GUILT AND REMORSE OF MORRAR NA SHEAN.
One evening, when twilight was closing on the land and sea; when the
clouds were gathering in heavy masses that portended a storm, and
when the Thurso ran hoarsely and rapidly over its stony bed beneath
the castle wall, Harold commanded the countess to assume her hood and
cloak, and to accompany him. "Whither?" she asked, timidly, for his
manner was strange, and he was sorely flushed with wine.
"Whither, matters not; but you shall learn when we reach the place."
"Do we go on foot?" she inquired, trembling, for there was a wild
glare in his eyes that terrified her.
"Yes."
"Alone--unattended?"
"Yes," he repeated, hoarsely.
Then the heart of the countess sank; but she was compelled to obey.
Her husband grasped her hand, and together they quitted the castle of
Braal by a private postern at the foot of a long and secret stair.
Gunhilda was silent; she pressed her ivory crucifix to her breast
with her left hand, for it was the parting gift of Absalon,
Archbishop of Denmark; her right was firmly grasped by her husband,
and she felt that _his_ hand was cold:--yea, cold as ice!
She had heard of his proceedings on the shores of the Baltic, and how
he had publicly worshipped the God of the Wends at Rugen; her soul
became a prey to grief and horror, and beneath her veil her tears
flowed hot and fast.
He led her along the banks of the Thurso for more than a mile, by a
dark and lonely path. No one was near them; the hour was late, the
place was solitary, and the countess gazed anxiously about her for
succour, if required; but the pastoral hills were desolate. Even the
sheep were in their folds, and there came no sound to her ear, save
the rush of the dark and hurrying stream.
It was a night in the pleasant month of June, and in that part of
Scotland at this season there is scarcely any darkness, the
reflection of the sun on the Atlantic being so distinctly visible for
the brief time that he is below the horizon, that one may read the
smallest print even at midnight.
As they drew near a little chapel which stood upon a rock above the
river, and was dedicated to St. Monina, the countess gathered
courage, and said,--"Unless you say, my lord, for what purpose you
have brought me hither in this secret manner, and at this unwonted
hour, I go not one step further with you!"
"Listen," said he, drawing his long arm-pit dagger, while a cruel and
wild glare came into his fierce blue eyes; "I have brought you hither
to slay you!"
"Oh, my soul foreboded as much!" said Gunhilda, in a breathless
voice; "to slay me--for what? What crime have I committed?"
"None; yet I will not have a wife who is to be the mother of
baby-faced girls, whose husbands, if they get them, will rend and
divide my heritage among them. I must have a son to heir me, as Earl
of Caithness, Count of Orkney, Lord of Braal and Lochmore, and to
transmit my name to future times; but thou----"
"I am the daughter of a king!" said the countess, haughtily.
"A king who is too far away to help you," said Harold, with a mocking
smile.
"But not too far away to avenge me!"
"Let him do so, if he will!" replied the barbarous earl, as he
grasped her wrists and dragged her shrieking, and on her knees,
towards the rocks which overhung the stream.
"Oh!" she exclaimed, "my three helpless daughters--your
children--think of them with pity, if not with pity for me!"
"My daughters--name them not," said he, hoarsely, "lest I have them
drowned in boiling water, even as Halli and Leckner were in the days
of old!"
"I am not prepared to die!" she exclaimed in a piercing voice; "my
sins of omission are many; oh, have mercy on me!"
"Thou art better prepared than I," said Morrar na Shean.
"At least let me say one prayer in yonder chapel ere you slay me--in
pity for my sins and soul, permit me this."
"Go, then," said Morrar, grimly; "but return quickly, lest I drag you
from its altar."
With tottering steps Gunhilda hurried into the little chapel; but ere
three minutes had elapsed, the inexorable Morrar cried,
sternly,--"Come forth!" There was no response.
"Come forth, Gunhilda, or by the Demon of the Wends I will drag thee
out!"
"I come--I come," replied a voice within the vaulted oratory, from
the arched windows of which a sudden light gleamed forth.
"'Tis well," said Morrar, "for my patience is nearly exhausted;" and
the countess, with her head bent, and muffled in her veil, approached
him from the arched doorway, through which a broad and rosy flake of
light was streaming.
Seizing her again by the arm, he dragged her to the edge of the
beetling rocks, where he meant to stab and toss her into the eddying
stream, which was rushing in full flood towards the sea; but,
marvellous to relate! as he tore the veil asunder, he beheld, not
Gunhilda, but a strange woman whose face was of wondrous beauty, and
whose head was encircled by a shining light. Then he knew in his
heart that the spirit of St. Monina stood before him! The dagger
fell from his hand; he closed his eyes with awe and dismay, and when
he looked again the figure had melted into thin air and disappeared.
Appalled by this incident, he rushed away to the wildest part of the
hills, and on being joined by Thorolf and John of Harpidale, he put
to sea as usual in his galley, and departed no one knew whither.
The countess was found by her attendants in a deep but soft slumber,
before the little altar of the river chapel; but immediately on her
return to Braal, she took her three daughters, Algiva, Erica, and
Thora, to Bishop Adam of Caithness, and besought him to conceal and
protect them; and leaving them with tears and prayers, she returned
to the home of her terrible husband, giving out that the children
were dead.
Meanwhile the bishop, with all speed, despatched them to the court of
King William the Lion, and consigned the three helpless girls to the
care of the Queen Ermengarde de Beaumont.
The vision he had beheld on that night by the river Thurso long
filled with terror the soul of Morrar na Shean; but after a time the
impression became fainter, and gradually he came to the conclusion
that the whole affair must have been a dream, originating most
probably in his wine-cup.
He was long of returning to Braal, and solaced himself by ravaging
Heligoland and plundering several of its towns, the sites of which
have long since been covered by the encroaching sea. He then visited
Shetland, carrying havoc and dismay wherever he appeared, and
returning by Orkney, committed a crowning act of impiety at Kirkwall.
There was preserved there a silver bowl, in which St. Magnus had
baptized the earliest Christians of the Orcades. It was of great
size, curiously carved, and was carefully preserved in the cathedral.*
* "It so far exceeds other bowls in size," says Buchanan, in his
"History of Scotland," "that it seems to be a relic of the feasts of
the Lapithæ."
Accompanied by his two inseparable comrades and mentors to mischief,
he entered that stately Gothic church, which is one of the finest in
Scotland, seized the great bowl, and filled it with wine, which he
solemnly consecrated to Odin. Then, ascending the steps of the High
Altar, he quaffed it to the dregs, after exclaiming,--
"I worship thee, Odin, and I am a heathen! A heathen will I die, if
thou givest me but a son to heir my lands, my isles, and to send down
my name to the days of other years."
For these proceedings they were all excommunicated by the Bishop of
Caithness, and while they laughed to scorn the prelate and his solemn
anathema, they swore by the blades of their swords and the shoulders
of their horses (the old oath of the northern pagans) to have a
terrible revenge upon him.
With this intention, after six years' absence, they returned home,
and again the great war-galley, with all its purple sails spread, was
seen to stand round the rocky bluff named the Clett, and come to
anchor in Scrabster Roads, on the western side of Thurso Bay. On
landing, the earl repaired straight to the episcopal palace, with all
his followers, "to punish," as he said, "the bishop with the
serpent's tongue." On seeing them approach, the old man came forth
to meet them; and on beholding his serene and reverend aspect, John
of Harpidale, Thorolf Starkadder, and other grim outlaws, were
somewhat abashed and appalled, and leaned irresolutely on their drawn
swords.
"After a six years' absence, come you here, Lord Harold, instead of
visiting your lady at Braal?" asked the bishop, with an air of
surprise that was not unmingled with alarm.
"The countess?--you speak not of my daughters."
"Alas! they are here no longer," said the bishop, evasively.
"Dead?" asked the earl, with a cold smile.
"To you and all of us."
"'Tis well," said Harold, grinding his teeth; "but I came not hither
to speak of them!"
"Of what then?" asked Bishop Adam, with anxiety.
"Of thyself, who hast dared to pour empty anathemas on me, for merely
drinking a bowl of wine in my own town of Kirkwall."
"Silence, thou blasphemous lord, who desecrated the altar of God by
the praises of a heathen idol! I think of the coming time when thou
shalt die!"
"And what then?" asked Morrar, with a fierce and mocking laugh.
"In all thy vast possessions, who shall mourn thee?"
"The greyhounds in my hall, and the birds of prey, for whom I have
prepared many a banquet: yea, the black wolf and the yellow-footed
eagle too shall mourn for Morrar na Shean. Priest, I have come to
punish your insolence. Seize and drag him forth, Thorolf Starkadder!"
In a moment the mailed hands of Thorolf were wreathed in the white
hair and reverend beard of the old bishop, who was roughly dragged
through his own gate, and beaten to the earth beneath a shower of
blows dealt by clenched hands and the heavy iron hilts of swords and
daggers. Breathlessly, and on his knees, he implored mercy,
beseeching them not to peril their souls by murder, and a sin so foul
as sacrilege, by imbruing their hands in the blood of a priest; but
the fury of cruelty and destruction was in their hearts. Thorolf,
with his dagger, destroyed the eyesight of the poor old man; and John
of Harpidale cut out his tongue.
Then procuring the large cauldron in which food was usually prepared
for the staghounds of Morrar, they actually cast the blind and
bleeding bishop into it, and boiled him alive.*
* The scene of this terrible outrage is still shown near the Manse of
Halkirk.
On hearing of these proceedings, the Countess Grunhilda fled in
horror to the cathedral of Kirkwall, and took refuge with William
Bishop of Orkney, with whom she resided for several years, while her
daughters, under other names than their own, were growing up to
womanhood at the court of Queen Ermengarde, and while her husband,
the Lord of the Venison, spent his days in hunting and his nights in
drinking, carousing, fighting, and outrage, with his inseparable
ruffians, John of Harpidale and Thorolf Starkadder.
It was long before King William, who resided at the palace of Scone,
heard the correct details of these outrages, and then his soul was
filled with sorrow and indignation, for he was a gentle, wise, and
valiant king.
He resolved to punish the wicked Earl of Caithness, and for this
purpose two earls, named Roland and Gillechrist, were sent against
him with a body of troops.
Roland was the son of Uchtred, a brave lord of Galloway, who had
recently defeated the King of England at Carlisle, when preparing to
invade his province; and he had become the husband of Algiva, the
eldest daughter of Morrar na Shean.
Gillechrist had wedded Erica, the second daughter. He was Earl of
Angus, and from this marriage are descended the clan and surname of
Ogilvie. By a singular coincidence these two peers were now marching
against their father-in-law, with orders to subject him to the same
death as that by which the unhappy bishop died.
Morrar na Shean met them in a battle which was long and bloody,
though his people were cold in his cause. The men whom he had drawn
from his county of Orkney and the town of Thurso ultimately gave way;
and four hundred were instantly hanged on the field.
The castle of Braal, to which the survivors fled, was attacked,
entered by the secret postern, and stormed. Therein, after a
terrible conflict, were taken John of Harpidale and Thorolf
Starkadder, who were put to dreadful deaths, and then the fortress
was burned to the ground.
It was supposed that Morrar na Shean had perished in the flames; but
he had escaped by the postern--the same postern through which he had
led the countess to die--and reached his castle of Lochmore, a
secluded tower of great strength, which is situated at the end of a
loch, and overhangs the current of the Dirlet out of it. There the
river is narrow, deep, and rapid.
This tower was then remote and little known, so there for years did
Morrar live, secluded, forgotten, and abandoned by all; and then, as
time crept on, he became a prey to remorse and horror.
Terrific visions and appalling spectres were said to haunt him, and
the unquiet souls of Thorolf, of John of Harpidale, and others who
had died in his service, were averred to wander at night through the
silent chambers of Lochmore, and their wailing voices were heard to
rise from the lake in the moonshine, and to mingle with the roar of
the Dirlet beneath the castle-wall. At last no one would remain in
such a dwelling-place, and the wretched Morrar na Shean was left
entirely alone.
Then a sore illness came upon him with his growing years; and sick,
despairing, and sad at heart, the earl lay on what he feared was his
bed of death.
None were near him now: even the last of his hounds had gone to seek
another, a merrier, or it might be kinder master; and he wept the
salt, bitter tears of age, of sorrow, and repentance,--of an age that
was lonely and unfriended--of sorrow for his lost wife and
children--of repentance for a wasted life, and for his many
unatoned-for crimes and sacrileges.
He found himself abandoned on earth, and feared that he would be
excluded from Heaven. He was wifeless, childless, friendless, and
alone--alone with only memory and the terrors of death and
superstition!
He saw the clear, bright stars in the northern sky sparkling through
the gloomy windows of Lochmore. He heard the hoarse brawl of the
Dirlet beneath the castle wall; but he shut out the sound, for it
made him think of that terrible night when the swollen Thurso was
rushing over its stony bed, and Gunhilda was saved from his dagger by
the vision of St. Monina; and again he seemed to see that pale,
beautiful, and miraculous face shining amid its halo, in the twilight
before him.
The perspiration burst upon his wrinkled brow; he called wildly for
lights, but no one heard him now; and the echoes of his own voice
appalled him. He trembled to be in the dark and alone; and yet there
was no darkness, for it was the clear twilight of the northern
summer, when the sun scarcely dips beneath the horizon.
"Old, old! childless and alone!" moaned the earl, crushed beneath the
weight of sad thoughts and unavailing sorrow, as he covered his grey
head beneath the coverlet, and sobbed heavily.
"Harold--husband," said a gentle voice, that thrilled through him,
and tremblingly he started and looked up.
Lo! in the clear light of the midsummer night, there stood by his
bedside the Countess Gunhilda, as he had last seen her, so fair and
stately, with her Danish tunic of blue silk, her flowing mantle, and
long lace veil, that fell over her shoulders from under her
half-diadem, the gems of which sparkled in the light of the stars.
Beside her, but a little way behind, stood three tall and handsome
girls, each of whom wore riding-hoods edged with pearls and long
white veils, which they held upraised, as they surveyed him with sad
and earnest eyes.
Believing that he saw but disembodied souls, the upbraiding spirits
of his wife and their three daughters--for midsummer night is the
time when demons, ghosts, and fairies are all supposed to be
abroad,--the lonely earl uttered a cry of wild despair and fainted.
Yet they were no spirits whom he had seen, but the Countess Gunhilda
and his three daughters, who, having heard of his sad and repentant
condition, had hastened to visit and console him, and arrived thus in
the night.
And with Thora, the youngest and the fairest, had come her
husband--for she, too, was wedded to William Sinclair, Lord of
Roslin; and thus from her descended the future Earls of Orkney, who
were also Dukes of Oldenburg.
On returning to consciousness Morrar na Shean came to a new life of
joy and happiness. With these came a more sincere repentance. He
spent the remaining years of his life in endeavouring to atone for
the atrocities of his youth, and died at a good old age when
Alexander II. was King of Scotland--passing peacefully away, while
the faces of his children and grandchildren were bowed in prayer
around him.
Such is the story of Morrar na Shean, the Lord of the Venison.