MILLHEUGH.
"Without principle, talent, or intelligence, he is ungracious as a
hog, greedy as a vulture, and thievish as a jackdaw."--_Humphrey
Clinker._
Such, indeed, was the character of the person upon whose rustic
privacy Fawside now intruded himself. The tower, though built four
centuries before, by Duthac the Thane, was indicative of the
character of Allan, his descendant. It was grim, narrow, and
massively constructed. The walls were enormously thick; the windows
were small, placed far from the floors of the chambers they lighted,
and were thickly grated without and within. The stone sill of each
was perforated, to permit the emission of arrows or arquebuse shot
for defence; and these perforations, when not required, were, as
usual in Scotland, closed temporarily by wooden plugs. A high
barbican wall enclosed the court of the tower on all sides save
towards the brook, the waters of which were collected to form a moat
that was crossed by a drawbridge directly under the base of the keep.
The laird was coarse in manner, rough and unlettered, but subtle in
spirit, strong of limb, hardy by nature, keen-eyed, and heartless.
In his time he had perpetrated many outrages, but always in form of
raid; and secluded in the fastnesses of Cadzow Wood, under the wing
and authority of the House of Hamilton, to whom--though a fierce
tyrant to others--he was a pretended slave, and (while in the pay of
its enemies) a most obsequious and useful vassal, he had long eluded
and braved the feeble power of the newly-created courts of
law,--Scotland's last and best gift from James V. He had barbarously
treated, for years, a poor girl to whom he had been handfasted, and
to be rid of her, had her accused of sorcery and drowned in the Avon;
nor had he even pity for her children, whom he was accused of
bestowing on Anthony Gavino, chief of the Egyptians, to be made
vagrants and thieves. But the greatest outrage in which he was
concerned was the assassination of the gentle priest and poet, Sir
James Inglis of Culross. When his accomplices fled to the Hill of
Refuge at Torphichen, and claimed the sanctuary of the Preceptor and
Knights of St. John of Jerusalem, he sought a safer shelter in his
own barred tower, where he lurked night and day, surrounded by pikes
and arquebuses, until the clamour occasioned by the sacrilege died
away, or some new outrage in other quarters attracted the attention
of the people.
His gatekeeper and butler, his valets and stablers, had all the
aspect of brigands, gypsies, or broken troopers. Their manners were
coarse and sullen, or boisterous; patched visages, blackened eyes,
and broken noses, were common to them all; and when Florence, in his
rich suit of half-mail, with his jewelled poniard, his inlaid
petronel, and glittering spurs, was ushered into the dimly-lighted
hall, they surveyed him askance, with unpleasant but meaning looks
that seemed to say,--"If time and place fitted, by St. Paul, we would
soon ease thee of all this bravery!"
The stone walls of the hall were lighted by four large and coarse
yellow candles, that flared and sputtered in sconces of brass; but
more fully by an ample fire of pine-roots and turf that blazed on the
hearth under a wide-arched mantelpiece, from whence the flames cast
along the paved floor a lurid glow, as from the mouth of an opened
furnace. The grated windows of this hall were arched, and sunk in
recesses whose depth was lost in shadow. Several old weapons,
covered with rust and cobwebs, with a few tin and wooden trenchers of
the plainest description, were the only ornaments or appurtenances on
the walls of this rude old dwelling, while the furniture, which
consisted of a table, a few forms and tripod stools, was all of
common wood. The floor was strewn with dried rushes, and eight or
ten men, retainers of the tower,--fellows rough, unshaven, and
uncombed in aspect, clad in shabby doublets, were lounging around two
who were engaged in a game of tric-trac.
They started up at the entrance of a stranger, and two others who had
been asleep on the stone seats within the glowing fireplace now came
forward, and cast aside the grey border plaids in which they had been
muffled.
They--the latter--wore gorgets of black iron, with pyne doublets,
swords, and Tyndale knives. Their steel caps and bucklers lay near.
They were hardy and weatherbeaten men, but of brutal aspect; and one
whose visage was rosy-red, and whose nose was like a thick cluster of
red currants, proved to be no other than Symon Brodie, the drunken
butler of Preston Tower, while his companion was Mungo Tenant, the
warden of the same distinguished establishment. Some recollection of
their faces--for Florence, when a boy, had once been unmercifully
beaten by this same butler,--or of their livery and badges, caused
him to be at once upon his guard, and to beware of what might ensue.
"Laird--laird Millheugh! a stranger would speak wi' ye," said several
voices officiously; and on one of the tric-trac players rising up,
with an oath and a growl on the interruption, Fawside found himself
confronted, rather than received, by the master of this free-and-easy
mansion.
"God save you, sir," said he, with a blunt country nod, and a leer in
his eye, as he surveyed the bright arms and gay apparel of his
visitor with an expression in which contempt and covetousness were
curiously blended; "whence come you?"
"From Edinburgh----"
"Ay, ay, I thought sae; a braw gallant--one of the galliards o'
Holyrood or Falkland Green--or of the regent, eh? I have seen muckle
bravery o' this kind about Arran's house in the Kirk o' field Wynd."
"Nay, sir, you mistake," was the haughty reply of Florence, to whom
this bearing proved very offensive; "I have no connection with the
court, neither have I the honour to hold any post or place about the
person of the regent, but am a plain country gentleman of Lothian;
and being on my way to Cadzow, the captain of the queen's guard asked
me to deliver this letter here, where he was pleased to add, I should
be welcome to tarry and refresh."
"Welcome you are, and welcome are a' who like better to byde in
Millheugh than in the forest for a night; but what, in the black
devil's name, can the captain of the queen's guard, a painted and
scented loon like Champfleurie, have to say to me?"
"'Tis from a lady of the queen dowager's court."
"Whew!" said the laird, with a roar of laughter; "let me see the
letter, friend."
As Florence presented the note, the laird rudely and impatiently
snatched it from his hand, broke the seal, and proceeded to make
himself master of its contents. But this mastery was a process by no
means speedily accomplished by this country gentleman of the year
1547. He drew close to one of the wall-sconces, scratched his head,
viewed the writing from various points, and, after much delay,
perplexity, and muttering, under his ragged moustaches, many
maledictions on the writer and himself, he succeeded in deciphering
the few lines it contained. On this, a smile of mingled cunning and
ferocity spread over his massive and vulgar face.
During this delay, Fawside, whom he had permitted to stand, had an
ample opportunity of observing him.
He was tall and, we have said, strongly formed. His complexion was
pale and sallow, though his hair was black as jet. His dark eyes had
ever a malicious twinkle, and a villanous expression was impressed on
his whole face by a wound received at the battle of Linlithgow, where
the sword of the bastard of Arran--the same ignoble steel that slew
the good and gentle Earl of Lennox--had laid his left cheek open, at
the same moment completely demolishing the bridge of his nose, which
had never at any time been very handsome. His attire consisted of a
dirty and greasy doublet, formed of what had once been peach-coloured
velvet, discoloured in several places by perspiration, slops of wine,
and the rust of his armour. It was rent under the arms, torn at the
slashes, and, in lieu of buttons, was tied by faded ribbons, and,
where these had failed, by plain twine. His russet sarcenet trunk
hose were in the same condition. He wore cuarans of rough hide on
his feet, and had a long horn-hafted dagger of butcherly aspect in
his calfskin girdle. Add to all this black masses of elf-lock hair,
a shaggy beard and moustache, and we hope that the reader sees before
him Allan Duthie of the Millheugh.
A deep quiet laugh stole over his features on making himself master
of the contents of this letter, with the purport of which our
seventeenth chapter has made the reader familiar. He gave a meaning
glance at his ruffianly and unscrupulous retainers, who were intently
eyeing the stranger as a prize or prey. Then he surveyed the latter,
the aspect of whose lithe, stalwart, and well-armed figure made him
resolve that a little policy would be wiser than an open and
unprovoked assault, before securing him. Moreover, he feared that in
a scuffle the gay suit of French plate armour, which he meant to
appropriate, and which, he flattered himself, would exactly fit his
burly figure, might suffer damage; and this he by no means desired,
especially when this unsuspicious visitor, who had brought his own
death-warrant, might be much more easily killed or captured without
it. All this passed through his subtle mind in a moment. Then he
turned to Florence, saying with an artful smile,--
"Ye are right welcome, fair sir, to the poor cheer o' Millheugh Ha';
but will ye no unstrap this braw harness, and draw nearer the ingle;
for though the month be August, the cauld wind soughs at the lumheid,
as if some wrinkled hag were byding there, on her way hame frae the
moon or the warlock-sabbath."
"I thank you," replied the young man; "and if one of your servitors
will so fer favour me as to undo the straps of this steel casing----"
"That will I, mysel', do blythely, Fawside," said the laird, who with
great readiness unfastened the various buckles of some portions of
the beautiful suit of mail, and removed them, with the shining and
embossed coursing-hat, to a side buffet, muttering while doing
so,--"By the deil's horns, he has a pyne doublet under a'; but a dab
wi a dirk may soon make a hole in that. Look weel to this harness,
lads,--as if it were mine ain," he added aloud, with a wink to some
of his people, who seemed quite to understand the hint. "And so ye
have come from Edinburgh----"
"Last," said Florence, laughing; "but a month since I was in Paris."
"Oho!--and what new plots are the bloody Guises hatching--for they
are aye up to some develrie anent us, eh?"
"I know of none, laird," said Florence with reserve; "I have come
from France certainly, but I have not the honour to be ranked either
as a friend or confidant of the Cardinal de Guise or the Duc de
Mayenne. Indeed, I never saw them but once, for a few minutes, in
the gallery of the Louvre."
"Yet Bothwell styles you a spy of the Guises!" thought Millheugh.
"Well, well, sir," he added aloud; "'tis no matter o' mine. Serve up
the supper quick; but, ere sitting down, sir, would ye take off your
braw belt and sword?"
"Nay, Millheugh," said Florence smiling, though certain undefined
suspicions occurred to him; "I am never unarmed even in my own house;
and you, I see, wear your belt and Tynedale knife."
"Oh, it matters nocht to me," said the laird with a cunning laugh;
"but I thocht ye might sup the easier without your lang iron spit and
braw baldrick."
A repast of the plainest kind, but great in quantity, consisting
mainly of brose, haggis, sowons, and porridge with prunes in it, was
now served up, with cold beef, and venison hams; and, while the two
retainers of Claude Hamilton sat somewhat apart, darting covert
scowls from under their shaggy brows at their master's feudal enemy,
they, as well as Millheugh's hungry foresters, made great havock
among the contents of the piled platters and ample cogies with which
the table was furnished--viands which were washed down by a river of
ruddy-brown ale, flowing from a large cask set upon a bin, in a stone
recess, the Gothic canopy of which showed that in the days of the
present proprietor's father therein had stood a crucifix and
holy-water font, wherein all were wont to dip their fingers before
sitting down to meals;--but the times were changing fast, and the
minds, manners, and morals of the people were changing with them.
When supper was over, Florence, weary with his long and rough ride of
so many miles, and heartily sick of the laird's coarse, if not brutal
conversation, retired to rest; and believing himself in perfect
security, divested himself of his attire, and was soon in a profound
and dreamless slumber--so profound, that he heard not at midnight
three very decided attempts which were made by certain parties
without to force his door, the many locks and bars of which, however,
fortunately stood firm and were his friends. Soundly he slept,
though his couch was made only of soft heather, packed closely in on
an oblong frame, with the points uppermost, and a sheet spread over
it, in the old Scottish fashion. But towards morning--all
unconscious that he was a prisoner--sounds of distant merriment came
floating to his ear, and awoke him for a time.
That night, and for hours after midnight had passed, Millheugh and
his men drank deeply in the rude and ancient hall, and their songs
and boisterous laughter, came to the ear of Florence by fits, upon
the weird howling of the morning wind. One drunken ditty, composed
by some West Lothian (and long forgotten) song-writer, on Preston's
never sober butler, seemed an especial favourite, and a score of
voices made its chorus shake the vaulted roof of the old tower. It
ran thus:--
"Symon Brodie had a cow:
When she was lost, he couldna find her;
But he did a' that man could do,
Till she cam' hame wi her tail behind her.
Honest bald Symon Brodie,
Stupid auld doitit bodie!
Gin ye pass by Preston Tower,
Birl the stoup wi Preston Brodie.
"Symon Brodie had a wife,
And wow! but she was braw and bonnie;
A clout she tuik frae off the buik,
And preened it on her cockernonie.
Honest bald Symon Brodie,
Stupid auld drunken bodie!
For Claude, the laird o' Preston Tower,
Has kiss'd the wife o' Symon Brodie."
Florence awoke late--at least, _late_ for 1547; the time-dial
indicated the hour of eleven; when he rose, dressed himself, and
descended to the hall, with his purse in his hand to scatter a
largess among the servants, to breakfast, and then begone with all
speed.
By various pretexts, the laird procrastinated the time for his
departure, till Fawside was at last compelled to order his horse
peremptorily. Then Allan Duthie threw aside all disguise, and
laughed outright at him.
Florence started from the table, and with his hand on his sword
approached the door of the hall.
Then the laird snatched up an arquebuse with a lighted match, and at
the head of several domestics, variously armed, prepared to dispute
his exit, by completely barring the way; at this critical stage of
their proceedings the sound of a hunting-horn, blown loudly at the
gate, made even the most forward of the brawlers pause to a time.
"Is that thy master's horn, Symon?" asked the treacherous laird.
"I dinna ken, Millheugh," replied Symon, arming his right hand with a
tankard, the contents of which he had just drained, and the creamy
froth of which covered all his Bardolph nose and grizzly-grey
moustache; "but he must be here ere midday pass."!
"Claude Hamilton here!" thought Florence, as the blood rushed back
upon his heart; "one house can never hold us--with these people, too!
Oh, mother! to-morrow you may say your mass-prayers for my butchery.
Millheugh must know of our feud, and yet he told me not he was
expected here!"
"If he come not speedily," continued the jesting ruffian, "woe worth
all the breakfast he is likely to get; but the loss o' it will be a
just punishment, as I ken he eats beef and mutton in Lenten-time,
instead of kail and green herbs, for the gude o' his soul."
"What the deil hae our souls to do wi' kail, or beef, or mutton,
Millheugh, whate'er our appetites may?" asked Symon Brodie; "a gude
appetite is a sign o' a gude conscience. There sounds the horn
again!"
"A Lollard, hey?" exclaimed Millheugh; "thou hast heard Friar Forest
preach, I warrant."
"I heard him preach, and saw him burned at a stake on the Castle
Hill."
"Take ye care then, Symon, for there are faggots for those who speak
like thee; and a butler will burn as well as a friar."
"Indubitably."
"Make way, fellows!" exclaimed Florence, lunging at Millheugh with
his sword; "make me way, or your lives are not worth a dog's ransom.
'Tis well for thee, and such as thee, Symon Brodie, that the terror
of the scoffer and the impious, Cardinal Beaton, is in his grave!"
"His eminence," said Millheugh, "aye deemed himself on better terms
with Heaven than other men."
"Weel, weel," said the impudent butler, "he hath since, peradventure,
discovered his mistake in that matter."
"Thou saucy varlet," exclaimed Fawside, making at him a blow, which
he eluded by leaping on one side, "darest thou speak of him so in the
presence of a loyal gentleman?"
"Peace, I command you," cried Millheugh; "for, by the hoof of Mahoun,
here come more visitors!"
As he spoke the jangle of spurs was heard on the stair that gave
access to the upper stories of the tower. Several gentlemen, well
armed, and richly clad in riding-coats, with long boots of Spanish
leather, and having, mostly, helmets, cuirasses, and gorgets,
hurriedly thronged into the hall; and Fawside felt a momentary
emotion of alarm on recognizing among them the voices and figures of
Patrick Earl of Bothwell, the Earl of Glencairn, and the sinister
visage of his son, the Lord Kilmaurs.