Accusation made in presence of the King—The Challenge.
Sir Patrick Hepborne, accompanied by his friend Sir John Halyburton,
made his way into the hall of the Castle, burning with impatience to
bring the Franciscan to a strict account, and half dreading that he
might yet escape, by that mysterious power which had already so
marvellously availed him. The Wolfe of Badenoch had hurried to his
apartments to rid himself of his penitential weeds; and the Franciscan
having disappeared also, the two knights were left to pace the hall for
at least two hours, until Sir Patrick began to suspect that his fears
had been realized. Rushing down to the gate, however, he found Captain
MacErchar as steady at his post as the walls of the fortress; and,
having questioned him, he learned that no friar had passed outwards.
When he returned to the hall, he found the King seated on a chair of
state, and his courtiers ranged on either hand of him, forming a
semi-circle, of which he was the central point.
“Sir Patrick Hepborne,” said the King, with a high and distant air, “we
are here to listen to thine accusation against the holy Franciscan
Friar John, whom, we do understand, thou hast dared to malign.”
“My liege,” said Hepborne, “the thirsty steed panteth not more for the
refreshing fountain than I do for audience of your Most Gracious
Majesty, from whom I would claim that justice the which thou dost never
deny to the meanest of thy subjects.”
“And we shall not refuse it to thee, the son of our ancient and
faithful servant,” replied the King; “to one who hath himself done us
and our kingdom of Scotland much good service. Yet do we bid thee bear
in mind, that the best services may be wiped away by the disgraceful
finger of polluted iniquity. Speak, Sir Patrick, what hast thou to
say?”
“Nay, my liege, I would stay me until mine adversary doth appear to
meet my charge,” said Sir Patrick.
“’Tis so far considerate of thee,” replied the King; “but thou mayest
say on, for he will be here anon.”
“I come here, then, to impeach this Friar John of having feloniously
carried off a damsel from the Tower of London, where she did then
abide,” said Sir Patrick Hepborne, violently agitated; “a damsel whom
he did once before attempt to murder, and whom he doth even now
secrete, if he hath not already cruelly slain her.”
“Friar John is here to meet thy charge, Sir Knight,” cried the
Franciscan, who had entered the hall in time to hear what had fallen
from Hepborne, and who now came sternly forward, attended by the Wolfe
of Badenoch, the Lord of Dirleton, and some others; “Friar John shall
not shrink from whatever tales thine inventive recrimination may
produce against him; he too shall have his charge against thee; but let
thine be disposed of first, whereby the incredible boldness of thy
wickedness may be made the more apparent to all.”
“What sayest thou?” demanded Hepborne, with considerable confusion.
“I do say,” replied the friar, “that conscious guilt doth already
stagger thee in the very outset of this thine infamous attempt against
an innocent man, whom thou wouldst fain sacrifice to hide thy foul
deeds. Guilt doth often prove its own snare, and so shall ye see it
here, I ween.”
“Villain, wretch, fiend?” cried Sir Patrick Hepborne, who forgot in his
resentment the presence in which he stood; “mine emotions, the which
thou wouldst have others so misjudge, have been those only of horror
and astonishment at thine unparalleled effrontery. My liege, this
fiend—this wicked sorcerer—for so do I believe him to be—this
assassin——”
“Ha! by the ghost of my grandfather,” cried the Wolfe of Badenoch, who
stood by, now restored to all his knightly splendour—“by the ghost of
my grandfather, but I will not stand by to hear such names hurled
without reason on my holy father confessor. As he is here to answer
thee, Sir Patrick Hepborne, and as I would not willingly seem to
interfere with justice, say what thou wilt of calm accusation, for I
fear not that he will cleanse himself, whosoever may be foul. But, by
all the holy saints, I swear that, friends though we have been, I will
not hear the holy man so foully miscalled; and I am well willing to
fight for him to the outrance, not only in this world, but in the next
too, if chivalry be but carried thither.”
“Silence, son Alexander,” said the King; “speak not, I pray thee, with
lips so irreverent. And do thou, Sir Patrick Hepborne, proceed with thy
charges, withouten these needless terms of reproach, the which are
unseemly in our presence, and do but tend to inflame.”
“My liege,” said Sir Patrick, making an obeisance to the King, “I shall
do my best to restrain my just indignation.—The Lady Beatrice, of whom
I do now speak, did accompany me to Moray Land in the disguise of a
page; and——”
“Ha!” exclaimed the King, starting with an air of surprise, and
exchanging a look with the Franciscan and some others, that very much
discomposed Sir Patrick; “so—dost thou confess this?”
“I do confess nothing, my liege,” replied Sir Patrick; “I do only tell
the truth. When we were guests for some days to thee, my Lord of
Buchan, at Lochyndorbe, this friar did enter the apartment of the Lady
Beatrice armed with a dagger, and had she not fled from him to save her
life, she had surely been murdered by his villainy. Already have I told
that he did snatch her from the Tower of London, by means of false
representations made to Friar Rushak, King Richard’s Confessor, and
thence he did carry her by ship to Scotland, as I do know from Friar
Rushak himself. I do therefore call on him to produce the damsel
straightway, if indeed his cruelty hath not already put it beyond his
power so to do.”
“Hast thou aught else to charge him withal?” demanded the King.
“Nay, my liege,” replied Hepborne, “but I require an immediate answer
to these charges.”
“Before I do give a reply,” said the Franciscan, assuming a grand air,
“I, on my part, do demand to know by what right Sir Patrick Hepborne
doth thus question me.”
“Right, didst thou say?” exclaimed Hepborne; “I must answer thee by
simply saying, that I do question thee by that right which every
honourable knight hath to come forward in the cause of the unfortunate.
But I will go farther, and say before all who are here present, that I
do more especially appear here against thee for the unquenchable love I
do bear to the Lady Beatrice.”
“Ha! so,” replied the Franciscan, with a bitter expression, “thou hast
so far confessed that thou didst entertain the Lady Beatrice in thy
company in male attire, and that thou dost cherish an unquenchable
passion for her? Then, my liege, do I boldly accuse this pretended
phœnix of virtue, this Sir Patrick Hepborne, of having stolen this
damsel from the path of honour—of having plunged her in guilt—of having
so bewitched her by potent charms, that she did even follow him to
London, whence, with much fatigue and stratagem, I did indeed reclaim
her, yea, did bring her to Scotland in a ship. But she was not many
hours on land when she so contrived as to flee from me; and no one can
doubt that her flight was directed to him who hath thrown his sorcery
over her, and to whom she hath made so many efforts basely to unite
herself again.”
“Friar, thou hast lied, grossly and villanously lied,” cried Sir
Patrick Hepborne in a fury, “but now let me, in my turn, demand of thee
what hast thou to urge that mought have given thee right so to control
the Lady Beatrice?”
“All have right to prevent the commission of wickedness,” said the
Franciscan. “But I do claim the right of parentage to control the Lady
Beatrice. I am her uncle. Hath not so near a parent some right to
control the erring daughter of his brother? Speak then; tell me where
thou hast hid her, Sir Knight?”
“Can this be true?” exclaimed Sir Patrick Hepborne, petrified with
astonishment at what he heard; “canst thou in very deed be the uncle of
the Lady Beatrice? But what shall we say of that tender uncle who doth
enter the apartment of his niece at midnight with a dagger in his hand?
Villain, I observe thee blench as I do speak it. Thou art a villain
still, let thy kindred to her be what it may. Thou hast murdered my
love, and thou wouldst shift off suspicion from thyself, by an
endeavour to throw guilt upon me. Wretched hypocrite! foul stain to the
holy habit thou dost wear—say where, where hast thou bestowed the Lady
Beatrice? Is she dead or alive?”
“Nay, foul shame to knighthood that thou art, ’tis thou who hast
secreted the Lady Beatrice—thou who hast poisoned her mind—thou who
hast disgraced her—thou who dost hide her from the light of day, that
she may minister to thine abandoned love. Tell, tell me where thou hast
hid her, or, friar as I am, I do here appeal thee to single duel.”
“Ha!” said Sir Patrick. “And right willingly, I trow, shall I do
instant battle in support of mine unsullied honour—in support of the
honour of her who hath been so foully calumniated; but with a friar
like thee!”
“Nay, let that be no hindrance, Sir Knight,” cried the Franciscan,
whilst his eyes darted lightnings; “now indeed I am a friar, but, trust
me, I was not always so. In me thou shalt have no weak or untaught arm
to deal withal; and if I may but have dispensation——”
“Talk not so, Friar John,” said the King; “thou shalt never be suffered
to peril thy life. Thou must seek thee out some cham——”
“Nay, seek nowhere but here,” cried the Wolfe of Badenoch, slapping his
right hand furiously on his cuirass. “If the good Friar John doth
bestir himself to save my soul, ’tis but reason, meseems, that I should
rouse me to save his body. I am in some sort a witness to the truth of
part of what he hath asserted. So, by the blood of the Bruce, Sir
Patrick——”
“Nay, nay, my Lord Earl,” cried the old Lord of Dirleton, now starting
up with an agitation that shook every fibre, and with a countenance in
which grief and resentment were powerfully blended; “verily I am old;
but old as I am, I have still some strength; and my heart, at least,
hath not waxed feeble. It shall never be said that a De Vaux did suffer
a son of the Royal house of Scotland to risk the spilling of his noble
blood, to save that which hath already been so often shed in its
defence, and the which shall be ever ready to flow for it, whilst a
drop of it may remain within these shrivelled veins. Here am I ready to
encounter the caitiff knight, on whose smiles, when an infant, I looked
with delight as the future husband of my very daughter Beatrice, and
who did so gain upon me lately by the plausible semblance of virtue.
Base son of thy noble sire, full hard, I ween, hath it been for me, an
injured father, to sit silent thus so long listening to thy false
denials, and thy vile recriminations against my brother John. But now
do I give thee the lie to them all, and dare thee to mortal combat.”
“My Lord, my Lord,” cried Sir John Halyburton, going up to the Lord of
Dirleton in great astonishment, “calm thy rage, I beseech thee. What is
this I do hear? Of whom dost thou speak? For whom dost thou thus hurl
mortal defiance against my dearest friend Sir Patrick Hepborne?
Daughter, saidst thou?”
“Ay, daughter, Sir John Halyburton,” exclaimed the old man; “my
daughter Beatrice—she whom I have discovered to be yet alive, only that
I may wish her dead. Oh, I could bear the loss of mine innocent
infant—I could forgive a sinning and now repentant brother—but to
forgive the villain who hath robbed my sweet flower of her
fragrance—no, no, no, ’tis impossible. The very thought doth bring back
all a father’s rage upon me. Give me my daughter, villain!—my daughter.
Oh, villain, villain, give me my daughter!” The aged Lord of Dirleton,
exhausted by the violence of his emotions, tottered forward a step or
two towards Sir Patrick, and would have sunk down on the floor had he
not been supported to the seat he had occupied.
“Sir Patrick Hepborne,” said Sir John Halyburton, sternly advancing
towards him, after he had assisted the father of his future bride, “we
have been warm friends, yea, I did come in hither to stand by thee to
the last, as thy friend; but my friendship did sow itself and spread
its roots in that honourable surface with the which thou wert covered.
’Tis no wonder, then, that it should dry up and wither when it doth
push deeper into the less wholesome soil, which was hitherto hid from
my sight. The Earl of Buchan, the Lord of Dirleton—nay, all do seem to
know thy blackness, and I do now curse myself that we were ever so
linked. We can be friends no longer; and sith that it has pleased
heaven to deny a son to that honourable but much injured Lord, it
behoveth me, who look soon to stand in that relation to him, to take
his wrongs upon myself. We must meet, yea, and that speedily, as deadly
foes. My liege,” continued he, turning towards the King, and making his
obeisance, “have I thy gracious permission here to appeal Sir Patrick
Hepborne to single combat of outrance, to be fought as soon as
convenient lists may be prepared?”
“Thou hast our licence, Sir John Halyburton,” replied the King;
“to-morrow shall the lists be prepared, and on the day thereafter this
plea shall be tried.”
“Then, sith that I have thy Royal licence, my liege,” cried Sir John
Halyburton, “I do hereby challenge Sir Patrick Hepborne to do battle
with me in single combat of outrance, with sharp grounden lances, and
after that with battle-axes, and swords and daggers, as may be, and
that unto the death. And this for the foul stain he hath brought upon
the noble family of De Vaux, of the which I am about to become a son,
and may God defend the right, and prosper the just cause;” and with
these words, Sir John Halyburton threw down his gauntlet on the floor.
“I will not deny,” said Sir Patrick, as he stooped to lift it with a
deep sigh, “I will not deny that it doth deeply grieve me thus to take
up the gauntlet of challenge from one whom I have so much loved, and
one for whom I should much more willingly have fought to the death than
lifted mine arm against him. But the will of an all-seeing Providence
must be obeyed; that Providence, who doth know that I wist not even
that the Lady Beatrice was aught else but the page Maurice de Grey,
until after she did flee from me. Twice did I afterwards behold her;
once in the field of Otterbourne, where she had piously sought out and
found the body of her benefactor, Sir Walter de Selby, and once within
the Church of Norham, where she did assist at his funeral rites; but on
neither of these sad occasions had I even speech of her. A third time I
did behold her but for an instant in the house of Sir Hans de Vere, in
the Tower of London, and then did I save her, at the peril of my life,
from what I then conceived to be a base assault of King Richard of
England against her, for the which I did pay the penalty of
imprisonment. On these three occasions only have mine eyes beheld her,
sith that we parted at Tarnawa. If to love her honourably and
virtuously be a crime, then am I indeed greatly guilty; but for aught
else——”
“Thou hast told a fair tale, Sir Patrick,” said the King, shaking his
head.
“Nay, ’twere better to be silent, methinks, than thus to try to thrust
such ill-digested stories on us,” cried the Franciscan. “But ’tis no
wonder that he should be loth to appear in the lists in such a cause.
Conscience will make cowards of the bravest.”
“Nay, let God judge me then,” cried Sir Patrick Hepborne, turning
fiercely round, and darting a furious glance at the friar. “Conscience,
as with thee, may sleep for a time; but trust me, its voice will be
terribly heard at last. Then bethink thee how thou shalt answer thine,
when thy death-bed cometh. Coward, saidst thou?—By St. Baldrid, ’tis
the first time—But Sir John Halyburton, thou at least will readily
acquit me of aught that may have so disgraceful a savour. I do accept
thy challenge; I am thine at the appointed time; may God indeed defend
the right! Then shall mine innocence appear, while the transcendent
virtue of the Lady Beatrice, whom I do glory to proclaim my lady-love,
shall shine forth like the noonday sun.”
By one of those unfortunate accidents which sometimes occur, it chanced
that the elder Sir Patrick Hepborne had been gone for some days on
private business to his Castle of Hailes. Had he been present, this
unfortunate feud might have perhaps been prevented; but he could not be
now looked for at Scone until after the day fixed for the duel; and if
he had been expected sooner, things had already gone too far to have
been arrested, without some living proof to establish the truth. Sir
John Assueton was present during the scene we have described, but he
had been too much confounded by all he had witnessed and heard to be
able to utter a sentence.
“My dear Assueton,” said Sir Patrick, going up to him, and taking him
aside after all was over, “my friend, my oldest, my best-tried, my
staunchest friend, thou brother of my dearest affections, from thee, I
trust, I may look for a fairer judgment than these have given me?”
“Thou mayest indeed, Hepborne,” replied Assueton, griping his friend’s
hand warmly. “Trust me, it doleth me sorely to see such deadly strife
about to be waged between thee and one whom we both do so much love.
Yet are the ways of Providence past our finding out. But may God do
thee right, and make thy virtue appear.”
“Thou canst not have been astonished at the tardiness I did show!” said
Hepborne. “Alas! my heart doth grieve to bursting; perplexed, lost in a
maze of conjecture, the whole doth appear to me to have been delusion.
So the Lady Beatrice proveth to be the long-lost daughter of the Lord
of Dirleton! and the Franciscan—ha!—the Friar—he then is that John de
Vaux who did so traitorously steal his brother’s child!—and hath the
word of such a villain had power to face down mine? Oh, monstrous! Nay,
now do I more than ever fear for the safety—for the life—of her whom I
do love to distraction. And then her pure fame blasted, mine own good
name tarnished, and no other means left for the cleansing of mine
honour and her fame, but to lift the pointed lance, and the whetted
sword, against the life of him whom, next to thee, I do of all men
account most dear to me! May the holy Virgin, may the blessed Trinity,
aid and sustain me amid the cruel host of distresses by the which I am
environed!”
“Most hardly art thou indeed beset,” replied Sir John Assueton; “yet
hast thou no other choice but to put thy trust in God, and to do thy
best in this combat for the establishment of thine own honour as a
knight, and the pure fame of thy lady-love, leaving to Providence the
issues of life and death.”
After this conversation, Sir Patrick Hepborne and Sir John Assueton
prepared to leave the Castle. As they were passing through the gateway,
Hepborne, who was deeply absorbed in his own reflections, was gently
touched on the arm by some one.
“She be’e here, Sir Patricks,” whispered Duncan MacErchar; “troth, she
hath catched the friars, and troth she be’s a strong sturdy loons. Uve,
uve, but she had a hard tuilzie wi’ her.”
“What? whom?” cried Sir Patrick.
“Troth, she did tell her to stand there till Sir Patricks come,” said
MacErchar; “but she would not bide; and so, afore a’ was done, she was
forced to gie her a bit clouring. Would she no likes to——”
“What?” cried Sir Patrick, now beginning to comprehend him, “thou dost
not talk of the Franciscan? I do hope and trust thou hast not hurt the
Franciscan?”
“Phoo! troth, as to tat, she doth best ken hersel the friars,” replied
Duncan; “but hurts or no hurts, she be’s in here,” continued he,
pointing under the gateway to a low vaulted door, “and she may e’en ask
the friars hersel.”
“Holy Virgin!” cried Hepborne, “thou hast ruined me with thy zeal. Open
the door of this hole, and let me forthwith release the friar. Though
he be mine enemy, yet would I not for kingdoms lie under the foul
suspect of having caused him to be waylaid.”
“Troth, she shall soon see her,” said Duncan, opening the door of the
place—“Ho, ho, ho! there she doth lie, I do well wot, like a mockell
great grey swine.”
There indeed, in an area not four feet square, was squeezed together
the body of the Franciscan. He had a considerable cut and bruise upon
his tonsure, from which the blood still oozed profusely. He seemed to
be insensible; but he was no sooner lifted into the open air, than it
appeared that his swoon was more owing to the closeness of the hole he
had been crammed into than the wound he had received. He quickly began
to recover and Sir Patrick raised him up and assisted him to stand.
“To thee, then, I am indebted for thy villainous traiterie?” cried the
Franciscan, looking wildly at Sir Patrick, and shaking himself free
from his arms as he said so. “Oh, shame to knighthood, thus to plant an
assassin in my path; but rivers of thy blood shall speedily flow for
every drop that doth fall from this head of mine.”
With these words he darted into the Castle ere Sir Patrick could speak,
leaving him stupified by this unfortunate mistake, which had brought a
fresh cause of shameful suspicion upon him.
“May she leave her posts noo!” demanded Duncan MacErchar with great
coolness.
“Leave thy post!” cried Hepborne in a frenzy; “would thou hadst been in
purgatory, knave, rather than that thou hadst wrought me this evil.”
“Oh, hoit-toit!” cried Duncan. “Spurgumstory! Uve, uve! and tat’s from
Sir Patricks!”
“Forgive me, Duncan,” cried Hepborne, immediately recovering his
self-command, and remembering whom it was he had so wounded, “forgive
my haste. I do well know thy zeal. But here, by ill luck, thou hast
fortuned to carry it farther than befitting. It will be but an evil
report when it shall be told of Sir Patrick Hepborne that he did plant
a partizan to assail and wound the friar with whom he had feud. But
thou art forgiven, my friend, for I do well know that thine intention
was of the best.”
“Phoo-oo-o!” cried Duncan, with a prolonged sound, “troth, and she doth
see that she hath missed her marks, fan she did hit the friars a clour.
But troth, she will see yet and mend the friar’s head; and sith she
doth ken that she hath a feud wi’ her, och, but she will mak her quiet
wi’ the same plaisters that did the ills.”
“On thy life, touch him not again,” said Sir Patrick, “not as thou dost
love me, Duncan. Let not the friar be touched, else thou dost make me
thy foe for ever.”
“Phoo, ay, troth she’s no meddles mair wi’ her,” said Duncan; “ou ay,
troth no, she’ll no meddles.”