SAINT GILES.
"You might have heard a pebble fall,
A beetle hum, a cricket sing,
An owlet flap his boding wing,
On Giles's steeple tall.
The antique buildings climbing high,
Whose gothic frontlets sought the sky."
_Marmion_, Canto V.
At the great entrance of St. Giles's church (a deep and lofty gothic
doorway) the steps of which were yet stained with the gallant blood
of M'Clellan of Bombie, among the gaily-attired crowd that was
pressing up the flight and into that magnificent fane, the countess,
with her friends and followers, encountered Redhall, with _his_
friend (Kinloss), and his followers, Nichol Birrel, Dobbie, and
Sanders Screw, whose official capacities did not prevent their
appearance among his retinue, like whom, they wore steel bonnets, and
were barbed to the teeth.
The king's advocate bowed profoundly, and, with all respect, fell
back a pace or so, while the countess and her ladies swept into the
church like a frigate followed by four cutters. A true gallant of
the day, Roland dipped his hand into the font, and assisted Jane to
holy water, scattering the rest over the poor people who knelt at the
doorway, looking for alms in silence.
All the windows of this great edifice were then filled with stained
glass; thus the prismatic hues of many a martyr's robe, many a
blood-red cross, many a glorious halo and gaudy armorial blazon were
thrown on the silent throng who crowded the choir, the nave, and the
transepts of this majestic church. Now it is divided into three;
then it was open, and unincumbered by galleries, stood in all the
pristine glory of its gothic architecture, two hundred feet in length
by one hundred and twenty in breadth, the four arms of the vast cross
being open under the stupendous central arches which sprung away
aloft, upholding the square tower and mural crown of its spire.
There stood the great altar, the splendid canopy of which uprose from
columns of burnished brass. Underneath was the pix of gold, where
the host was kept; above this stood a gigantic crucifix of silver,
and the solid candlesticks of the same metal, which were of great
size and weight. At the Reformation, these and all other sacred
utensils were seized by the provost, who ordered the brazen pillars
to be cast into cannon for the ramparts of the city.
The pulpit was yet unoccupied; but round the four sides of the great
altar were many persons kneeling in prayer. Five streams of
brilliantly-coloured sunlight fell from the south aslant the great
church, from the five vaulted chapels which Johne Skayer and Johne of
Stone, two cunning masons, built during the provostry of that "good
man and noble," the Laird of Netherliberton. Then the church was
without other seats than those cushions and stools which were borne
by servants, or by cavaliers for the use of the ladies they
accompanied. Many a group in velvet cloaks and high ruffs, with
satin trains and hoods of crammasie; many a moustachioed and belted
man, half noble and wholly soldier, many a shaven friar, and many a
sweet young girl with that fair hair so famed in Scottish song (the
golden hair which Raphael loved so well), were kneeling before the
lesser altars, of which that great temple, "our mother kirk of old
St. Giles," boasted not less than forty.
The most magnificent were those of the Holy Blood, the Holy Cross de
Lucano, Nostre Domine, St. Michael de Monte Tomba, Our Lady of Piety,
and St. Eloi, the most eastern shrine, which belonged to the gallant
craftsmen, as being that of their peculiar patron. Behind it they
had placed a window, whereon were painted the elephant and crowned
hammer of the principal corporation; and before it hung a beautiful
lamp of silver, which was said to have been brought by them from the
sack of Jerusalem, and the light of which was never extinguished.
The most beautifully-decorated columns of the church are four, where
this altar stood. Like the branches of a forest, the ribs of the
groined roof sprung away aloft into the dusky clerestory, through the
deep windows of which fell many a flake of light of every rainbow
hue, revealing many a grotesque carving and many a grim old head.
"Many a scutcheon and banner riven"
decorated the side chapels, and many a sword and helmet were rusting
above the tombs of departed valour. Many marble statues of saints
and warriors, of mitred abbots and good old citizens, were standing
there in niches, with their hands clasped in one eternal prayer; for
there now lie the dead of more than seven hundred years, with the
wise Moray, and Montrose the loyal; for many a proud peer and valiant
warrior, the faithful and the false, the just and the unjust, the
impious and the true, the beautiful and the deformed, all blent in
one common and undistinguishable dust, have mouldered beneath the
pavement of its deep vaults and solemn aisles.
Bowing to the great altar, the countess, with all her train, passed
down the church towards the north-east pillar, which is called _the
king's_, as it bears the arms of James II., where she usually sat,
for her husband, Earl John, lay near it, before the altar of St. John
the Baptist. The servants arranged the kneeling cushions, and the
countess received her velvet-bound missal from Sabrino, who sat down
behind her, not on his knees, but _à la turque_, which made the
people, who viewed the poor negro with fear and hostility, mutter
among themselves.
"Gudesake! she bringeth her black devil into the very kirk wi' her!"
said Deacon Plane, under his thick beard, to his better half.
"I could have sworn upon the gospels, gudeman, that the holy water
hissed when she dipped her hand in the font."
"Her finger, ye mean, neibour," said another, behind his bonnet;
"think ye a wizard-body would dip in mair than they could help?"
"Wheesht, Elsie--Losh keep us, the thing is looking at ye!"
"Weel, I carena a bodle--let it look!" replied the woman confidently,
while feeling for a blessed relique of St. Roque, which she carried
in her bosom; but Sabrino grinned, and showed all his white teeth,
and, what was still more appalling, an almost total absence of
tongue--the poor being was a mute, or nearly so--upon which the woman
shrunk close to her husband, and began to cross herself with great
energy; while at the same moment the Provost of St. Giles and the
sixteen prebendaries, preceded by their curate and cross-bearer, the
sacristan ringing a bell, the beadle, the minister of the choir
bearing a standard, four choristers, and eight tapers, passed through
the church, in procession, to their stalls within the sanctuary,
softly and noiselessly, while all the vast congregation knelt, and
when again they rose, Father St. Bernard was in the pulpit, which
projected from one of the four great columns sustaining the spire.
He was a mild and benevolent-looking old priest, whom all the
citizens loved for his piety, goodness, and attention to the sick and
poor during the frightful pestilence of 1520. His hair was white as
snow, his grey eyes were bright and gentle. Father St. Bernard was
now in his sixtieth year; and, when accompanying the Scottish army as
a confessor, had seen the battles of Sauchie, of Flodden, and
Linlithgow.
On this day he had elaborately decorated and lighted the shrine of
St. Giles, and his statue, the same which the reformers threw into
the North Loch, was encircled by a wreath of roses, made by Jane
Seton and her companions; around it was hung a piece of red cloth,
then known as "Sanct Geiles' coat," and before it, in a casket of
chased silver, lay his skeleton arm--a relique which the Knight of
Gourtoun had received from Louis XI. of France, and bequeathed to the
church.
Oblivious of the oration he had come to hear, of the magnificent
manner in which the church was decorated, and of the attentive crowds
that filled it, Redhall leaned against a column not far from the
king's, and watched attentively the group which knelt beside the
countess. When Father St. Bernard prayed, Jane and Vipont read from
the same missal, and their heads were so close that her forehead
touched his ear. Redhall ground his teeth; and when they turned to
each other and smiled (for they could sympathize without speaking),
he felt his heart swell with suppressed passion. His attention,
however, soon became divided between Jane and her lover's attendant,
who had placed his long sword against the king's pillar, and while
affecting to be listening to the panegyric on St. Giles, was in
reality studying intently the vast assemblage, and dealing covert
glances of hostility, for everywhere he recognised the colours, the
crests, and badges of the Hamiltons.
"Despite that voluminous beard, and these painted eyebrows, yonder
fellow is either the Earl of Ashkirk or the devil!" thought Redhall;
"but let me be wary, for he is slippery as an eel. So, so! our good
Sir Roland Vipont, the king's favourite minion, is a resetter of
rebels--hah! I have it now."
He almost said this aloud, so bright, or rather so dark and so
devilish, was the thought that flashed upon his mind. Beckoning to
his henchman and factotum--
"Nichol," said he, "thou seest that valet in the livery of Sir Roland
Vipont?"
"He wi' that beard like a colt's tail?"
"The same. I would fain have him committed to sure ward--privately
though; not in the castle, for there every one would hear of it an
hour after, but quietly, in the vault of my own house here. Dost
thou understand me?"
"Wi' ease can we do so, my lord," replied Nichol, with a grin on his
mastiff mouth, "for by the use o' my long lugs I have just learned
that he is to attend the Lady Seton on a visit to St. Katherine's
convent to-night."
"'Slife! dost thou say so? And that captain of the ordnance, doth he
go too?"
"No."
"Ah! and wherefore?"
"Because it seems that the captain of the king's guard and that gay
buckie, Leslie of Balquhan, are to sup with him to-night."
"Thou art sure of this?" said Redhall, whose heart glowed, and whose
eyes sparkled.
"Sure as I am a born man."
"Watch well, then, and learn more, if you can. Oh, Nichol Birrel,
thou art worth thy weight in gold to me--yea, gold trebly refined!
Continue to watch them strictly while I go to his eminence the
cardinal concerning a raid against the Douglases; for, mark me, both
the Lady Seton and yonder valet of her squire must be safe within our
bolts and bars to-night. I have suspected that long beard concealed
something for these some days past."
"And so have I, your lordship."
"Indeed--remarkable! and you think----"
"As your lordship doth."
"That he is no other than the Earl of Ashkirk?"
The brodder--who, in fact, had never bestowed a thought upon the
matter--now opened his eyes wide with astonishment.
"Deil gae owre us! _he_ is worth a bushel o' silver merks."
"Which I will pay thee privately, for thy secrecy and assistance."
"And by-and-bye, I may get the other thousand from the council--eh?"
"Of course."
"And Sir Roland?"
"Is about to be sent on a fool's errand into Douglasdale."
"Disguised as a black friar, I sought admittance to his lodging at
St. Anne's-yard while he was yet a-bed; for I was bent on probing his
wound anew," whispered this bloodhound, with a terrible smile; "but
his servitor, a wary auld birkie, that hath served in the border
wars, said, 'Na, na, my master needs na ghostly counsel, gude father;
indeed he seldom confesses, save now and then to Father St. Bernard.'
'But I am a notable apothgar,' said I, under my cowl, 'and cure a'
manner o' sword wounds, forbye and attour shot-holes.' 'Ouaye,' he
replied, 'but my master hath got from the Lady Ashkirk a notable red
salve, that cures a' thing, frae a prick wi' a pin to a slash wi' a
Jethart axe. He had but a clean stab frae a poniard, and the salve
hath made him whole:' and so, my lord, I came away like a hound that
loses the scent."
"Good!" muttered the advocate, opening his note-book. "Vipont seldom
goes to confession (that will be information for the cardinal and
Fynnard the grand inquisitor), save to the Father St. Bernard (_that_
looketh like conspiracy); and he hath actually received a pot of
salve from the Countess of Ashkirk, which savoureth of sorcery and
working by damnable charms. By my soul, Nichol Birrel," said he,
closing his tablets, "thou art an invaluable fellow. The cardinal
would give his best benefice for such a spy. I will find military
service for the master of the ordnance, and can also dispose of the
countess. I have them all in my grasp! Oh, how subtly the web is
weaving, and how tangled are the meshes of the plot that will lay
them all at my mercy!"
Redhall unwittingly thought aloud, and his fierce whisper was heard
by Birrel. Under the tufted masses of his shock-head, the ruffian
gave a leer of delight and intelligence, at least so much as his
yellow bilious visage could express, and drew nearer the countess,
while Redhall, softly and on tiptoe, lest the jingle of his silver
spurs might be heard, hastened from the church, to seek the lord
chancellor (to whom James intrusted everything) concerning the
proposed raid to Douglasdale and other projects, of which the reader
will soon learn more.
During this conversation, Father St. Bernard had proceeded far with
his oration on St. Giles, the abbot and confessor, with a pathos and
power of oratory that enchained the attention of his hearers while it
fired and enchanted them. Unacquainted with care, and long separated
from the world, the aspect of this venerable prebendary was
singularly saintly and winning; his eye was alternately mild and
penetrating, and his voice was soft and persuasive. All were
irresistibly drawn towards him; and while he spoke, the most profound
silence reigned throughout the long dim aisles and misty perspective
of that vast and crowded church. With all that filial love and
respect which of old a Catholic girl felt for her confessor, Lady
Jane Seton kept her bright eyes fixed on St. Bernard's face. She was
proud of his oratory, his clear and beautiful language, his fervid
enthusiasm, and deep research into abstruse writing and the lore of
ancient days.
We can give but an outline of how the good father traced the earthly
pilgrimage of the city's patron saint, from the day when his eyes
first opened to the light in ancient Athens. "It was towards the
close of the seventh century," he continued, "and his birth was noble
as any in old Cecropia. The dwelling of his father stood near the
temple of the Eumenides, and under the brow of that very platform
from whence the blessed apostle Paul had preached to the Athenians."
He described his extraordinary learning, his deep and solemn piety,
which won for him the admiration of Greece, and other countries far
beyond his native province of Achaia; so much so that it soon became
impossible for him to enjoy in his splendid home the retirement and
meditation for which he longed. Shrinking alike from the applause of
men and the dangerous temptations of wealth and prosperity, he gave
all he possessed to the poor, and bade farewell for ever to Athens
and Achaia the beautiful. Sailing towards France, he landed on the
open and desert shore near the Rhone, from whence, with a cross on
his staff, he travelled into wild places, teaching the blessed
gospels to the pagan Gauls, until he reached a forest in the district
of Nismes, where then stood a city built by the Roman warriors of
Augustus; and there still men and beasts fought like demons in the
amphitheatre of Arennes, and the poor pagans worshipped their graven
idols in the temple of Diana--for the savage Goths then held the city
and all the land around it.
"There, in the vast forest which had been growing since the deluge,
St. Giles built him a hermitage, and there," continued the preacher,
"subsisting on the berries and other wild fruits of the desert, with
water only for his drink, he passed many years in the voiceless
solitude, till, purified by prayer, disengaged from earth, and filled
with the ardour of his holy meditations, he became as an angel rather
than a man." He related, too, how the saint planted his cross-staff
before the door of his hermitage, and watered it daily, until it took
root, sprouted, and grew into a stately orange-tree; and how (like
the holy St. Aicard), having once in forgetfulness shaved his bald
crown so late on a Saturday night that he encroached on the Sunday
morning, when turning about he saw the devil--and here every one
crossed themselves--yea, the devil, busily picking up every atom of
hair, to produce the whole against him at the divine tribunal: and
how severely he was punished thereafter; for a savage Gothic chief
had him seized, scourged, and thrown into one of the Roman towers of
Nismes, where he prayed to his Maker in great agony of spirit.
Lo! in the night a halo shone around him, his fetters fell off, the
doors of his dungeon revolved, and the clear light of the stars
beamed upon him. A deep slumber fell upon his guards, and St. Giles
walked forth in peace, to seek once more the shade of his miraculous
orange-tree and his beloved hermitage near the dark green woods and
bright blue waters of the Rhone.
Now, spreading fast in Gaul, the Goths had made themselves lords of
the two Narbonensis and the three Acquitani: in their wild ravages
they destroyed even the forests, and by these and their cruelty
brought so sore a famine upon the land, that even the saint, in his
extreme old age, would have perished, but for the fruit of his
orange-tree, and the milk of a doe, which visited him daily, sent
doubtless by the Lord, and which became his sole companion and
sustenance; and it chanced that when Wamba, king of the Goths, was
hunting one day in the forest of Nismes, he was about to slay the
doe, but spared her at the saint's intercession; upon which Ionie,
his queen, who was almost dying of a grievous sickness, became
straightway restored to her former strength and beauty.
St. Giles outlived the famine, and by the miracles he wrought became
famous throughout all the land of Gaul, and died at a wondrous old
age in that year when the infidel Saracens sacked Nismes; the
recapture of which by Charles Martel, mayor of the palace, and the
great victory of the Christian knights between Tours and Poictiers,
in the year of our redemption 728, he foretold, with his last breath;
and so, in the full odour of sanctity, he passed away to heaven.
"The doe, the companion of his solitude, was found lying dead by his
side; but to this day," continued the venerable priest, in
conclusion, "in memory of the saint, we may yet see her retained in
the banner of this good city, upon which the blessed St. Giles is now
looking down, as upon that of his chosen children, through the dim
vista of eight long centuries!"*
* St. Giles was the crest of Edinburgh until 1560, when an anchor was
substituted by the Reformers; but the doe still remains as a
supporter.
He then blessed the people, and descending into one of the side
aisles, disappeared.
The vast multitudes who thronged the church now poured from all its
doorways like a flood upon the streets, and down the steep old
burial-ground that descended on the south towards the Cowgate (a
place of interment coeval with the _first huts_ of the city), and
where a little doorway in the wall, at the bottom, gave egress to
that thoroughfare, then so fashionable. It stood just beside the
little chapel of the Holyrood, which survived till the end of the
sixteenth century.
As closely as they dared, Nichol Birrel and his friend Dobbie, with
their poniards in their belts and wooden rosaries dangling at their
better wrists, followed the countess and her party home to her
residence, near the court end of the town; and thereafter stationed
themselves at the _Cross and Gillstoup_, a small change-house, the
low grated windows of which commanded a view of the archway, whereon
were carved the coronet and arms of the Setons of Ashkirk; and there
the two worthy followers of Redhall sat down to drink and watch for
the remainder of the afternoon.
At six o'clock, Sir Roland Vipont, with his bonnet on one side, his
feather erect, and his rapier tilting up a corner of his mantle, like
a true dandy of the sixteenth century, came forth alone, and
descended the street towards Holyrood.
"Brawly!" muttered Dobbie, rubbing his large misshapen paws with
exultation; "the dare-devil's awa, but the valet is yet there."
"Yea; and the visit to the sister of the Sheens yet holdeth gude.
But have ye any money?" asked the pricker.
"Nocht but a Flemish rydar, and three of old King James's gowden
pennies."
"Ho there, gudewife!" cried Birrel, with a grin of delight on his
mastiff mouth, while he clattered on the hard table with his rosary;
"fetch us twa mair mutchkins of your wine--that red wine, which I ken
right well ye get smuggled contrary to the act, straight frae the
Flemmings o' the Dam--quick!"
And while their slipshod attendant was bringing the fresh supply,
these worthies proceeded to examine their poniards, in case they
should be required, and tried whether the guards were true, the
points sharp, the hilts fitting well to the blades, and the blades to
the hilts; for to them deeds of outrage and cruelty were the business
of life; and we may add that, by the loose lives of the clergy prior
to the Reformation--a measure which that very laxity of discipline
brought about--religion and morality were fast sinking to a low ebb
in Scotland.