The Bishop’s Palace at Spynie—The Wolfe gets a Surprise.
The wretched Wolfe of Badenoch was slowly raised by those who were
about him; and he submitted, as if altogether unconscious of what they
were doing. His features were immoveable, and his eyes vacant, until
they rested on his two sons, Walter and James, who lay wounded in the
arms of his servants.
“Where is my son Andrew?” cried he, suddenly recovering the use of
speech.
The attendants muttered to one another, but no one answered him.
“Speak, ye knaves,” cried he, grinding his teeth, and at the same time
springing on them, and seizing one of them in each hand by the throat;
“villains, I will choke ye both with my grasp if ye answer me not.”
“My noble Lord,” cried the men, terrified by his rage and his threats,
“we saw him enter the burning building with thee, but none of us saw
him issue thence.”
“Villains, villains, tell me not so!” cried the Wolfe, shaking the two
men from him, and sending them reeling away with such force that both
were prostrated on the earth. “What, hath he too perished?—And it was I
who did myself compel him thither!” and, saying so, he struck his
breast, and moved about rapidly through the court, giving vent to a
frenzy of self accusation.
“Ha!” cried he, halting suddenly, as he heard the clang of horses’
heels approaching; “who comes there?—Alexander—my son—thou art all that
is left to me now;” and springing forward, he clasped the knees of Sir
Alexander Stewart, who at that moment appeared, followed by the whole
of his force.
“Why tarriest thou here, father?” demanded his son; “depardieux, but I
have sought thee around all the glorious fires we have kindled. Little
did I think to find thee here in this by-corner, looking on so paltry a
glede as this, when the towers of the Cathedral do shoot out flames
that pierce the heavens, and proclaim thy red vengeance on the Bishop
of Moray, yea, even to his brother-mitred priest of Ross, even across
the broad friths that do sunder them.—Come with me, I pray, and ride
triumphant through the flaming streets, that our shouts may ring
terribly in the craven corbie’s ears, and reach him even where he doth
hide him in his Palace of Spynie.—But what aileth thee, father, that
thou seemest so unmanned.”
“Alexander,” cried the afflicted father, embracing his son, who stooped
over him, “thy brethren have perished; Walter and James are there dying
from their bruises, and Andrew and Duncan—my beloved boy Duncan—have
perished in these flames.”
“How, what! how hath this happened?” cried Sir Alexander, leaping from
his horse and running to question the attendants who supported his two
wounded brothers. From them he gathered a brief account of the events
that had occurred, and for some moments gave way to the sorrow that
afflicted his father.
“But why grieve we here, my Lord?” cried he suddenly; “of a truth,
whatever woe hath befallen us, hath but come by reason of that
ill-starred enemy of our house, Bishop Barr, who has driven us to the
desperation out of which all these evils have arisen. He and his
accursed flock of ill-omened crows have flown to the refuge of his
Palace of Spynie. Rouse, my noble father, and let us gallop thither and
seek a sweet revenge by pulling the choughs from their nests.”
“Right, son Alexander,” cried the Wolfe, his native temper being so far
roused for the moment by this speech that he shook off the torpor that
had come upon him, and sprang into his saddle; “by this beard, but thou
dost say right. ’Tis indeed that accursed Priest-Bishop who hath
embittered the whole stream of my life, and hath now been the cause of
hurling all this misery upon me. Alas, my poor boys!—But, by the blood
of the Bruce, they shall be avenged.—I shall take thy counsel, my
son—My son, said I?—Alas, Alexander, thou wilt soon, I fear, be mine
only son.—Dost hear, Sir Squire?” said he, turning fiercely to one of
his attendants, “See that thou dost take care of my wounded boys. Take
people enow with thee, and see that they be promptly and tenderly
carried on men’s shoulders to Lochyndorbe—Dost thou mark me?—Thy head
shall pay the forfeit of thy neglect of the smallest tittle of thy
duty.”
“Ay,” cried Sir Alexander Stewart, “our business, I trow, will soon be
sped, and we shall overtake them before they shall have gone many miles
of the way.”
“Come, then, Alexander, let’s to Spynie,” cried the Wolfe; and then
turning again to the esquire—“But take care of my boys, and see that
they be gently borne.”
“On, brave spears,” cried Sir Alexander; “ye shall have work peraunter
to do anon.”
Out dashed the Wolfe of Badenoch, gnashing his teeth, as if to wind
himself up to desperation, yet rather led than followed by Sir
Alexander Stewart, and away rattled about two hundred well-armed and
well-mounted men-at-arms at their backs, leaving behind them a
sufficient force to escort the wounded youths homeward in safety. There
were but few among the troops that would not have willingly stayed
behind. They liked not this ungodly warfare, and although they
witnessed the execution of the Wolfe of Badenoch’s fell fury on the
holy edifices, done by a few of the less scrupulous ministers of his
vengeance, they felt conscience-stricken at the sight, and this feeling
had not been diminished by the denunciations of the Franciscan, the
direful fate of the boy Duncan Stewart, and of his brother Sir Andrew,
and that which had befallen the youths Walter and James, of whose
recovery there seemed to be but little hope.
The Palace of Spynie offered them but a wretched defence against any
assailant who might choose to attack it, for it was not till the
following century that it was so strengthened as to enable Bishop David
Stuart [1] to defy the proud Earl of Huntly. The buildings, indeed,
were surrounded by a wall; but, trusting to that awe which the sacred
dignity of the possessor was calculated to inspire, the wooden gate was
left unprotected by any portcullis of iron. It therefore promised to be
easily assailable by the sledge-hammers which had been found so useful
in furthering the work of destruction they had already accomplished.
The Wolfe of Badenoch, hurried on by his son, swept over the gentle
eminence lying between the town and the palace, and as the distance was
but a mile, his excitement had had hardly time to expend itself ere he
found himself approaching the walls. The lurid red vault of the sky
reflected a dim light, which might have been sufficient to enable them
to discover the building before them. But, independently of this, the
summit of the outer walls was lined by a number of torches, which began
to flit about hastily, as soon as the thundering sound of the horses’
feet reached those who carried them.
“The place doth seem to be already alarmed,” cried the Wolfe of
Badenoch, as they advanced, his resolute soul shaken by his recent
calamities. “These lights are not wont to appear on the grass-grown
walls of these mass-ensconced priests. Thou shalt halt here, son
Alexander, and let me advance alone to reconnoitre. I cannot, I wis,
afford to peril the life of thee, whom my fears do tell me I may now
call mine only son.”
“Peril my life?” cried Sir Alexander indignantly; “what, talkest thou
of peril, when we have but these carrion crows to deal with? I trow
there be garrison enow of them, sith that all their rookeries, grey,
black, and hooded, have doubtless gathered there to-night. By my
knighthood, but it doth almost shame me to attack them with harness on
my back, or men-at-arms at my heels. And see, the lights have
disappeared. Never trust me, but those who did flourish them have fled
into the deepest cellar of the place, at the very tramp of our
war-steeds.”
“Nay, but, son Alexander,” repeated the Wolfe, “I do command thee to
halt; thou shalt not advance until I shall have first——Where hath he
vanished?” cried the Wolfe, losing sight of him for a moment in the
dark. “Ha! there he speeds him to the gate,” and, leaping from his
saddle, he launched himself after his son. Sir Alexander had snatched a
sledge-hammer from some one near him, and was already raising it to
strike the first blow at the gate, when his right arm fell shattered
and nerveless by his side, and he was crushed to the earth by some
unseen power. The Wolfe of Badenoch reached his son but to raise him up
in his arms. At that moment a broad blaze arose on the top of the wall,
immediately over the gateway, in front of which the Wolfe of Badenoch
stood appalled by the apparition it illumined, and he grew deadly pale
when he beheld the figure of the Franciscan, of that very friar whom he
believed nothing but superhuman power could have saved from the flames
of the Maison Dieu, again presented before his eyes. The attitude of
the monk was fearfully commanding. He reared a large crucifix in his
left hand, whilst the other was stretched out before him. The light by
which he was encircled shot around him to a great distance, showing the
walls thickly manned with crossbow-men prepared to shoot upon the
assailants, and exhibiting these assailants themselves with their faces
turned to what they believed to be a miraculous vision, which filled
them with a terror that no merely human array could have awakened.
“Alexander Stewart, Earl of Buchan, and Lord of Badenoch,” cried the
Franciscan, in his wonted clear but solemn voice, “have I not told thee
that the Omnipotent hath resigned thee and thine into my grasp for
penance or for punishment? Go, take thy wounded son with thee, sith
that thou hast sought this fresh affliction. His life and the lives of
those who are now borne to thy den hang on thy repentance.”
A hissing sound was heard—a dense vapour arose—and all was again dark
as before. Some of the Wolfe of Badenoch’s terrified attendants
ventured to approach the gate to assist him. They carried Sir Alexander
away; and the ferocious Earl, again subdued from the high wrath to
which his son’s sudden excitation had for a moment raised his native
temper, relapsed into that apathetical stupor from which he had been
roused. He seemed to know not what he was doing, or where he was; but,
mechanically mounting his horse, he retired from the walls of Spynie,
and took his way slowly homewards. As the distant conflagration flashed
from time to time on his face, he started and looked towards it with
wild expression—and then elevated his eye towards his son, who was
carried on a bier formed of crossed lances, by some men on foot; but
excepting when he was so moved, his features were like those of the
stone effigy which now lies stretched upon his tomb.
The Bishop and the dignitaries of the Cathedral who composed his
Chapter, had assembled in fear and trembling in the Chapel of the
Palace, where they offered up prayers for deliverance from their
scourge; and the Wolfe of Badenoch and his formidable party were no
sooner ascertained to have permanently withdrawn, than they issued
forth, bearing some of the most holy of their images, with the most
precious relics of saints, which had been hastily snatched from their
shrines on the first alarm of the enemy’s approach, and began to move
in melancholy procession towards Elgin, guarded by the armed vassals of
the Church, who had been summoned to man the Palace walls. As they rose
over the hill, they beheld the flames still raging in all their fury.
The sun was by this time rising over the horizon, but his rays added
little to the artificial day that already possessed the scene. The
smiling morning, indeed, served to show the extent of the devastation
which the flames had already occasioned; but the cheerful matin song of
the birds accorded ill with the wailings that burst from those who
beheld this dismal spectacle. The pride of the Bishop, if the good man
ever had any, was indeed effectually humbled. As he rode on his palfrey
at the head of the sad procession, the reins held by two attendants,
one of whom walked on each side of him, he wept when he came within
view of the town; and, ordering them to halt, he crossed his hands
meekly over his breast, and looked up in silent ejaculation to Heaven.
“O speculum patriæ et decus regni,” cried he, turning his eyes again
towards the Cathedral, whilst the tears rolled over his cheeks. “Oh,
glory and honour of Scotland—thou holy fane, which we, poor wretched
mortals, did fondly believe to be a habitation worthy of the omnipotent
and mysterious Trinity, to whom thou wast dedicated—behold thee, for
the sins of us the guilty servants of a just God, behold thee yielded
up a prey to the destroyer! Oh, holy Father, and do thou, blessed
Virgin Mother, cause our prayers to find acceptance at the Almighty
throne, through the merits of thy beloved Son—may we, thy sinful
creatures, be humbled before this thine avenging arm; and may the
fasts, penances, and mortifications we shall impose be the means of
bringing us down, both body and soul, unto the dust, that thy just
wrath against us may be assuaged; for surely some great sin hath beset
us, seeing it hath pleased thee to destroy thine own holy temple, that
our evil condition might be made manifest to us.”
Those who formed the procession bent reverently to the ground as the
venerable prelate uttered these words.
“And now, my sons,” said he with a sigh, “let us hasten onwards, and do
what we can to preserve what may yet have escaped from the general
destruction.”
The first care of the good Bishop was to collect the scattered
townsmen, who had already begun to cluster in the streets; and every
exertion was immediately used to put a stop to the conflagration. The
Franciscan was there, but his attention was occupied with something
very different from that which so painfully interested every one else.
The Lady Beatrice—was she safe? At the risk of his life he had
clambered over the blazing roof of the Maison Dieu to seek her in her
chamber. She was gone from thence. He had searched anxiously through
all the upper apartments of the building, and yet he had seen no trace
of her. Full of alarm, he had been compelled to rest on the hope that
she might have escaped with others from the flames; and, with an
unspeakable anxiety to have that hope confirmed, he went about
inquiring impatiently of every one he met, whether any damsel,
answering to the description of the Lady Beatrice, had been seen; but
of all those to whom he addressed himself, there was no one who could
say that she was known to have escaped.
“Miserable wretch that I am,” said he, “have her sins then been
punished by so terrible a death—sins for the which I myself must be
called to dread account both here and hereafter—I who deprived her of
the blessing of a virtuous mother’s counsel, and of a father’s powerful
protection? Holy St. Francis forgive me, the thought is agony.”
He sat him down on a stone in the court of the Maison Dieu, and he was
soon joined by sister Marion, the lame housekeeper of the Hospital, who
came to mourn over its smouldering ruins.
“Oh, dear heart and alas!” cried the withered matron—“the blessed St.
Mary defend, protect, and be good unto us—and there is a dole sight to
be sure. Under that very roof hae I been housed and sheltered, come the
feast of Our Lady, full forty——nay, I should hae said fourteen years
and upwards, and now I am to be turned out amidst the snares and
temptations of this wicked world, to be the sport and the pastime of
the profligate and ungodly. What will become of us, to whose lot beauty
hath fallen as a snare, and fair countenance as an aid to the Evil One?
Where, alas! shall we hide our heads that we fall not in the way of
sinners? Where——”
“Tell me, sister!” cried the Franciscan, impatiently interrupting
her—“tell me, didst thou see the Lady Beatrice, whom I escorted hither
yesterday?”
“Yea, in good verity, did I that, brother,” replied Marion.
“Where?—where and when?” cried the anxious Franciscan.
“Nay, be not in such a flurry, brother,” replied she. “I did first see
her in the refectory when thou didst bring her there, and a pretty
damsel she be, I trow.”
“Nay, but didst thou see her after the fire?” demanded the Franciscan.
“In very deed, nay, brother,” replied the literal sister, Marion.
“Wretch that I am,” cried the Franciscan, in an agony of suspense,
“hath then no one seen her escape?”
“St. Katherine help us, an thou dost talk of her escape, indeed, thou
comest to the right hand in me,” replied she, “sith that it was I
myself who did show her how to escape; but that was neither before nor
after the fire, I promise thee, but in the very height of the brenning,
when the flames were bursting here, and crackling there—and the
rafters——”
“Nay, tell me, I entreat thee, sister,” cried the Franciscan,
interrupting her, though greatly relieved—“tell me how and where she
did save herself?”
“But I do tell thee thou art wrong, brother,” cried the peevish old
woman, “for it was in no such ways, seeing, as I said before, it was I
myself that did save her. But thou art so flustrificacious; an thou
wouldst but let me tell mine own tale——”
“Go on then, I pray thee, sister Marion,” cried the monk, curbing his
ire, and patiently resuming his seat upon the stone; “take thine own
way.”
“In good troth, my way is the right way,” replied sister Marion. “Well,
as I was a-saying, I was sound asleep in my bed, in the back turret at
the end of the passage, when cometh the Lady Beatrice to my room, and
did shake, shake at me; and up did I start, for luckily for me I had
taken an opiate, tincture, or balsam, the which the good cellarer doth
give me ofttimes for the shooting toothache pain (but, alas! I doubt it
be all burnt now), and so I had somehow lain down in my clothes; and
then came the cries of the people, and the smoke and flame—and so I did
bethink me straightway of the nun’s private stair to the Chapel, the
which did lead down from my very door. This I did enter, and bid the
Lady Beatrice follow me. But I being rather lame, and the stair being
fit only for one at a time, she did sorely hurry and hasten me; and
methought we should never hae gotten down to the Chapel. A-weel, as we
were crossing the Chapel to make our way out at the door that doth lead
into the garden, who should I see coming down the steps of the
main-stair that doth lead from yonder passage on the ground floor into
the Chapel, but Sir Andrew Stewart, the son of the Wolfe of Badenoch
himself. Trust me, I stayed not long. But if the Lady Beatrice did
complain of my delay in the way down thither, I trow she had reason in
sooth to think me liard enow in leaving it. I was gone in a trice ere
she did miss me; for of a truth I had no fancy to fall into such hands,
since who doth know what——”
“And the Lady Beatrice?” interrupted the Franciscan.
“Nay, I must confess I did see him lay his hands on her,” answered
Marion; “and I did see him behind me as I did flee through the garden.
But——”
“Then all is well,” interrupted the Franciscan, turning away from the
fatiguing old woman, and finishing the rest of his speech in grateful
soliloquy. “It doth rejoice me much that she hath fallen into the hands
of Sir Andrew Stewart; for albeit the Wolfe of Badenoch hath wrought so
much evil, verily I have myself seen that he is no enemy to the Lady
Beatrice. And then, Sir Andrew Stewart hath the reputation of being the
best of his family—one who is a mirror of virtue and of peaceful
gentleness; a perfect lamb of patience in that ferocious litter of wild
beasts. Even our holy Bishop hath him in favourable estimation. He
could not choose but take especial care of her. Praised be the Virgin,
I may now go about the Bishop’s affairs withouten care, being sure that
I shall hear good tidings of her anon.”
All that day and night, and all the following day, had passed away—the
flames had been partly extinguished by active exertion, and had partly
expired from lack of further food, and much had doubtless been done by
the influence of images and relics. Measures also had been taken to
preserve the quiet and peace of the town, as well as to ensure the
immediate accommodation and support of such of its inhabitants as had
suffered in the general calamity. Penitential prayers had been offered
up, and hymns chanted in the conventual churches and chapels which had
not suffered. A general penance and solemn fast had been ordered, after
all which the Bishop sent for the Franciscan, and held a long
conference with him on the subject of the affairs of the Church, which
we shall leave them to discuss together, that we may now follow the
humbled Wolfe of Badenoch to Lochyndorbe.