Old Acquaintances at the Hostel of Norham Tower—Great Gathering at
Jedworth—The Council of War.
It was some days after the lady’s arrival that five horsemen knocked at
the gate of the hostel of the Norham Tower. They were clad rather as
pilgrims than as warriors, and, arriving by the English side of the
river, were judged to have come from the south. Matters had undergone a
change since we had last occasion to notice the hall of Norham. Old
Kyle had been gathered to his fathers, his buxom wife had wept her fair
number of days, and, beginning to recover her spirits by the reflection
that she was a well-looking and wealthy widow, her heart was already
besieged by numerous lovers. Though under a woman’s government, the
police of the Norham Tower was at this moment more strict than usual.
The war had made its mistress careful to rid it at an early hour every
night of all straggling topers. There were certain privileged
customers, indeed, to whom a more liberal license was granted, and of
this number was Mr. Thomas Turnberry, the squire equerry.
As two of the strangers, of nobler mien than the rest, entered the
common room, they found the esquire in the act of rising from table,
with another man in whose company he had been drinking.
“A-well,” said the latter; “I bid thee good e’en, Sir Squire. I’ll
warrant thou shalt not find better steeds between Tweed and Tyne than
the two I have sold thee.”
“Ay, ay, Master Truckthwaite,” replied Turnberry with a sarcastic
smile, “thy word is all well; yet would I rather trust the half of mine
own eye than the whole of thy tongue in such matters. Good e’en, good
e’en. A precious knave, I wot,” added he, after the man was gone.
“Doth that varlet sell thee good cattle, Sir Squire?” said one of the
strangers who had entered.
“Nay, in truth, he is a proper cheat,” replied Turnberry. “But the
villain had to do with a man who hath lived all his life in a stable,
and one, moreover, who hath sober, steady, habits. Your drunkard hath
ever but poor chance in a bargain with your sober man.”
“Most true,” replied the stranger. “Here, tapster; a flagon of Rhynwyn.
Wilt thou stay, Sir Squire, and help us to drain it?”
“Rhynwyn!” exclaimed Turnberry; “by St. Cuthbert, but there is music in
the very clink of the word. Nay, Sir Pilgrim, I care not an I taste
with thee ere I go; I am but a poor drinker, yet hath honest Rhynwyn
its charms.”
“Ha,” said Tom, after deeply returning the stranger’s pledge, “this is
right wholesome stuff, I promise ye, my masters. ’Tis another
guess-liquor than old Mother Rowlandson’s i’ the Castle.”
“Thou art of the Castle, then?” said he who had always spoken. “I drink
to the health of thy gallant old captain, Sir Walter de Selby.”
“Thank ye, thank ye,” replied Tom, taking the flagon. “Well, here’s to
old Wat. Many is the ride we have had over the Border together; and
many is the hard knock we have both ta’en and given, side by side.
Trust me, there breathes not a better man. His health, God wot, hath
been none of the best of late; so, with thy good leave, Sir Pilgrim,
I’ll drink to it again.”
“Hath he not a daughter?” demanded the pilgrim.
“Yea, that he hath,” replied Tom—“an only daughter, whose beauty hath
been the talk of all Northumberland.”
“Let us drink to her health, then,” said the pilgrim.
“Here’s to the Lady de Vere, then,” said Turnberry, lifting the flagon
to his head to do justice to the health.
“The Lady de Vere!” said the pilgrim who had not yet spoken, betraying
an emotion that escaped Tom Turnberry, in the long draught he was
taking.
“Ay, the Lady de Vere,” said Tom, taking the flagon from his head. “The
Lady Eleanore de Selby is now the Lady de Vere, as we have all heard at
the Castle since two or three days have gone by. Sir Walter would have
fain had her marry Sir Rafe Piersie, who courted her, but his
haughtiness sorted ill with her high and untameable spirit; so she was
contrarisome, and ran away with a love of her own choosing some time
ago.”
“And who might the lover be who bore away so rich a prize?” demanded
the pilgrim.
“Why, one of the Court lordlings, as we now learn, a Sir something de
Vere, a kinsman to the King’s favourite, the banished Duke of Ireland.
He is but lately come from abroad, it seems, for he is a foreign knight
born, and being suspected as coming on some secret mission to the King,
it is thought that he will rise high in his good graces. The poor ould
soul, Sir Walter, did live in grievous case until these few days
bygone, for he knew not until then what had befallen his daughter. But
now that he hath learned who his son-in-law is, he hath somewhat raised
his head. But fie on me,” added the squire, after a long draught, that
enabled him to see the bottom of the flagon, “I must hie me to the
Castle; and so good night, and many thanks, my civil masters. Trust me,
I shall right willingly bestow a can upon you when ye do come this way
again, if ye will but ask for old Thomas Turnberry, the esquire
equerry.”
The dialogue between Tom Turnberry and the two strangers had been over
for a good hour, when another conversation took place a few steps from
the gate of the inn, between Mrs. Kyle and one who considered himself a
favourite lover.
“These be plaguy cunning knaves,” said Mrs. Kyle; “they thinks, I’se
warrant me, that no one doth know ’em; yet—but I shall say nothing, not
I.”
“I dare swear a man would need to be no fool who should strive to
deceive thee, Mrs. Kyle,” replied her companion, willing to draw her on
a little.
“Me!” replied she; “trust me, the old Fiend himself would not cheat me;
for instance, now, that saucy Sang there did no sooner show his face
within the four walls o’ the Norham Tower than I did straightway know
him through all his disguises; and so, having once nosed him, I did
quickly smell out his fellow-esquire, and the two knights their
masters.”
“That was clever in thee, i’ faith, Mrs. Kyle,” replied her companion.
“Yea, but my name be not Margaret Kyle an I make no more out by my
cleverness,” said the dame. “But mum for that.”
“Nay, thou knowest thou canst not be Margaret Kyle long, my bonny
dame,” replied the man.
“Fie thee now,” replied she, “sure it will be long ere I do trust me to
men again, after honest Sylvester, my poor dear husband that was.”
“And what didst thou say they were here for?” demanded her companion.
“Ye may trow they are here for no good,” replied the dame. “I’ll
warrant me the seizing o’ them will be a right brave turn; but mum
again, for he who is to take them this night did say as how none should
ken nothing on’t till the stroke should be strucken; yea, and by the
same token he did gie me kisses enow to seal up my mouth.”
“And when did Sir Miers tell thee this?” demanded the man.
“Sir Miers!” replied Mrs. Kyle; “laucker-daisey, did I tell thee that
it was Sir Miers? St. Mary, I had nae will tae hae done that. Hoot,
toot, my lips hae no been half glued.”
“And so thou dost say that Sir Miers is to surround the house to-night,
and to take these same strangers?” observed the man.
“Yea, but of a truth I shouldna hae tell’d thee a’ that; may my tongue
be blistered for’t,” replied Mrs. Kyle; “for he bid me take especial
care, aboon a’ things, to let thee know nought on’t.”
“Nay, Mrs. Kyle,” said the man, “but thou knowest thou dost love me
over much to hide anything from me.”
“O ay, for a matter o’ that. I do love thee well enow,” replied Mrs.
Kyle; “but Sir Miers hath such pleasant ways with him.”
“Hath he?” replied the man carelessly. “Thou didst say, I think, that
the attempt is to be made at midnight, and that thou art to be on the
watch to let them in?”
“Nay, then,” said Mrs. Kyle, “I did verily say no sike thing, I wot.
What I did say was this, that Sir Miers is to be here an hour after
midnight, and that John Hosteler is to let them in.”
“Ay, ay, I see I did mistake thy words,” replied the man. “Why, holy
St. Cuthbert, thou wilt get a power of money for thine information.”
“So Sir Miers hath promised me,” replied Mrs. Kyle; “but what doth
chiefly season the matter to my stomach is the spicy revenge I shall
hae against that flouting knave Sang, and the very thought o’ this doth
keenly edge me to aid the gallant Sir Miers in his enterprise; yet, to
tell thee the truth, the handsome knight might rauckon on as much
service at my hands, yea, or more, when it mought please him bid me.”
“So,” replied her companion; “but come, I will see thee into the house,
drink one cup of thine ale with thee, and so speed me to the other end
of the village to Sir Miers. Who knows but I may be wanted after all to
bear the brunt of this business.”
By this time the two knights and their three attendants were the sole
tenants of the common room, and this circumstance, coupled with the
disguises they wore, led them to imagine that they ran no risk of
discovery.
Robert Lindsay, who was the fifth man, took up a lamp, and sallied
forth to look at the horses ere he should seek repose. All was quiet in
the court-yard, as well as in the various buildings surrounding it. He
entered the stable, but, though there were wain horses enow there
belonging to the hostel, he saw, with utter dismay, that the five
steeds belonging to his party were gone. He turned to rush out of the
stable to tell the knights of this treacherous robbery, when the light
of the lamp in his hand flashed on the figure of a man, who was
determinedly posted in the doorway, as if resolved to oppose his
passage.
“Ralpho Proudfoot!” exclaimed Lindsay in astonishment; and then
observing that he was fully armed, and that he carried a lance in his
hand, whilst he himself had not even his sword, he gave himself up for
lost; but resolving to sell his life as dearly as possible, he wrenched
a rung from one of the stalls, and planted himself in a posture of
defence.
“Nay, thou needest look for no injury at my hands,” said Proudfoot;
“this haughty spirit of mine, the which did once make me thy determined
foe because thou wert promoted above me, doth now prompt me not to be
outdone by thee in a generous deed. I come to warn thee that an attempt
on the liberty, if not on the lives, of thee and those that be with
thee, is to be made, within less than an hour hence, by Sir Miers de
Willoughby and a strong force. The reward for taking prisoners of sike
note, together with the gold to be gotten for their ransom, is the
temptation to this enterprise. Lose not a moment then in rousing the
knights, and warning them of their danger.”
“But what hath become of our horses?” demanded Lindsay, not yet
recovered from his surprise.
“It was I who removed them,” replied Proudfoot. “I took them from the
stable, after leaving the hosteller to sleep off the heavy draughts of
ale I made him swallow; they stand ready caparisoned under the trees a
few yards behind the inn. Quick, bring me to the knights, that I may
show them their danger, and teach them how to avoid it; not a moment is
to be lost.”
Without farther question, Lindsay led the way to the common room where
the knights were lying. They were soon roused, and listened to
Proudfoot’s account of the plot against them with considerable
surprise; but they hesitated to believe him, and were in doubt what to
do.
“Nay, then, Sir Knights,” said Proudfoot, “an ye will hesitate, certain
captivity must befall ye. Captivity, did I say? yea, something worse; a
base and black thirst of vengeance doth move this treacherous knight
against thee, Sir John Assueton. I have reason to know that he hath
ever cherished it sith thy last encounter.”
“’Twere better to plant ourselves here, and fight to the death with
what weapons we may have about us,” said Sir Patrick Hepborne.
“Right, my friend,” said Sir John Assueton, “we at least know and can
be true to one another, and that of itself will give us victory.”
“We shall be prepared for them,” said Mortimer Sang, “and we shall make
them fly before us by the very suddenness of our assault.”
“How many De Willoughby spears are of them?” demanded the taciturn
Roger Riddel, with extreme composure.
“Some two dozen at the least, I warrant me,” replied Proudfoot, “and
all fully appointed.”
“Bring they Norham Castle on their backs?” demanded Riddel again.
“Nay,” replied Proudfoot, “their leader hath kept his scheme to
himself, that he may have the greater share of booty and ransom money.”
“But Norham Castle hath ears,” said Riddel again.
“Thou sayest true, friend,” replied Proudfoot. “Were resistance to be
made, the din of arms and the noise of the assault would soon bring out
the garrison upon ye. Quickly resolve, Sir Knights, for the hour wanes,
and they will be here anon. What can ye fear of traiterie from me?
Could I not have left ye to fall easy victims to Sir Miers de
Willoughby’s snare?”
“So please ye, gallant knights, I will answer with my life for the
truth of Ralpho Proudfoot in this matter,” said Lindsay confidently.
“Nay, an ye fear me, ye shall all stand about me,” said Proudfoot; “and
if ye do find me a traitor, your five daggers may drink my blood at
once.”
The minds of the two knights were at last made up, and they resolved to
trust themselves to the guidance of Ralpho Proudfoot. Armed with their
daggers alone, they stole silently out in the dark, and were so planted
by him behind the gate as to be prepared to rush out when the time for
doing so should come. Ralpho Proudfoot cautioned them to keep perfectly
quiet. To attempt to escape along the street of the village at that
moment would have subjected them to certain observation: they were
therefore to wait his signal, and to follow him. He placed himself, as
he had said, in the midst of them, and set himself to listen for a
sound from the outside.
They had not been long posted, when footsteps were heard approaching
very gently. There was then some whispering, and a slight cough.
Proudfoot immediately answered it.
“Art there, John?” said a voice in an under tone.
“Yea,” replied Proudfoot, imitating the language of the hosteller, “but
they be’s still astir; so when the yate be opened, ye maun rush in like
fiends on them, for the hinge do creak, and they will start to their
arms wi’ the noise. Are ye a’ ready?”
“We are,” replied the voice without.
“Noo, then, in on them and at them,” cried Proudfoot, throwing the gate
wide open, so as to conceal himself and his companions behind it.
In rushed Sir Miers de Willoughby, at the head of a large party of his
men; and out went Ralpho Proudfoot, with the two Scottish knights and
their attendants. The gate was hastily locked externally; the horses
were quickly gained, and mounted in the twinkling of an eye; and Ralpho
Proudfoot, who had taken the precaution to have his steed placed with
the rest, got to saddle along with them. As they rode past the gate of
the hostel of the Norham Tower, the loud voices, and the execrations of
Sir Miers de Willoughby and his people, and the shrill screams of Mrs.
Kyle, told them that the failure of the plot had been already
discovered by the actors in it.
“So,” said Ralpho, in half soliloquy, as he guided the knights down the
village street at a canter—“so, thou didst cease to trust me, Sir
Miers, me who hath been faithful to thee to the peril of my salvation.
By St. Benedict, thou shalt now find that it would have been well for
thee to have trusted me still; yea and thou didst tamper with her whom
I would have espoused. By the bones of St. Baldrid, but thou mayest
mate thee with her now an thou listest, for I am done for ever with
her, with thee, and with England, except as a foeman.”
The two knights made the best of their way until they had got beyond
the English march, and were fairly on what might be termed Scottish
ground. Armed men were still crowding in greater or lesser bodies to
Jedworth, where those who had by this time assembled formed a large
army. They were encamped on what was then called the High Forest; and
thither the two friends were hastening, and were already but a little
way from the position of the troops, when Sir Patrick Hepborne halted,
and thus addressed his companion—
“Canst thou tell me, Assueton, what may cause the mingled crowd of
squires, lacqueys, grooms, and horses, that doth surround the gates of
yonder church? Meseems it some convocation, and those varlets do wait
the pleasure of some personages of greater note who are within.”
“Thou art right,” replied Assueton; “for to-day was fixed for a council
of war to be held within that church, and it would seem that at least
some, if not all, of the nobles and knights of the host are already
met. Let us hasten thither, I beseech thee. I long to learn what is to
be the plan of our warfare.”
“I shall at least meet my father there,” said Sir Patrick listlessly,
and as if he cared for little else. “Do thou follow us, Lindsay, to
take our horses, and then wait for us, with the esquires, under the
spreading oaks of yonder swelling knoll.”
On entering the church the two knights learned that they had arrived
just in time for the opening of the business. The Earls of Fife,
Douglas, Dunbar, and Moray were there, and indeed all the leading
nobles and knights of Scottish chivalry; and the doors being closed,
the assembly were soon deeply engaged in the gravest deliberations.
Whilst the council of war was so employed within the church, Mortimer
Sang was lying at the root of an aged oak, holding conversation to,
rather than with, Roger Riddel. Near them were the horses tethered and
feeding, under the eyes of Robert Lindsay, and his old, though
newly-recovered comrade, Ralpho Proudfoot, who were earnestly engaged
in talking over many a story of their boyhood.
“What dost thou stare at so, friend Riddel?” demanded Sang, who
observed his comrade stretching his neck so as to throw his eyes up the
trough of a ravine down which stole a little rill, that murmured around
the knoll where they were sitting; “what dost thou see, I say, friend
Roger, that thou dost so stretch thy neck like a heron, when disturbed
in her solitary fishing?”
Roger replied not, but nodded significantly, and pointed with his
finger.
“Nay, I see nought,” replied Sang, “save, indeed, a swinking churl, who
doth untie and lead away a gallant and bravely caparisoned steed from
yonder willow that weepeth over the stream.”
Roger looked grave, and nodded again, and looked as much as to say,
“A-well, and dost thou see nothing in that?”
“Nay, now that the knave hath mounted,” said Sang, “he seemeth to ride
like one who would make his horse’s speed keep his neck from the
halter. By’r Lady, he’s gone already. Is the rogue a thief, thinkest
thou, Roger?”
“Notour, I’ll warrant me,” replied Squire Riddel.
“By St. Baldrid, had we but thought of that sooner, we might have
frayed the malfaitor, yea, or taken him in the very fact,” said Sang.
“But now we are too late to meddle in the matter.”
“We are no thief-takers,” replied Roger Riddel, with great
indifference.
“Nay, now I think on’t, he who would hang up his horse so in the
Borders may be his own thief-taker for me,” replied Sang; “but look ye,
friend Roger,” continued he, after a pause, “who may that stranger be
who cometh forth from the crowd armed and spurred, yea, as a squire
ought, yet who walketh away as if neither groom nor horse tarried for
him? Stay—methinks he cometh this way.”
The stranger looked around him, after getting rid of the embarrassment
of the crowd about the church, and then moved quickly towards the knoll
where the two esquires were sitting, and, passing quietly under it,
without either looking at or speaking to them, made his way up the
ravine in the direction of the willow-trees, where the horse had been
tethered. The path he followed was so much lower than the ground whence
they had observed the actions of the man who took the horse, that the
stranger walked smartly on for more than a bow-shot, ere he came within
view of the willow-trees. Then it was that he began to betray great
confusion. He hastened to the spot whence the horse had been so lately
removed, and finding that he was irrecoverably gone, he clasped his
hands, looked up to heaven, and seemed to be lost in despair.
“Dost thou mark yonder man who did walk by here alone?” demanded Sang
eagerly. “Behold how he doth show signs of distress, that would mark
him to be the master of the horse which the thief took. I ween he be no
Scottish squire, for he knew no one, and seemed to covet concealment as
he did pass us by. An I mistake not, he will prove better worth
catching than the thief would have done. Let’s after him, Roger, that
we may prove my saying.”
Roger, though slow to speak, was quick to act. The two esquires seized
their steeds, and throwing themselves into their saddles, galloped at
full speed after the stranger. Startled by the sound of pursuit, he at
first made an effort to escape, but, seeing how hotly he was chased, he
lost spirit, and, shortening his pace, allowed them to come up with
him.
“Whither wouldst thou, comrade? and whence hast thou come? and what
dost thou, a spurred esquire, without a horse?” demanded Sang, in a
string of interrogations.
“I do but breathe the air here,” replied the man in great confusion.
“As for my horse, I do verily believe some villain hath stolen him from
those willow trees where I had tied him.”
“But why didst thou tie thy horse in this lone place? and how comest
thou thus unattended?” demanded Sang again. “But, hey, holy St.
Baldrid, is it thou, my gentle Clerk-Squire Barton? When, I pray thee,
didst thou leave the peaceful following of the godly Bishop of Durham,
to mell thee with dangerous matters like these thou art now in? By the
blessed Rood, it had been well for thee, methinks, an thou couldst but
have aped somewhat of the loutish Scot in thy gait, peraunter thou
mightest have better escaped remark? So, thou hast become a spy on
these our Eastern Marches, hast thou? By the mass, but thou must with
us to the conclave. It doth erke me to speak it, mine excellent friend,
but, by’r Lady, I do fear me that thou mayest hang for it.”
“Talk not so, Squire Sang,” replied Barton, with a face of alarm.
“Trust me, I have seen nought—I know nought. Thou knowest we did drink
together in good fellowship at Norham. Let me go, I do beseech thee,
and put not an innocent man’s life to peril, seeing that appearances do
happen to be so sore against me.”
“Sore against thee, indeed, pot-companion,” said Roger Riddel,
portentously shaking his head.
“Yea, appearances are sore against thee, Master Barton,” reechoed Sang.
“Verily, we did behold thee as thou didst come forth from yonder
church, where thou didst doubtless possess thyself of much important
matter that did there transpire, the which it will be by no means
convenient that thou shouldst carry in safety to those who may have
sent thee hither. Better that thou hadst chanted thirty trentals of
masses in the goodly pile of Durham for the soul of thy grandmother,
ay, and that fasting, too, than that thou shouldst have set thy foot
for a minute’s space of time within yonder church this day.”
“Let me go, good gentlemen, I do beseech ye,” said Barton. “Squire
Riddel, hast thou no compassion for me?”
“Much,” replied Roger. “Natheless, thou must with us, Squire Barton.”
“Nay, in truth thou must with us without more ado,” said Sang; “yet
make thyself as easy as may be; for, in consideration of our meeting at
Norham, I shall do thee all the kindness I may consistent with duty,
both now and when thou shalt be sent to the fatal tree, to the which I
do fear thy passage will be short and speedy.”
The English esquire shuddered, but he was compelled to submit; and he
was accordingly led by his captors to the church, where the council of
war was assembled. The news of his capture excited great interest and
commotion among the knights; and the Earl of Fife, who presided over
their deliberations, had no sooner learned the particulars of his
taking than he ordered him into his presence. Barton came, guarded by
Mortimer Sang and Roger Riddel. He had put on the best countenance he
could, but judging by the working of his features, all his resolution
was required to keep it up.
“Bring forward the prisoner,” said the Earl of Fife. “What hast thou to
say for thyself, Sir Squire? Thou hast been taken in arms within the
Scottish bounds—thou hast been seen of several who did note thine
appearance at this our secret meeting—and there be knights here, as
well as those worthy esquires who took thee, who can speak to thy name
and country. Whence art thou come? and who did send thee hither to espy
out our force, and to possess thyself of our schemes?”
“Trusting to the sacred office of my Lord the Bishop of Durham, I came
but as a pious traveller to visit certain shrines,” replied Barton.
“Being in these parts, I wot it was no marvel in me, the servant of a
churchman so dignified, to look into the church, and——”
“Nay, nay—so flimsy a response as this will by no means serve,”
interrupted the Earl of Fife, who, though cool, calm, and soft in
manner, was in reality much more cruel of heart than his brother the
Wolfe of Badenoch himself, albeit devoid of the furious passion so
ungovernable in that Earl. “He doth but trifle with our patience. Let a
rack be instantly prepared, and let a tree be erected without loss of
time, whereon his tortured limbs, whilst their fibres shall yet have
hardly ceased to feel, may be hung as tender food for the ravens. His
throat shall be squeezed by the hangman’s rope, until all he hath
gained by his espial be disgorged or closed up for ever within it.”
Barton shook from head to foot at this terrible sentence, uttered with
a mildness and composure that might have suited well with a homily. His
face grew deadly pale, despair grappled at his breath, and he gasped as
if already under the hands of the executioner. His eyes, restless and
protruded, seemed as if anxious to shun the picture of the horrible
death that so soon awaited him. His lips moved, but they were dry as
ashes, and they gave forth no sound. Sang and Roger Riddel almost
regretted that they had been instrumental in bringing the wretch there,
though by doing so they had so well served their country. They looked
at each other with horror; but in such a presence, and at such a time,
Sang was condemned to remain as dumb as Squire Riddel. The good Earl of
Moray had more liberty of speech, and he failed not to use it.
“Be not too hasty with him, my Lord,” said he; “he may yet peraunter be
brought to give us tidings of the enemy. Let him but give us what
information he can, under promise, that if it be found soothfast, he
shall have no evil. Meanwhile, after he shall have effunded all that it
may concern us to know, let him be delivered into the custody of the
Constable of Jedworth, with him to liggen in strict durance, until we
shall have certiorated ourselves by our own experience, whether the
things which he may tell be true or false, with certification that his
life shall be the forfeit of the minutest breach of verity. If he doth
refuse these terms, then, in the name of St. Andrew, let him
incontinent lose his head.”
A hum of approbation ran around the meeting, and the Earl of Fife,
though in secret half-chagrined that he had not had his own will, saw
that in this point he must give way to the general voice.
“Thou dost hear thy destiny,” said he to the prisoner; “what is thine
election?”
“My Lord, seeing that I have no alternative but to yield me to dire
necessity,” answered the English esquire, with an expression of
infinite relief in his countenance, “verily, I do most gladly accept
your terms. As God is my judge, I shall tell thee all I know, without
alteration, addition, or curtailment.”
“Who sent thee hither, then?” demanded the Earl of Fife.
“Being one to whom these Marches be well known, I was chosen by the
Lords of Northumberland, and sent hither to learn the state of your
enterprise; as alswa to gather which way ye do propose to draw.”
“Where, then, be these English Lords?” demanded the Earl of Douglas.
“Sirs,” replied the captive squire, “sith it behoveth me to say the
truth, ye shall surely have it. I be come straight hither from
Newcastle, where be Sir Henry Piersie, surnamed Hotspur, from his
frequent pricking; and his brother Sir Rafe Piersie, yea, and divers
other nobles and knights, flowers of English chivalry, all in readiness
to depart thence as soon as they may know that ye have set forward into
England; for, hearing of the strength of your host, they do not choose
to come to meet you.”
“Why, what number do they repute us at?” demanded the Earl of Moray.
“Sir,” replied the esquire, “it is said how ye be forty thousand men
and twelve hundred spears.”
“What then may be their plan?” demanded the Earl of Fife.
“This be their plan, my Lord,” replied the esquire: “If ye do invade
England by Carlisle, then will they straightway force a passage for
themselves by Dunbar to Edinburgh; and if ye do hold through
Northumberland, then will they enter Scotland by the Western Marches.”
As the English esquire Barton was thus delivering himself, the Scottish
lords threw significant glances towards each other. Some further
questions of less moment were put to him, and after he had answered to
all with every appearance of perfect candour—
“Let him be removed into the strict keeping of the Constable of
Jedworth,” said the Earl of Fife. “His life and liberty shall be safe,
provided his report shall in all things prove true, and for this I do
gage my word in name of myself and all these noble lords and knights
here present. Should he be found to have spoken falsely in the veriest
tittle, he knoweth his fate.”
After the prisoner was withdrawn under the charge of a guard, the Earl
of Fife conveyed thanks to the two esquires for having so well
fulfilled their duty to Scotland. The assembled lords and knights were
overjoyed that the intent of their enemies should have been thus made
so surely known to them, and a buzz of congratulation arose.
“This is all well, my Lords,” said the Earl of Fife, after having again
procured silence; “but let us now to council, I entreat you, that we
may straightway devise how best to avail ourselves of the tidings we
have gained. For mine own part I do opine that we should break our host
into two armies. Let the most part, together with all our carriage, go
by the Cumberland Marches and Carlisle, and let a smaller body draw
towards Newcastle-upon-Tyne, to fill up and occupy the attention of the
enemy assembled there. I speak under the correction of wiser heads,”
continued the Earl, bowing around him with great condescension, so as
to excite a burst of approbation from those weaker spirits whom he
daily flattered until he made them his staunch partisans—“I speak, I
say, under the correction of wiser heads; yet meseems, from those
unanimous applauses, my Lords, that you do honour my scheme of warfare
with your universal support; and such being the case, I may now say,
that whilst I do myself propose to lead the main army by the Western
Marches, I shall commit the command of the smaller body to the brave
Earls of Douglas, Dunbar, and Moray. For this last service, methinks,
three hundred lances, and three thousand crossbows and axemen, may well
enow suffice.”
“By St. Andrew, but ’tis a fine thing to know how to keep one’s head
safe,” whispered Sir William de Dalzell ironically to Sir Patrick
Hepborne the younger; “what thinkest thou of him who shall shoulder ye
a catapult to crush a swarm of dung flies, whilst he doth send out
others to war on lions and bearded pards with a handful of hazel nuts.
Depardieux, he who goeth by Carlisle may march boldly from one end of
Cumberland to the other, with a single clump of spears at his back, ay,
and take the fattest spoil too; but he who shall march to Newcastle
will want all the hardy hearts and well-strung thewes and muscles he
can muster around him, and is like after all to get nought but a broken
head for his journey. Holy St. Giles, but ’tis well to take care of
one’s self.”
By a little management, the opinion of the council of war was easily
brought perfectly to coincide with the views of the Earl of Fife. But
so great was the name of James Earl of Douglas, that it was in itself a
host. The two brothers, George Dunbar Earl of Dunbar and March, and
John Dunbar Earl of Moray, too, were so much beloved, that a puissant
band of knights voluntarily mustered under their banners. Among these
were Sir Patrick Hepborne, his son, and Sir John Assueton. Ere the
assembly dissolved, it was determined that the armies should divide,
and march on their respective routes early on the ensuing morning; and
all was bustle and preparation accordingly.