Changes at the Castle of Lochyndorbe—The Wolfe tamed—Alarm for the
Lady Beatrice.
The scene within that fortress was materially changed since our last
visit to it. The boys, Walter and James Stewart, were laid in beds from
which there was but small hope of their ever rising. Sir Alexander
Stewart also lay in a very dangerous and distressing state, with a
shattered arm and a bruised body, resulting from the heap of heavy
stones which had been thrown down upon him from the wall of Spynie; and
the hitherto hardy and impregnable mind and body of the Wolfe of
Badenoch himself, yielding before the storm of calamity that had so
suddenly assailed him, had sunk into a state of torpor, and he was now
confined to a sick bed by a low, yet rapidly consuming fever. In so
short a time as two days his gigantic strength was reduced to the
weakness of a child. His impatience of temper had not been entirely
conquered by the disease, but its effects were sufficiently moderated
by his prostration, to render him no longer a terror to any one; and
this feeling was heightened in all around him, by the conviction that
his malady was of a nature so fatal that his existence must soon be
terminated.
The Lady Mariota was one of the first who became aware of this, and she
prudently regulated her conduct accordingly. Yes, she for whose illicit
love he had sacrificed so much—she who had ever affected so devoted an
attachment to him—she who was the mother of his five boys—she on whose
account he had so resolutely braved so many tempests, and who had been
the original cause of the very feud with the Bishop of Moray which had
led to the commission of excesses so outrageous, and now produced so
much fatal affliction—she it was who, now beginning to show herself in
her true character, sorrowed not for him, but as her own importance and
high estate must inevitably sink in his deathbed. Even her grief for
her lost sons, and her anxiety for those whom she feared to lose, arose
more from the thought that in them perished so many supporters and
protectors who might yet have enabled her to hold her head proudly,
than from any of that warm and perfectly unselfish feeling, which, if
it anywhere exists, must be found to throb in the bosom of a mother.
Instead of flying in distraction from couch to couch, administering all
that imagination could think of, to heal, to support, or to soothe, she
wisely remembered that, in her situation, time was precious; and,
accordingly, she employed every minute of it in rummaging through the
secret repositories of many a curious antique cabinet, and in making up
many a neat and portable package, to be carried off the moment that the
soul of the Wolfe of Badenoch should quit his body. Nor were her active
thoughts bestowed on things inanimate, or within doors only; her tender
care soared even beyond the Castle walls and the Loch that encircled
them; and by means of a chosen few of her own servants whom she had
managed to secure by large bribes to her especial interest, the
surrounding country was raised, and the cattle and sheep that fed in
the lawndes of the forests for many a mile round, were seen pouring in
large bodies towards the land-sconce, to be ready to accompany her, and
to unite their lowings and bleatings to her wailings, when she should
be compelled to take her sad departure from Lochyndorbe.
Nor was the knowledge of this base ingratitude spared to the dying man.
She had not visited him for the greater part of the day. He called, but
the hirelings, who were wont to fly to him ere the words had well
passed his lips, were now glad to keep out of his sight, and each
abandoning to the rest the unwelcome task of waiting on him, he was
left altogether without help. He was parched with a thirst which he
felt persuaded the Loch itself would have hardly quenched; and in the
disturbed state of his nerves he was haunted with the eternal torture
of the idea of its waves murmuring gently and invitingly around him. It
was night. A light step entered his room cautiously, and the rays of a
lamp were seen. He entreated for a cup of water, but no answer was
returned to his request. At length his impatience gave him a momentary
command over his muscles, and throwing down the bed-clothes, he sprang
on his knees, and opened wide the curtains that shaded the lower end of
his bed. By the light of the lamp he beheld the Lady Mariota occupied
in searching through his private cabinet, whence she had already taken
many a valuable, the table being covered with rich chains of gold, and
sparkling gems of every variety of water and colour, set in massive
rings, buckles, brooches, collars, and head-circlets; and so intently
was she busied that she heard not his motion.
“Ha, wretch,” cried the Wolfe of Badenoch, in a hollow and sepulchral
voice of wasted disease; “the curse of my spirit upon thee, what dost
thou there?”
The Lady Mariota gave him not time to add more, for, looking fearfully
round, she beheld the gaunt visage of the Wolfe of Badenoch, with his
eyes glaring fiercely upon her; and believing that he had already died,
and that it was indeed his spirit which cursed her, she uttered a loud
scream, and rushed in terror from the apartment. The Wolfe, exhausted
by the unnatural exertion he had made, sank backwards in his bed, and
lay for some time motionless and unable to speak.
“Oh, for a cup of water,” moaned the miserable man at length, the
excruciating torture of his thirst banishing even that which his mind
had experienced in beholding so unequivocal a proof of the Lady
Mariota’s selfish and unfeeling heart; “oh, will no one bring me a cup
of water? And hath it then come so soon to this, that I, the son of a
King, am left to suffer this foretaste of hell’s torments, and no one
hand to help me? Oh, water, water, water, for mercy’s sake! Alas!
Heaven’s curse hath indeed fallen upon me. My dead and dying sons
cannot help me; and Mariota—ha! fiends, fiends! Ay, there is
bitterness—venom—black poison. Was it for this,” said he, casting his
eyes towards the glittering jewels on the distant table; “was it for a
heart so worthless that I did so brave the curse of the Church? Was it
for such a viper that I did incur my father’s anger? Was it for a
poisoned-puffed spider like this that I did do deeds that made men’s
hair bristle on their heads, and their very eyes grow dim? Did I bear
her fiercely up before a chiding world, that she might turn and sting
me at an hour like this? Ha! punishment, dread punishment was indeed
promised me; but I looked not that it should come from her whom I did
so long love and cherish—from her for whom I have sacrificed peace in
this life, and oh, worse than all, mercy in that to which I am
hastening.” He shuddered at the thoughts which now crowded on his mind,
and buried his head for some moments under the bed-clothes.
It now approached midnight, and the solitary lamp left by the Lady
Mariota was still burning, when his ear caught a rustling noise.
“Ha, Mariota, art there again?” cried the Wolfe of Badenoch,
impatiently lifting up his head.
He looked, and through the drapery of the bed, that still remained wide
open, he beheld the Franciscan standing before him.
“Ha, what! merciful St. Andrew,” cried the Wolfe; “ha, is it thou,
fiend, from whom hath sprung all mine affliction? Devil or monk, thou
shalt die in my grasp.” He made a desperate effort to rise, and
repeated it again and again; but he sank down nerveless, his breast
heaving with agitation, and his eyes starting wildly from their
sockets. “Speak, demon, what further vengeance dost thou come to
execute on this devoted head? Speak, for what fiendish torment canst
thou invent that shall more excruciate the body than racking and
unsatisfied thirst? or what that shall tear the soul more cruelly than
the barbed arrows of ingratitude? Hence, then, to thy native hell, and
leave me to mine.”
“Alexander Stewart, Earl of Buchan, and Lord of Badenoch,” said the
Franciscan, “I do come to thee as no tormenting fiend. The seal of
death doth seem to be set on thy forehead; thou art fast sinking into
his fleshless arms. The damps of the grave do gather on thy brow. ’Tis
not for mortal man as I am, to push vengeance at such an hour. When
thou wert in thy full strength and power I did boldly face thy
wickedness; but now thou art feeble and drivelling as the child that
was born yesterday, or as the helpless crone over whose worn head and
wasted brain an hundred winters have rolled, I come not to denounce
aught of punishment against thee; for already hast thou enow here, and
thou wilt soon be plunged for endless ages in that burning sea to which
it were bootless for me to add one drop of anguish. Forgetting all thy
cruelty against myself, I do come to thee as the hand of Mercy to the
drowning wretch. I come to offer myself as the leech of thy soul as
well as of thy body; and, as an offering of peace, and a pledge of my
sincerity, behold thy beloved son!”
The Franciscan threw aside the folds of his habit, with which he had
hitherto concealed something, and he held up the smiling boy, Duncan
Stewart.
“Mock me not, foul fiend,” cried the frantic father, believing that
what he saw was a phantom; “hence, and disturb not my brain.”
“Again I repeat, I am no fiend,” said the Franciscan mildly. “I come to
tell thee that repentance may yet ensure thee salvation in the next
world; nay, even life in this; yea, and life also to thy sons; and as a
gracious earnest of God’s infinite mercy, behold, I here restore thee
thy best beloved boy, the Benjamin of thy heart, whose life mine hand
did save from that raging fire thyself did so impiously kindle.”
The Wolfe of Badenoch devoured the very words of the Franciscan as he
spake. He gazed wildly on him and on his boy alternately, as if he yet
doubted the reality of the scene; and it was not until the little
Duncan’s joyous laugh rang in his ears, and he felt the boy’s arms
fondly entwining his neck, that he became satisfied of the truth of
what he heard and saw. He was no longer the iron-framed and
stern-souled Wolfe of Badenoch; his body was weak and his mind shaken,
and he sank backwards in the bed, giving way to an hysterical laugh.
“Oh, my boy, my boy,” cried he at length, smothering the youth with his
caresses; “my beloved Duncan, what can I do for so great a mercy!
What—what—but—Oh, mercy, one cup of water, in mercy!—I burn—my tongue
cleaveth—Oh, water, water, in mercy!”
The Franciscan hastened to give him water; and the thirsty wretch
snatched the cup of life from the hand of him whom his unbridled rage
had so wantonly consigned to the cruellest of deaths.
“More, more,” cried the impatient Wolfe of Badenoch; “mine entrails do
crack with the scorching heat within me.”
“Drink this, then,” said the Franciscan, taking a phial from his bosom,
and pouring part of its contents into the cup; “drink this, and thou
shalt have water.”
“Ha!” cried the Wolfe, darting a glance of suspicion towards the monk.
“Yet why should I hesitate?” continued he, as his eyes fell upon
Duncan. “He who hath restored my son, can have little wish to hasten
the end of a dying wretch.”
“And he who might have used the dagger against thee,” said the
Franciscan calmly, “would never have thought of giving thee a death so
tedious as that of poison. Drink; there is health in the cup.”
The Wolfe hesitated no longer.
“Now water, oh, water, in mercy!” cried he again, after he had
swallowed the drug.
“Thy thirst must be moderately ministered unto for a time,” said the
Franciscan; “yet shalt thou have one cup more,” and he poured one for
him accordingly.
“Why art thou thus alone, father,” demanded the boy Duncan; “why is not
my mother here? she who doth ever so caress and soothe thee, if that
the pulses of thy temples do but throb unreasonably. I’ll go and fetch
her hither straightway.”
“Fetch her not hither, Duncan, if thou wouldst not have me curse her,”
cried the Wolfe of Badenoch, dashing away the half-consumed cup of
water, in defiance of his thirst “Oh, that I might yet be myself again,
were it but for a day, that I might deal justice upon her. Then,
indeed, should I die contented.”
“Hush,” said the Franciscan; “such is not the temper that doth best
befit a dying man; yea, and one, too, who hath so much for the which to
ask forgiveness. It doth more behove thee to think of thine own sins
than of those of others. If it may so please Heaven, I shall be the
leech of thy body; but it were well that thou didst suffer me to give
blessed medicine to thy diseased soul, for thy life or thy death
hangeth in the Almighty hand, and no one can tell how soon thou mayest
be called to thy great account. Say, dost thou repent thee of all the
evil thou hast wrought against the Holy Church and her sacred
ministers?”
“I do, I do; most bitterly do I repent me,” cried the Wolfe of
Badenoch, grinding his teeth ferociously, and with an expression of
countenance very different from that becoming an humble penitent. “I do
repent me, I say, in gall and bitterness; for verily she for whom I did
these deeds——”
“Nay, talk not of her,” said the Franciscan, interrupting him; “mix not
up thine angry passions with thine abasement before thine offended
Maker. Repent thee of thy sins—make instant reparation to the Church
from the abundance of thy wealth—resolve to put away all thine
abominations from thee—and, finally, make a solemn vow, that, if it
should please Heaven to restore thee to health, thou wilt do such
penance as it may seem fitting for the injured Bishop of Moray to
impose upon thee—do these things, and all may yet be well with thee. If
thou art willing to vow solemnly to do these things, if Heaven in its
mercy shall yet spare thee, verily I will receive and be witness to thy
serment; and I do beseech thee to speak quickly, for I would fain leave
thee to that healing repose, for the which my medicine hath prepared
thee, that I may go to give healthful balsams to thy three sons, that
they may yet be snatched from an early grave.”
“Yea, most merciful and beneficent monk,” cried the Wolfe of Badenoch,
“thou whom I did believe to be a fiend, but whom I do now find to be
saint upon earth, most gladly do I yield me to thee. I here most
solemnly vow to the Virgin and the Holy Trinity, that I do heartily
repent me of mine outrages against the Holy Church of God and His holy
ministers; that I am ready to make what reparation I may; and that, if
it so please Heaven to rescue me from the jaws of death, I shall do
penance in such wise as to the Bishop and the King, my father, may seem
best.”
“Be thy vow registered in Heaven,” said the Franciscan, solemnly
crossing himself. “And now, with the blessing of St. Francis, thou
shalt soon be in a state for fulfilling it. But let me entreat thee to
yield thyself to that repose, the which the healing draught thou hast
taken must speedily ensure to thee; when thou dost again awake, thy
consuming fever will have left thee, and in two or three days at most
thou mayest be again in thy saddle. Let me now hasten to help thy
sons.”
The boy Duncan Stewart had already paved the way for the Franciscan’s
favourable reception with his brothers, who gladly submitted themselves
to his directions, and he speedily administered to their respective
cases. The domestics now began to be re-assured of the probable
recovery of the invalids, and they already quaked for the returning
wrath of the Wolfe of Badenoch. The Lady Mariota, sat trembling in her
apartment. The Franciscan, who had formerly disappeared so
miraculously, and who now re-appeared so strangely among them, was eyed
with fear by every one within the Castle, and his orders were obeyed as
implicitly and as promptly as the Wolfe himself, so that he lacked for
nothing that his patient required. Having done all for them that art
could effect, he had time to think of the Lady Beatrice, whom he
believed to be an inmate of the Castle, seeing he had no doubt that Sir
Andrew Stewart must have brought her thither. But he found, on inquiry,
that the knight had not appeared. He was vexed at the disappointment,
but taking it for granted that her protector had carried her to some
other fastness belonging to his father, he felt no uneasiness, trusting
that he should soon have tidings of her.
Dismissing all thoughts of the Lady Beatrice, therefore, from his mind,
he devoted himself eagerly to the restoration of the sick, being filled
with the idea of the signal service he was about to perform to the
Church, the extent of which would much depend on the recovery of those
who now lay in so precarious a state, that they might appear before the
world as living instances of penitence. For two days, then, he was
indefatigable in his attentions; and the effect of his care and skill
was, that the Wolfe of Badenoch’s cure was rapid. His disease had been
chiefly caused by sudden affliction, operating on an impatient temper,
and a conscience ill at ease. The Franciscan’s words, therefore, had
happily combined with his medicines to produce an almost miraculous
effect; and, ere the time promised by the monk was expired, he appeared
in the great hall, haggard and disease-worn indeed, but perfectly ready
to fill his saddle. The recovery of his sons, though there was now
little to be feared for them, promised to be more tedious; and it was
well for the peace of the Castle of Lochyndorbe that it was so, for
they might have made some objections to the decided step which their
father took the moment he again showed himself.
“Ha, villains,” cried he as he came stalking through the opening crowd
of domestics that shrunk from him on either hand—“so the Earl of
Buchan, the son of a King, mought have died for all ye cared. Ha!
whither did ye all hide, knaves, that I was nearly perishing of thirst,
and no one to give me a cup of water? But ’tis no marvel that ye should
have forgotten your master when—Ha! Bruce—send Bruce, the old esquire,
hither. What mighty lowing of cattle, and bleating of sheep, is that I
do hear?”
The domestics looked at each other, but no one dared to speak. The
impatient Wolfe hurried up a little turret-stair, from the top of which
he had a view over the outer walls of the Castle, and the narrow strait
that divided that from the mainland. There he beheld the whole of the
flocks and herds which the Lady Mariota had so prudently collected
together, and which her trepidation had made her forget to order to be
driven again to their native hills and forests. He wanted no further
information, for the truth flashed on him at once. His eye reddened,
his cheek grew paler than even the disease had left it, his lip
quivered, and he rushed precipitately down to the hall.
“Where, in the fiend’s name, is Bruce?” cried he. “Ha! thou art there,
old man. Get thee quickly together some dozen or twain of mounted
spears, with palfreys for the Lady Mariota and her women, and
sumpter-horses needful for the carriage of their raiment; and let her
know that it is my will she do forthwith depart hence with thee for my
Castle of Cocklecraig, the which is to be her future place of
sojournance.”
The esquire bowed obediently, and hastened to execute the command of
his impatient Lord. In a little time a page appeared, with an humble
message from the Lady Mariota, to know whether the Earl was to
accompany her into Buchan.
“Tell her no,” replied the Wolfe, turning round on the frightened page,
and speaking with a voice that shook the Gothic hall, which he was
rapidly measuring backwards and forward with his paces.
Again a woman came to him from the Lady Mariota, most submissively
entreating for an interview.
“Nay, the red fiend catch me then!” cried the furious Wolfe, his eyes
flashing fire; “I do already know too much of her baseness, ever to
trust myself with a sight of her again. ’Twere better, for her sake,
that she urge me not to see her. Ha! tell her I have sworn by my
knighthood that the threads that hath bound my heart to her
worthlessness shall be for ever snapped. Let not the poisonous toad
cross my path, lest I crush her in mine ire, and give to my conscience
another sin to be repented of.—Away!”
The Wolfe again paced the hall, very much moved. The neighing of horses
and the noise of preparation were heard in the court-yard; the warder’s
call for the boats sounded across the lake; and a wailing of women’s
voices soon afterwards succeeded. The Wolfe paced the hall with a yet
more rapid step; he became much moved, and hid his face from the
Franciscan, who was the only witness of his agitation. But at last it
became too strong to be concealed, and he rushed up the turret-stair,
whence he had before looked out towards the land-sconce. He remained
absent for a considerable time; and when he returned, his face was
deeply marked with the traces of the strong contending emotions he had
undergone.
“How doth thy leech-craft prosper, good Sir Friar?” demanded he at
length, evidently from no other desire than to talk away his present
feelings, seeing that he had already put the same question more than
half-a-dozen times before.
“I do trust that, under God, thy sons will yet be well,” replied the
Franciscan. “But be not impatient, my Lord; their cure must be the work
of time. Meanwhile, be thankful to a merciful Providence, who doth thus
restore to thee all those of whom thou didst fear thou wert bereft.”
“All!” cried the Wolfe, shuddering, “nay, not all; all but Andrew, and
he did perish horribly in the flames of the Maison Dieu, whither I did
myself enforce him. Heaven in its mercy pardon me!”
“Andrew!” cried the Franciscan, with surprise; “trust me, my Lord, Sir
Andrew Stewart is safe.”
“Safe!” cried the Wolfe, clasping his hands together in an
ecstacy—“then thanks be to a merciful God, who hath saved me from the
torturing thought of having been the cause of working my son’s death.
But where, I pray thee, was he seen?” demanded the Wolfe eagerly.
“He was seen in the Chapel of the Maison Dieu with a lady, whom he did
thereafter lead through the garden of the Hospital,” replied the
Franciscan.
“What, the Lady Beatrice!” demanded the Wolfe; “for that is all the
name I did ever know her to bear as a woman, albeit I do well recollect
her masculine appellation of Maurice de Grey.”
“The same,” replied the Franciscan.
“Then hath Andrew preserved her life,” replied the Wolfe. “By the beard
of my grandfather, but I do greatly rejoice to hear it. There is still
some virtue in the caitiff after all. My efforts to save the lady were
vain; I did even gain her chamber, but I found her gone; from which I
was compelled with grief to believe that she had surely perished. But
whither hath my son Andrew conveyed her?”
“Nay, that I have not yet discovered,” replied the Franciscan; “but Sir
Andrew Stewart saved not the Lady Beatrice from the flames. One of the
sisters of the Hospital did teach her how to escape; and as they
crossed the Chapel together, Sir Andrew Stewart, who had fled thither
for safety——”
“Ah, coward,” cried the Wolfe; “so, after all, he was the craven
kestrel. By my beard, I thought as much. And so thou sayest that thou
art yet ignorant where the Lady Beatrice hath been bestowed.”
“Nay, my good Lord,” replied the Franciscan; “but with a knight of his
good report she is sure of protection, and——”
“What sayest thou?—good report, sayest thou?” interrupted the Wolfe.
“Though he be a brauncher from mine own nest, yet must I, in honesty,
tell thee, Sir Friar, that a greater hypocrite presseth not the surface
of the earth. Protection, saidst thou? By St. Barnabas, but she hath
already hath enow of his protection.”
“What dost thou mean, my Lord?” replied the monk, in astonishment.
“Why, by my knighthood, but I am ashamed to speak so of mine own son,”
replied the Wolfe; “yet am I bound to treat thee with candour, and so
thou shalt e’en have it.” And he proceeded to give the monk a short
history of the infamous treachery of Sir Andrew Stewart towards the
Lady Beatrice.
“My Lord of Buchan,” cried the Franciscan, with an agitation and
earnestness of manner which the Wolfe of Badenoch could by no means
explain, “if I have found favour with thee, lend me thine aid, I
entreat thee, to recover the Lady Beatrice from thy son. She is
destined to take the veil, and in giving me thine aid to reclaim her
thou wilt be doing a pious duty, the which will assuredly tell for the
good of thy soul, yea, and help to balance the heavy charge of thine
iniquities.”
“Right joyfully shall I give thee mine aid,” replied the Wolfe of
Badenoch; “the more that she was the lady of the gallant Sir Patrick
Hepborne, with whom she was here, in the disguise of a page. Ha, ha,
ha, ha! But wherefore doth she now take the veil?”
“’Tis fitting that she doth atone for a youth of sin by a life of
penitence,” replied the Friar, unwilling to speak more plainly.
“So,” said the Wolfe of Badenoch, with a significant look, “after all
her modest pretence, and after all Sir Patrick’s cunning dissembling,
’twas as I did suspect then, after all?”
“Thou didst suspect, then?” said the Friar; “alas! I do fear with too
much reason. Yet let us not tarry, but hasten to recover her, I pray
thee.”
“Squires, there—what, ho, within!” cried the Wolfe, “hath no one as yet
heard aught of Sir Andrew Stewart?”
“No one, my noble Earl,” replied an esquire who waited.
“By the holy mass, then,” said the Wolfe, “but the caitiff hath taken
refuge in some of my strongholds. But ’twill be hard an we ferret him
not out. Ha! knaves there, let fifty mounted lances be ready in the
lawnde beyond the land-sconce ere I can wind my bugle.”
The Wolfe of Badenoch was restored to all his pristine vigour by the
very thought of going on an expedition, even though it was against his
own son. The court-yard rang with the bustle the Castle was thrown
into, and all the boats were put in requisition to ferry the horses
across. Everything was ready for them to mount at the land-sconce in an
incredibly short space of time; but, however short the delay, still it
was too much for his impatience; nor was his companion less restless
than the Wolfe, till he found himself in saddle. When all were mounted,
the monk showed, by his forward riding, that there was little risk of
his being a drag upon the speed of the furious-pricking knight, and the
Wolfe of Badenoch exulted to behold his horsemanship.
“By the mass,” cried he, pulling up a little, “but thou art a prince of
friars; ’tis a pleasure, I vow, to have a stalwarth monk like thee as a
confessor; wouldst thou be mine, thou shouldst ever ride at my elbow.
Where hadst thou thy schooling, Sir Friar?”
“I have rode in the lists ere now,” replied the Franciscan; “yea, and
war have I seen in all its fashions. But it doth now befit me to forget
these vain carnal contentions, and to fight against mine own evil
passions, the which are harder to subdue than any living foe. And in
this let me be an ensample to thee, my Lord, for verily the time is but
short sith that I was as violent and tempestuous as thyself; and hard
it is even yet for me, frail man as I am, to keep down the raging devil
that is within me. May the blessed Virgin increase our virtuous
resolution!” said he, crossing himself.
To this pious ejaculation the Wolfe added a hearty “Amen;” and they
again pushed on at the same rapid pace at which they had originally
started.