THE MISSION.
Of this great voyage which you undertake,
Much by his skill and much by my advice
Hath he foreknown, and welcome for my sake
You both shall be, the man is kind and wise.
FAIRFAX'S TASSO.
Though left by the Douglases as dead upon the street, Sir Patrick Gray
survived the horrors of the tumult at the Abbot's Gate; and though
covered with severe wounds, inflicted by swords, daggers, and pikes,
he grew well and hale again; but only after a year of suffering,
convalescence, and confinement to a sick chamber, during which his
fiery and energetic spirit writhed in inactivity--for there are some
men whom it is alike difficult to subdue or kill.
Death long disputed with life and youth for the victim; but men did not
die easily in these old times of brawl and battle; yet he had upon his
person, as the abbot of Tongland records, "three and twentye woundis,"
and recovered them all.
"Men," says some one, "are unaware what toil, pain, or suffering they
are capable of until they have been put to the test."
The wound inflicted by the ghisarma of Earl James was not his least
annoyance, as it had laid open both cheeks; thus a cicatrized slash
traversed his face, which so completely altered its expression, that
after a little difference in the trimming of his hair and beard, few
would have recognized him; but the lady of the chancellor, like all the
thrifty dames of those turbulent and homely days, was a famous leech,
and by the lotions and cosmetics she prepared for him, and applied
daily with her own hands, was not without hope that within "a year and
a day, or perhaps within a few months more," it would be obliterated;
and all the young ladies about the young king's court, even the
charming princesses his sisters, had an interest in this process, and
the progress of his recovery, for the Captain of the Guard was one of
the handsomest men of the time, and a favourite with them all.
He had been conveyed to the chancellor's apartments in St. Margaret's
Tower, within the castle of Edinburgh, and there for many months he had
been tended with every care, till the period at which we now return to
him.
The wily chancellor was not unjust. He felt that Sir Patrick Gray had
suffered much in the king's service; loss of health, almost of life,
and the loss perhaps of a beautiful mistress, were hard things to
encounter, for he knew that the bloody events of the 23rd and 24th of
November had opened up an impassable chasm between Gray and the family
of Douglas.
Crichton loved all who loved the king, and this was the great tie
between him and Gray, whose friendship he strove sedulously to
cultivate and preserve, though the more open soldier detested the mode
by which the regent and chancellor had striven, so futilely, to crush
the mighty house of Douglas.
Gray's weak state after his many wounds, combined with his grief,
at what he deemed the loss for ever of Murielle, affected him so
much, that during the severe winter of 1440 he nearly sank under his
sufferings. He rallied, however, by youth and inborn strength, though
good St. Giles, of Edinburgh, to whose altar, in the spirit of the
times, he devoted several pounds of wax and silver, got the whole
credit of the change.
Lady Agnes of Crichton and the courtiers said he was "dying of love."
The chancellor could believe in a stout man-at-arms dying of a slash
from Earl James's battle-axe, but _not_ of love for Murielle, his
kinswoman, however beautiful and gentle she might be; so he only smiled
at their surmises, and when Gray was able to ride a little every day
on a quiet horse led by his page, Crichton resolved to find him some
active employment so soon as he was stronger.
So Gray, as we have said, writhed in inactivity when his friends and
kinsmen, MacLellan and Andrew Gray, of Balgarno, had marched from
Stirling to Athole to capture the great freebooter, John Gorm Stewart.
He had heard from Andrew Gray of the conflict on the north Inch of
Perth, where the sheriff had been cloven down by the two-handed sword
of Stewart, who, in turn, had been slain by MacLellan, but not until
he had so severely wounded the latter, that he had been compelled to
return for a time to his castle of Raeberry, on the shore of the Solway
Firth.
And during this long period of seclusion and inactivity Gray had longed
with all a lover's restless longing for some tidings of Murielle; but
those about the chancellor were either unwilling or unable to afford
him any.
So the time rolled wearily on.
One afternoon he was sitting dreamily in the recess of a window of St.
Margaret's Tower, which stood upon the western verge of the castle
rock, but was demolished during the long siege of 1573.
It was a somewhat gloomy apartment (it was _then_ three hundred and
eighty years old), built in the Saxon style, with grotesquely-carved
heads and zig-zag mouldings round the arches, and hung with long
russet-coloured tapestry, which had been worked by the hands of
Annabella, the queen of Robert III., to hide the bare, rough walls.
This tapestry was old now; its tenter-hooks were rusty, and it swayed
in the currents of wind, which passed through the fireplace, on the
shelf of which, in memory of the good queen who once dwelt there, was
inscribed the pious request,--
Sancta Margarita, ora pro nobis.
Beneath the windows was the verdant slope whereon three mounds, of
solemn aspect, were traceable. The coarse dog-grass, the white gowan,
and pink witch-thimbles (or foxglove), grew there in rank luxuriance
now, and as they swayed in the evening wind, were all that marked where
lay the three victims of that terrible vigil of St. Catharine.
The autumnal sun was sinking. The vast and fertile plain of wood
and wold which stretches from the foot of the castle rock for fifty
miles to the westward, was steeped in warm light; and the sun's
diverging rays of ruddy gold, as he sank behind the rugged ridges of
Corstorphine, filled all the western sky with a shining glory, which
threw forward, in strong, black outline, the intervening woods and
rocks, hills and knolls.
Gray's eyes were apparently fixed upon the dark mountains and the
beautiful plain, all brightness and fertility; but they dwelt on
vacancy, for he saw, instead, a graceful head, with a mass of wavy
hair, long-lashed, gentle eyes, of a violet blue, a soft face, with a
brilliant complexion, and a slightly rose-tinted cheek.
There was a sound in his ear too.
It was the voice of Murielle, conjured up with all a lover's memory
in an age of poetry, romance, and enthusiasm, when knightly faith and
purity, and even somewhat of fading chivalry, were lingering in the
northern land.
A hand was laid on his shoulder; he started, and on turning met the
keen eyes, the thoughtful face, and tall thin figure of the chancellor,
who was clad in his fur-trimmed gown, which was girt at the waist by
an embroidered girdle, whereat hung, as usual, his tablets, pouch, and
dagger.
"You did not hear the servitor announce me, Sir Patrick," said he;
"were you dreaming of Elf-land, or some far-off day of happiness?"
"Your pardon!--though not much given to flights of fancy," replied Sir
Patrick, starting, "I _was_ in a dreamy mood."
"Nay, do not rise, but rest--and say how fare you,"
"Ill enough, my lord," replied the captain, passing a thin wan hand
across his pale brow with a troubled air; "ill enough, and weary too."
"In body?"
"Yes--and in spirit."
"That is a matter beyond the skill of such a leech even as my good wife
Agnes."
"Her kindness and care are only equalled by my gratitude; and see,"
added Sir Patrick, smiling, "she has hung at my neck her own miraculous
pomander-ball, lest the plague that rages now in Fife might here infect
me. But I am weary of resting and of idleness; yet alas! and alake! Sir
William, I fear me this arm will never curb a horse's head again; and
as for handling my sword, a child might twitch it from me at the third
pass! Here an arrow-head was wedged between the bones of the right
forearm; but I gave the archer a notch on the knuckles that will mar
his shooting for life."
"Well, there is some comfort in that," replied the chancellor, "and
greater had there been, could you have notched the head of Abercorn, or
Douglas as he is entitled now."
A hectic flush crossed the face of Sir Patrick, who replied, huskily:
"After what had taken place on the preceding day, I would not have
struck a blow at _her_ kinsman, even to save my life!"
"After _what_ had taken place?" reiterated the chancellor, gloomily.
"Ay, on the vigil of St. Catharine," continued Gray with firmness, and
something of reproach in his tone.
"Enough of that," said the other, hastily, as he passed his
handkerchief over his brow, and replaced it in his embroidered pouch;
"I have other things to speak of than those which are past and beyond
all human remedy. But was it not a cruel act and merciless deed in
Earl James to smite down a poor gentleman, who clung to him, bleeding,
faint, and despairing----"
"It matters not, Sir William--it matters not; I have made up my mind to
leave Scotland."
"Indeed!" exclaimed Crichton, with astonishment.
"For some--it may be for many, many years,--perchance I may return no
more."
"How--what mean you?"
"That Charles VII. of France wants soldiers to aid him in his wars
against the English and Burgundians, and I shall seek his camp for
knight-service; or it may be, that I shall go further off, to the
distant East, where the Greek empire, under the Emperor Constantine, is
now threatened by the accursed pagans of the Sultan Mahomet, and where
brave hearts and sharp swords are wanted to defend Christian women and
the altars of God from desecration; and so there are times, chancellor,
when I think I shall even find a stranger's grave on the banks of the
Bosphorus."
The chancellor, who had no wish that the king should lose so faithful
and valiant a soldier as Sir Patrick Gray, whom he knew to be resolute,
and somewhat obstinate in purpose, listened to this bitter outburst
with some concern; but, patting him on the shoulder as he might have
done a restive horse, he replied, smiling, "Leave Greek and Turk to
fight their own battles; abide you by your king; and when the time
comes, as come it must, let your grave be dug, not in the land of the
sun-burned and God-abandoned pagans, but in the old kirk of Foulis,
where your Scottish forefathers lie. Moreover, can it be, that you have
forgotten your promise to King James--that you would be a faithful
friend and mentor to his son?"
"True--true--I have," replied Gray, biting his nether lip till the
wound in his face made him wince; "but you know, chancellor, that I am
pledged to Murielle Douglas, and that I cannot bide in Scotland without
her."
"I may find a way to let you leave it, and yet preserve your promise to
King James,--a way that shall suit your restless humour; but speak no
more to me of Murielle Douglas," said the chancellor, as his brows knit
and his eyes loured. "Listen: I have other views for you; it may be a
royal alliance itself."
"Royal?" was the perplexed reiteration.
"Yes."
Here Sir Patrick Gray, who knew that he was really loved by this
unscrupulous statesman, gazed at him with a curiously-mingled
expression of surprise, amusement, and grim disdain; but being a poor
soldier and loyal gentleman, with no heritage but his sword and spurs,
he felt himself compelled to listen, though almost degraded by having
to do so.
"You are aware, Sir Patrick, that the king has several fair sisters?"
began the chancellor.
Sir Patrick bowed.
"Each is lovely, though still in girlhood--and, under favour, lovelier,
it may be, than the little lady who dwells among the king's rebels in
Thrave--for rebels are they to the heart's-core, though not yet in
arms."
Gray's pale face flushed, and for a moment the scar upon his face grew
nearly black; but he merely said, "Well;" and the chancellor, while
playing with his pouch and dagger, resumed, in an easy conversational
tone.
"All the crown-lands, the king's rents, castles, baronies, mills,
mails, and fishings, cannot find dowers royal enough of these six
dames, his sisters, at present. Do you understand me?"
"Not exactly. You must be more plain, my lord chancellor."
"'Tis not the first time that a king's daughter has wedded a simple
knight."
"In old ballads, Sir William; and I would be a _simple_ knight indeed
to cast my eyes so high."
"The queen-mother is now the wife of the Black Knight of Lorn," said
Crichton, with the air of one who finds a convincing argument.
"But he is a different man from the poor captain of the king's paid
pikemen! St. Mary! a sorry figure would I cut, riding up to my father's
tower-gate, with my princess behind me on a pillion, and settling there
to become a scrape-trencher, while she assisted my mother in brewhouse
and bakery! Take heed, chancellor; I need not be dazzled thus, to keep
me faithful to my king. So, enough of this! I am not ignorant that all
these princesses are promised, not to simple knights, but to foreign
princes."
"Not _all_," said the chancellor, with an air of annoyance; "the
Princess Margaret is, I know, contracted to Louis, the dauphin of
France."
"A troublesome brother-in-law he might prove to the younger son of the
laird of Foulis," replied Gray, laughing outright.
"The Lady Elizabeth----"
"Is contracted to the duke of Brittany; and in a month Eleonora will be
the bride of Sigismund le Debonnair, archduke of Austria, and duke of
all the dukes in Almaynie; while the Lady Mary will be wedded to the
lord of Campvere."
"I knew not that you were so well versed in state secrets," said the
chancellor coldly, with an affected smile.
"You forget, my dear Sir William, that your good lady has been my
nurse."
"There is the Lady Annabelle."
"A child," said Sir Patrick, laughing louder to conceal the annoyance
that rankled in his heart; "oh! oh! Sir William, I should have to wait
ten years at least till my wife grew up. Dost take me for a fool,
a very mooncalf, though I have listened to you? But to the point:
say what service you seek of me, as I have made up my mind to leave
Scotland in a month. Believe me, I need no bribe for faith and service
to my king; and, as to Murielle Douglas, the wealth of Prester John of
the Indies, if such a man there be, with the love of an empress, would
not win me from her, though it may be that, with this gash on my face,
she--she might shrink from me now."
"Did I not say that I might suit your humour and also serve the king?"
asked the chancellor.
"How?"
"Hearken," said Crichton, placing a hand on the arm of Gray.
"Say on," said the latter impatiently.
"In two years from this, the king will take upon himself the government
of the nation, and I shall retire me to my old castle of Crichton, in
the Glen of Tync, beyond the Esk, and spend there my latter days in
peace."
"The government--in 1444--this boy?"
"The boy will then be fifteen, and he is a manly boy withal. The time
is coming when he must be contracted to a foreign princess, and,
through the lord of Campvere, Duke Arnold of Gueldreland has made
overtures on the part of his daughter Mary, now in her ninth year. To
these overtures the regent and myself, with the consent of the lords
of council, have thought it meet to respond, and you shall bear our
missives to the duke, who is now either in Gueldreland, in Brabant, or
Burgundy, I know not which; and in due time I, with a fitting train,
will set out for his capital. But promise me to be secret as you are
faithful in this matter, and remember it is in the service of _the
king_."
"In this embassy I promise to do all that may become a loyal man--save
wed the Lady Mary of Gueldres herself; for, after all you have
proposed, by the mass! I knew not where your generosity might end."
"Good!" replied Crichton. "To-night I ride for Stirling, to see the
regent and Queen Jane; when I return, you shall have your sealed
letters of credence, and Dirltoun the treasurer shall pave the way with
gold."
The chancellor shook his hand with kindness, and retired, leaving
the frank and single-hearted soldier to consider the journey before
him; the yet greater separation by land, water, and time, it would
make between himself and Murielle, and also to surmise whether the
proposal merely veiled some deeper and more distant object; for, since
that fatal 24th of November, Gray had ever a doubt of the regent, the
chancellor, and their projects.
"He overshot the butt--his cunning hath outdone itself," muttered Gray.
"Did he not think a ward of the crown would content the king's poor
soldier for a bride? but a princess--ha! ha!" And he uttered a merry
but scornful laugh.
As the twilight deepened, and the shores of the Forth blended in
the distance with its darkening waters, he thought over all that
had passed; but was not left long to his own reflections, for a
grey-bearded pikeman of his guard drew back the moth-eaten arras, and
announced his kinsman, Sir Thomas MacLellan, of Bombie.