The Scottish Knights in London—Father Rushak’s Tale.
Allowing the Wolfe of Badenoch and his friend the Franciscan to proceed
on their journey, we must now return to inquire into the fate of Sir
Patrick Hepborne. We left him lying on the straw in his dungeon, giving
way to a paroxysm of grief for having been so cruelly rent from Lady
Beatrice, tormenting himself with fears for her safety, and refusing
the comfort which his esquire Mortimer Sang, and Master Lawrence
Ratcliffe, were in vain attempting to administer to him. Whilst he was
in this state of bitter affliction, the door of the dungeon was again
opened, and a number of guards entering, silently approached him.
Believing that they were about to lead him to immediate execution, he
rose to meet them.
“I am ready,” said he recklessly; “my life is now but of little value
to me. The sooner it is over the better. Lead on, then, my friends.”
Mortimer Sang sprang forward to prevent their seizure of his master,
but he was speedily overpowered, and Sir Patrick was led passively
away.
He was conducted through a long dark passage, and finally lodged in a
cell, to which he ascended by a short circular flight of steps. He
questioned his conductors as to what was to be his fate, but they
retired without giving him any reply. His new prison, though small, was
less dark and gloomy than the larger dungeon from which he had been
taken; and though sufficiently strong, it had an air of greater comfort
about it; yet would he willingly have exchanged it for that he had
left, to have been again blessed with the society of his esquire and
the wine merchant. He seemed to be now condemned to solitary
imprisonment, and he anticipated the worst possible intentions from
this seclusion. The survey he took of the four walls that enclosed him
left no hope of escape. There was indeed another small door besides
that by which he had entered, but both were so powerfully fenced with
iron as to be perfectly impregnable. He viewed this second door with an
eye of suspicion, and the idea that through it might enter the
assassins who were privily to despatch him, presented death to him in a
shape so uninviting, that, ready as he had been to lay down his life
but the moment before, he now resolved to sell it as dearly as he
could, although he had no other weapon but his hands to defend himself
with.
He sat down on a stone bench in a niche in the wall opposite to this
suspicious door, and, fixing his eye on it, he fell into a reverie,
from which he was roused by the sound of footsteps, as if descending
towards it. He sprang up, that he might be prepared for action. The
door opened, and a young man in the garb of a lacquey, and altogether
unarmed, appeared at the bottom of a very narrow spiral staircase. He
made an obeisance to Sir Patrick, and silently, but respectfully
beckoned him to follow; and the knight, resolving to pursue his fate,
immediately obeyed. He was conducted up several flights of steps, until
at length, to his great surprise, he was brought into a little oratory,
where he was again left alone.
He had not waited long, when a pannel in the wall, behind the altar,
opened, and a Franciscan Friar appeared. The knight regarded him with a
calm and steady look. It was Friar Rushak, the King’s Confessor.
“Sir Patrick Hepborne,” said the monk mildly to him, “I come to thee on
private embassage from the Royal Richard. Thine intemperance in
breaking in upon his privacy as thou didst, hath led thee to be
accused, by some who are more zealous than prudent, of having made a
premeditated attempt to assassinate His Majesty. But this hath been
done without the Royal sanction; for albeit that appearances do of a
surety most powerfully array themselves against thee, yet he doth
acquit thee of all such traitorous intent. But thou hast been led by
blind fury to lift thine hand against the Sovereign whose hospitality
thou dost now enjoy, and that, too, in defence of one against whom he
did mean nothing dishonourable, though circumstances may have wrought
up her fears to believe that he did.”
“What!” cried Hepborne, with a strong expression of doubt in his face;
“so King Richard doth deny all dishonourable intention against the Lady
Beatrice? But what availeth it if he doth so? Hath he not sithence
devoted her to certain destruction, by giving her up to one who hath
already proved himself to be her enemy, yea, an assassin, who would
have murdered her?”
“Sir Knight,” said Friar Rushak, after some moments’ thought, “trust
me, the King had no hand in the disposal of her. He did never see the
lady after that moment when thou didst force him to retreat before
thine inconsiderate rage. But, an assassin—a murderer, saidst thou? How
canst thou so accuse a brother of St. Francis?”
“Because I have good reason to know that he did once steal into the
chamber of the Lady Beatrice at the hour of midnight, armed with a
dagger,” cried Hepborne impatiently; “and had she not saved herself by
flight——”
“Thou must suffer me to tell thee that this strange tale is difficult
of credence with me,” said Friar Rushak, interrupting him; “the more,
too, that it cometh from the very knight whom report doth accuse of
having taught the damsel to stray from the path of virtue, and to whom
she oweth her present infamy.”
“What mean ye, friar?” cried Sir Patrick Hepborne, with mingled
indignation and astonishment. “Who hath so foully and falsely dared to
charge me and the Lady Beatrice—she who is pure as an angel of
light—Who, I say, hath dared to prefer so foul and false an
accusation?”
“The Franciscan whom thou——”
“Villain!” cried Sir Patrick, interrupting Friar Rushak, and giving way
to a rage which he was quite unable to control; “villain, black and
damnable villain! I swear by the honour of a knight, that this charge
is false as hell. Pardon me, holy father, for my just ire. I do beseech
thee, tell me what thou dost know of this wretch, of this assassin, who
doth so foully stab reputation too, and who hath so imposed on thy too
easy belief—What, I pray thee, dost thou know of him?”
“Nay, I am ashamed to say, I know not much,” replied Friar Rushak,
already shaken in his opinion of the Franciscan by the solemnity of Sir
Patrick’s asseverations; “yet what I do know I was about to tell thee,
when thou didst break in on my speech. Being yesterday at the
Franciscan Convent in the Newgate Street, a stranger brother of the
order did claim a private audience of me, when he entreated mine aid to
recover a damsel of good family from the house of the Lady de Vere. He
stated his belief that she had come hither for the purpose of meeting
with thee, with whom she had once lived in lawless love, hid in the
disguise of a page, a connection which both were impatient to renew. He
said that it was intended to bury her disgrace in a convent. Fearing,
for certain reasons, that the King might see her at the Lady de Vere’s,
and so be misled to take up with one so light, I resolved to do my best
to assist in her removal, and to this I was afterwards the more spurred
on by hearing that Richard had gone expressly to meet with her, as I
did believe, by her own especial consent. Availing myself of my private
knowledge of the palace, I did enable the stranger Franciscan to take
her from the apartment, where she succeeded in convincing me that she
was no willing captive; and the King’s confession of this morning, the
which I am so far permitted to impart to thee, hath satisfied me that I
had weened too gravely of the matter as it did regard him, and that the
whole of his share in it did but arise from a harmless piece of
humour.”
“And whither hath the Lady Beatrice been carried by this villain?”
cried Hepborne, in all the agony of apprehension for her safety.
“He took her hence by water,” said Friar Rushak, “and Scotland did seem
to be the object of his voyage. But, of a truth, mine intercourse with
the foul deceiver was so short that I had little leisure to question
him.”
“Fiend!” cried Sir Patrick Hepborne, his rage overpowering his grief.
“If St. Baldrid do but speed me, I shall find him though he were to
flee unto the uttermost parts of the earth. Meanwhile, may God in his
mercy, and the blessed Virgin in her purity, protect the Lady
Beatrice!”
“Amen! my son,” said the father confessor. “Verily, I do grieve for
thee and for her; and of a truth I do bitterly reproach mine own facile
credence, the which hath led me to be the innocent author of this
misfortune. Thou shalt have my prayers. Meanwhile, let us return to the
object of my mission. Richard did send me to tell thee that he doth
freely forgive thee thine indiscreet attack on his sacred person,
seeing it was committed under a delusion. Thou and thine esquire are
forthwith liberated, under his word as a king, and yours as a knight,
that all that hath passed shall be buried in oblivion by both sides;
and further, that thou, on thy part, shalt fasten no quarrel on Sir
Hans de Vere for what hath passed.”
“Nay,” replied Hepborne; “meseems that His Majesty doth ask too much in
demanding of me to withhold punishment in a quarter where it is so
justly due.”
“Yes, and where it would be so well merited, Sir Knight,” observed the
Friar Rushak. “But yet must thou yield for peace’s sake.”
“Thou mayest tell the King, then,” said Hepborne, “that as a mark of
the high sense I entertain of his hospitality, he shall be obeyed
herein, and that Sir Hans de Vere shall find shelter under it from my
just indignation.”
“And now let me show thee forth, Sir Knight,” said Friar Rushak.
“Ere I go,” said Hepborne, forgetting not the misery of others amid his
own affliction; “ere I go hence let me entreat thee to use thine
influence with His Majesty for the liberation of mine host, Master
Lawrence Ratcliffe.”
“Knowest thou aught of this same Ratcliffe, Sir Knight?” demanded the
Friar after a pause, during which he endeavoured to read Hepborne’s
countenance.
“Nay, nothing further than that I have experienced his hospitality by
His Majesty’s good will,” replied Hepborne.
“And how may he have treated thee and thine?” inquired Rushak, resuming
a careless air.
“With a kindness for which I cannot sufficiently express my gratitude,”
replied Hepborne.
“’Tis well,” replied Rushak. “Then may I tell thee in confidence that
he hath been for some time suspected as a malcontent, and after thine
attempt of yesternight against the King, he was taken up by the
officious minions of power, as the most likely person to have set thee
on. But I may now promise for his liberation. Thou shalt forthwith see
him at his own house, and he shall know, ere he goeth, that it is to
thee he oweth his liberty.”
Sir Patrick Hepborne now hastened home to his lodgings, whither he was
soon afterwards followed by his esquire and Master Lawrence Ratcliffe.
The former was all joy, and the latter all gratitude. By and by he was
joined by Adam of Gordon, who wept bitterly for the fate of the Lady
Beatrice. Hepborne, much as he wanted comfort himself, found it
necessary to administer it to the good old man, whom he immediately
took into his service. He was now impatient to begin his quest after
the Franciscan, and he would have quitted London immediately could he
have easily procured a safe-conduct for himself individually; but this
could not be granted. Sir David Lindsay, however, having witnessed the
perfect recovery of the Lord Welles, on whom he had been unceasing in
his attendance, he readily yielded to Hepborne’s impatience, and the
brave band of Scottish knights departed, leaving a sweet odour of good
fame, both for courtesy and deeds of arms, behind them.
Their journey was speedily and safely performed; and they were no
sooner in Scotland than Hepborne hastened to Hailes Castle, whither he
was accompanied by his friends. Thence he was eager to pursue his way
northwards to Elgin, where he believed that the Franciscan had his
abode, and whither he thought it likely that he had conveyed his
prisoner. But Sir John Halyburton, to whom he had been much attached
ever since their first acquaintance at Tarnawa, and with whom his
friendship had been drawn yet tighter by the intercourse he held during
their late expedition, had already extracted a promise from him that he
would be present at his marriage with the Lady Jane de Vaux, a promise
from which he felt it impossible to rid himself by any excuse he could
invent. But this, he hoped, would occasion him but small delay, for the
Lord of Dirleton, with his lady and daughter, were understood to be
with the Court at Scone; and thither Sir John Halyburton resolved to
proceed immediately, in the hope that the consummation of his happiness
would not be long deferred. Delay to Hepborne was distraction; but it
was at least some small comfort to him, that at Scone he would be so
much nearer that part of Scotland whither his anxiety now so powerfully
drew him.
The whole party then hastened to Scone, which the residence of the
Court had already made the general rendezvous of the great. There Sir
Patrick Hepborne had the happiness to find his father, and there he
also embraced his happy sister Isabelle, and her Assueton. The Lord of
Dirleton and his lady expressed much pleasure in again enjoying his
society; but, to the great grief of Sir John Halyburton, and to the
secret mortification of his friend Sir Patrick, the Lady Jane de Vaux
was not with her father and mother, for, not being aware of the so
early return of the knights from England, they had permitted their
daughter to accompany the Countess of Moray from Aberdeen to Tarnawa,
whence that noble lady was daily expected to bring her to Scone.
The venerable King Robert received the knights who had so nobly
supported the honour of Scotland on the bloody field of Otterbourne
with distinguished cordiality and condescension. Sir Patrick Hepborne
was among those who were most highly honoured. To him was granted the
privilege, only extended to a limited number of courtiers, of entering
the Royal presence at all times; and Robert, pressing his hand with a
warmth which kings seldom permit themselves to show, told him that the
more frequently he availed himself of the power of approaching him, the
more he would add to his satisfaction. This flattering reception from
his aged King, together with the gratifying notice bestowed on him by
the Earl of Fife and Menteith, now the Regent of the Kingdom, might
have made him well contented to prolong his residence at Court, and
little regret the delay of Halyburton’s marriage, had it not been for
the thought, that never forsook him, of the mysterious fate and
probable misery of the Lady Beatrice. His mind was ceaselessly employed
in fancying a thousand improbable things regarding her, and he was
generally abstracted in the midst of those gay scenes which the politic
Regent took care should follow one another with the greatest rapidity,
that he might the better keep his hold of the fickle hearts of the
nobles. In vain were the fairest eyes of the Court thrown upon Sir
Patrick Hepborne: their warm glances were invariably chilled by the
freezing indifference by which they were met.
Day after day passed away, and still no appearance of the Countess of
Moray and her lovely companion; and Halyburton’s loudly-expressed
impatience was only to be equalled by that which affected Hepborne in
secret. The two knights had nearly agreed to proceed northwards
together, a plan proposed by Hepborne, and listened to by Halyburton
with great gratitude, as he considered it a very strong proof of his
friend’s anxiety for his happiness. But, happening to recollect that
the party from Tarnawa might reach Scone perhaps a few hours only after
they should leave it on this doubtful expedition, and that the
long-wished-for meeting with his beloved Jane de Vaux might thus be
much delayed, instead of hastened, Halyburton, to Hepborne’s very great
grief, abandoned the scheme as unwise. Soon afterwards came the
intelligence of the burning of Elgin, which, whilst it threw a gloom
over the whole Court, filled Hepborne’s mind with fresh apprehensions
and anxieties.