BOLD SCHEMES.
Many have ruined their fortunes; many have escaped ruin by
want of fortune. To obtain it the great have become little, and
the little great.--ZIMMERMAN.
"Luaig, laird of Luaig," said Albany, ponderingly; "I do not recognize
the name."
"Lairds are plenty as heather hills in the far north country," said
Achanna, sneeringly.
"And I have been long enough in France and elsewhere to forget even my
mother tongue, as well as my dear mother's face; yet she was Isabel of
Lennox," said Albany, sadly; "but lairds in the north are plenty, I
know."
"And poor as plenty," added Achanna.
"True, sir," said Gray, "and hence my mission here in Flanders."
"How; I was just about to inquire," observed the duke; "seek you
knight's service?"
"Yes; fortune has made me a free lance."
"And ready to follow any banner?"
"Yes; provided it find me in food, horse, and armour."
"Then follow _me_," said Albany, "and ere long, my friend, I may find
work for your sword at home."
"At _home_; do you mean in Scotland?"
"Aye, in Scotland; how now, Achanna, why the devil dost twitch my
sleeve?"
"As a warning that your grace should be wary."
"Here thought and speech are free. True, we have not eaten a peck of
salt with our new friend, the laird of Luaig, but at this distance
from that bloody rock which lies before Stirling gate, we may trust
him nevertheless," said the reckless Albany, draining his wine cup at
a draught; "wilt follow me, Luaig--is it a bargain?" he added, holding
out his hand.
"But whither goes your grace?"
"To tread the same path my hapless father trod," replied the duke, with
something of dignity and pathos in his manner.
"It may lead, alas!----"
"To the same bloody doom, you would say?"
"Yes; I would pray your grace to be wary."
"I care not; I shall live and die, Robert Stewart, duke of Albany and
earl of Rosse, if I die not something better."
A cunning smile twinkled in the hawk-like eyes of the unfathomable
Achanna.
"Sit with us, Luaig," said Albany; "my heart ever warms to my
countrymen, though cold as ice to my little cousin their king; and
there are times when I hope to close my eyes peacefully in the same
place where they first saw the light, the old castle of Rothesay by the
sea--the waves that flow through the bonnie kyles of Bute, and past the
hills of Cowal; but of all that more anon. Sit with us, sir, the more
the merrier."
"With this poor stoup of wine?" said the prosaic Achanna, peering into
the tankard with one of his cunning eyes.
"True, the old saw did not add that," said Albany, rattling the purse
at his girdle; "but gibe me not about it. What can be worse than having
too much liquor?"
"Having none at all," returned the thirsty parasite.
"_Laus Deo!_ you are right, Achanna. Hallo, tapster! more wine, and
quickly too. Think of Robert of Albany having for a server that
slipshod varlet, who is all breeches and horn buttons! But you seem to
have been severely wounded, laird of Luaig?"
"Almost to death," said Gray, and while Achanna, as if inspired by
some undefinable suspicion, surveyed him keenly, he writhed at having
to falsify so much, and trembled for the next question; but, on the
wine being placed on the table, the careless Albany filled their cups
to the brim, saying, "Drink, my friend, drink of this, it comes from
the land of old Duke Philip the Good, and you will find it better than
arquebusade," he added, referring to a medicinal lotion then famous for
gun-shot wounds.
"May I ask in what direction your grace is travelling?" inquired Gray,
who had some anxiety in the matter.
"The direction that suits our fancy," replied Achanna.
"I spoke to the duke of Albany," said Gray, with a flash in his eye,
and a gush of fury through his heart.
"True, and Albany can answer for himself," said the duke; "we are
travelling with all speed to overtake the earl of Douglas and his
friends."
"Who are now at Breda?" said Gray, eagerly.
"No; they are at--how name you the place, Achanna?"
"Where?" asked Gray, as the latter hesitated.
"At Bommel."
"Is it distant?"
"Nay, 'tis thirty miles nearer than Breda, and we shall reach it
to-morrow."
"And to-morrow, perhaps, I may see _her_," thought the lover in his
heart.
"To the great Earl James of Douglas, Abercorn, and Avondale, and to our
happy meeting," exclaimed Albany, draining another large cup of wine.
Rendered reckless by years of disappointment, by dissipation, and
the mortifications incident to exile and dependence, the unfortunate
young duke, the victim of circumstances and the treasons of his
father, drank, as seemed to be his wont, deeply; and, as he did so,
unfolded unwittingly no doubt to Gray (and to the great discomposure
of Achanna), the extent and daring of the designs entertained by the
Douglases; and he continued to do so, regardless of their more wary and
more subtle follower, who, with one eye glistening apparently on each,
listened impatiently, and seemed to scrutinize Gray as if he would have
read his soul.
That Albany should be plotting with Douglas to subvert the king's
power, or to usurp his crown, did not excite Gray's wonder; but his
heart almost died within him, when the duke, in a half-serious and
half-bantering way, mentioned incidentally, the proposed firmer and
more lasting alliance between the great earl and himself, by marriage
with Murielle Douglas; and had it not happened that the worthy master
James Achanna's dagger fell from its sheath upon the floor, and that
he had to stoop beneath the table to pick it up, keen and sharp as he
was, he could not have failed to remark the pallor which overspread
the lover's face, and the wild light that flashed in his eyes, at
this crushing information. However, rallying all his energies to seem
collected and cool, after a pause, Gray said,
"But, under favour, is not your grace contracted to a daughter of
Charles VII. of France."
"Yes; I believe my father, poor duke Murdoch, made some such
arrangement ere his head was cut off--when I was a child, and his
captive nephew, James I., was twangling on his ghittern to Jane
Beaufort in the gardens of Windsor."
"Believe! are you not certain?" said Gray earnestly.
"Since I have been among Hussites, Parisians, Bohemians, and
Germans, I have been certain of nothing my friend--not even of my
own existence--for this is a land of fog and philosophy; but I would
have been much more certain of that spousal contract, had Monseigneur
Charles the Victorious been a little more liberal with his French
crowns, and a little less so with his French compliments, as I could
live on the first, but not on the second. Moreover, I think my little
princess Radegonde is not quite pleased with me, since my affair with
Madame d'Armagnac."
"Who is she?"
"A woman more beautiful than Agnes Sorel--the lady of beauty. I have
seen them both together. And then, as the devil would have it, I got
embroiled with Madame la Marchale de Loheac, while her patriotic
husband was fighting those insolent English last year in Bretagne and
Anjou."
"But--but, your grace," stammered Gray, who felt as if he was on the
eve of losing his Murielle for ever, "you are solemnly betrothed to
Mademoiselle of France."
"I am--and what then?"
"Such a contract cannot be broken."
"Save by the pope, so the earl of Douglas is now on his way to Rome
with Dame Murielle; I mean to accompany them, and so may you, if you
care for attaching yourself to my fortunes, or misfortunes rather. That
contract, moreover, was made when my father was regent of Scotland, and
the king was a prisoner of war in England--and Mademoiselle of France
considers me but as an outlaw now." Then after humming a lively French
air, Albany said, "'tis said Murielle Douglas sings like a throstle,
when winging its way aloft on a beltane morning. The throstle!" he
added, letting his chin drop on his breast with an air of tipsy
sadness, "Ah! that makes me think of poor old Scotland, which, despite
these desperate plots, I may never see again, and my heart is wrung
within me, when I think of the bonnie birken woods that shed their
autumn leaves upon my mother's grave."
After a pause Albany suddenly raised his head, and Gray was moved to
perceive that his fine dark eyes were full of tears; but he again
filled and drained his cup of wine, and it had the effect of completely
intoxicating him.
"It has been arranged that your grace was to meet the earl on his
travel?" asked Gray.
"Yes; and he sent our good friend Achanna, with a message inviting me
to join him and my intended little duchess at Bommel," replied Albany,
laughing; "and so I have been travelling so fast, that my horses must
have discovered an impatient lover was in the saddle; but what the
devil dost think was master Achanna's first information for me?"
"I cannot guess," said Gray, not much interested in the matter.
"That she has a lover already."
"A lover!" exclaimed Gray, in a very different tone.
"Aye, a lover here in Flanders," hiccuped Albany, while Gray sat
breathless, and toyed with his dagger in the shade.
"His name?" said he.
"Sir Patrick Gray, captain of my dear cousin's royal guard. _Laus Deo!_
if I discover him, he is extremely likely to rot in Flemish earth,
while his papers may be of service to us."
"How so?"
"Because he is on a mission from the earl's three enemies--my cousin,
his regent Livingstone, and the chancellor Crichton--aid me to
discover--to kill him, and in Lennox, I will more than double your
lands of Luaig."
"And object of this mission--"
"Ah! that is just what we want to know, though many say, 'tis but to
Arnold d'Egmont of Gueldres, anent a royal marriage. But I'll brook no
lovers, no rivals, near my throne--_Laus Deo_, no! and I would give all
I have--not much certainly--to be as near this Sir Patrick Gray as I am
to _you_ at this moment. But a friend of mine is on his track already,
I believe--one whom he cannot hope to escape."
"A friend?" said Gray.
"An unfortunate and valiant Count of Flanders."
"Who?"
"Ludwig of Endhoven, a captain of Brabanciones; by St. Christopher
our lover is not likely to escape _him_--eh, Achanna! but now let us
to bed--to bed; for we must be in our saddles by cockcrow to-morrow.
Achanna, your arm," said the poor young duke, staggering up;
"Lua-Luaig--fare, sir--fare you well."
"Good night to your grace, and God be wi' you!" said Gray, opening and
closing the door as they separated.
After the duke and Achanna were gone, he sat long and late, full of
anxious and bitter thoughts that came thick and fast upon him. He felt
agony at the idea of Murielle being about to be sacrificed to the wild,
ambitious, and revengeful schemes of the earl of Douglas and the duke
of Albany; and he actually trembled lest her heart might have changed
or her fancy have been dazzled, for he now remembered with pain the
banter of his comrade and kinsman, MacLellan. He pitied and despised
the outlawed duke, yet he trembled for the trouble, which he, with the
earl, when combined, might give the young king James, their master. He
was filled with wrath at the resolution, so fully expressed, to destroy
himself, and starting to his feet, he was about to get his sword from
the tapster, and summon Achanna forth into the moonlight, which shone
brightly, to upbraid him with his villany, and then kill him on the
spot; and in doing so, he would not have committed a crime, but have
acted simply in the spirit of the age. However, cooler reflection
showed that he might serve Murielle, the king, and himself better, by
preserving his incognito. So master Achanna, that utilitarian Scot,
who would have sold his own father and his mother to boot, without
compunction, slept that night without a yard of cold iron in his body.
Yet, as it was impossible for Gray to travel with Duke Robert and this
scurvy companion to Bommel, he resolved to set forward alone. Thus,
after a restless night, he was up and mounted an hour before sunrise,
and while the frowsy haze hung thick and yellow over the pale-green
willow-copse of the Maese, veiling all Grave and the quaint old castle
of Otho, lord of Cuick and Haverale, he was far on his journey to
Bommel.