THE PRISONER.
It might be months, or years, or days,
I kept no count--I took no note;
I had no hope my eyes to raise,
And clear them of their dreary mote.--BYRON.
Meanwhile, during the occurrence of all these stirring events where was
Sir Patrick Gray?
A prisoner of state in the castle of Bommel, detained there, to all
appearance, hopelessly, by order of Jacques de Lalain, the Dyck Graf.
This official knew not whether to believe the information and
reiterated statements of Sir Patrick, or those of the vindictive earl
of Douglas. The secret manner in which Gray had resided in Bommel, and
the disguise he had assumed, were denounced by the burgomaster, as
unworthy the character of an envoy and the captain of a royal guard;
they were declared suspicious, though no one could exactly say of
what bad errand or object. Then, in that unexplained midnight brawl,
concerning the origin of which Sir Patrick maintained an obstinate
silence, he had wounded almost to death two citizens of good repute;
and he was totally without papers or property to verify the account he
gave of himself, as all he possessed had fallen into the hands of the
Douglases, who had destroyed the former and appropriated the latter.
The hatred displayed by a noble so powerful as the earl and by his
brilliant train of followers towards him, and their urgent demands for
his execution, with or without a trial, convinced Jacques de Lalain
that some great mystery was involved; that his prisoner was a man of
considerable importance; and that it would be alike impolitic to hang
or to release him. Hence he ordered, that he should be well attended,
and comfortably lodged in the fortress of Bommel, but closely guarded
and confined to the tower of Otho III.
Arnold d'Egmont, duke of Gueldres, had already begun to be embroiled by
his unnatural son, Prince Adolphus, and was absent at the ducal court
of Burgundy; thus to numerous letters on the subject of his unfortunate
prisoner, the Dyck Graf received no explicit answer, so time rolled
wearily and drearily on.
And what of Murielle? was the constant thought of Gray.
She was now his, irrevocably his, and while aware of his existence
could not, either by force or fraud, become the wife of another.
Amid all the misery of a protracted captivity, there was comfort in
his conviction, till after-thoughts suggested how heartless was the
existence to which their precipitate marriage had perhaps condemned her!
But might not their enemies, by forgeries and false statements, delude
her into an idea of _his_ death, as they had attempted to do before?
Douglas dared not trifle with the power and terror of the Church; so
Gray drew consolation from his memory of the earl's superstition, if
not of his religion.
Yet there were times when his mental agony became great; for no news
from Scotland or of the external world ever reached his prison.
Was Murielle still living? Had the wild schemes of Douglas and Albany
prospered? Was the latter on the throne as Robert IV., with the
terrible earl for his lieutenant-general, his ally in council and his
right arm in war--crowned like Baliol of old, by domestic treason and
foreign treachery? Was the young king dead, a prisoner, or an exile in
France or England? Was Albany's betrothal to Mademoiselle Radegonde,
the eldest daughter of Charles VII., annulled? What changes were taking
place in his secluded mountain home? Who were dead--who living, and who
wedded? Was he quite forgotten there?
Such were the questions ever in his heart and on his tongue.
Slowly passed the weary days till they became months, and then season
succeeded to season. Five times had Gray, from his barred window
in that old tower of Otho count of Gueldres, seen the golden grain
gathered on the flat and distant fields; five times had he seen the
land ploughed, and sown, and reaped; and five times covered with the
white mantle of winter, when frost locked the waters of the Waal, and
moored, harder than ever hempen cable and iron anchor did, the great
brown-varnished barges in the sedge-bordered canals, when the storks
forsook their nests on the snow-covered gables, when the holy water
froze in the stone fonts of the churches, and when the bulbous-shaped
Flemings put on at least six pairs of additional breeches. At such
a season as this, the poor prisoner pictured in fancy the crackling
yule-log that blazed in his father's hall at home--the old kirk of
Foulis all bedecked with green bays and greener holly--his mother
mourning by the winter hearth for the loss of her absent son; and then
his heart grew sick as he thought of his blighted love, his wasted
life, and all the thousand memories of his native land.
He thought, too, of what he had seen in more than one Flemish
market-place, in Antwerp, at Gueldres, Endhoven, Bommel, and
elsewhere; the cruel and periodical exhibition of a long-secluded
prisoner, in whose heart hope, and even the memory of the outer world,
were long since dead; "for there on particular days," says a certain
writer, "these victims are presented to the public eye, upon a stage
erected in the open market, apparently to prevent their guilt and
punishment from being forgotten. It is scarcely possible to witness a
sight more degrading to humanity than this exhibition:--with matted
hair, wild looks, and haggard features, with eyes dazzled by the
unwonted glare of the sun, and ears deafened and astounded by the
sudden exchange of the silence of a dungeon for the busy hum of men,
the wretches sit like rude images fashioned to a fantastic imitation of
humanity rather than like living and reflecting beings. In the course
of time we are assured they generally become either madmen or idiots,
as mind or matter happens to predominate, when the mysterious balance
between them is destroyed."
Gray remembered to have seen these miserable captives thus exhibited,
and his heart died within him with terror, lest such might be the fate
reserved for himself.
So the year 1448 was in its spring when he reckoned that Murielle
was no longer a girl--that in fact she would be about her
four-and-twentieth year. He strove to picture what the girl would be
now, when expanded into a woman! Would he ever see her more, or be free
to tread his native soil again? Alas! there were times when he feared
his brain would turn.
Count Ludwig had long since been taken in the adjacent forest, after a
hard conflict between the soldiers of De Lalain and his Brabanciones,
many of whom, including Gustaf Vlierbeke, and the industrious Carl
Langfanger, were slain, and gibbeted on the trees. The wretched count
was broken alive on the wheel, before the Church of St. Genevieve. He
survived the torture for three days, before the public executioner gave
him the final _coup_ with an iron bar, and his head on a spike now
rendered the market-place of Bommel horrible to its frequenters.
Gray heard of this barbarous execution in his prison, and he almost
envied the reckless robber, for death seemed a triumphant release from
tyranny, misery, and mental suffering.
In February, 1448, on a dull morning, when the yellow winter fog hung
like a pall over the level scenery of the Bommelerwaard, Gray was
roused from sleep by the roar of twenty great bombards, the concussion
of which shook the old castle of Count Otho to its foundations as they
exploded in a salvo.
Had an enemy, the French or Burgundians, attacked it suddenly? His
heart leaped with joy at the desperate hope. He rushed to the grated
window of his room, and saw in the court-yard beneath, the Dyck Graf,
with his sword and mantle, his knightly girdle and collar, mustering
and arraying his garrison in their armour, pikemen, crossbowmen,
arquebusiers, all steady Walloons and German lanzknechts. Then came
the clangour of the church bells, and cheers of a multitude without,
who seemed to be rushing through the streets towards the gate of the
fortress, while still the great brazen bombards continued to belch
forth flame and thunder from the battlements.
"What has happened?" asked Gray, as he rushed half dressed from his
room to the court-yard. "Oh, Messire," he added to the Dyck Graf, "in
pity tell me?"
"Only a salute, messire," replied the governor curtly, in French; but
as Gray observed, with more politeness than usually was accorded to him.
"To whom?"
"A demoiselle of the highest-rank."
"But her name, Messire?" urged Gray.
"The young queen of Scotland, who comes this way with her train,"
replied the Dyck Graf.
Gray almost gasped with joy.
"The daughter of duke Arnold?" he inquired.
"Yes; of Monseigneur the duke of Gueldres; she has been married to your
king at Brussels, and is now on her way to Scotland."
"I am saved--saved at last!" exclaimed Gray, in a burst of happiness,
so genuine that even the grim De Lalain was impressed by it. "Oh, my
God, I thank thee! (oh, my Murielle!)--and--and, messire, is the king
here?
"Tonnere de ciel! how inquisitive you have become."
"Messire, after all I have endured you may excuse me, for many a sun
has risen and set--many a tide has ebbed and flowed since I became a
prisoner here, spending years, whose agony is known to Heaven and to
myself only!"
"Well--the king is not here; the princess was married to him by
proxy--the chancellor of Scotland being his representative, before the
altar of St. Gudule."
"Sir William Crichton?"
"I think that is his name, messire; and by St. Genevieve!" he added
as the clanking iron gates were rolled back by the warders, "she
hath a brave retinue of lords and knights, and, as many of them are
your countrymen, we shall _now_ be able to verify the truth of your
statements."
Within an hour after this, Sir Patrick Gray found himself a free man,
and surrounded by his countrymen and friends, all loyal gentlemen of
the court, who knew him well. He was cordially embraced by the old
chancellor, who presented him to the young Queen Mary, and placed him
by her side, as the captain of her husband's Royal Guard.
Messire Jacques de Lalain, on perceiving the turn matters took with his
prisoner, began to fear that in the zealous execution of his office he
had made a mistake. He offered innumerable apologies to Gray, and as
he was not ungenerous, he presented him with a rich suit of Flemish
armour, a fine Toledo, a Spanish gennet, and a catella or chain, having
fifty links of fine gold, as an _amende_ for all he had endured.
Of all who accompanied the chancellor, he inquired about the Douglases;
but could only learn that they were at Rome, and probably would not
return until after the great jubilee, which took place then every
fiftieth year, in honour of the foundation of Christianity.
The young queen's train embarked at Sluys, in Scottish ships, and
crossed the German sea in safety.
On the 1st of April, 1448, she landed at Leith, and as an illustration
of "how dull and common-place fiction is when compared with truth," the
Dyck Graf of Bommel, and Sir Patrick Gray, who had been so long and so
hopelessly his prisoner, rode side by side, as she proceeded towards
Edinburgh, and they bore over her head a canopy of cloth of gold upon
the points of their lances.
Gray's noble horse and gorgeous armour were now as conspicuous as his
soldierly bearing and manly beauty; for both had now returned, and in
his five years of captivity the scars inflicted by the ghisarma of
Douglas had disappeared, or nearly so.
Patrick Cockburn, of Newbigging, now provost of Edinburgh and governor
of the castle, received the queen at the head of the magistrates and
all the men of the city, in armour--"boden in effeir of weir," as it
was then termed.
Mary was accompanied by the lord chancellor Crichton, John Raulston,
bishop of Dunkeld, who was lord privy seal, and Nicholas Otterburn, a
canon of Glasgow. The prince of Ravenstein, the marquis of Berg, and
Englebert, count of Nassau, hereditary Burg Graf of Antwerp, who were
each followed by a brilliant train of attendants, wore the collars and
mantles of the Golden Fleece. The prince bore the banner of the bride's
uncle, Philip III., surnamed the Good, duke of Burgundy.
Then came the bishops of Liege and Cambrai, riding upon white mules,
with long footcloths.
The king's two brothers-in-law came next, Francis, duke of Brittany
(a prince who slew his brother Giles), and the Archduke Sigismund of
Austria, each attended by knights, banners, squires, and pages, in
glittering costumes. With them came Louis II., duke of Savoy, prince of
Piedmont, and husband of the princess royal of Cyprus, with his banner
borne by the duke of Montferrat, who wore a scarlet tabard, with the
silver cross of Savoy.
The lord of Campvere, a handsome and black-bearded man, the husband of
Mary of Scotland (fifth sister of James), came next in a suit of armour
glittering with gold carvings and precious stones. He bore a great
banner--_azure_, with the lion _or_, crowned for Gueldreland, and
_azure_ a lion _gules_ for Zutphen, impaled, with the lion of Scotland,
within its double tressure of _fleur-de-lis_.
Herré de Meriadet, hereditary Burg Graf of the castle of Sluys, bore
the banner of the count of Nassau, _azure_ sprinkled with crosses
_argent_. Meriadet, a tall and stately man, was then famous as one
of the best knights in Europe, and the people received him with
acclamation. He wore a silver helmet of great beauty and remarkable
form, which he had struck in battle from the head of an emir of
Granada, when he served the king of Castile in his wars against the
Moors, and its snow-white plumes drooped upon his shoulders, and were
reflected on the dazzling surface of his armour, which literally blazed
in the noonday sunshine.
Bombards were fired, and bells were loudly rung in many a sacred
edifice now numbered with the things that were; and so "with a grate
traine of knights and ladeys" (as Balfour has it), the queen was
conducted to the church of Holyrood, and there solemnly married to
the young king, then in about the nineteenth year of his age, and in
the bloom of youthful strength and comeliness; and Mary his bride
charmed the people by her girlish loveliness. They were never tired of
extolling her fair hair, which fell in golden masses on her snowy neck
and shoulders; her violet-coloured eyes, and her full yet curved lip,
which expressed the softness of love, with that firmness of character
so needed in a queen of the turbulent Scots.
This was the second time that the houses of Scotland and the then
powerful and independent dukedom of Gueldres had been connected by
marriage.
Alexander, son of Alexander III., espoused Margaret, daughter of Guy
de Dampierre, earl of Flanders; and had he lived, and she been queen
of Scotland, the disastrous wars of the Edwards and the victories of
Wallace and Bruce had never been heard of; but he died at Roxburgh, in
1283, when in his twentieth year. Margaret interred him at Lindores,
in the old abbey church of St. Mary, and soon after became the wife of
Reinald, the warlike duke and count of Gueldres.