Bishop Barr at Lochyndorbe Castle—Reception by the Wolfe.
The Wolfe of Badenoch and the Franciscan had hardly reached the end of
the lake, when they descried a mounted knight approaching them.
“By all that is marvellous,” cried the Wolfe, halting suddenly, “but
yonder doth come my very son Andrew!”
“Is it indeed Sir Andrew Stewart?” said the Franciscan; “methinks he
cometh as if he had little fear of blame about him.”
“By’r Lady, but his coming home thus at all doth look something like
honesty,” said the Wolfe; “but do thou let me question him, holy
father, nor fear that I will deal over gently with him. So, Sir
Andrew,” cried he, as soon as his son was near enough to hear him, “I
do rejoice to behold thee again. Whence comest thou, I pray thee?”
“From Elgin straightway, my noble father,” replied Sir Andrew Stewart.
“Marry, and what hath kept thee there so long, then?” demanded the
Wolfe; “methought that thou hadst seen enow to teach thee that no whelp
of mine could be welcome guest there.”
“In truth, I did so find it indeed,” replied Sir Andrew Stewart.
“Then what a murrain hath kept thee there?” demanded the Wolfe sternly.
“Come, thou knowest I am not over patient. Thy story—thy story quickly.
What befel thee after thou didst enter the blazing Spital of the Maison
Dieu? Didst thou rescue the damosel—the Lady Beatrice?”
“I did,” replied the unblushing knight; “verily, I rushed to the upper
chamber through the fire and the smoke, and I did snatch her from the
very flames, and bear her forth in safety.”
“There thou liest, caitiff,” roared out the Wolfe; “thou dost lie in
the very threshold of thy story. By the mass, but we shall judge of the
remainder of thy tale by the sample thou hast already given us. But go
on, Sir Andrew. What didst thou with her after thou didst save her, as
thou saidst? ay, and tell us, too, how thou didst escape?”
“But first, where is she now?” demanded the Franciscan, breaking in.
“Nay, Sir Friar, be not impatient,” cried the Wolfe of Badenoch; “thou
wilt gain nothing by impatience. Interrupt him not, I entreat thee; but
let him go on in order. Proceed, sirrah.”
“I retreated with the Lady Beatrice, through the Chapel of the Maison
Dieu,” replied Sir Andrew Stewart, now assuming greater caution as to
what he uttered.
“Well, Sir Knight,” exclaimed the Franciscan keenly, “what hast thou
done with her? Speak to that at once.”
“Nay, Sir Friar, why wilt thou thus persist in taking speech?” demanded
the Wolfe testily; “thou art most unreasonably hasty. By the beard of
my grandfather, but impatience and unbridled passion doth ever defeat
itself. Dost thou not see that I am cool and unflurried with this
knave’s face? Answer me, villain,” roared he to his son, “answer me,
thou disgrace to him from whom thou art sprung—thou child of thine
infamous mother—answer me, I tell thee, quickly, and to the point, or,
by the blood of the Bruce, I shall forget that thou hast any claim to
be called my son.”
“Be not angry with me, father,” said Sir Andrew, trembling; “verily the
lady is safe, for all that I do know of her; and——”
“Where hast thou bestowed her, villain?” shouted the Wolfe; “speak, or,
by all the fiends, thou shalt never speak more.”
“I will, father, if thou wilt but suffer me,” replied the terrified Sir
Andrew Stewart.
“Why dost thou not go on then?” cried the Wolfe yet more impatiently;
“where hast thou bestowed the lady, villain! An we be not possessed by
thee of the whole of thy story, and of the place where thou hast
confined her, in less time than the flight of an arrow doth consume, by
the blessed house of my ancestors, I shall cause hang thee up, though
thou be’st called my son.”
“The lady is not in my hands,” replied Sir Andrew Stewart in terrible
alarm; “she fled from me in the garden of the Maison Dieu, and I did
never see her more.”
“Hey—what?—but this may be all of a piece with the beginning of thy
tale, which we know was false as hell,” replied the Wolfe.
“Nay, we do indeed know so much as that thou didst never save her,”
cried the Franciscan; “we do know right well how she was saved; yea,
and we do know, moreover, that thou didst seize her as she did pass
through the Chapel, and thou wert heard with her in the garden. Tell me
speedily whither didst thou carry her, and where is she now?”
“Ay, where is she now,” cried the Wolfe; “out with the truth, if thou
wouldst escape hanging. Be assured that every false word thou mayest
utter shall be proved against thee; so see that thou dost speak truth.”
“Have mercy on me, father,” cried the wretched Sir Andrew Stewart,
throwing himself from his horse, and dropping on his knees between the
Wolfe and the Franciscan; “have mercy on me, and I will tell thee all
the truth. To my shame I do confess that vanity and the fear of my
father’s wrath against my cowardice did prompt me to utter that which
was false; and——”
“Ha! where is she, then, villain?” cried the Wolfe, interrupting him.
“Distraction! where hast thou concealed her?” cried the Franciscan.
“Verily, I know nothing of her,” said the knight.
“Wretch, dost thou return to thy falsehood?” cried the Franciscan.
“Nay, what I say in this respect is most true,” said Sir Andrew
Stewart; “it was in saying that I did rescue the Lady Beatrice that I
spake falsely. I was too much daunted by the fierceness of the flames
to venture aloft; but having been once upon a time a guest in the
Maison Dieu, I well knew its various passages, one of which did lead
from the bottom of the main staircase of the building directly into the
Chapel, whence I was aware that a retreat into the garden was easy. As
I entered the Chapel I beheld one of the sisterhood of the Maison Dieu
hobbling away with the Lady Beatrice. Mine ancient passion returned
upon me, and——”
“Villain! thou didst carry her off,” cried the Franciscan, interrupting
him.
“Thou lying caitiff, where hast thou concealed her?” cried the Wolfe.
“I did straightway attempt to lay hands upon her, when she fled before
me into the garden, and escaped among the trees and bushes, where I
instantly lost all trace of her.”
“But where hast thou been all this time sithence?” demanded the Wolfe
fiercely; “answer me straightway to that.”
“My Lord Earl,” replied Sir Andrew Stewart, “as I wandered in the
garden I did encounter the old gardener, who, under the light of the
burning, did remember me for one of thy sons. He instantly seized me,
and having snatched my sword from my side, he did swear potent oaths
that he would put me to death if I dared offer to resist; and with
these threats he forced me through the garden, and plunged me into a
deep vault at its farther extremity, where I was immured without food
for two days.”
“Ha! and by the Holy Rood, thou didst well merit it all, I ween, thou
most pitiful of cowards,” cried the Wolfe, angrily gnashing his teeth;
“what, thou the son of the Wolfe of Badenoch, to be frayed and captured
by an old doting unarmed gardener! By all the fiends, but thou dost
deserve to wear a kirtle and petticoat, and to have a distaff to
handle. But what more hast thou to tell, thou shame to knighthood?”
“When I was nearly spent by hunger and thirst,” continued Sir Andrew,
“the gardener came, with some of the brethren of the Maison Dieu, to
take me from my prison, and I was led before the Bishop of Moray.”
“Ha! and how did the Bishop treat thee?” interrupted the Wolfe.
“He received me with much mildness and gentleness,” replied Sir Andrew
Stewart; “and he did severely chide those who so cruelly left me
without food, and ere he would allow a question to be put to me, he did
straightway order my hunger and thirst to be forthwith satisfied; and,
when I had well eaten and drank, he ordered an apartment to be
instantly prepared for me, that I might enjoy the repose the which I
had so much need; and verily I was right glad to accept of the
proffered blessing. The Bishop did keep me with him until a messenger
came to him from Lochyndorbe, after which he entertained me rather as
his favoured guest than as his prisoner.”
“Nay, so far he speaketh truth” said the Franciscan; “that messenger
was mine; he was the messenger of peace.”
“I do indeed speak the truth in everything now,” replied Sir Andrew
Stewart, “the which thou mayest soon learn from the Bishop himself, for
I am sent before him to announce a peaceful visitation from him, and he
will be here anon.”
“Ha! if thou hadst but listened, Sir Friar,” cried the Wolfe, “if thine
impatience had but suffered thee to listen, we had saved much time.”
“Yea, much time mought have indeed been saved,” said the Franciscan;
“but, sinner that I am, what hath become of the Lady Beatrice? Her
disappearance is most mysterious, if what Sir Andrew Stewart hath told
be indeed true.”
“But didst thou not say that the Bishop was coming hither, son Andrew?”
cried the Wolfe of Badenoch; “what force doth he bring with him?”
“He bringeth not a single armed man with him,” replied Sir Andrew
Stewart; “nay, he hath not above some fifteen or twenty persons in all
his company.”
“Had we not better hasten us homewards?” said the Wolfe to the
Franciscan; “had we not better hasten to prepare for receiving my Lord
Bishop, sith that he doth honour me so far?”
“Thou art right, my Lord,” replied the Franciscan, starting from a
reverie into which he had fallen; “it may be that my Lord Bishop may
peraunter have some tidings to give me of her about whom I am so much
interested.”
The Franciscan had little leisure to think more of the Lady Beatrice at
that time. They were no sooner within the Castle walls than he found
that he had a sufficient task to fulfil in preparing the fierce mind of
the Wolfe of Badenoch for receiving the Bishop with that peaceful
humility which became a sincere penitent. It was so far a fortunate
circumstance that the Wolfe himself was already very greatly touched by
the prelate’s generous conduct towards his sons Duncan and Andrew, whom
fortune had placed at his mercy.
“By the Rood,” exclaimed he, “but the Bishop hath shown kindness where,
in truth, I had but little reason to expect it at his hands. He might
have hanged both my boys, taken, as I may say they were, red-handed in
a manner. Then his coming thus doth show but little of that haughtiness
of the which I did believe him to be possessed. By this hand, we shall
muster out our garrison and meet him on the land-sconce with all our
warlike parade, that we may do him all the honour that may be.”
“Nay,” replied the monk mildly, “not so, I do entreat thee, my Lord.
Let us appear there with all the symbols of peace and humility, and——”
“What,” interrupted the Wolfe hastily, “wouldst thou have me put myself
in the power of the prelate?”
“Nay, thou needst hardly fear that, if thou rememberest what thy son
Sir Andrew did say of the unarmed state of his small escort,” replied
the Franciscan; “and, in truth, meseems that if the peaceful Bishop
doth adventure so far as to entrust himself and his people unarmed in
thy stronghold, it would speak but little for the bold heart of the
Earl of Buchan to go armed, and attended by armed men. Nay, nay, my
Lord; of a truth, this is a bold act of the Bishop of Moray, when all
that hath passed is well considered. He hath indeed been generous, and
now he doth prove himself to be dauntless. Let him not have to boast,
then, that he hath outdone thee either in generosity or fearlessness. I
need not call upon thee to remember thee of thy vow, the which I did
witness, and which is now registered in heaven. Show that thou art
truly penitent and humble, and remember that thine abasement before
God’s minister is but thine abasement before God, who hath already
shown thee such tender mercy, and who will yet show thee more.”
After listening to this exhortation, the Wolfe of Badenoch became
thoughtful, and the Franciscan gradually ventured to propose to him the
manner in which it would best become him to receive the Bishop. The
countenance of the ferocious warrior showed sufficiently how painful
the humiliation was to his feelings; but he submitted patiently, if not
cheerfully, and the necessary preparations were accordingly made.
The warder who was stationed in the barbican blew his horn to announce
the first appearance of the Bishop’s party, who were seen winding like
black specks through the scattered greenwood at the farther end of the
lake. The colony of herons were scarcely disturbed by their slow and
silent march. The little fleet of boats clustered under the Castle
walls was manned, and the Wolfe of Badenoch and his whole garrison were
rowed across to the land-sconce, where they immediately formed
themselves into a procession, and walked onwards to meet those who were
coming.
First went fifty warriors, unarmed and with their heads bare. Then
followed the Wolfe of Badenoch himself, also unarmed, and wearing a
black hood and surcoat. At his side was the Franciscan, and behind him
were his sons Andrew and Duncan, after whom came fifty more of his
people. The Bishop approached, mounted on his palfrey, surrounded by
some of the dignitaries of his diocese, and followed by a few monks and
a small train of attendants. The Wolfe of Badenoch’s men halted, and,
dividing themselves into two lines, formed a lane for the Bishop and
his party to advance. The Wolfe moved forward to meet the prelate; but
though his garb was that of a humble penitent, his eye and his bearing
were those of a proud Prince.
“Ah, there is the good Bishop, who was so kind to me at Spynie,” cried
little Duncan, clapping his hands with joy; “he did teach me to play
bowls, father, and he gave me so many nice sweetmeats. Let me run to
him, I beseech thee.”
The boy’s innocent speech was enough; it brought a grappling about the
heart of the Wolfe of Badenoch; he hastened forward to the end of the
lane of men, and made an effort to reach the Bishop’s stirrup, that he
might hold it for him to dismount.
“Nay, nay,” said the good man, preventing his intention by quitting his
saddle ere he could reach him; “I may not allow the son of my King so
to debase himself.”
“My Lord Bishop,” said the Wolfe, prompted by the Franciscan, “behold
one who doth humbly throw himself on the mercy and forgiveness of God
and thee.”
“The mercy of God was never refused to a repentant sinner,” replied the
Bishop; “and as for the forgiveness of a fallible being like me, I wot
I do myself lack too much of God’s pardon to dare refuse it to a
fellow-sinner. May God, then, in his mercy, pardon thee on thy present
submission, and on the score of that penance to which thou art prepared
to submit.”
“My Lord Bishop,” replied the Wolfe, “I am ready to submit to
whatsoever penance it may please thee to enjoin me. Thy mercy to my
sons, and in especial that to my boy Duncan, hath subdued me to thy
will. But let me entreat of thee that, sinner though I be, thou wilt
honour my Castle of Lochyndorbe with thy sacred presence. There shall I
learn thy volunde, the which I do here solemnly vow, before the blessed
Virgin and the Holy Trinity, whom I have offended, to perform to the
veriest tittle, were it to be a pilgrimage to the Holy Sepulchre
itself. Trust me, thy tender mercy towards me and mine hath wrought
more with me than all that thy power or thy threats could have done.”
“Let us not talk more of this matter at this time, my Lord,” replied
the Bishop; “I do hereby take upon me, in the meanwhile, conditionally
to remove from thee the dread sentence of excommunication, seeing thou
hast made all the concession as yet in thy power, and that thou art
ready to make what reparation thou canst for what hath passed, and to
do such penance as may be required of thee; and so shall I cheerfully
accept thy hospitality for this night.”
The Wolfe of Badenoch’s men stared at each other, to behold their
fierce master thus become the peaceable companion of the very prelate
and monk against whom the full stream of his fury had been so lately
directed. They shrugged and looked wise at each other, but no one
ventured to utter a word; and the two processions having mingled their
truly heterogeneous materials together, they turned towards the
land-sconce, and peacefully entering the boats, crossed the Lake to the
Castle, where the chief personages were soon afterwards to be seen
harmoniously seated at the same festive board. But before they were so
assembled, the Franciscan had a conference with the Bishop in his
private apartment.
“Thou hast indeed well served the cause of the Church, Friar John,”
said the prelate to him; “yea, thou hast done God and our holy religion
good service, by having thus so miraculously tamed this wild and
ferocious Wolfe. Thou hast tilled a hardened soil, that hath heretofore
borne but thistles, thorns, and brambles, that did enter into our flesh
and tear our very hearts. But thy hand must not be taken from the
plough until thy task be complete. Thou must forward with the Earl of
Buchan towards Perth to-morrow. ’Twere well to take him while his mind
is yet soft with the meliorating dews of penitence. I have spoken to
him apart sith I did come hither. Already hath he agreed to make over
to me certain large sums in gold, to be placed at the disposal of our
chapter, as alswa divers annual rents springing from a wide extent of
territory, to be expended in the restoration of our Cathedral.
Moreover, he hath declared himself ready to perform the penance I have
enjoined him, the ceremonial of which thou wilt find detailed in this
parchment, after which he will be absolved by the godly Walter Traill,
Bishop of St. Andrews, in the Blackfriars Church of Perth. To thy
prudence and care do I commit the proper ordering and execution of all
that this parchment and these directions I have written do contain,
seeing there be none other who could do it so well.”
“I must obey all thy commands, my sacred Lord,” replied the friar; “yet
is my mind ill attuned to the task, seeing it is distracted because of
the uncertain fate of the Lady Beatrice. I beseech thee, hath any
tidings of her reached thee?”
“Nay, I heard not of her,” replied the Bishop, “save what I gathered
from Sir Andrew Stewart, who parted with her in the garden of the
Maison Dieu. Yet did I not cease to make inquiry—and, in truth, I do
greatly fear that she hath availed herself of her liberty to flee
towards the south, to join herself to him with whom she did once so
scandalously associate, and for whom thou sayest she hath unblushingly
confessed her inextinguishable love. I hear our Scottish champions have
returned from the English expedition, and doubtless Sir Patrick
Hepborne the younger is by this time at the Court of King Robert, at
Scone, if he hath not been detained in the Tower, to answer for his
outrage. From what thou hast told me there must have been some secret
concert between the knight and Beatrice. She must, therefore, have been
well possessed of all his intentions—and if so, she was well prepared
to avail herself of any chance of escape, that she might fly to join
herself to him again. Hadst thou any talk with her on the subject of
Sir Patrick Hepborne?”
“Never, my sacred Lord, sith the night when Friar Rushak enabled me to
take her from the Tower,” replied the Franciscan. “Nay, save some short
dialogue between us after the ship weighed anchor, when, to quiet her
fears and compose her mind, I did tell her the secret in which she was
so much interested, and explained to her by what right I so assumed
control over her—the stormy voyage, and the fatigues that followed it,
left me no leisure to hold further converse with her. But thou art
right, my gracious Lord Bishop. She hath doubtless fled to her
paramour, who seems to carry some love enchantment about him that he
hath so bewitched her.”
“The King hath lately removed to Scone,” said the Bishop; “so, I do
verily think that, on going to Perth on this errand of the Church, thou
shalt have the best chance to recover her who hath fled from thee; at
least, thou wilt hear of Sir Patrick Hepborne; and where he is, there
will she be also.”
“I do verily believe so the more I turn the subject in my thoughts,”
replied the Franciscan; “nay, it can be no otherwise. Trust me, I do
gladly give thee thanks for this hint, as well as for all thy friendly
actings towards me. I shall go hence with Lord Badenoch to-morrow. My
heart shall first of all be given to the service of the blessed Church,
the which I do yet hope to see raise her head but so much the higher
from these her late calamities. That accomplished, I shall seek for and
find Beatrice, though her foul seducer should conceal her in the bowels
of the earth.”
The hot feud had so long subsisted between the Wolfe of Badenoch and
the Bishop of Moray that each had for many years viewed the other
through a false medium. The eyes of the ferocious Earl had been
specially diseased, and now that the scales had been removed from them,
he was astonished to discover the mild and unpretending demeanour, and
the forgiving disposition of the man whom he had believed to be his
proud and implacable enemy. This induced him to overwhelm the Bishop
with all that the kindness of his native hospitality could devise, and
so a mutual re-action took place between them, which the politic
Franciscan took every opportunity to improve. The Wolfe even listened
with tolerable patience of countenance, and altogether without
offensive reply, to the Bishop’s remonstrance on the subject of his
misconduct to his wife Euphame Countess of Ross; and, strange as it may
seem, he solemnly vowed that the first step he should take after doing
penance, would be to receive that injured woman again to his bosom.
Preparations for an early march next morning were made with that
expedition with which all his orders were generally executed by his
well-disciplined people; and when the time of departure came, the
Bishop and he set out cordially together, and afterwards separated,
each to pursue his respective way, with a friendly regret that can only
be comprehended by those who are well conversant in the whimsical
issues of the human heart.