The Wolfe of Badenoch at Aberdeen—Father and Son.
Duncan MacErchar’s intellect was so much confused by the unexpected
discovery that he had been standing and talking before his King, a
being whom he had always conceived to be something more than man, and
whose image had floated like a spirit before his misty eyes, that it
was some time ere Sir Patrick Hepborne could make him comprehend the
good fortune that had befallen him. He then inquired eagerly into the
nature and advantages of the situation which had been so graciously
bestowed upon him by His Majesty; and finding that he was to be an
officer in that corps of stipendiaries who were always on Royal duty,
with the best possible pay and perquisites, and superb clothing, he
asked Hepborne, with some degree of earnestness, what became of the
corps during the time of war.
“They never go to war, unless when the King appears in the field in
person,” replied Sir Patrick; “and of that I well wot there is but
little chance during this reign.”
“Uve, uve,” cried MacErchar, with a look that showed he was but half
satisfied; “and is she never to see the English loons again? Sure,
sure, of what use will be the pay and the harness, an she must liggen
at home while tothers folks be at the wars? And is she never to have
the good luck to fight at the back of the good Sir Patrick again! Oich,
oich, she would like full weel to see her down, and ane Englishman
cleavin’ her skull, and her nainsel wi’ a pike in the body o’ the
chield—oich, hoich! it would be braw sport. Sure, she would rather
fight for Sir Patrick, yea, and albeit she got nothing but cuffs and
scarts for her pains, than sit wi’ her thumbs across serving a king
himsel, though she got goupins of gold for her idleness. Troth, she
would die for Sir Patrick.”
“And wouldst thou sacrifice the honour, yea, and the weighty emolument
of a commission in the King’s Guards, with all the fair promise of
advancement the which it doth hold forth to thee, for the mere
gratification of a chivalric self-devotion to my father?” demanded
Hepborne, desirous to try him.
“Out ay—surely, surely, she would do that; and little wonder o’ her,
too, she would think it,” replied MacErchar.
“Wouldst thou, then, that I do resign thy commission to the King, and
that I do obtain for thee a lance among my father’s spears?” asked
Hepborne.
“Oich, oich!” cried MacErchar, rubbing his hands, and with his eyes
sparkling with delight; “surely her honour is ower good—ower good,
surely. But if her honour will do that same, oich, oich! Duncan
MacErchar will be happy—oop, oop, happy. Troth, she will dance itsel
for joy. Oit, she may need look for no more till she dies; God be good
unto her soul then! Oich, will her honour do this for her?” demanded
Duncan eagerly of Hepborne, and in his more than usual keenness, taking
the knight’s hand, and squeezing it powerfully; “will her honour do but
this for her?”
“Verily, I shall at least do for thee what I can,” replied Hepborne,
heartily shaking his hand; “albeit so honourable a gift from thy King
may not be lightly rejected. Yet will I do what I may for thee. Let me
find thee with mine esquire to-morrow morning; thou shalt then hear the
result of mine application to the King.”
Hepborne was as good as his word. He craved an audience of the King,
and, being admitted to his couchee, the good monarch was pleased with
the singularly disinterested wish of the Highlander, and immediately
signified his gracious pleasure that MacErchar should retain the
commission in his Guards, whilst he should be permitted to follow the
banner of Sir Patrick Hepborne to the wars. The old knight, who
happened to be present, was much touched by Duncan’s devotion to him,
and very gladly admitted him among his followers, so that every wish of
MacErchar’s heart was more than gratified.
As Sir Patrick Hepborne was quitting the Royal apartments, and as he
was passing through a small vestibule feebly illumined by a single
lamp, he was almost jostled by a tall figure, who, enveloped in an
ample mantle, was striding hastily forward towards the door of the room
whence he had issued, the metal of his harness clanging as he moved.
“Ha! Sir Patrick Hepborne,” cried the Wolfe of Badenoch, for it was
he—“by the blessed bones of my grandfather, but thou art right far ben
already in the old man’s favour, that I do thus meet thee ishing forth
from his chamber at an hour like this; but thou art more welcome,
peraunter, than his son the Earl of Buchan—Is the King alone?”
“By this time I do ween that he is, my Lord; for, as I left him, the
Earl of Fife, the Earl of Moray, and my father, who had been in
conference with him, were preparing to take their leave by another
door, and the King was about to retire into his bed-chamber, with the
gentlemen in waiting on his person.”
“Ha!” said the Wolfe—“John Dunbar, Earl of Moray, saidst thou?—By my
word, but he seemeth to be eternally buzzing about the King, ay, and he
doth buzz in his ear too, I warrant me. Hast thou seen or heard aught
of the Bishop of Moray being here?”
“The Bishop of Moray had an audience of His Majesty this very day, on
his arrival,” replied Hepborne; “and if I mistake not, he did take his
leave, and hath already departed on his homeward journey.”
“Ha! ’tis well,” replied the Wolfe hoarsely, and gnashing his teeth as
he said so. “Good night, Sir Patrick, I may, or I may not, see thee in
Aberdeen at this time, for I know not whether I may, or may not, ride
hence again anon.” So saying, he passed hastily towards the door
leading to the King’s private chamber, to reach which he had several
apartments to pass through.
The aged Robert, tired by the unusual fatigue he had that day
undergone, was alike glad to get rid of business and of his privy
councillors. Retiring into his bed-chamber, and laying aside the
dignity of his high estate, his two attendants assisted him to put on
his robe-de-chambre, and he immediately descended to the more humble
level of a mere man, to which even the greatest and most heroic
potentate is reduced by the operations of his valet. His legs had been
already relieved from those rolls of woollen which had been employed to
cherish and to support them during the day; and being seated in an easy
chair of large dimensions, among ample crimson cushions, his pale
countenance showed yet more wan and withered under the dark purple
velvet cap he wore, from beneath which his white hair curled over his
shoulders. Though his eyes were weak and bleared, their full and
undimmed pupils beamed mildly, like the stars of a summer twilight. He
had just inserted his limbs knee-deep into a warm foot-bath, which one
of his people had placed before his chair, when a loud tap was heard at
the door.
“Ha!” said the King, starting, “get thee to the door, Vallance, and see
who may knock so late. By the sound, we should opine that either
rudeness or haste were there.”
Vallance did as he was ordered, and, on opening the door, the Wolfe of
Badenoch stepped into the apartment, and made a hasty and careless
obeisance before his father. The old King’s feeble frame shook from
head to foot with nervous agitation when he beheld him.
“Son Alexander, is it thou?” demanded Robert with astonishment. “We
looked not to have our sacred privacy disturbed at so unseemly an hour,
yea, and still less by thee, whose head, we did ween, was shrouded by
shame in the darkness of thine own disgrace, or rather buried, as we
had vainly hoped, amid the dust and ashes of ane humble repentance.
What bringeth thee hither?—what hath”——He stopped, for he remembered
that they were not alone. “Vallance, and you, Seyton, retire. Wait
without in the vestibule; we would be private. What hath brought thee
hither, son Alexander?” repeated he, after the door was shut upon them.
“I wot thou art but a rare guest at our Court, and methinks that,
infected as thou art at this present time, thou art but little fitted
for its air.”
Naturally violent and ferocious as was the Wolfe of Badenoch, he now
stood before his father and his King, a presence in which he never
found himself without being in a certain degree subdued by the
combination of awe, early inspired into his mind by this twofold claim
on his respect, and to which he had been too long accustomed, to find
it easy to rid himself of it. The grim Earl moved forward some steps
towards the chair where His Majesty was seated, and again louting him
low, he repeated the obeisance which the venerable form of his parent
and Sovereign commanded.
“My liege-father,” said he at length, “I do come to pay mine humble
duty to your grace, and——”
“Nay, methinks thou shouldst have bethought thee of humbling thy fierce
pride before another throne than ours, ere thou didst adventure to wend
thee hither,” interrupted the King with indignation. “It would have
well become thee to have bowed in humble contrition before the
episcopal chair of our Right Reverend Bishop of Moray, yea, to have
licked the very dust before his feet. Then, with his absolution on thy
sinful head, mightest thou have approached the holy altar of God, and
the shrine of the Virgin, in penitence and prayer; and after these, and
all other purifications, we mought have been again well pleased to have
seen our reclaimed son mingling with the nobles of our Court.”
“I do see that the Bishop of Moray hath outrode me,” said the Wolfe of
Badenoch, his eye kindling, and his cheek darkly reddening, the flame
of his internal ire being rendered more furious by the very exertions
he was making to keep down all external symptoms of it. “The Bishop
hath already effunded his tale in the Royal ear; but yet do I hope that
thou wilt hesitate to condemn me, yea, even on the Bishop’s saying,
without hearing what I may have to declare in mine own defence.”
“Son Alexander,” said the old King mildly, and at the same time slowly
shaking his head as he spoke, “we do fear much that thou canst have but
little to tell that may undermine what the soothfast Bishop, Alexander
Barr, hath possessed us of.”
“He hath been with thee, then, my liege-father?” said the Wolfe, in a
voice of eager inquiry, and at the same time biting his nether lip.
“Yea, the godly Bishop of Moray hath been with us this very day,”
replied the King. “He hath harrowed up our soul with the doleful tale
of the brenning of our good burgh of Forres—of the great devastation of
men’s dwellings, goods, and mœubles, the which thy fury hath
created—the sacrilege of the which thou hast been guilty in reducing
God’s house and altar to ashes, as also the house of his minister—the
wicked and as yet unestimated sacrifice of the lives of our loving
subjects, the which thou hast occasioned.”
“As God is my judge, my liege,” replied the Earl impatiently, “as God
is my judge, there was not a life lost—credit me, not one life. The
hour of the night was early when the deed was done; yea, it was done
openly enough, so that there was little chance of mortal tarrying to be
food for the devouring flames. Trust me, my liege-father, I did
secretly send to certify myself, as I can now truly do thee, on the
honour of a knight, that not a life was lost.”
“Nay, in truth, it must be confessed that the Bishop spake only from
hearsay as to this head of charge against thee,” replied the King,
“and, of a truth, thou hast lightened our mind of a right grievous part
of its burden by thy solemn denial of this cruel part of the accusation
against thee. Verily, it was to my soul like the hair-shirt to the back
that hath been seamed by the lash of penance, to think that flesh of
ours could have done such wanton murder on innocent and inoffensive
burghers. But yet, what shall we say to thy brenning of God’s holy
house—of the gratification of thy blind and brutal thirst of vengeance
even by the destruction of his altars, and of the images of his
saints?”
“Nay, mine intent was not against the Church,” replied the Wolfe, “but
rage reft me of reason, and I deny not that it was with mine own hand
that I did fire it; yet was it soon extinguished, and the choir only
hath suffered. But,” continued he, as he turned the subject with
increasing irritation, “but had not an excommunication gone forth so
rashly against me, yea, and poured out alswa by him who hath ever been
mine enemy, the flood of my vengeance had not flowed; and if it had
swept all before it, by the Rood, but Bishop Barr himself must bear the
coulpe of what evil it may have wrought.”
“Speak not so horribly, son Alexander,” said the King, with emotion.
“Thine impious words do shock mine ear. Lay not blame to Bishop Barr
for at last hurling upon thee the tardy vengeance of the Episcopal
chair, which thine accumulated insults did loudly call for, long ere
his long-suffering temper did permit him to employ them. Didst thou not
outrageously and sacrilegiously ravish and usurp the lands of the
Church in Badenoch? and didst thou not refuse to restore them to the
righteous possession of our holy Mother when called on so to do?”
“Yea,” replied the Wolfe of Badenoch, waxing more angry, and less
scrupulous in his manner of speaking, as well as in his choice of
terms, as his father thus began to approach nearer to the source of all
his heart-burnings with the Bishop—“yea, I did indeed seize these
lands, but, by the mass, it was not against the Church that I did war
in so doing, but against mine insidious enemy, Alexander Barr, who did
feed himself fat upon their revenues. And well I wot hath he worked for
my vengeance. Hath he not poisoned thine ear against me?—hath he not
been ever my torment?—hath he not been eternally meddling with my
domestic, with my most private affairs?—hath he not sported with my
most tender feelings?—hath he not done all that in him lay to rend the
ties of my dearest affections?”
“Ah, there, there again hast thou touched a chord the which doth ever
vibrate to our shame,” replied the King, deeply distressed by the
remembrance of the subject which the Wolfe had awakened. “That
disgraceful connection with thy leman Mariota Athyn—’tis that which
hath poisoned the source of all thine actings, and that hath thereby
transmewed the sweet waters of our life into bitterness and gall. Did
we not write to thee with our own hand, urging thee to repentance, and
beseeching thee to dismiss thy sinful and impure mate, and cleave to
thy lawful wife, Euphame, Countess of Ross? and——”
“Nay, my liege-father, I wot this is too old a wound to be ripped up
now,” interrupted the Wolfe of Badenoch, beginning to wax more and more
ireful; “ha! by the Rood, but ’tis sore to bear—cruelly sore. I did
come hither to complain of the evil usage, of the disgrace, of the
insults which this upstart priest hath thrown on me, hoping for a
father’s lenient interpretation of mine actings; yea, and that some
salve might have been put to the rankling sores this carrion hath
wrought on me; but the croaking raven hath been here before me—he hath
already sung his hoarse and evil-omened song in thine ear, and all that
I may now say cannot purge it of the poison with which it has been
filled. By my trusty burly-brand, but thou hast forgotten the mettle of
thy son Alexander.”
“Oh dole, dole, dole!” cried the old King, clasping his hands in bitter
affliction at the obstinacy shown by his son; “what can be done with a
heart which beareth itself so proudly, which refuseth to listen to the
voice of reason, which despiseth a father’s counsels, and which
resolveth to abide in its wickedness.”
“Wickedness!” replied the Wolfe fiercely, and enchafing more and more
as he went on; “by the holy Rood, but I do think that the word is ill
applied. Meseems that to throw her off who hath borne me five lusty
chields, and who hath stuck to me through sun and wete, would savour
more of wickedness than to continue her under the shadow of my
protection. Ha! by my beard, but the voice of reason—ha, ha, ha!—is
like to be as much with me in this case as against me. Thank God, I
have reason—yea, and excellent reason too—full, vigorous, and perfect
reason—whilst thou hast thine, old man, far upon the wane. Whatsoever
mountaunce of reason thou mayest have once had, by Heaven, thou dost
now begin to dote. Yet what was thy reason in like matters when it was
at the best? Didst thou not thyself live a like light life in thy
youthhood, and dost thou school me for having followed thine example?”
“Oh, dole, dole!—oh, woe for my sins!” cried the old man, agonized by
his son’s intemperate accusation of him; “’tis bitter, I wot, to bear
the reproach of a wicked and undutiful son. O, alas for my sins! yet
sure, if I have had any, as the blessed Virgin knoweth, I do humbly
confess them, and may her holy influence cleanse me from them; if I
have had sins, surely I have dreed a right sore penance for them in
having thee as an everlasting scourge to my spirit. God, doubtless,
gave thee to me for the gracious purpose that thou mightest be as
bitter ligne-aloes to purge away the disease of my soul; and may He
sanctify the purposes of mine affliction! But what art thou, sinful
wretch that thou art, who wouldst thus cast blame on thy father, yea,
and ignominy on thyself? If I sinned in that matter, did I not awaken
from my sin and repent me? did I not do all that mortal could do to
salve the misery I had begotten? did I not——. But thou art a cruel and
barbarous wretch, a disgrace and infamy to thy father—a diseased,
polluted, and festering limb, the which should be cut off and buried
out of sight.”
“Old dotard,” cried the Wolfe, his fury now getting completely the
better of him, “talk not thus—I—I—I—ha!—provoke me not—thou hadst
better——”
“Get thee to thy home,” replied the King; “turn thy vile strumpet
forth, and, above all, humble thyself in penitence before the good
Bishop Barr, who, godly man, hath been unwearied in his pious
endeavours to reclaim thee from thy sinful and polluted life. Lick the
dust from the very shoes of the saintly Bishop of Moray; in his
Christian mercy he may forgive thee, and thou mayest then hope for
restoration to our Royal favour; but if thou dost not this, by the word
of a King, I will have thee thrown into prison, and there thou shalt
liggen until thou shalt have made reparation to God and man for all
thine impurities and all thine outrages and sacrileges.”
“Ha!” cried the enraged Earl of Buchan, half drawing his dagger, and
then returning it violently into its sheath, and pressing it hard down,
as if to make it immovable there were the only security against his
using it; whilst, at the same time, he began to pace the apartment in a
furious manner; “ha! what! confine the eagle of the mountain to a
sparrow’s cage? chain down the Wolfe of Badenoch to some walthsome den?
threaten thy son so, and all for an accursed, prating, papelarde
priest? Old man,” said he, suddenly halting opposite to his father, and
putting a daring hand rudely on each shoulder of His Majesty, while his
eyes glared on him as if passion had altogether mastered his
reason—“old dotard carle that thou art, art thou not now within my
grasp? art not thine attendants beyond call? is not the puny spark of
life that feebly brens in that wintry frame now within the will of
these hands? What doth hinder that I should put thee beyond the power
of executing thy weak threats?—what doth hinder me to——”
He stopped ere he had uttered this impious parricidal thought more
plainly. The old man blenched or quailed not; nay, even the agitation
which he had before exhibited—an agitation which had been the result of
anger and vexation, but not of fear—was calmed by the idea of
approaching death; and, pitying his son more than himself, he sat
immovable like some waxen figure, his mild eyes calmly and steadily
fixed upon the red and starting orbs of the Wolfe of Badenoch. The
group might have been copied for the subject of the martyrdom of a
saint.
“’Tis the hand of God that hindereth thee, son Alexander,” said the
aged Monarch, slowly and distinctly.
The ferocious Wolfe could not withstand the saint-like look of his
venerable father. The devil that had taken possession of Lord
Badenoch’s heart was expelled by the beam of Heaven that shot from the
eyes of the good King Robert. Those of his son fell abashed before
them, and the succeeding moment saw the hard, stern, and savage Earl on
his bended knees, yea, and weeping before the parent of whom his
ungovernable rage might have made him the murderer. There was a silence
of a minute.
“Forgive me, forgive me, father. I knew not what I did; I was reft of
my reason,” cried the Wolfe of Badenoch, groaning with deep agony and
shame.
“Son Alexander,” said the King firmly, yet as if struggling to keep
down these emotions of tenderness for his son which his sudden and
unexpected contrition had excited; “Son Alexander, albeit the
consideration that the outrage was done by the hand of a son against a
father doth rather aggravate the coulpe of the subject against the
King, yet as it doth regard our own Royal person alone, we may be
permitted to allow the indulgent affection of the parent to assuage the
otherwise rigorous justice of the Monarch. So far as this may go, then,
do we forgive thee.”
The Wolfe remained on the ground, deeply affected, with his head buried
within his mantle.
“But as for what the duty of a Sovereign doth demand of us,” continued
Robert, “in punishing these malfaitours who do flagrantly sin against
the laws of our realm, and those, above all, who do sacrilegious
outrage against our holy religion and Church, be assured that our hand
will be as strong and swift in its vengeance on thee as on any other;
nor shall these thy tears make more impression on us than thine
ungovernable fury did now appal us. Doubt not but thou shalt feel the
full weight of our Royal displeasure, yea, and thou shalt dree such
punishment as befits the crimes thou hast committed against God and
man, unless thou dost straightway seek the footstool of the injured
Bishop of Moray. Nay, start not away, but hear us; for thou shalt
suffer for thy crime, unless thou dost straightway seek the injured
Bishop’s footstool, and, bowing thy head in the dust before it, submit
thee to what penance he in his great mercy and wisdom may hold to be
sufficient expiation for thy wickedness.”
The Wolfe of Badenoch started up and again began to pace the room in a
frenzy; and as Robert went on he became more and more agitated by
passion, gnashing his teeth from time to time, and setting them against
each other, as if afraid to permit himself the use of speech, and with
his arms rolled up tight into his mantle, as if he dreaded to trust
them at liberty.
“Nay, never frown and fret, son Alexander,” continued the King. “By St.
Andrew, ’tis well for thee that thou didst come to us thus in secret,
for hadst thou but had the daring to appear before us when surrounded
by the Lords of our Court, verily our respect for justice must of
needscost have coarted us to order thee to be forthwith seized and
subjected to strict durance. As it is, thou mayest yede thee hence for
this time, that thou mayest yet have some space left thee to make thy
peace with the holy Bishop Barr; for without his pardon, trust me, thou
canst never have ours. And we do earnestly counsel thee to hasten to
avail thyself of this merciful delay of our Sovereign vengeance, for an
thou dost not speedily receive full absolution from the godly prelate
whom thou hast so grievously offended, by the word of a King I swear
that thou shalt liggen thee in prison till thou diest.”
The Wolfe of Badenoch heard no more. He relieved his hands in a hurried
manner from the thraldom in which he had imprisoned them—halted in his
walk, and glared fiercely at the King—groped again at the handle of his
dagger—threw up his arms in the air with frenzied action—dashed his
clenched fists against his head—and then rushed from the Royal presence
with a fury which was rendered sufficiently evident by the clanging of
the various doors through which he retreated.
The King folded his hands, groaned with deep agony, looked up to
Heaven, uttered a short petition to the Virgin to have mercy on the
disordered and polluted soul of his unhappy son, and to beseech her to
shed a holy and healing influence over it that might beget a sincere
repentance; and then giving way to all the feelings of a father, he
burst into tears, which he in vain attempted to hide from the
attendants, who soon afterwards appeared.