SWORDBLADES AND SALVE.
"Quhen Marche with variand windis wes past,
And Apryll had with her silver shouris
Tane leif of Nature with an orient blast;
And lusty May, that mother is of flouris.
Had maid the birdis to begyn their houris,
Amang the tender odouris red and quhyt,
Quhais harmony to heir it was delyt."
DUNBAR'S _Thrissal and the Rois_, 1503.
The next morning was bright and beautiful; the birds sang merrily in
the old orchards of the palace and the older oak trees of the abbey
of Sancte Crucis. The sunlight, as it poured over the dark craigs of
Salisbury, and through chasms and fissures in their rocks, shone upon
the green valleys below like a golden haze, and tipped with yellow
light the grey masses of the strong old city. The fresh grass and
the open flowers loaded the soft west wind perfume, and gladdened the
hearts of the happy hawking party, which left the palace an hour
after sunrise, and all gaily mounted, with bugles sounding, horses
prancing, plumes waving, and accompanied by a dozen of falconers in
the royal livery, running on foot, with perches of hawks slung on
their shoulders.
As they rode eastward, by the base of Arthur's Seat, and past the
green and mossy bank where, among the clambering wild roses, stood
the little pillared well, dedicated in the old time "to the good
Saint Margaret, queen of Scotland, and mother of the poor," and
pursued thence their merry route towards the Loch of Restalrig, which
lay amongst its rocks and sedges, like a lake of blue and gold,
Roland was compelled, by the cold manner of the king, to retire from
his side. He saw with pain that the clear and benevolent eye of the
monarch was clouded--that anger, unmistakeable anger, lowered upon
his open brow. The inquiries of Roland for the health of the queen
were received so haughtily, and replied to so briefly, that, with a
heart full of wrath and pride, before the first heron had been raised
from among the rushes and water-lilies to do battle in the air, he
turned abruptly away, and resigned his place to Sir Adam Otterburn of
Redhall, whose face was lighted with an indescribable smile, as he
pressed forward to the side of the young king.
The bells of the Carmelites, on the north side of the city, of the
Dominicans on the south, of the Franciscans in the Grassmarket, and
other large establishments, were all ringing for morning mass, when
the cavalcade returned; and Roland, sick at heart, and dispirited,
without bidding adieu to the king (who with his company passed on to
prayer in the abbey church), dismounted at the door of his own
lodgings, and throwing the bridle of his horse to his servant,
demanded breakfast, for he was in too furious a mood to attend mass.
He was anxious to see Lord Ashkirk, but, encouraged by his disguise,
and trusting implicitly in the old domestics of the house, that rash
noble had gone to visit his family.
Breakfast was prepared and laid on the table by Roland's servant,
Linton Stock, whose name had been professionally shortened into
Lintstock. He was an old, iron-visaged culvernier, of King James
IV.'s days (as the countess would say), hard-featured, wiry-haired,
weather-beaten, and empurpled with hard drinking. It was his
constant boast that he had levelled one of Borthwick's Brass Sisters
on the field of Flodden, and thrawn Mow at the siege of Tantallan.
Like Hannibal, this veteran had only one eye, for Mow (a famous
cannon of Scottish antiquity) lost a piece of her muzzle every time
she was discharged; and one of the said pieces deprived Lintstock of
his dexter eye, which, as he said, ever after saved him the trouble
of closing it when taking aim, or adjusting the quoins under the
breach of a culverin. For wages he had all his master's cast cloaks,
doublets, and breeches; and being borne on the muster-roll of the
king's gunners, his pay, which was somewhere about three-halfpence
Scots per diem made him independent of all mankind.
On the anniversary of a Scottish victory this one-eyed patriot
invariably got himself uproariously drunk, and broke the windows of
the English ambassador: on the anniversary of any of our defeats he
was invariably ditto from vexation; and as these alternate sources of
joy and grief occurred pretty often, the ancient warrior was seldom
long sober.
Neither Roland's auger at the king, nor his intended combat with
Kincavil, prevented him from making an excellent breakfast on broiled
fish, cold meat, and bright brown ale. Before setting down he
selected the strongest and longest of some half-dozen swords that
hung in a corner. It was a large double-edged weapon, with an ample
hilt of steel; the blade, being inlaid, was one of those called
damasquinêe, from the Asiatic art just then introduced into Europe by
the famous Benvenuto Cellini. It was a beautiful rapier, which he
had taken in battle from an Italian cavalier when serving under John
Stuart Duke of Albany, when, at the head of ten thousand French
men-at-arms, that gallant prince invaded the kingdom of Naples.
Roland never used it save on important and desperate occasions, and
remembering that Kincavil was an able swordsman, he took it down and
handed it to Lintstock to polish; a duty which he performed in silent
precision, with the aid of an old buff belt. Thereafter, with true
military coolness, he tore a shirt into bandages, and prepared some
lint against his master's return.
"How many pots hast thou of that rubbish Lady Ashkirk sent me?--the
salve, I mean," asked Roland, with his moustaches whitened over by
ale froth.
"Three, sir."
"Dost thou know the laird of Kincavil's lodging?"
"Aboon the Tron--yes."
"Then leave the pots there to-day, with my best commendations; for,
by my faith, he will need them all."
Lintstock continued to rub, and watched the polish of the sword.
"Thou knowest I expect two friends to supper, and must trust to thy
ingenuity, for, 'fore God! I have not a testoon in the world."
"Be easy, Sir Roland, I'll provide supper for the king himself, if he
come, and plenty Bordeaux to boot, forbye and attour the Rochelle,"
replied Lintstock, with a nod and a knowing wink of his solitary eye.
The moment breakfast was over, Roland crossed himself and wiped his
moustaches. Receiving his sword, he placed it in his belt on the
left side, hung a long armpit dagger on the right, stuck his bonnet
rather over the right eye, clasped his doublet carefully to the
throat, and giving his curls a last adjust, for he was somewhat of a
beau, whistled the "March to Harlaw," as he issued forth, with the
fullest intention of perforating the laird of Kincavil like a
pepperbox.
He passed the long and irregular façade of the palace, the
strongly-grated windows of which were glittering in the bright
sunshine that bathed the varied architecture of its courts and
towers. Clad in their red doublets slashed with black, and wearing
caps and gorgets of steel, the sentinels of the king's guard were
leaning on their heavy arquebuses, the rests or forks of which were
slung in their sword-belts; and they stood in the bright blaze of the
sun, as listlessly and still as the banner of the red lion that waved
above the gate. Beyond the precincts of the palace, the street,
which is overlooked by gable-ended houses, in the old Flemish taste,
becomes much wider. He turned to the right, and passed through the
Watergate, the most eastern barrier of Edinburgh. This strong and
venerable porte obtained its name because the king's horses were led
out that way every morning to water, in a large pond near it. On
quitting this ivied and grass-tufted archway, Roland found the open
space allotted for tennis-players lying on his right hand, the
horsepond lay on his left, and before him the verdant Calton reared
up its lonely ridge.
The whole place was then quite solitary enough for such a meeting,
though now the site of the pond, the tennis court, and even the hill
itself, are covered with houses.
Roland's anger was somewhat increased by perceiving that his
adversary was already on the ground, and whiling away the time by
skimming flat stones across the pond.
"Ah! thou villanous Hamilton," thought he, "how I long to be at thee!
My sword is like a razor, my wrist is like steel, this morning, and I
will curry thee in such fashion, that thou shalt tremble at the name
of Jane Seton or a salve-pot ever after."
"God be with you, Sir Roland; you have not kept me waiting long,"
said Kincavil, bowing with cold politeness.
"I am glad of it."
"You have been at mass this morning with the king, I think?"
"No, faith!" said Roland, knitting his brows as he thought of the
hawking party. "I feared there would be no room for me among so many
Hamiltons, panders, and parasites."
"Then I hope you said prayers at home," replied Kincavil, whose eyes
flashed as he unsheathed his sword.
"As usual; but I forgot to bring for your use a pot of that notable
salve of which you made a jest last night."
"Keep it for yourself, Sir Roland--guard."
"Come on, then--you _will_ have it."
They saluted each other, the bright blades clashed, and they both
engaged with great address and skill. Clad in blue velvet and gold,
Kincavil was both strong and handsome; but as a swordsman
considerably inferior to Roland, who had studied his thrusts at the
court of Francis I.; and thus, three passes had scarcely been
exchanged on the right, when he made a sudden _appel_ on the left,
and quickly disengaging to the right again, passed his sword
completely through the body of his adversary, who bent forward over
it, and sank upon his knees. He made a futile effort to rise, but
the moment Roland's blade was withdrawn, sank prostrate on the grass,
with the blood gushing from his wound.
"Ask me not to beg my life, Sir Roland," said Hamilton in a broken
voice, "for I will rather die than condescend so far."
"Thou art a gallant man, Sir John Hamilton; and may the devil take me
if I make any such request; but methinks I have taught you the danger
of jesting with the names of noble ladies."
"My Heaven! yes. I am bleeding fast; and yet, if the Lady Ashkirk
doth really make that precious salve," said Kincavil, with true
Scottish obstinacy, "tell her, for God's love to send me a pot
thereof, for I am enduring the torments of hell!" and he reclined
against a stone, pale and motionless, with his beautiful doublet of
blue velvet drenched in blood.
Roland carefully wiped and sheathed his favourite Italian sword with
the air of a man who was used to such encounters; and after vainly
endeavouring to staunch the crimson torrent, he hastened to the
Watergate, from whence he sent the under-warders to look after the
wounded man, and then walked up the street towards the house of the
countess, as if nothing had happened.
A thrust or so through the body was a mere nothing in those days.