The English Lady’s Departure from Tarnawa Castle—The Crafty Son of
the Wolfe of Badenoch.
It was more than a week after the departure of the Earl of Moray and
his friends from Tarnawa that Rory Spears was ordered to attend the
Countess of Moray to receive her instructions for the duty his master
had left him at home to fulfil. He was called into the room, where the
lady in whose service he was to be employed was sitting veiled; but the
Countess had not more than time to open the matter to him when she was
interrupted by a message from her nephew, Sir Andrew Stewart, who, with
very opposite feelings to those of Rory, had found some plausible
excuse for not going with the Knights to Aberdeen, and now craved a
short audience of the Countess. The English lady arose and retired into
the recess of a window, where Katherine Spears was plying her needle,
and Sir Andrew was admitted.
“My gracious aunt,” said he, “I crave thy pardon for pressing my
unbidden services; but, I beseech thee, let me not be deprived of the
highest privilege that belongs to knighthood; I mean that of being the
prop and stay of beauty in distress. Thou knowest that I have some half
dozen spears here. Be it my pleasing task, I entreat thee, to protect
the lady through those difficulties and dangers that may beset her
path. Trust me, she shall pass unscathed while I am with her.”
“I am utterly astonished, nevoy,” replied the Countess; “how, I pray
thee, art thou possessed of the secret that any such emprise may be in
hand?”
“Nay, it mattereth but little, I trow, how I know that, my noble aunt,”
replied Sir Andrew Stewart with a careless smile; “but, what may be to
thee some deal more strange, peraunter, I do know the lady too.—Madam,”
said he, gliding gently past his aunt, and going up to the window, “I
have only to tell thee that we have met at Lochyndorbe, to convince
thee that I do not err; yet be not alarmed at what I have said; trust
me, thou shalt find that I have over much delicacy and knightly
courtesy about me rudely to withdraw the veil in which thou hast been
pleased to shroud thyself. I come but to offer thee mine escort, and I
do fondly hope thou wilt not refuse me the gratification of shielding
and defending thee with this arm, amid the many perils that may environ
thee in thy travel between Tarnawa and Norham.”
“’Tis gallantly spoken of thee, nevoy,” replied the Countess; “and
albeit I do hope that danger there may be none in this our own country
of Scotland, seeing, I have reason to believe, that the tide of war
hath already been turned from us; yet will it give me joy to be
certiorated of the safety of this sweet lady, who will doubtless most
cheerfully accept thy proffered courtesy.”
The lady readily made her acknowledgements to Sir Andrew, and gladly
availed herself of his protection. Katherine Spears, who was to
accompany her as a female companion on the journey, was rejoiced, like
all young persons, at the prospect of so speedily seeing a little of
the world, especially as her father was to be with her, and she was
going in the service of a lady to whom she was already so much
attached. But old Rory, who had been standing aloof during the
conversation, showed by his countenance that he was ill satisfied with
the arrangement which had been made, as well as with every one about
him. He turned on his heel to leave the place, brandishing his
gaud-clip, and followed by a brace of large wolf-dogs in couples, and
began slowly descending the stairs, letting down first one-half of his
ponderous person and then the other in succession, each step he took
bringing out a humph, as a break to the continuity of his audible
grumble.
“Ay, by St. Lowry, wha wad hae thought it, humph—wha wad hae thought
that Rory Spears, humph—the Yearl’s henchman, as a body mought say,
umph—that Rory Spears, that mought be ca’d as necessar till his back as
the hound to his heel, or the falcon to his wrist, humph—that Rory
Spears, I say, suld hae been left behind at sike a time as this,
umph—like a crazy old destrier, or ane crackit targe, humph—and to be
turned ower to be the plaything to a silly bit lassie, umph—and an
Englisher quean, too, mair’s the wonder, hugh!—Ay, and to make matters
better, she hirsels me off, too, like ane auld pair o’ boots, to put
faith in that kestrel, Sir Andrew Stewart, humph—a kite frae an ill
nest, umph—ay, and ane that she’ll aiblins find is no that ower mukel
to trust till, maugre a’ his havers, umph!—Weel, I maun e’en do the
Yearl’s wull, and his leddy’s wull; but, troth, I sall gie mysel no
unnecessar trouble wi’ the lass, umph—aboon a’, sith she hath chosen
her ain champion, hugh!—And that foolish glaikit thing Kate, too,
umph,—she’s smiling and smirking, when it wad better set her to be
greetin’, hugh!—Och sirs, sirs, it’s a queer warld this. Whiew, whiew,
Brand—whiew, whiew, Oscar,” cried he, whistling to his hounds, as he
gained the area of the Castle-yard; “come awa, my bairns, ye hae mair
sense than half o’ human fouk.”
Next morning the beautiful milk-white palfrey, that had been the gift
of Sir Patrick Hepborne to his page Maurice de Grey, stood ready
caparisoned in the court-yard, along with those of the party who were
to form the escort. The lady recognised him as she descended from the
terrace, leaning on the arm of Sir Andrew Stewart, and her eyes ran
over at sight of the noble animal. She stopped to caress him silently
ere she mounted him, her heart being too full to permit her to trust
her voice in speaking to him. As Sir Andrew Stewart aided her to rise
into her saddle, the generous steed neighed a joyous acknowledgment of
the precious burden he was entrusted with. The lady waved her hand to
the Countess, who streamed her scarf from a window, in visible token of
the prayers she was putting up for her safety; and the cavalcade rode
slowly forth, the beauteous eyes of the Englishwoman so dimmed with
tears that she saw not aught that was around her. She felt as if, in
leaving Tarnawa, the last tie that had bound her heart to the object of
its tenderest affections were dissolved, and it seemed to wither within
her. She drew her mantle over her head and gave way to her feelings, so
that even Sir Andrew Stewart saw that, to break in upon her by
conversation, would have been an intrusion too displeasing to be risked
by him. He therefore continued to ride by her side in silence; and the
example of the knight and lady spreading its influence over the party,
not a word was heard among the riders.
The lady at last felt that common courtesy required her to exert
herself to control her feelings, and with some difficulty she began to
enter into conversation with Sir Andrew Stewart, who rode at her side.
She was now able to reconnoitre her attendants, which she had not had
strength or spirits to do before. Before her rode the minstrel, Adam of
Gordon, who no sooner saw that the lady had given his tongue license by
breaking the silence she had maintained, than he began to employ the
innocent artillery of an old man’s gallantry on the dimpling charms of
the lovely Katherine Spears, who, by her merry replies, and her peals
of laughter, showed that she enjoyed the well-turned compliments and
high-flown speeches of the courteous and fair-spoken bard. Next came
the spearmen, and a couple of lacqueys, and one or two other
attendants; and last of all, wrapped up in a new fishing-garb of more
than ordinarily capacious dimensions, with an otter-skin cap on his
head, and his gaud-clip in his hand, rode Rory Spears, sulky and
silent, on a strong, active little horse, whose ragged coat, here
hanging down in shreds, and there pulled off bare to the skin, showed
that he had been just rescued from the briers, brambles, and black
thorns of the forest, which had been waging war against his sides for
many a day. Rory was followed by a single wolf-hound, and his whole
accoutrements were so far from being fitted for the important duty of
convoy, to which he had been appointed, that it almost seemed as if he
had purposely resolved it should be so from pure spite against his
employment.
“Be’st thou for the hunts, Master Spears?” cried the wife of a
publican, one of the Earl’s dependants, whom curiosity hurried to her
door to gaze at the travellers as they passed.
“Na, na, Meggy Muirhead,” cried Rory, checking his horse for an
instant. “The hunts, quotha! pretty hunts, truly. But hast thou e’er a
stoup o’ yill at hand? for thou must know I am bent on a lang and
tedisome journey—yea, and I do jalouse a right thirsty and
throat-guisening travel, gif I may guess from the dry husk that my
craig hath already been afflicted withal?”
“Thou shanny want a drap o’ yill, Master Spears,” cried Maggy Muirhead,
who ran in and brought out a large wooden stoup, that, as she swung it
on her head, foamed over the brim with generous nut-brown, by which she
hoped to extract some information from Rory; “and where mayest thou be
ganging, I pray thee? to join the Yearl maybe at the wars, I’se
warrant?”
“Wars,” cried Rory, “wars! Gie me the stoup, woman.” And dropping his
reins, and sticking the shaft of his gaud-clip into his enormous boot,
he stretched out both hands towards the double-handed stoup, and
relieving mine hostess’ head of the weight, he applied its laughing
brim to his lips, and slowly drained it so effectually that she had no
occasion to replace it there. “Haugh; wars, saidst thou, Mistress
Muirhead?” cried Rory again, as he held out the empty vessel, one
handle of which the hostess now easily received upon a couple of her
fingers, and kept swinging about as he was speaking—“wars! look at me,
am I girded for the wars, thinkest thou? Na, I’ve e’en taen on to be
tirewoman to yon black-e’ed Englisher leddy, and I’m to get a kirtle,
and a coif, and a trotcosy, ere long. What thinkest thou of that,
Mistress Muirhead?”
“Preserve me, the Virgin have a care o’ us a’!” cried Mistress Muirhead
in wonder, as Rory rode away; “wha ever heard tell o’ sike a thing? The
man’s gaun clean wud, I rauckon.”
Sir Andrew Stewart was unremitting in his attention to the lady, and
all his speeches and actions were so cunningly tempered with delicacy,
that she neither had the power nor the will to conceal her satisfaction
at his treatment of her. He inwardly congratulated himself on the
advance he supposed he was making in her good opinion, and with some
consummate art began to pave the way for a declaration of the violent
passion he had secretly cherished for her, and gradually drawing nearer
and nearer to her bridle rein as they rode, whispered the warm language
of love in her ear in sentences that grew more and more tender at every
step they advanced. Being occupied with her own thoughts, she had the
appearance without the reality of listening to all he said, and the
enamoured knight, interpreting her silence into a tacit approval,
seized the first favourable opportunity of addressing her in plainer
language.
“Most angelic lady,” said he to her, as he sat beside her alone under
an oak, where they had halted for rest and refreshment, “why shouldst
thou undertake this tedious journey? Why shouldst thou leave Scotland,
where thou mightst be made happy? To permit beauty so divine, and
excellence so rare, to quit the Caledonian soil, would be a foul
disgrace to the gallantry of its chivalry. Deign, I beseech thee, to
listen to my ardent vows; let me be thy faithful knight. The love thou
hast kindled in this bosom is unquenchable. Oh, let me——”
“Talk not thus besottedly, Sir Knight,” replied the lady, interrupting
him hastily and rather sternly; “I may not honestly listen to any such.
Gallantry may peraunter come with good grace enow from thy lips, but
permit not thyself license with me, whose heart doth already belong to
another, and who can allow these words of thine no harbour. I shall
ever be grateful to thee for this thy courteous convoy, but I can never
return thy love. Stir not then the idle theme again.”
“Nay, loveliest of thy sex,” said the silky Sir Andrew Stewart with
strange ardour, “to keep thy heart for one who hath so vilely entreated
thee, and that after thou didst sacrifice all to yield thee to his
service, were neither just to thyself nor to me. Let me occupy that
place in thy heart, so unworthily filled by one whose very bearing
towards thee (rather that of a master than of a lover) did sufficiently
betray how much those matchless charms had ceased to please his palled
appetite. Let me then——”
“Sir Andrew Stewart,” replied the lady with astonishment, mingled with
a dignified expression of resentment, “I know not what falsehood may
have conspired to conjure up so much unseemly boldness in thee; for I
cannot believe that thou, a knight of good report, couldst thus have
ventured to insult me, unless on some false credence. What though my
love hath been misplaced? My heart can never change. Urge not, then,
again a theme that must ever rouse my indignation.”
A cloud passed across the smooth brow of Sir Andrew Stewart as he
received this resolute rejection of his passion, but it speedily
disappeared.
“Forgive me, beauteous lady,” said he, after a pause, “mine unhappy
passion hath indeed mastered my better reason. Kill me not with thy
frowns, but lay my fault to the account of these thy stirring charms.
Sith that I dare not hope for more advancement, I shall still be the
humblest of thy slaves, for to cease to love thee were impossible.”
After this decided repulse, Sir Andrew Stewart confined his attentions
to those of mere courtesy. Towards evening, they began to descend into
a narrow glen, watered by a clear river. The hills arose on both sides
lumpish and vast, and the dense fir forest that covered them rendered
the scene as gloomy as imagination could fancy. As they picked their
way down the steep paths of the forest, they caught occasional glimpses
of the lone tower of a little stronghold that stood on a small green
mound, washed by the river on one side, and divided from the abrupt
base of the mountain by a natural ravine, that bore the appearance of
having been rendered more defensible by art.
“Behold the termination of our journey of this day,” said Sir Andrew
Stewart to his lady. “Thine accommodation, beauteous damsel, will be
but poor; yet, even such as thou mayest find it, it may be welcome
after the fatigue thou hast endured.”
They reached the bottom, and, crossing the ravine by a frail wooden
bridge, climbed a short ascent that led them to the entrance of the
little fortalice, that wore the appearance of having been lately
demolished in some feudal broil; for the massive iron gate of the
court-yard lay upon its side, half buried among the weeds. Many of the
outhouses, too, were roofless, and bore recent marks of having been
partly consumed by fire.
“Alister MacCraw,” said Sir Andrew Stewart to an old man who came
crawling forth from the low entrance at the sound of the bugle, “so
thine old dwelling yet standeth safe, I see. I trust it may afford us
some better harbour than those roofless barns and byres do show?”
“In troth, not mokell better, Sir Andrew Stewart,” replied the old man;
“but stone vauts wunna brenn like thaken roof. Troth, ’tis mokell
wonders that the Yearl o’ Buchan wouldna gar mend them up, and put some
stout loons to guard them, sith he doth use to lodge here when he doth
travel between Buchan and Badenoch; an yon bit gavels were mended, an
yon bit breach in the wa’, yonder, and——”
“Nay, Alister, spare thy counsel for my father’s ear,” replied Sir
Andrew Stewart impatiently, “and forthwith proceed to house us as best
thou mayest. Let us see how this lady may be bestowed.”
“Thou knowest there be no great choice of chambers,” replied the old
man, with a certain leering chuckle, which the lady could not
understand.
MacCraw had reason for what he said, for the simple plan of the
building was of three storeys. That on the ground floor contained one
large vaulted kitchen, occupied by the old man, with two small dark
chambers. A stair, ascending from a central passage, running directly
from the outer door, led to a room occupying the whole of the second
floor of the building, from a farther angle of which a small stair
wound up, within a hanging turret, to a single apartment in the
uppermost storey.
The lady was ushered by Sir Andrew Stewart into the kitchen, where
MacCraw busied himself in renovating the embers on the hearth, and soon
afterwards in preparing some refreshment. The knight spoke little and
abstractedly, and rising at last, he mumbled something about orders he
had to give, and abruptly left the place.
“Erick MacCormick,” said he to his esquire, “I would speak with thee
apart.”
The esquire followed his master without the walls. “Erick,” said Sir
Andrew again, when he judged that they were beyond all risk of being
overheard, “I did try to move the lady to give ear to my love, but she
hath sternly rejected me, yea, and that with signs of no small
displeasure. I burn with shame for the blindness with which my passion
did hoodwink mine eyes.”
“Hath she indeed refused thee, Sir Knight?” demanded the esquire. “By
the mass, but with such as she is I would use smaller ceremony, as a
preface to mine own gratification.”
“Ay, if we could without detection, Erick,” replied Sir Andrew.
“This is a fitting place, meseems,” said the esquire.
“’Tis as thou sayest, a fitting place, good Erick,” replied Sir Andrew;
“but albeit I may put sicker trust in thee, yea, and peraunter in most
of mine own men, yet were it vain to hope that I might effect my
purpose without being detected by one of her followers.”
“Fear not, Sir Knight,” said the esquire; “I trow we are strong enough
to eat them both up.”
“Nay, nay—that is not what I mean,” replied Sir Andrew; “but thou
knowest, Erick, that I do put value on character and reputation. I have
hitherto passed as a miracle of virtue, as a rare exception in the
lawless family to the which I belong; nay, even in the ear of my
grandfather the King hath my praise been sounded, and my name standeth
in godly odour with the very Bishop of Moray himself. I must not
sillily wreck the vessel of my fortunes, while ’tis blown on by gales
so favouring.”
“In sooth, it were vain to hope to have thine actions pass withouten
the remark of her followers,” replied the esquire.
“Her followers!” said Sir Andrew. “I would not adventure aught with
her, unless I were secure that none but the most faithful of mine own
instruments should have cause even to guess at my share in the matter.
Were but that sly fox, Rory Spears, out of the way, methinks we might
contrive to throw dust in the eyes of the maid and the minstrel.”
“If Spears be all the hindrance thou seest,” replied MacCormick, “I
beseech thee be not afraid of him. By St. Antony, but he cares not the
value of a cross-bow bolt for her of whom he hath charge. I have had
much talk with him by the way, and I will pledge my life that thou
shalt win him to thy purpose with as much ease as thou mayest lure thy
best reclaimed falcon. The old allounde is sore offended at being left
behind by his master the Earl, to attend upon a damsel; yea, and the
damosel herself, too, seemeth to have done little to have overcome the
disgust he hath taken at his employment. Trust me, Sir Knight, never
hungry trout was more ready to swallow baited hook than old Rory Spears
will be to pouch a good bribe, that may be the means of ridding him of
so troublesome and vexatious a duty.”
“Art thou sicker in thy man?” demanded Sir Andrew Stewart, stopping
short, after taking a turn or two in silent thought, with his arms
folded across his breast.
“Nay, he did so effunde his ill humour to me by the way, that I will
venture my life for him,” replied the squire.
“Seek him out straightway, and bring him hither,” said the knight.