Sir Andrew’s Deep-laid Plot—An Unexpected Arrival.
MacCormick proceeded in quest of Spears, and Sir Andrew Stewart
continued to pace backwards and forwards upon the green sward outside
the rampart wall, pondering how he might best open the negotiation. It
was already dark; and, villain as he was, he felt thankful that it was
so, for he had ever been accustomed to set so much value on outward
reputation, that he was ashamed to lift the veil, even to him whom he
was about to make an accomplice in his crimes. Footsteps were at last
heard approaching softly, and Rory and MacCormick saluted him.
“Master Spears,” said Sir Andrew Stewart, “this is a troublesome task
the Earl hath imposed on thee.”
“Task!” replied Rory, in a gruff ill-humoured tone; “I carena mokell
how dour his tasks be, so he be present himsel for to see me fulfil
them; but to cast his trusty servant frae his back—me, wha used to be
tied, as I mought say, till his horse’s curpin, and to tak a parcel o’
young loons to the wars wi’ him, is enew to break ane auld crazy heart
like mine.”
“’Tis indeed a bitter reproach on thee, Rory,” said Sir Andrew, “and
but little amended by the service thou art put upon. But what doth
hinder thee to return? Surely I may save thee all this long and painful
journey. My protection, methinks, may suffice for the lady.”
“Na, na,” replied Rory impatiently, being secretly nettled at the cheap
rate at which his services were apparently held by the man he despised;
“na, na—thy protection, Sir Andrew Stewart, that is to say, the
protection o’ thy stout lances yonder, may be a’ weel enew; but I maun
not at no rate be kend to slight the wull o’ my lord the Yearl; and to
leave the lass, and gang back afore the journey be weel begood—hoot,
that wadna do at a’.”
“Thou sayest true, Rory,” replied Sir Andrew; “but thou knowest I have
ever been a friend to thee, and I would fain do thee a good turn on
this occasion. Methinks I have hit on a scheme for saving thee thy
pains and travel, preserving thy good character for fidelity to the
Earl, and, finally, putting a purse of gold into thy pouch.”
“Ay!” replied Rory, in a tone of surprise. “By St. Lowry, an’ thou
canst make a’ that good, thou wilt work marvels, Sir Andrew.”
“Nay, ’twill need no conjurer,” said Sir Andrew Stewart. “Keep thou but
out of the way this night, and see that thou dost keep the old minstrel
with thee. Thou canst not sleep in the lady’s chamber, thou knowest,
therefore it is but natural to leave the entire charge of her to me,
who am to spend the night in MacCraw’s kitchen. And then—d’ye mark
me—if the lady should chance to disappear during the night, no one
knowing how, the blame must of needscost fall on me alone. Thou mayest
then yede thee back with thy daughter to the Countess to-morrow to tell
the tale; nay, peraunter, I may go with thee to make all matters
smooth, by the confession of my careless watch; and so thou shalt hie
thee after the Earl, and may yet join his standard in the field. Dost
thou comprehend me now, friend Rory?”
Rory stood silently pondering over the tempting proposal. Sir Andrew
Stewart drew forth the purse of gold, and the broad pieces chinked
against each other as he dangled it in his hand. Their music was most
seducing.
“Give me the purse,” said Rory at length.
“’Tis thine,” cried the overjoyed Sir Andrew Stewart; “I know thee to
be faithful, and I fear me not but that thou wilt earn it.”
“I will do my best to deserve it,” replied Rory.
“Quick, then, to thy duty,” said Sir Andrew Stewart. “Be it thine to
see that no one may approach the tower who might disturb our plans.”
“The safety of my daughter Kate must be secured to me,” said Rory.
“I am answerable for it,” replied Sir Andrew Stewart. “If I can so
arrange it, she shall be committed to thine own care; but if I should
be defeated in this matter, she shall sleep in the highest chamber,
where she may be out of the way. But, happen what will, her safety
shall be mine especial care.”
The conference being thus ended, Sir Andrew Stewart returned to partake
of the meal which MacCraw had by this time prepared. A manifest change
had taken place in his manner. His conversation was gay and sprightly,
and he was so entertaining that the lady sat listening to him for some
time after supper. At length the fatigue she had undergone began to
overcome her, and she signified her wish to retire to rest. Katherine
Spears, who had been out and in more than once during the meal, now
lifted a lamp to light her mistress upstairs to the principal apartment
in the tower, which was destined to receive her.
“Katherine,” said Sir Andrew Stewart, carelessly, after having paid his
parting evening compliments, “when thou hast done with thine attendance
on thy lady, MacCraw will show thee the way to where thy father is
lodged, where a bed hath been prepared for thee also.”
“Nay, Sir Knight,” replied Katherine, with uncommon energy, “I will at
no rate quit the tower, though I should sit up all night by this fire.”
“That as thou mayest list, my maiden,” said Sir Andrew Stewart, with
the same tone he had already spoken in; “I did but wish to give thee
the best harbour the place might yield. But now I think on’t, the high
chamber may do well enow for thee after all. Here—drink thy lady’s
health in the remnant of her wine-cup, ere thou goest.”
Katherine did so, and then tripped up stairs before her mistress. She
no sooner found herself fairly within the door of the lady’s apartment,
than she shut it behind her, and began to look eagerly for the bolt,
and she exhibited no small dismay when she saw that it had been
recently removed. Trembling with agitation, she then conducted the lady
with a hurried step towards a pallet-bed, which had been prepared for
her in one corner of the place, and seating her on the blankets—
“Oh, my lady, my lady,” whispered she, half breathless with alarm, “I
fear that some foul treachery may be designed against thee. Whilst thou
didst sit at thy meal I didst step me up hither to see thy couch
prepared, and as I returned through the lower passage, I overheard
certain voices in the little vault to the right—‘When is it to be
done?’ said one. ‘It must not be until late in the night,’ replied
another, ‘for we must be sure that she sleeps.’ ‘Ay, and her Abigail
alswa,’ said the first man. ‘Nay, I trust that she will be without the
tower, for she would spoil all,’ said the other. Just then as I was
listening, the outer door of the tower was slowly opened, and my
father’s head slowly appeared. He drew back when he saw me. I ran out
to him. ‘Help, help, father,’ said I to him in a whisper, ‘or the lady
will surely be the victim of treachery.’”
“And thy father,” said the lady, stretching eagerly towards her
damsel—“what did thy father say?”
“He laughed at me, lady,” replied Katherine, hesitating—“he laughed at
my fears.”
“But what were his words?—give me his very words, I entreat thee,”
anxiously demanded the lady.
“His words, lady,” replied Katherine—“his words were but those of a
bold man, who scorneth the fears of a weak woman. Trust me, he must be
faithful, lady.”
“Ay, Katherine, but his words—what were his very words?” asked the
lady, with the same eagerness of manner.
“Nay, indeed, they were naught, lady,” replied Katherine, “but thou
shalt have them as they did drop from his very mouth. ‘Tush! foolish
quean,’ said he in a tone of displeasure at what he did suppose to be
my silly apprehension; ‘where sould there be treachery, thinkest thou?
But an there sould, tell thy lady that Rory Spears is ane auld
fusionless doited dolt-head, as unfit for stoure and strife as for
war-stratagem. What did cause his being left behind his lord the Yearl,
but superannuation? The silly coof, Sir Andrew Stewart, guse though he
be, is mair to be lippened till than Rory Spears. But get thee in,
lass, and tend on thy mistress;’ and so saying he opened the door of
the tower, and shuffled me by the shoulder into the kitchen where thou
didst sit at supper. In vain did I try to catch thine eye after I
entered. But oh, sweet lady, believe not that my father can be traitor
to thee.”
“His words have spoken him to be anything rather than my protector,”
replied the lady, pale with alarm at what her maid had told her. “But,”
added she, with a forced smile, “thou hast redeemed his sin by nobly
resolving to share my danger, when thou hadst the opportunity of
escaping from it. As it is, I must prepare me for the worst. I have
still a dagger, and weak as is mine arm, it shall do bloody work ere I
do yield to such villainy; yet, after all, thou mayest have mistaken
the words thou didst hear. Let us trust to God and the Holy Virgin,
then, and, above all things, let us put up special prayers for
protection from Her, who is purity itself.”
The lady and her maiden knelt down together, and joined in earnest
devotion, that was only damped at times as fancy led them to imagine
they heard a soft tread on the stair, or a suppressed breathing at the
door of the chamber. When their orisons were ended, they sat silent for
some time. All was already quiet below, and an unaccountable and
perfectly uncontrollable sleep, that seemed to bid defiance even to
their apprehensions, was stealing insidiously upon them. Just at this
moment Katherine Spears uttered a short and faint scream, and had
nearly swooned away. The lady started up in a frenzy of alarm, and drew
her dagger, when, much to her astonishment as well as to her relief,
she perceived the large wolf-hound that had followed Rory Spears,
which, having unceremoniously put his cold nose into Katherine’s
well-known hand, had produced the damsel’s sudden panic. The lady and
her attendant viewed the unexpected appearance of this mute defender as
an especial interposition procured for them by their prayers. But the
scream, though scarcely audible, might have been heard below, and they
listened in quaking dread. All continued quiet underneath them. But, as
they still listened, they distinctly heard a heavy footstep cautiously
planted, but, to their utter amazement, it came from above downwards.
The lady grasped her dagger more firmly, and wound up her determination
to use it, if need should demand it. The steps still came stealing down
the turret stair that communicated with the uppermost apartment, and at
last the bulky form of Rory Spears, gaud-clip and all, appeared before
them.
“Heaven be praised!” murmured Katherine, as she sprang to meet her
father. “By what miracle of Heaven’s mercy art thou here?”
The lady stood aloof with her dagger clenched, still doubtful of his
errand.
“And what for needs ye ask?” said Rory to his daughter, with a certain
archness of expression quite his own. “Hath not my Lord the Yearl o’
Moray made a tirewoman o’ me? and was Rory Spears ever kend to be
backward at his Lord’s bidding? Verily, it behoveth me not to desert
mine occupation. So I am here to do my new mistress’s wark, I promise
thee.”
“May Heaven grant that thou mayest not have something more cruel to do
to-night than attend on dames,” said Katherine Spears; “yet verily thy
coming is most providential, for assuredly we are sore beset with
treachery.”
“Ay, ay, I ken a’ that,” replied Rory; “and troth it was the very
thoughts o’ a bicker that pat the pet out o’ me, and wiled me hither.
But stap ye baith yere ways up the stair there, and liggen ye down
quietly, and leave me here to deal with whomsoever may come.”
“He is true to thee, after all, lady,” said Katherine with exultation.
“I rejoice to see that he is faithful,” replied the lady; “may St.
Andrew reward him! Already are my fears banished, but irresistible
sleep oppresses me. I feel as if I had swallowed some potent drug. I
cannot keep my head up.”
“Nay, Katherine nods too,” said Rory; “by the mass, some sleepy potion
must have been mingled with your wine. Let me help ye both upstairs;
ay, there ye may rest in quiet,” said he, as he set down the lamp and
was preparing to leave them, “and I’se leave Oscar with ye as a guard,
for the loon had nae business here, and wi’ me he might spoil sport;”
and saying so, he tied up the dog beside them, and ere he had done
which both were in a profound sleep.
Having returned to the apartment below, Rory threw himself down on the
bed, and huddled himself up in the blankets, with his inseparable
companion the gaud-clip by his side, and there he lay patiently to
watch the event, until, the fire falling low on the hearth, the
darkness and his own drowsiness overcame his vigilance, and he fell
into deep oblivion.
He had not lain long in this state when the door slowly opened, and the
head of Sir Andrew Stewart appeared. Over it there was a lamp, which he
held up in his hand, so as to throw a glimmer of light into the farther
corner of the place. He paused for a moment, and seeing the form of a
figure within the blankets, and observing that all was quiet, he
withdrew the lamp.
“She sleeps,” whispered he to his esquire and the two men who were with
him; “the potion hath worked as it ought. Approach the bed, yet be
cautious; rude carelessness might break her slumbers. Let her not be
awakened while she is within earshot of those within the place; ye may
be less scrupulous anon. Approach and lift her up in the blanket; her
weight can be but as that of an infant in such hands.”
“No sike infant, I wot,” muttered one of the men to the other, as they
strained to lift up the blanket with the enormous carcase of Rory
Spears in it.
“By the mass, but she is a load for a wain,” said the other.
“Be silent, ye profane clowns,” said Sir Andrew.
“St. Roque, how she doth snore!” said the first, in a lower voice.
“Silence, I say, villains,” said Sir Andrew, “silence, and bear her
this way.”
“Hold, hold, Murdoch, the blanket is slipping,” said one; “keep up your
end, or we are done with her.”
“Hout, she’s gone,” cried Murdoch, as his end of the blanket slipped
altogether, and Rory was rolled on the floor.
Though Rory had slept, his mind had been so fully possessed with the
action he had prepared himself to expect, that he had dreamt of nothing
else. He was no sooner rudely awakened by the shock of his fall than
his mind became full of his duty.
“Ha, villains,” cried he, starting to his legs in a moment, and roaring
to the full extent of his rough voice, as he flourished his gaud-clip
around him in the dark like a flail; “ha, caitiffs, have I caught ye?
What, would ye dare to lay impure hands on the tender form of a lady of
sike high degree? By St. Lowry, but I’ll settle ye, knaves.”
All was now confusion. The knight and his instruments sought for the
door with a haste that almost defeated their object. Precedence was by
no means attended to; and Sir Andrew Stewart, being jostled aside,
received a chance blow from Rory’s gaud-clip that prostrated him
senseless on the floor. The squire and the two men rushed down stairs,
with Rory hard at their heels, and were making towards the door of the
tower when it suddenly opened, and a party of horsemen appeared
without.
“Halt!” cried a voice like thunder, that instantly arrested the flight
of the fugitives, and sent them, crouching like chidden curs, into the
kitchen. The light that was there showed the terror and dismay of their
countenance, and it also explained the cause, for he who entered was
the Wolfe of Badenoch.
“What rabble and uproar is this in the lone peel-tower of Duncriddel?”
demanded he. “Ha, Alister MacCraw, what guests be these thou hast got?
Ha, Erick MacCormick and my son Andrew’s people! What a murrain hath
brought thee here, Master Esquire? Ha—speak. Where is the worthy knight
thy master?”
“My Lord—my master, Sir Andrew—my Lord—” replied MacCormick, hesitating
from very fear.
“Ha! and Rory Spears too,” continued the Wolfe; “what dost thou make
here, old ottercap? Speak, and expound the cause of this uproar, if
thou canst.”
“I will, my Lord,” said Rory, “and that in sike short speech as I well
ken thou lovest to have a tale dished up to thee. Sir Andrew Stewart,
thy son, did covenant wi’ my leddy the Countess o’ Moray, thy sister,
to convoy ane Englisher leddy safe frae Tarnawa to Norham, and sure
enew he brought her here, being sae muckle o’ the gate; but having no
fear o’ God or the Saunts afore his eyne, he did basely try to betray
her, just the noo, afore I cam doon the stairs there.”
“Ha, hypocritical villain! cried the Wolfe. “By Saint Barnabas, but I
have long had a thought that his affected purity was but a cloak for
his incontinence.”
“’Tis all a fabrication,” cried MacCormick, who had now recovered his
presence of mind so far as to endeavour to defend his master, though at
the expense of truth; “’tis fearful to hear sike wicked falsehoods
against thy son Sir Andrew Stewart.”
“My Lord Yearl,” cried Rory, taking Sir Andrew’s purse of gold from his
pouch, “an thou believest that I do lie, here is a soothfast witness to
what I have uttered.”
“Ha! my son Andrew’s purse, with his cipher on it,” cried the Wolfe,
casting a hasty glance at it. “How camest thou by this, Master Spears?”
Rory quickly told the Wolfe of the attempt made by Sir Andrew Stewart
to bribe him from his duty, and shortly explained how he had watched
his opportunity to creep up stairs unobserved, and to secrete himself
in his daughter’s apartment, together with the result.
“Foul shame on the sleeky viper,” cried the Wolfe indignantly, after he
had listened to Rory’s abridgement: “But where hath the reptile hidden
himself all this while? By my beard, but he shall be punished for this
coulpe.” And so saying he seized upon a lamp, and rushing up stairs in
a fury, beheld his son stretched on the pavement senseless, with a
stream of blood pouring from his temple and cheek, which bore the deep
impression of the hooked head of Rory Spears’ gaud-clip.
“Hey, ha!” exclaimed the Wolfe, with a changed aspect, produced by the
spectacle which his son presented: “by’r Lady, but Andrew hath got it.
Fool that he was, he hath already been paid, I wot, for his wicked
device. Ha! the saints grant that he may not be past all leechcraft.
Would that thou hadst hit less hard, old man. Though he be but the
craven cock-chick of my brood, yet would I not choose to have his green
grave to walk over.”
“So please thee, my Lord, it was dark, and I had no choice where to
strike,” said Rory, with much simplicity of manner. “But fear not,”
added he, after carelessly stooping down to examine the wound, “trust
me, ’tis no deadly blow; moreover, ’tis rare that ill weeds do perish
by the gateside. I’se warrant me he’ll come to; his breath is going
like a blacksmith’s bellows. But is’t not a marvel, after all, to
behold how clean I did put my seal upon his chafts, and it sae dark at
the time? I’se warrant he’ll bear the mark o’t till’s dying day. Here,
MacCormy, help me down the stair wi’ him. Thou and I will carry his
worship’s body wi’ mair ease than thou and thy loons wad hae carried
mine, I rauckon. But hear ye, lad; give not the lie again to any true
man like me, or that brain-pan of thine may lack clampering.”
The Wolfe of Badenoch was relieved by discovering, on examination, that
there was good hope of his son’s recovery; and he employed himself and
his people in using every means to bring it about. The whole night was
spent in this way, but it was only towards morning that Sir Andrew
Stewart began to show less equivocal signs of returning life, and even
then he still remained in a state of unconsciousness as to what was
passing near him. The circumstance of the sleepy potion they had drank
accounted for the lady and her damsel having remained undisturbed amid
all the confusion that had prevailed. But the Wolfe of Badenoch, having
occupied the morning in superintending the preparation of a litter to
transport his wounded son to his Castle in Badenoch, when all was
ready, became impatient to depart, and desirous to see the lady ere he
did so. Rory Spears was accordingly despatched to awake her, and in a
short time she and Katherine appeared, with eyes still loaded with the
soporiferous drug they had swallowed.
“Ha, what!” cried the Wolfe with astonishment, the moment the lady
appeared; “by the beard of my grandfather, but I am petrified. Who
could have dreamt that it was thou, my beauteous damosel? By’r Lady,
but it is strange, that whether thou dost appear in the hauqueton or in
the kirtle thou shouldst still be harnessed by importunate love-suit.
But,” continued he, courteously taking her hand and kissing it, “it
erketh me sore to think that wrong so foul should have been attempted
against thee by a son of mine. Thou hadst a claim for something better
at our hands, both for thine own sake and for that of Sir Patrick
Hepborne, a knight of whom the remembrance shall ever be grateful to
me. Trust me, it giveth me pleasure to behold lealty where tyrant
Church hath tied no bands. Thou hast been basely deceived by him who
undertook for thine honourable escort to Norham, and albeit I have
reasons to think that the proud Priest of Moray hath secretly obtained
a power of Royal troops to repossess him in his Badenoch lands, yet
shall not this knowledge hinder me from fulfilling for thee that
service which my traitor son hath so shamefully abused. I shall be
myself thy convoy. Let the croaking carrion-crow of Elgin come if he
dares; I have hardy heads, I trow, to meet him, who will fight whether
I am there or not. Ha! by my grandfather’s beard, an he had not flown
from Aberdeen with the wings of the raven, he mought have been e’en now
past giving me trouble.”
“My noble Earl of Buchan, I do give thee thanks for thy kind courtesy,”
replied the lady; “but I may in no wise suffer it to lead thee to make
sacrifice so great. Trust me, I fear not for the journey whilst I have
this good man Rory Spears as mine escort. Under the guardance of one so
prudent, brave, and faithful as he has proved himself to be, I should
nothing dread to wander over the world.”
“And I wad defend thee, my leddy, frae skaith, were it but frae the
tining o’ a single hair o’ thy bonny head, yea, to the last drap o’
bluid in my auld veins,” cried Rory with great enthusiasm, being
delighted to observe that his worth was at last fairly appreciated.
“Ha! by my troth, but ’tis bravely spoken in both,” cried the Wolfe.
“Depardieux, I shall not venture to interfere where there is so great
store of confidence on one side and fidelity on the other. But yet thou
must take some pairs of my lances with thee, Rory, for thou art but
slenderly backed, me thinks.”
Even this much both the lady and Master Spears were disposed to refuse;
but on learning that the mountain range through which they must pass
was at that time more than ordinarily infested with wolves, Rory
changed his mind, and consented to take four able lances with him, to
be returned when he should consider their services no longer necessary.
All being now arranged for the departure of the two parties, the Wolfe
of Badenoch became impatient. He courteously assisted the lady to mount
her palfrey, and, kissing her hand, bid her a kind adieu. He was about
to leap into his own saddle, when he was accosted by Rory Spears.
“My Lord Yearl o’ Buchan, seeing that thy son Sir Andrew, i’ the litter
yonder, hath not yet gathered his senses anew to tak the charge o’ his
ain cunzie, I here deliver up to thee, his father, this purse o’ gowd
he did gi’e me, the which my conscience wull at no rate let me keep,
seeing that it wad in nowise let me do that the which was covenanted
for the yearning o’t.”
“Nay, by St. Barnabas, honest Rory, but thou shalt keep the purse and
the coin,” cried the Wolfe, delighted with Rory’s honesty; “thou hast
rightly earned it by thy good service to thy lady. I will be answerable
to my son Andrew for this thy well-won guerdon, so make thyself easy on
that score.”
“Thanks, most noble Yearl,” cried Rory as he pouched the purse, and
mounted his ragged nag to ride after the lady, his countenance shining
with glee. “By’r lackins, but this is as good as the plunder of a whole
campaign against the Englishers.”