o’ a poor man’s gratitudes. But surely, surely,”
added he, “he be sorry sorry to have angered her honours.”
“Thou dost altogether mistake in this matter, Duncan,” said Sir Patrick
the younger, much distressed to perceive the mutual misunderstanding
that existed—“thou dost altogether mistake; I am not offended.”
“Hoot, toot—ay, ay—ou ay—sure,” replied Duncan, with a whimsical look
of good-natured sarcasm in his countenance. “Troth, she doth see that
she’s not, neither the one nor the others, the same mans here, on the
crowns o’ the causey o’ Aberdeen, that she was in the glen o’ the Dee
yonder. Hup up!—Troth, she did take a grup of her hands yonder, ay, and
she did moreover drink out of the same cup with her, and a proud mans
she did make Duncan MacErchar hersels. But, uve, uve!—she’s with her
neighbour lords and knights noo, and sike a ragged goat o’ the hills as
her nainsel is no to be noticed amang so many braw frisking sheep, with
fine woo on their backs. But sith that she did make Duncan proud, troth
she’ll show her pride. Fient a bit o’ her will force her nainsel to the
kens o’ mortal mans; so here’s her bonny sword and braw baudrick,”
continued he, as he tried to take them off, “here’s the sword and the
baudrick she bore so lightly, but the which hae grown of the sudden
over heavy for her backs. But the poor Sir Page’s bonny brooch—oh ay!
she’ll keep it right sickerly, as it was kindly and gratefully gi’en.”
“Nay, Duncan, keep the sword and baldrick, I beseech thee, and seek for
mine esquire to-night,” said Hepborne, much annoyed.
“Hoof, uve, no,” replied the Highlander testily. “Sith she careth not
to notice poor Duncan MacErchar before her father the ould mans (the
Virgin’s blessing be upon her!) and the good Earl of Moray, and that
pretty gentlemans, and yon discreet, well-natured, laughing auld carle
in the grey hose and the purple hauselines yonder, troth she’ll no seek
to trouble her esquire. So here’s her sword and baudrick, and she’s
yede her ways hame again.”
“Nay, Duncan, I’ll none of them,” cried Hepborne, putting them back
with the back of his hand. “Thou art strangely mistaken here. Trust me,
mine is not the heart that can use an old friend, yea, and above all,
one that did save my very life, with the coldness that thou dost fancy.
But thou art now in the presence of——.” He stopped, and would have
added “of the King;” but at that moment His Majesty, who had richly
enjoyed the scene as far as it had already gone, gave him such a look
as at once showed him it was not his pleasure that it should be so
speedily terminated. He went on then differently. “But thou art now in
the presence of certain lords, with whom I am deeply engaged in
discussing divers matters of most grave and weighty import, and deeply
affecting the wellbeing of our country and the glory of our King; and
of a truth I well know that thou dost love both over much to suffer
thine own feelings to let, hinder, or do them prejudice in the smallest
jot. Thou canst not take offence that I did seem to neglect thee for
matters of such moment. By the honour of a knight I will take thee,
brave preserver of my life, by the hand,” continued he, seizing
MacErchar with great cordiality, “I will take thy hand, I say, in the
presence of the whole world, yea, an it were in the presence of King
Robert himself. And as for drinking from the same cup with thee, what,
have I not drank with thee of the sacred cup of thy hospitality, and
thinkest thou I would refuse to drink with thee again? By St. Andrew,
though rarely given to vinolence, I would rather swill gallons with
thee than that thou shouldst deem me deficient in the smallest
hair’s-breadth of gratitude to thee for the potent service thou didst
render me at the Shelter Stone of Loch Avon. Put on thy baldrick, man,
yea, and the sword also, and think not for a moment that I could have
been so base as to slight thee.”
“Oich, oich!—oot, oot!—uve, uve!—fool she was—fool she was, surely,”
cried Duncan, at once completely subdued, and very much put out of
countenance by these unequivocal expressions of Hepborne’s honest and
sincere regard for him. “Oit, oit! troth she was foolish, foolish; na,
she’ll keep the sword, ay, and the bonny baudrick—ay, ay, ou ay, she’ll
keep them noo till she dies. Uve, uve, she’s sore foolish, sore
foolish. Oich, oich, will her honour Sir Patrick pardons her? Troth,
she’s sore ashamed.”
“Pardon thee,” said Sir Patrick the younger, again shaking MacErchar
heartily by the hand—“pardon thee, saidst thou? By St. Baldrid, but I
do like thee the better, friend Duncan, for the proper pride and
feeling thou didst show. Thy pride is the pride of an honest heart, and
had I, in good verity, been the very paltry and ungenerous knight that
appearances did at first lead thee to imagine me to be, by the Rood,
but I should have right well merited thy sovereign despisal.”
“Oich, oich,” said Duncan, his eyes running over with the stream of
kindly affections that now burst from his heart, and quite confused by
his powerful emotions, “she’s over goods—she’s over foolish—out fie,
surely, surely, she’s over goods. God bless her honour. But troth,
she’ll no be tarrying langer noo to disturb her honour’s honour more at
this times; and, ou ay, she’ll come surely to good Squire Mortimer’s at
night, to see if her honour’s leisure may serve for seeing her.”
“Nay, nay,” said Hepborne, after consulting the King’s countenance by a
glance, to gather his pleasure, “thou shalt not go now. We had nearly
done with our parlance, and the renewal of it at this time mattereth
not a jot; so sith that thou art here, my brave defender, perdie, thou
shalt stay until I introduce thee to my father. Father,” continued he,
turning to Sir Patrick the elder, “this is a brave soldier who hath
fought for his King in many a stark stoure with thee. I do beseech thee
to permit him opportunity to speak to thee, and peraunter thou wilt all
the more readily do so, when I tell thee that he did save my life from
the murderous blows of an assassin, the which had well nigh amortised
me, by despatching the foul traitor with a single thrust of his spear.”
“To hear that thou hast saved the life of my beloved son,” replied Sir
Patrick, advancing and taking MacErchar by the hand, “were in itself
enow to coart me to recognise thee as my benefactor, though I had never
seen thee before. But well do I remember thy brave deeds, my worthy
fellow-soldier.”
“Oich, oich,” cried Duncan, dropping on his knees, and embracing those
of Sir Patrick, but altogether unable to express his feelings, “oich,
oich—surely, surely—fat can she say?—foolish, foolish—hoot, toot—ower
big rewards for her—ooch—ower good, surely—hoit, oit, Duncan will die
hersel for the good Sir Patrick—ay, or for ony flesh o’
hers—och-hone—uve, uve, she cannot speak.”
“Yet did I never hear mortal tongue more eloquent,” said Sir Patrick
Hepborne the elder, “sith that its very want of utterance doth show
forth the honest and kindly metal of the heart. But by St. Andrew, I do
know the heart to be bold as well as kind, seeing I forget not the
actions of this heroic mountaineer in the field. Where all are brave,
verily ’tis not an easy task to gain an overtopping height of glory;
and yet less is it easy in the lower ranks of war, where the
individuals stand thicker. Natheless, and maugre all these obstacles to
fame, did this man’s deeds in battle so tower above all others, that,
humble as he was, I often noted them—yea, and he should have been
rewarded too, had I not weaned that he was killed in doing the very
feat for the which I would have done him instant and signal honour.
What came of thee,” continued Sir Patrick, addressing MacErchar, who
had by this time risen to his legs, “what came of thee, my valiant
mountaineer, after thou didst so gallantly save those engineer-men and
their engine, when basely abandoned by the French auxiliaries, at the
siege of Roxburgh, whose retreat thou didst cover against a host of the
enemy by thy single targe and sword, until others were shamed into
their duty by thy glorious ensample?”
“Oich, oich—he, he, he!—a bonny tuilzie that,” cried Duncan, laughing
heartily, “a bonny tuilzie; troth, she was but roughly handled yon
time. Of a truth, noble Sir Patrick, she did get sike an ill-favoured
clewer from a chield with a mokell mace, that she was laid sprawling on
the plain; and syne, poo! out ower her body did the English loons come
flying after our men, in sike wicked fashion, that the very breath was
trampled out o’ her bodys.”
“But how didst thou ’scape with life after all?” demanded Sir Patrick
the elder.
“Troth, after they had all trotted over her, the wind just came back
again into her bodys,” replied MacErchar; “and so she got up till her
legs, and shook hersel, and scratched her lugs, that were singing as
loud as twenty throstle-birds; when back came the villains, running
like furies before our men, and whirled her away wi’ them, or ever she
kend, into the town. There she lay prisoners for mony a days, till she
broke their jails, and made her way to the Highlands. But troth, she
took her spulzie wi’ her, for she had hidden that afore, and kend whare
to find it again.”
“Of a truth, the deed was one of the most desperate I did ever behold,”
said Sir Patrick the elder, recurring to MacErchar’s action to which he
had alluded. “He planted himself against a host, and seemed doomed to
certain destruction. ’Tis a marvel that he is alive.”
Whilst Sir Patrick Hepborne and the Earl of Moray, who also remembered
him, were holding some further conference with MacErchar, Sir Patrick
the younger approached the King, and privately begged a boon of his
Majesty, the particulars of which he specified to him.
“’Tis granted, Sir Patrick,” whispered the King; “but let it be asked
of us aloud, that such part of the populace who may have been listening
to what hath passed, may have their minds filled also with the
wholesome ensample of their King rewarding virtue.”
In obedience to Robert’s command, Hepborne knelt before him, and
addressed him in a loud and distinct voice.
“My liege, I do humbly beg a boon at thy Royal hands.”
“Speak forth thy volunde, Sir Patrick Hepborne,” replied the King;
“there are few names in our kingdom the which may call for more ready
attention from King Robert than that the which hath ever been heard
shouted in the front of his armies, and in the midst of the ranks of
his discomfited enemies.”
“The boon I do earnestly crave of your Majesty is, that you will be
graciously pleased to bestow upon this gallant soldier, Duncan
MacErchar, a commission in thy Royal Guard.”
“He hath it,” replied the King, “he hath it cheerfully at thy request,
Sir Patrick; and by the faith of a King, it doth right well pleasure us
thus to exercise the happiest part of our Royal power—I do mean that of
rewarding loyal bravery such as this man hath so proved himself to
possess; yea, and no time so fitting, methinks, for the exercise of
this power; for when war is beginning, we should show our people that
we do know to reward those who do well and truly serve us.”
“Kneel down, kneel down, I say, before Robert King of Scotland,” said
the Earl of Moray, slapping the astonished MacErchar upon the back, as
he stood bereft of all sensation on discovering in whose presence he
had been standing and prating so much. He obeyed mechanically, whilst a
shout arose from that part of the crowd who had heard all that had
passed, and was caught up gradually by those farther off, who cheered
upon trust long ere the story could spread among them. The King moved
away; but still Duncan remained petrified upon his knees, with his
hands clasped, his eyes thrown up, and his mouth open, until Sir
Patrick the younger showed himself his best friend by awaking him from
his trance and leading him away, amidst the ceaseless shouts of the
mob.