THE TWENTY-THIRD OF NOVEMBER.
Now like a maiden-queen she will behold
To her high turrets hourly suitors come;
The East with incense and the West with gold,
Shall stand like suppliants to receive her doom.
The silver _Forth_ her own majestic flood
Shall bear her vessels like a sweeping train;
And often wish, as of their mistress proud,
With longing eyes to see her face again.
In sunny beauty, the 23rd of November, 1440, dawned on the green hills,
the old grey city of the Stuarts, and on the distant sea; and, as the
morning advanced, a man, who by his pale and anxious face seemed to
have passed a sleepless night, walked slowly to and fro on the paved
bartizan of King David's Tower.
He was Sir William Crichton of that ilk--the lord chancellor of
Scotland--no sinecure office, under James II.
The first object on which his keen eyes rested, was the slated roof
of the abbot of Tongland's lofty mansion. There pretty Murielle was
doubtless still asleep, and dreaming perhaps of her lover.
As the time drew slowly, but surely on--the time when Crichton's
terrible project, the destruction of the leading members of the house
of Douglas by a formal yet mock trial, after luring them from their
distant stronghold into a royal fortress--his soul, though it felt
neither remorse nor wavering, could not fail to be appalled, on a full
contemplation of what _might_ be the sequel to the banquet of blood,
which he and the regent would that day hold in the great hall of the
king's principal castle. To him it seemed as if the live long night,
the wild shriek of
"The owle eke that dethe and bode bringeth,"
(as old Chaucer has it) had rung about the castle rocks, filling the
minds of those who heard it with unpleasant forebodings--and of this
emotion Crichton was especially sensible.
A civil war might rage around the throne, and by weakening the nation
would lay it open to the aggressive spirit and ambitious designs of the
English, who were ever wakeful to take advantage of their neighbour's
troubles. Crichton's own power, his old baronial family and numerous
kinsmen, might perish in the contest; but still the king's authority
and the dignity of the crown, which the overweening power of the earl
of Douglas, and the evil advice of his friends, endangered, would be
secured, and a final blow might be struck at the terrible Red Heart for
ever.
As the chancellor thought of these things, his hands trembled under his
furred robe, and crystal-like beads of perspiration gathered on his
pale and prematurely-furrowed brow; but the grim preparations had been
made, even to the most minute particulars. Douglas, with his formidable
train, was already in the capital, and all parties had gone too far in
the desperate game to recede now; so Crichton prayed in his heart that
the great _end_ he had in view might sanctify the awful measures he
was about to take; and, seating himself on a stone bench, he seemed to
sink into reverie--almost prayer--while, turning to the east, where the
sun, through alternate bars of saffron and dun yet shining clouds, was
ascending in all his morning glory from the sea.
From time to time the pale chancellor glanced at a piece of green sward
called the Butts, where the archers and the king's guard were wont to
shoot, and which was inclosed by the cordon of towers and walls which
girt the summit of the castle rock.
On that sward a tall lady, wearing a long robe, with tabard sleeves,
and a horned head-dress, which added to the effect of her great
stature, promenaded to and fro, with her missal and rosary, while
watching a little boy, who was clad in a bright-green velvet pourpoint,
laced with gold, and whose yellow hair glittered in the morning
sunshine, as he alternately tormented and played with a pretty goshawk,
which had silver bells at its head.
Let us, for a time, suppose ourselves there.
That tall lady is Isabelle Ogilvie, of Auchterhouse, wife of Patrick
Lord Glammis, master of the royal household, whose son, Alexander, has
married Crichton's youngest daughter, and her young charge is James
II., king of Scotland, who laughs with boyish glee as he tosses and
plumes his pet hawk, and, all unwitting of the dark thoughts which
agitate the soul of his faithful but scheming chancellor, trains it to
pounce upon and rend a lure--a toy like a stuffed bird--which, ever and
anon, he casts into the air with a shout of merriment.
The morning draws on apace; bells ring in spire and tower, and the
little city below (for, though a capital, it was a _little_ city then)
awakens into general life and bustle; but the chancellor still sits
there.
Let us look, with him, over the rampart of this great tower, where his
eyes survey a scene so different from what is there to-day; and yet
Arthur's rocky cone, the hills of Fife, the fertile shores, the sandy
bays and green islets of the Forth, are all unchanged as when the first
Celtic settlers so truly named the great ridge that overlooks them
all, _Scealla-bruach Craig_, or "the rock of the beautiful view," now
corrupted into Salisbury Craigs.
The month is November.
The last leaves have fallen from the oak woods of Bristo, of Coates, of
Inverleith, and Drumsheugh; but the voice of the antlered stag, "the
wild buck bell," is borne at times on the passing wind that whirls the
red leaves along the grassy hollows.
In the glen below the castle rock lie the royal gardens, where
tournaments are held, and where, in after ages, the railway train
shall send up its shriek to the ear of the sentinel five hundred feet
above. There comes no sound from it now, save the note of the plover,
or amorous coo of the cushat dove. On the long ridge, where a new city
shall spring in the eighteenth century, the farmers are finishing their
ploughing; the lowing cattle are in their yards; the sheep in their
pens, and the pigeons are clustering on the dovecots.
Allhallow mass has been said and sung in the great cruciform church of
St. Giles the Abbot, and of St. Cuthbert in the pastoral glen below the
castle wall; and in every thatched grange and farmtown, apples have
been duly bobbed for and nuts cracked about the blazing ingle; and now
it is the vigil of St. Catharine.
Turn with me still eastward; there, the same as ever, is the backbone
of old Edina, the High Street, covering the long ridge which terminates
at the three square Gothic spires of Holyrood Church--a broad line of
fair stone mansions, as yet undisguised by the quaint Flemish fronts
and timber galleries which came into fashion about the time of Flodden
Field. Southward descends the narrow Bow, and its tall dwellings, with
their dovecot gables and clusters of smoky chimney-stacks, many of
them bearing the iron cross of the Temple and St. John, its doorways
incrusted with legends, dates, and coats armorial of races past and
gone; its iron door-risps, with here and there a cloth tied round them,
to show that there was illness, or a woman "in travail" within.
That grated and fortified edifice which occupies the centre of the main
street is the Prætorium of Edinburgh--a rallying point for the citizens
in time of war and tumult; and on its vaults shall arise the grim
Tolbooth of future ages.
The bare-headed and bare-legged children that nestle on the steps
of the cross are stringing necklaces and rosaries of the red rowan
berries (that whilom grew in St. Giles's churchyard), to save them
from fairies and elves; and now they all rise in reverence to yonder
cowled friar, who hastens down to see the train of Douglas pass from
the abbot's house.
That green slope on the south of the great church is the burial-ground
of St. Giles's:--
"There lie
Those who in ancient days the kingdom ruled,
The councillors of favourites of kings;
High lords, and courtly dames, and valiant chiefs,
Mingling their dust with those of lowest rank
And basest deeds, and now unknown as they."
There sleep the great, the good, the peaceful and the turbulent, the
faithful and the false, all bent together in their quaint old coffins
and flannel shrouds, with money in their dead hands, and crosses or
chalices on their breasts. Old citizens, who remembered the long-haired
King David, passing forth with barking hound and twanging horn, in that
Rood-day in harvest, which so nearly cost him his life; and how the
fair Queen Margaret daily fed the poor at the castle-gate, "with the
tenderness of a mother;" those who had seen Randolph's patriots scale
"the steep, the iron-belted rock,"--Count Guy of Namur's Flemish lances
routed on the Burgh-muir, and wight Wallace mustering his bearded
warriors at midnight by the Figgate-burn, ere he marched to storm
Dunbar.
That white spot above the gate of the Portsburgh is the bleached
skull of Sir Robert Graham, who was the first to plunge his dagger in
the heart of James I. It has been there since 1436, when those awful
tortures took place before the Roman legate, and filled even him with
horror.
The lofty old mansion on the south side of the long street down which
we look from the ramparts, is the residence of the princely abbot of
Cambus Kenneth; the gilt vanes in the distance are those of a similar
edifice where dwells John Fogo, abbot of Melrose, author of a work
against the heresy of Paul Crawer, who, in 1432, was sent hither from
Bohemia, by John Huss, to preach the gospel, undeterred by the flames
to which Fogo had consigned Resby, the Englishman, thirty-two years
before.
In the centre of the street are wooden booths, where the country folks,
in their canvas gaberdines and hoods of hodden grey, or the burgesses
in their pourpoints of good Flemish cloth, may "cheapen" ale at
sixteenpence per gallon; otherwise, the brewster or tapster shall have
a hole punched in their measures at the market-cross, where now the
women of the adjacent villages and farms are arranging their baskets
of butter and poultry for sale; and see! there, at this moment, come
the town officers, with their halberts and helmets, and the common
headsman, in the provost's livery, with a cresset full of blazing
coals. Now a crowd gathers: the halberts flash as they are swayed to
and fro by the pressure of the people. Then a shriek rises!
They are publicly branding on the cheek a poor woman, a leper, who
has rashly ventured within the burgh; though yesterday, by sound of
trumpet, at this same old market-cross, the people of the city, and the
villages called Leith and Broughton, were forbidden to attend the fairs
of Anster and St. Monance, under pain of pit and gallows, as the plague
called the _het-sickness_,--the same disease of which Archibald earl of
Douglas died at Restalrig,--rages in Fife.
If the reader, in fancy, can realize all this, he will see the quaint
old Edinburgh of 1440 clustering on the steep ridge,--
"Piled deep and massy, close and high;"
the same city over which the haggard eyes of Crichton wandered, and
through which, preceded by trumpet and banner, the haughty young lord
of Douglas and Touraine was passing to his--doom!
Edinburgh, a village then in size and opulence, was, nevertheless, a
capital city. _Now_, when in aspect and magnitude it is one of the most
magnificent in Europe, by a strange anomaly it is, in reality, when
its narrowness of spirit, in religion, politics, and patriotism are
considered, the most provincial village in her Majesty's dominions,
perhaps in the world.
By the time the trumpets were heard, the sun was at its zenith, and
Crichton, with a shirt of mail under his velvet pourpoint, came forth
to meet the regent in the court-yard.
Livingstone had assumed a similar steel shirt under his shortcoat,
which was of red damask, laced with silver, and over which he wore a
long flowing gown with open sleeves, revealing those of his ringed
defence, which, being a man of more open character than his compatriot,
he cared not to conceal, especially in these perilous times.
These two statesmen met, sternly and gravely, without a smile or bow.
"Is all prepared?" asked Livingstone of the chancellor, in a low voice.
"All," was the brief and emphatic reply.
"Your men-at-arms?"
"I have a hundred concealed in the tiring-room, which opens off the
great hall."
"Only a hundred! Are you not most rash?"
"But they are men whose forefathers for ages have eaten the bread of
mine."
"You, then, deem them stedfast?"
"Stedfast and true as Rippon steel; unyielding as flint. They are to
rush forth under Achanna, when the signal appears."
"Achanna," said the regent with contempt; "always Achanna. I know not
how it is, but that man makes my blood to curdle."
"He is a faithful----"
"Villain," interrupted the regent, with irritation.
"True--but such villains are useful," said the chancellor quietly.
"And the signal is the black bull's head; but does not Achanna dine
with us?"
"Dine!" reiterated the chancellor, with a flashing eye and a quivering
lip. "He will share the banquet at all events."
"And the four bodies," said Livingstone, gnawing the ends of his grisly
moustache, and looking aside, "how mean you to dispose of them?"
"Under that green turf, where even now the king is playing with his
goshawk, they will sleep as soundly as if below a ton of marble in
Melrose Abbey Kirk, among their lordly kin," replied the chancellor in
a low whisper, and with a ghastly smile; "but hark! I hear trumpets in
the streets; and here comes Gray, the Captain of the Guard."
Accoutred as we saw him yesterday, in his plumed bassinet, with its
camaile and chaplet, and his rich mail with its hanging sleeves of
scarlet and yellow silk, Sir Patrick Gray, happily ignorant of the
dire preparations of the two statesmen, and the mine they were about
to spring, made a low bow to each, with some passing remark on the
auspicious beauty of the day--for the weather was as common a topic in
the time of James II. as in that of his descendant, Queen Victoria.
"A cloud is coming anon, that may darken its close," said the regent,
thoughtfully.
The Captain of the Guard looked upward, but the sky was cloudless, then
his eye swept the horizon in vain.
"Yea, Sir Patrick," added the chancellor, who is reported to have used
the same figurative language, "have you never observed that there are
periods--times of our existence, when past, present, and future hopes
seem to culminate in one?"
"Under favour, my lord, I do not comprehend," replied the puzzled
soldier, as he played with the buckle of his belt, and thought of
Murielle Douglas.
"Yes--when we seem to hold them all--the past, the present, and more
especially _the future_, in our grasp, and yet may throw them all away.
Now dost comprehend?"
"Do you mean in affairs of love, my lord?"
"Love!" reiterated the chancellor, scornfully, "nay, I think but of
_death_," he added in a voice so stern and hollow that the soldier
started, "but ere long you may, nay you _shall_ know all I mean. Till
then, God be wi' you--adieu."
And with his hands behind his back, and his eyes bent thoughtfully on
the ground, Crichton slowly followed the regent into David's Tower,
while the Captain of the Guard, bewildered by their strange remarks,
hurried to join his hundred pikemen, who were drawn up in two ranks at
the gateway which opened under the Constable's tower.
Sir John Romanno of that ilk, who commanded the fortress, had now all
the king's garrison at their posts, with bills and crossbows, and the
cannoneers by their guns, with lintstocks lighted.