DOUGLASDALE.
"But you, dear scenes! that far away
Expand beneath these mountains blue,
Where fancy sheds a purer ray,
And robes the fields in richer hue,--
A softer voice in every gale,
I 'mid your woodlands wild should hear;
And Death's unbreathing shades would fail
To sigh their murmurs in mine ear." LEYDEN.
The sun of a morning in June shone brightly upon Douglasdale, as a
valley of the middle ward of Lanarkshire is named--the country of the
puissant Douglases. The pure air, the bright sunshine, the fresh
meadows, the fragrant wind that stole along the uplands, were all
indicative of that delightful season when the trees are heavy with
their richest foliage, and the voices of the mavis, the merle, and
the wood-pigeon are heard within their deep recesses. Under golden
masses of the dark green broom, the white hawthorn, and the wild
rose, the Douglas water stole, over its pebbled bed, towards the west.
Hot and cloudless, the rays of the glorious summer sun poured over
the giant summit of the Cairntable, and played along the pastoral
glens below, to be reflected by the gleam of arms and the glitter of
armour descending from those heights which overlook the towers of the
Douglases--the "Castle Dangerous" of chivalry and romance.
The lairds and warders of the various towers which overhung the
valley, were all on the alert, and had barred their gates, drawn up
their bridges, and prepared their armour, with not the less care,
because they could perceive the royal standard with the red lion
waving above the copsewood below.
With their swords sheathed and visors up, Roland Vipont and Louis
Leslie rode together at the head of their little column, which had
passed a peaceful campaign of nearly three weeks in Lanarkshire,
without being molested by any one; and, of course without hearing
tidings of the Earl of Ashkirk, for whom, as in duty bound, they made
the most minute inquiries--Roland being the more rigid in his search,
because he believed him to be in safe concealment at Edinburgh. The
horses of the artillery looked sleek and well fed; and the
cannoniers, with Leslie's hundred men of the guard, had all their
harness and arquebuses as bright as on that day when they marched
from Holyrood.
"'S life! but we spend our time wearily! Will nobody fight with us?"
said Roland, with a yawn, as they wound down the valley, by the banks
of the Douglas. "St. Mary! I feel a violent inclination to maul
some of those towers, that from every rock and hill-top look down so
saucily on our line of march."
"What?--the houses of thy Douglas friends?"
"Assuredly."
"And why?"
"Just to keep us in practice and because they are held by Hamiltons."
"Lucky it is, for us, that they are so. Long before this, had the
Douglases possessed the same power in Lanarkshire that they did ten
years ago, we had been eaten up."
"True, in 1527, a hundred men, with two pieces of cannon, if they had
once ventured into the middle ward on such an errand as ours, had
never come out of it again."
"Yet 'tis very hard that no one will just fire one little shot at us,
just to afford an excuse----"
"For blowing the house about their ears. A most amiable wish!"
"Thy nag looks weary, Leslie."
"Ah, 'tis a bay I picked up during our raid against the Annandale
thieves last year. My blockhead of a groom lost me a beautiful roan
horse at Leith, last Lammastide, where I sent it to be bathed, at
sunset, in the sea."*
* A superstitious custom, suppressed, by order of St. Cuthbert's kirk
session, in 1647.
"Where dost think we will dine, for my stomach crieth cupboard
already?"
"At the Barmkyn of Cairntable. I have heard that the gudeman there
keepeth open house and free; besides, he is a kinsman of Redhall, and
if we empty his girnels and broach his casks, what matter? Is it not
for the king's service? and all Scotland knows," added Roland, with a
smile, "how zealous the advocate is for the public weal."
"Let us halt here for one moment," said Leslie, reining up his horse
beside a little rustic well, which flowed near a cottage wall; "this
water looks fresh and pure; 'tis south-running, too, and I am thirsty
as a sack of flour."
"Lintstock, bring hither the flask of French brandy."
From a gun-carriage, Lintstock unslung a large leathern bottle, and
brought it to his master, ogling it by the way with all the ardour of
which his solitary eye was capable; and thereafter, from his
havresack, he produced a beechwood luggie.
"Gudewife," said Leslie, to a woman, who was grinding corn in a
wooden quern at the cottage door, and who wore one of those pointed
Flemish caps which had been introduced into Scotland by Mary of
Gueldres, "how name you this well?"
"Sanct Bryde's of Dowglass," replied the woman, briefly and sulkily,
for she was one of that hostile race.
"A consecrated well! I thought so--'tis fortunate you asked," said
Roland; and, after first dipping their fingers in the fountain, they
crossed themselves, and then mixing the blessed water with the
brandy, took each a draught, and gave a third to Lintstock.
"Hallo!" cried Roland, to a horseman who came up at a rough trot, and
whose grey plaid, blue bonnet, and white Galloway doublet, as well as
his gambadoes, or riding boots of rough calf-skin, declared him a
plain countryman; "a good day, friend. Wilt thou have a tass of
brandy?"
"God keep you, my captain--wi' mony gude thanks," replied the
horseman, pulling up his nag, which was a strong Flanders mare.
"Health to ye baith, sirs," said he, pulling his bonnet well forward,
instead of raising it, as he nodded to each knight, and drained the
vessel. "By my faith, but that's braw stuff!"
"Ay, I daresay. 'Tis not often the burnt wine of Languedoc runs over
thy Lanarkshire throat," said Roland, laughing; "dost thou travel our
way?"
"Sir knicht, that just depends upon which way yours may be," replied
the fellow, dryly, drawing his plaid well over his face.
"We are going to the Barmkyn Cairntable," said Roland, looking keenly
at him under his helmet.
"And so am I, sir."
"Well, thy nag seems fresh, and thou art not, as we are, cased in
armour; so ride fast, I pray you, and inform the gudeman of the
Barmkyn that a party of the king's soldiers will halt there about
dinner-time--say a hundred men or so--and that we will thank the
gudewife to look well to her larder and kitchen----"
"To kill the fatted calf, and set her best casks a-broach," said
Leslie, laughing.
"To select the hens that roost next the cock--the most delicate
pullets----"
"To examine her eel-arks--ha! ha!"
"To prepare the most dainty pasties, and highly-seasoned patties--ha!
ha! ha!" continued Roland, in the same merry tone; "for as both
gudewife and gudeman are friends of the good and amiable lord
advocate, they cannot but rejoice to make welcome those who come
among them on the king's service."
"And in whose name shall I give the message?"
"In the name of Sir Roland Vipont, master of the ordnance."
"Without fail," replied the horseman, putting spurs to his nag and
galloping off; "but may the devil ryve the saul out of thee (and me
too), if thou gettest not a reception as warm as auld Bauldy Fleming
can give thee!" added Nichol the brodder, for the stranger was no
other than he.
"That fellow's laugh bespeaks him a rascal," said Leslie, who had
been narrowly observing all that could be seen of Birrel's face; "how
different it was from the broad grin of an honest yeoman."
"Dost think so?" said Roland, looking after him as he galloped over
an adjacent brae, and disappeared; "dost thou think he will play us
false after our kindness?"
"No, perhaps--but the committal of thy message to a stranger in these
times, and in this place, is, to say the least of it, rather unwary.
We might be entrapped and cut off."
"A hundred chosen soldiers, with two pieces of cannon--bah! I should
like to see any one attempt it, Leslie. We should sell our lives
dearly; and yet my mind misgives me sorely, that it was for no other
purpose that subtle villain Redhall sent so small a force into this
wild and hostile district."
"Eh, gentle sirs! Gude guide us, your horses are eating a' my corn!"
cried the cottager, running to her quern, which she had left for a
moment; "shoo! shoo! awa' wi' ye!"
"Well, thou old devil," said Leslie, "may not soldiers' horses eat
what they like?"
Roland threw a few pence into the quern; and then, both putting spurs
to their horses, hurried after their soldiers, who were now some
distance in advance.