Transcribed from the 1912 Macmillan and Co. edition by David Price, email
ccx074@coventry.ac.uk
THE CAGED LION
PREFACE
When the venture has been made of dealing with historical events and
characters, it always seems fair towards the reader to avow what
liberties have been taken, and how much of the sketch is founded on
history. In the present case, it is scarcely necessary to do more than
refer to the almost unique relations that subsisted between Henry V. and
his prisoner, James I. of Scotland; who lived with him throughout his
reign on the terms of friend rather than of captive, and was absolutely
sheltered by this imprisonment throughout his nonage and early youth from
the frightful violence and presumption of the nobles of his kingdom.
James's expedition to Scotland is wholly imaginary, though there appears
to have been space for it during Henry's progress to the North to pay his
devotions at Beverley Minster. The hero of the story is likewise
invention, though, as Froissart ascribes to King Robert II. 'eleven sons
who loved arms,' Malcolm may well be supposed to be the son of one of
those unaccounted for in the pedigrees of Stewart. The same may be said
of Esclairmonde. There were plenty of Luxemburgs in the Low Countries,
but the individual is not to be identified. Readers of Tyler's 'Henry
V.,' of Agnes Strickland's 'Queens,' Tytler's 'Scotland,' and Barante's
'Histoire de Bourgogne' will be at no loss for the origin of all I have
ventured to say of the really historical personages. Mr. Fox Bourne's
'English Merchants' furnished the tradition respecting Whittington. I am
afraid the knighthood was really conferred on Henry's first return to
England, after the battle of Agincourt; but human--or at least
story-telling--nature could not resist an anachronism of a few years for
such a story. The only other wilful alteration of a matter of time is
with regard to the Duke of Burgundy's interview with Henry. At the time
of Henry's last stay at Paris the Duke was attending the death-bed of his
wife, Michelle of France, but he had been several times in the King's
camp at the siege of Meaux.
Another alteration of fact is that Ralf Percy, instead of being second
son of Hotspur, should have been Henry Percy, son of Hotspur's brother
Ralf; but the name would have been so confusing that it was thought
better to set Dugdale at defiance and consider the reader's convenience.
Alice Montagu, though her name sounds as if it came out of the most
commonplace novelist's repertory, was a veritable personage--the heiress
of the brave line of Montacute, or Montagu; daughter to the Earl of
Salisbury who was killed at the siege of Orleans; wife to the Earl of the
same title (in her right) who won the battle of Blore Heath and was
beheaded at Wakefield; and mother to Earl Warwick the King-maker, the
Marquis of Montagu, and George Nevil, Archbishop of York. As nothing is
known of her but her name, I have ventured to make use of the blank.
For Jaqueline of Hainault, and her pranks, they are to be found in
Monstrelet of old, and now in Barante; though justice to her and Queen
Isabeau compels me to state that the incident of the ring is wholly
fictitious. Of the trial of Walter Stewart no record is preserved save
that he was accused of '_roborica_.' James Kennedy was the first great
benefactor to learning in Scotland, and founder of her earliest
University, having been himself educated at Paris.
The Abbey of Coldingham is described from a local compilation of the
early part of the century, with an account of the history of that grand
old foundation, and the struggle for appointments between the parent
house at Durham and the Scottish Government. Priors Akefield and Drax
are historical, and as the latter really did commission a body of moss-
troopers to divert an instalment of King James's ransom into his own
private coffers, I do not think I can have done him much injustice. As
the nunnery of St. Abbs has gone bodily into the sea, I have been the
less constrained by the inconvenient action of fact upon fiction. And
for the Hospital of St. Katharine's-by-the-Tower, its history is to be
found in Stowe's 'Survey of London,' and likewise in the evidence before
the Parliamentary Commission, which shows what it was intended by Queen
Philippa to have been to the river-side population, and what it might
have been had such intentions been understood and acted on--nay, what it
may yet become, since the foundation remains intact, although the
building has been removed.
C. M. YONGE.
November 24, 1869.
CHAPTER I: THE GUEST OF GLENUSKIE
A master hand has so often described the glens and ravines of Scotland,
that it seems vain and presumptuous to meddle with them; and yet we must
ask our readers to figure to themselves a sharp cleft sloping downwards
to a brawling mountain stream, the sides scattered with gray rocks of
every imaginable size, interspersed here and there with heather, gorse,
or furze. Just in the widest part of the valley, a sort of platform of
rock jutted out from the hill-side, and afforded a station for one of
those tall, narrow, grim-looking fastnesses that were the strength of
Scotland, as well as her bane.
Either by nature or art, the rock had been scarped away on three sides,
so that the walls of the castle rose sheer from the steep descent, except
where the platform was connected with the mountain side by, as it were,
an isthmus joining the peninsula to the main rock; and even this isthmus,
a narrow ridge of rock just wide enough for the passage of a single
horse, had been cut through, no doubt with great labour, and rendered
impassable, except by the lowering of a drawbridge. Glenuskie Castle was
thus nearly impregnable, so long as it was supplied with water, and for
this all possible provision had been made, by guiding a stream into the
court.
The castle was necessarily narrow and confined; its massive walls took up
much even of the narrow space that the rock afforded; but it had been so
piled up that it seemed as though the builders wished to make height
compensate for straitness. There was, too, an unusual amount of grace,
both in the outline of the gateway with its mighty flanking towers, and
of the lofty donjon tower, that shot up like a great finger above the
Massy More, as the main building was commonly called by the inhabitants
of Glenuskie.
Wondrous as were the walls, and deep-set as were the arches, they had all
that peculiar slenderness of contour that Scottish taste seemed to have
learnt from France; and a little more space was gained at the top, both
of the gateway towers and the donjon, by a projecting cornice of
beautifully vaulted arches supporting a battlement, that gave the
building a crowned look. On the topmost tower was of course planted the
ensign of the owner, and that ensign was no other than the regal ruddy
Lion of Scotland, ramping on his gold field within his tressure fiery and
counter flory, but surmounted by a label divided into twelve, and placed
upon a pen-noncel, or triangular piece of silk. The eyes of the early
fifteenth century easily deciphered such hieroglyphics as these, which to
every one with the least tincture of 'the noble science' indicated that
the owner of the castle was of royal Stewart blood, but of a younger
branch, and not yet admitted to the rank of knighthood.
The early spring of the year 1421 was bleak and dreary in that wild
lonely vale, and large was the fire burning on the hearth in the castle
hall, in the full warmth of which there sat, with a light blue cloth
cloak drawn tightly round him, a tall old man, of the giant mould of
Scotland, and with a massive thoughtful brow, whose grand form was
rendered visible by the absence of hair, only a few remnants of yellow
locks mixed with silver floating from his temples to mingle with his
magnificent white beard. A small blue bonnet, with a short eagle
feather, fastened with a brooch of river pearl, was held in the hands
that were clasped over his face, as, bending down in his chair, he
murmured through his white beard, 'Have mercy, good Lord, have mercy on
the land. Have mercy on my son,--and guard him when he goes out and when
he comes in. Have mercy on the children I have toiled for, and teach me
to judge and act for them aright in these sore straits; and above all,
have mercy on our King, break his fetters, and send him home to be the
healer of his land, the avenger of her cruel wrongs.'
So absorbed was the old man that he never heard the step that came across
the hall. It was a slightly unequal step, but was carefully hushed at
entrance, as if supposing the old man asleep; and at a slow pace the new-
comer crossed the hall to the chimney, where he stood by the fire,
warming himself and looking wistfully at the old Knight.
He was wrapped in a plaid, black and white, which increased the gray
appearance of the pale sallow face and sad expression of the wearer, a
boy of about seventeen, with soft pensive dark eyes and a sickly
complexion, with that peculiar wistful cast of countenance that is apt to
accompany deformity, though there was no actual malformation apparent,
unless such might be reckoned the slight halt in the gait, and the small
stature of the lad, who was no taller than many boys of twelve or
fourteen. But there was a depth of melancholy in those dark brown eyes,
that went far into the heart of any one who had the power to be touched
with their yearning, appealing, almost piteous gaze, as though their
owner had come into a world that was much too hard for him, and were
looking out in bewilderment and entreaty for some haven of peace.
He had stood for some minutes looking thoughtfully into the fire, and the
sadness of his expression ever deepening, before the old man raised his
face, and said, 'You here, Malcolm? where are the others?'
'Patie and Lily are still on the turret-top, fair Uncle,' returned the
boy. 'It was so cold;' and he shivered again, and seemed as though he
would creep into the fire.
'And the reek?' asked the uncle.
'There is another reek broken out farther west,' replied Malcolm. 'Patie
is sure now that it is as you deemed, Uncle; that it is a cattle-lifting
from Badenoch.'
'Heaven help them!' sighed the old man, again folding his hands in
prayer. 'How long, O Lord, how long?'
Malcolm took up the appeal of the Psalm, repeating it in Latin, but with
none the less fervency; that Psalm that has ever since David's time
served as the agonized voice of hearts hot-burning at the sight of wrong.
'Ah yes,' he ended, 'there is nothing else for it! Uncle, this was
wherefore I came. It was to speak to you of my purpose.'
'The old purpose, Malcolm? Nay, that hath been answered before.'
'But listen, listen, dear Uncle. I have not spoken of it for a full year
now. So that you cannot say it is the caresses of the good monks. No,
nor the rude sayings of the Master of Albany,' he added, colouring at a
look of his uncle. 'You bade me say no more till I be of full age; nor
would I, save that I were safe lodged in an abbey; then might Patrick and
Lily be wedded, and he not have to leave us and seek his fortune far away
in France; and in Patie's hands and leading, my vassals might be safe;
but what could the doited helpless cripple do?' he added, the colour
rising hotly to his cheek with pain and shame. 'Oh, Sir, let me but save
my soul, and find peace in Coldingham!'
'My poor bairn,' said his uncle, laying a kind hand upon him, as in his
eagerness he knelt on one knee beside the chair, 'it must not be. It is
true that the Regent and his sons would willingly see you in a cloister.
Nay, that unmanly jeer of Walter Stewart's was, I verily believe, meant
to drive you thither. But were you there, then would poor Lilias become
a prize worth having, and the only question would be, whether Walter of
Albany, or Robert of Athole, or any of the rest of them, should tear her
away to be the lady of their fierce ungodly households.'
'You could give her to Patrick, Uncle.'
'No, Malcolm, that were not consistent with mine honour, or oaths to the
King and State. You living, and Laird of Glenuskie, Lilias is a mere
younger sister, whom you may give in marriage as you will; but were you
dead to the world, under a cowl, then the Lady of Glenuskie, a king's
grandchild, may not be disposed of, save by her royal kinsman, or by
those who, woe worth the day! stand in his place. I were no better than
yon Wolf of Badenoch or the Master of Albany, did I steal a march on the
Regent, and give the poor lassie to my own son!'
'And so Lilias must pine, and Patrick wander off to the weary French
war,' sighed Malcolm; 'and I must be scorned by my cousins whenever the
House of Stewart meets together; and must strive with these fierce cruel
men, that will ever be too hard for me when Patie is gone.' His eyes
filled with tears as he continued, 'Ah! that fair chapel, with the sweet
chant of the choir, the green smooth-shaven quadrangle, the calm cloister
walk; there, there alone is rest. There, one ceases to be a prey and a
laughing-stock; there, one sees no more bloodshed and spulzie; there, one
need not be forced to treachery or violence. Oh, Uncle! my very soul is
sick for Coldingham. How many years will it be ere I can myself bestow
my sister on Patie, and hide my head in peace!'
Before his uncle had done more than answer, 'Nay, nay, Malcolm, these are
no words for the oe of Bruce; you are born to dare as well as to suffer,'
there was an approach of footsteps, and two young people entered the
hall; the first a girl, with a family likeness to Malcolm, but tall,
upright, beautiful, and with the rich colouring of perfect health, her
plaid still hanging in a loose swelling hood round her brilliant face and
dark hair, snooded with a crimson ribbon and diamond clasp; the other, a
knightly young man, of stately height and robust limbs, keen bright blue
eyes and amber hair and beard, moving with the ease and grace that showed
his training in the highest school of chivalry.
'Good Uncle,' cried the maiden in eager excitement, 'there is a guest
coming. He has just turned over the brae side, and can be coming nowhere
but here.'
'A guest!' cried both Malcolm and the elder knight, 'of what kind, Lily?'
'A knight--a knight in bright steel, and with three attendants,' said
Lilias; 'one of Patrick's French comrades, say I, by the grace of his
riding.'
'Not a message from the Regent, I trust,' sighed Malcolm. 'Patie, oh do
not lower the drawbridge, till we hear whether it be friend or foe.'
'Nay, Malcolm, 'tis well none save friends heard that,' said Patrick.
'When shall we make a brave man of you?'
'Nevertheless, Patie,' said the old gentleman, 'though I had rather the
caution had come from the eldest rather than the youngest head among us,
parley as much as may serve with honour and courtesy ere opening the gate
to the stranger. Hark, there is his bugle.'
A certain look of nervous terror passed over young Malcolm's face, while
his sister watched full of animation and curiosity, as one to whom
excitement of any kind could hardly come amiss, exclaiming, as she looked
from the window, 'Fear not, most prudent Malcolm; Father Ninian is with
him: Father Ninian must have invited him.'
'Strange,' muttered Patrick, 'that Father Ninian should be picking up and
bringing home stray wandering land-loupers;' and with an anxious glance
at Lilias, he went forward unwillingly to perform those duties of
hospitality which had become necessary, since the presence of the castle
chaplain was a voucher for the guest. The drawbridge had already been
lowered, and the new-comer was crossing it upon a powerful black steed,
guided by Father Ninian upon his rough mountain pony, on which he had
shortly before left the castle, to attend at a Church festival held at
Coldingham.
The chaplain was a wise, prudent, and much-respected man; nevertheless,
young Sir Patrick Drummond felt little esteem for his prudence in
displaying one at least of the treasures of the castle to the knight on
the black horse. The stranger was a very tall man, of robust and
stalwart make, apparently aged about seven or eight and twenty years,
clad in steel armour, enamelled so as to have a burnished blue
appearance; but the vizor of the helmet was raised, and the face beneath
it was a manly open face, thoroughly Scottish in its forms, but very
handsome, and with short dark auburn hair, and eyes of the same peculiar
tint, glancing with a light that once seen could never be forgotten; and
the bearing was such, that Patrick at once growled to himself, 'One of
our haughty loons, brimful of _outre cuidance_; and yet how coolly he
bears it off. If he looks to find us his humble servants, he will find
himself mistaken, I trow.'
'Sir Patrick,' said Father Ninian, who was by this time close to him,
'let me present to you Sir James Stewart, a captive knight who is come to
collect his ransom. I fell in with him on the road, and as his road lay
with mine, I made bold to assure him of a welcome from your honoured
father and Lord Malcolm.'
Patrick's face cleared. It was no grace or beauty that he feared in any
stranger, but the sheer might and unright that their Regency enabled the
House of Albany to exercise over the orphans of the royal family, whose
head was absent; and a captive knight could be no mischievous person.
Still this might be only a specious pretence to impose on the chaplain,
and gain admittance to the castle; and Patrick was resolved to be well on
his guard, though he replied courteously to the graceful bow with which
the stranger greeted him, saying in a manly mellow voice and southern
accent, 'I have been bold enough to presume on the good father's offer of
hospitality, Sir.'
'You are welcome, Sir,' returned Patrick, taking the stranger's bridle
that he might dismount; 'my father and my cousin will gladly further on
his way a prisoner seeking freedom.'
'A captive may well be welcome, for the sake of one prisoner,' said his
father, who had in the meantime come forward, and extended his hand to
the knight, who took it, and uncovering his bright locks, respectfully
said, 'I am in the presence of the noble Tutor of Glenuskie.'
'Even so, Sir,' returned Sir David Drummond, who was, in fact, as his
nephew's guardian, usually known by this curious title; 'and you here see
my wards, the Lord Malcolm and Lady Lilias. Your knighthood will make
allowances for the lad, he is but home-bred.' For while Lilias with
stately grace responded to Sir James Stewart's courtly greeting, Malcolm
bashfully made an awkward bow, and seemed ready to shrink within himself,
as, indeed, the brutal jests of his rude cousins had made him dread and
hate the eye of a stranger; and while the knight was led forward to the
hall fire, he merely pressed up to the priest, and eagerly demanded under
his breath, 'Have you brought me the book?' but Father Ninian had only
time to nod, and sign that a volume was in his bosom, before old Sir
David called out, 'What now, Malcolm, forgetting that your part is to
come and disarm the knight who does you the honour to be your guest?' And
Sir Patrick rather roughly pushed him forward, gruffly whispering, 'Leave
not Lily to supply your lack of courtesy.'
Malcolm shambled forward, bewildered, as the keen auburn eye fell on him,
and the cheery kindly voice said, 'Ha! a new book--a romance? Well may
that drive out other thoughts.'
'Had he ears to hear such a whisper?' thought Malcolm, as he mumbled in
the hoarse voice of bashful boyhood, 'Not a romance, Sir, but whatever
the good fathers at Coldingham would lend me.'
'It is the "Itinerarium" of the blessed Adamnanus,' replied Father
Ninian, producing from his bosom a parcel, apparently done up in many
wrappers, a seal-skin above all.
'The "Itinerarium"!' exclaimed Sir James, 'methought I had heard of such
a book. I have a friend in England who would give many a fair rose noble
for a sight of it.'
'A friend in England!'--the words had a sinister sound to the audience,
and while Malcolm jealously gathered up the book into his arms, the
priest made cold answer, that the book was the property of the Monastery
at Coldingham, and had only been lent to Lord Malcolm Stewart by special
favour. The guest could not help smiling, and saying he was glad books
were thus prized in Scotland; but at that moment, as the sunny look shone
on his face, and he stood before the fire in the close suit of chamois
leather which he wore under his armour, old Sir David exclaimed, 'Ha!
never did I see such a likeness. Patie, you should be old enough to
remember; do you not see it?'
'What should I see? Who is he like?' asked Patrick, surprised at his
father's manner.
'Who?' whispered Sir David in a lowered voice; 'do you not see it? to the
unhappy lad, the Duke of Rothsay.'
Patrick could not help smiling, for he had been scarcely seven years old
at the time of the murder of the unfortunate Prince of Scotland; but a
flush of colour rose into the face of the guest, and he shortly answered,
'So I have been told;' and then assuming a seat near Sir David, he
entered into conversation with him upon the condition of Scotland at the
period, inquiring into the state of many of the families and districts by
name. Almost always there was but one answer--murder--harrying--foray;
and when the question followed, 'What had the Regent done?' there was a
shrug of the shoulders, and as often Sir James's face flushed with a dark
red fire, and his hand clenched at the hilt of the sword by his side.
'And is there not a man in Scotland left to strike for the right?' he
demanded at last; 'cannot nobles, clergy, and burghers, band themselves
in parliament to put down Albany and his bloody house, and recall their
true head?'
'They love to have it so,' returned Sir David sadly. 'United, they might
be strong enough; but each knows that his fellow, Douglas, Lennox, March,
or Mar, would be ready to play the same game as Albany; and to raise a
rival none will stir.'
'And so,' proceeded Sir James, bitterly, 'the manhood of Scotland goes
forth to waste itself in an empty foreign war, merely to keep France in
as wretched a state of misrule as itself.'
'Nay, nay, Sir,' cried Patrick angrily, 'it is to save an ancient ally
from the tyranny of our foulest foe. It is the only place where a
Scotsman can seek his fortune with honour, and without staining his soul
with foul deeds. Bring our King home, and every sword shall be at his
service.'
'What, when they have all been lavished on the crazy Frenchman?' said Sir
James.
'No, Sir,' said Patrick, rising in his vehemence; 'when they have been
brightened there by honourable warfare, not tarnished by home
barbarities.'
'He speaks truly,' said Sir David; 'and though it will go to my heart to
part with the lad, yet may I not say a word to detain him in a land where
the contagion of violence can scarce be escaped by a brave man.'
Sir James gave a deep sigh as of pain, but as if to hinder its being
remarked, promptly answered, 'That may be; but what is to be the lot of a
land whose honest men desert her cause as too evil for them, and seek out
another, that when seen closer is scarce less evil?'
'How, Sir!' cried Patrick; 'you a prisoner of England, yet speaking
against our noble French allies, so foully trampled on?'
'I have lived long enough in England,' returned Sir James, 'to think that
land happiest where law is strong enough to enforce peace and order.'
'The coward loons!' muttered Patrick, chiefly out of the spirit of
opposition.
'You have been long in England, Sir?' said Lilias, hoping to direct the
conversation into a more peaceful current.
'Many years, fair lady,' he replied, turning courteously to her; 'I was
taken when I was a mere lad, but I have had gentle captors, and no over
harsh prison.'
'And has no one ransomed you?' she asked pitifully, as one much moved by
a certain patience on his brow, and in his sweet full voice.
'No one, lady. My uncle was but too willing that the heir should be kept
aloof; and it is only now he is dead, that I have obtained leave from my
friendly captor to come in search of my ransom.'
Lilias would have liked to know the amount, but it was not manners to
ask, since the rate of ransom was the personal value of the knight; and
her uncle put in the question, who was his keeper.
'The Earl of Somerset,' rather hastily answered Sir James; and then at
once Lilias exclaimed, 'Ah, Uncle, is not the King, too, in his charge?'
And then questions crowded on. 'What like is the King? How brooks he
his durance? What freedom hath he? What hope is there of his return?
Can he brook to hear of his people's wretchedness?'
This was the first question at which Sir James attempted to unclose his
hitherto smiling and amused lip. Then it quivered, and the dew glittered
in his eyes as he answered, 'Brook it! No indeed, lady. His heart burns
within him at every cry that comes over the Border, and will well-nigh
burst at what I have seen and heard! King Harry tells him that to send
him home were but tossing him on the swords of the Albany. Better,
better so, to die in one grapple for his country's sake, than lie bound,
hearing her bitter wails, and unable to stir for her redress!' and as he
dashed the indignant tear from his eyes, Patrick caught his hand.
'Your heart is in the right place, friend,' he said; 'I look on you as an
honest man and brother in arms from this moment.'
''Tis a bargain,' said Sir James, the smile returning, and his eyes again
glistening as he wrung Sir Patrick's hand. 'When the hour comes for the
true rescue of Scotland, we will strike together.'
'And you will tell the King,' added Patrick, 'that here are true hearts,
and I could find many more, only longing to fence him from the Albany
swords, about which King Harry is so good as to fash himself.'
'But what like is the King?' asked Lilias eagerly. 'Oh, I would fain see
him. Is it true that he was the tallest man at King Harry's sacring?
more shame that he were there!'
'He and I are much of a height, lady,' returned the knight. 'Maybe I may
give you the justest notion of him by saying that I am said to be his
very marrow.'
'That explains your likeness to the poor Duke,' said Sir David,
satisfied; 'and you too count kindred with our royal house, methinks?'
'I am sprung from Walter the Stewart, so much I know; my lands lie
Carrick-wards,' said Sir James lightly, 'but I have been a prisoner so
long, that the pedigree of my house was never taught me, and I can make
no figure in describing my own descent.' And as though to put an end to
the inquiry, he walked to the window, where Malcolm so soon as they had
begun to talk of the misrule of Scotland, had ensconced himself in the
window-seat with his new book, making the most of the failing light, and
asked him whether the Monk of Iona equalled his expectations.
Malcolm was not easy to draw out at first, but it presently appeared that
he had been baffled by a tough bit of Latinity. The knight looked, and
readily expounded the sentence, so that all became plain; and then, as it
was already too dark to pursue the study with comfort, he stood over the
boy, talking to him of books and of poems, while the usually pale,
listless, uninterested countenance responded by looks of eager delight
and flushing colour.
It seemed as though each were equally pleased with the other: Sir James,
at finding so much knowledge and understanding in a Scottish castle; and
Malcolm, at, for the first time, meeting anything but contempt for his
tastes from aught but an ecclesiastic.
Their talk continued till they were summoned to supper, which had been
somewhat delayed to provide for the new-comers. It was a simple enough
meal, suited to Lent, and was merely of dried fish, with barley bread and
kail brose; but there were few other places in Scotland where it would
have been served with so much of the refinement that Sir David Drummond
and his late wife had learnt in France. A tablecloth and napkins,
separate trenchers, and water for hand cleansing, were not always to be
found in the houses of the nobles; and in fact, there were those who
charged Malcolm's delicacy and timidity on the _nisete_ or folly of his
effeminate education; the having the rushes on the floor frequently
changed, the preference of lamps for pine torches, and the not keeping
falcons, dogs, swine, and all, pell mell in the great hall.
Lilias sat between her uncle and his guest, looking so fair and bright
that Patrick felt fresh accesses of angry jealousy, while the visitor
talked as one able to report to the natives from another world, and that
world the hateful England, which as a Scotsman he was bound to abhor. Had
it been France, it had been endurable, but praise of English habits was
mere disloyalty; and yet, whenever Patrick tried to throw in a
disparaging word, he found himself met with a quiet superiority such as
he had believed no knight in Scotland could assume with him, and still it
was neither brow-beating nor insolence, nothing that could give offence.
Malcolm begged to know whether there had not been a rare good poet in
England, called Chaucer. Verily there had been, said the knight; and on
a little solicitation, so soon as supper was over, he recited to the
eager and delighted auditors the tale of patient Grisel, as rendered by
Chaucer, calling forth eager comments from both Patrick and Lily, on the
unknightliness of the Marquis. Malcolm, however, added, 'Yet, after all,
she was but a mere peasant wench.'
'What makes that, young Sir?' replied Sir James gravely. 'I would have
you to know that the husband's rank is the wife's, and the more unequal
were their lot before, the more is he bound to respect her, and to make
her be respected.'
'That may be, after the deed is done,' said Sir David, in a warning
voice; 'but it is not well that like should not match with like. Many an
evil have I seen in my time, from unequal mating.'
'And, Sir,' eagerly exclaimed Patrick, 'no doubt you can gainsay the
slander, that our noble King has been caught in the toils of an artful
Englishwoman, and been drawn in to promise her a share in his crown.'
A flush of crimson flamed forth on Sir James Stewart's cheeks, and his
tawny eye glanced with a fire like red lightning, but he seemed, as it
were, to be holding himself in, and answered with a voice forcibly kept
low and calm, and therefore the more terribly stern, 'Young Sir, I warn
you to honour your future queen.'
Sir David made a gesture with his hand, enforcing restraint upon his son,
and turning to Sir James, said, 'Our queen will we honour, when such she
is, Sir; but if you are returning to the King, it were well that he
should know that our hot Scottish bloods, here, could scarce brook an
English alliance, and certainly not one beneath his birth.'
'The King would answer, Sir,' returned Sir James, haughtily, but with
recovered command over himself, 'that it is for him to judge whom his
subjects shall brook as their queen. Moreover,' he added, in a different
and more conciliatory voice, 'Scotsmen must be proud indeed who disdain
the late King's niece, the great-granddaughter of King Edward III., and
as noble and queenly a demoiselle as ever was born in a palace.'
'She is so very fair, then?' said Lilies, who was of course on the side
of true love. 'You have seen her, gentle Sir? Oh, tell us what are her
beauties?'
'Fair damsel,' said Sir James, in a much more gentle tone, 'you forget
that I am only a poor prisoner, who have only now and then viewed the
lady Joan Beaufort with distant reverence, as destined to be my queen.
All I can tell is, that her walk and bearing mark her out for a throne.'
'And oh!' cried Malcolm, 'is it not true that the King hath composed
songs and poems in her honour?'
'Pah!' muttered Patrick; 'as though the King would be no better than a
wandering minstrel rhymester!'
'Or than King David!' dryly said Sir James.
'It is true, then, Sir,' exclaimed Lilias. 'He doth verily add
minstrelsy to his other graces? Know you the lines, Sir? Can you sing
them to us? Oh, I pray you.'
'Nay, fair maid,' returned Sir James, 'methinks I might but add to the
scorn wherewith Sir Patrick is but too much inclined to regard the
captive King.'
'A captive, a captive--ay, minstrelsy is the right solace for a captive,'
said Patrick; 'at least, so they say and sing. Our king will have better
work when he gains his freedom. Only there will come before me a
subtilty I once saw in jelly and blanc-mange, at a banquet in France,
where a lion fell in love with a hunter's daughter, and let her, for
love's sake, draw his teeth and clip his claws, whereupon he found
himself made a sport for her father's hounds.'
'I promise you, Sir Patrick,' replied the guest, 'that the Lady Joan is
more hike to send her Lion forth from the hunter's toils, with claws and
teeth fresh-whetted by the desire of honour.
'But the lay--the hay, Sir,' entreated Lilias; 'who knows that it may not
win Patrick to be the Lady Joan's devoted servant? Malcolm, your harp!'
Malcolm had already gone in quest of the harp he loved all the better for
the discouragement thrown on his gentle tastes.
The knight leant back, with a pensive look softening his features as he
said, after a little consideration, 'Then, fair lady, I will sing you the
song made by King James, when he had first seen the fair mistress of his
heart, on the slopes of Windsor, looking from his chamber window. He
feigns her to be a nightingale.'
'And what is that, Sir?' demanded Lilias. 'I have heard the word in
romances, and deemed it a kind of angel that sings by night.'
'It is a bird, sister,' replied Malcolm; 'Philomel, that pierces her
breast with a thorn, and sings sweetly even to her death.'
'That's mere minstrel leasing, Malcolm,' said Patrick. 'I have both seen
and heard the bird in France--_Rossignol_, as we call it there; and were
I a lady, I should deem it small compliment to be likened to a little
russet-backed, homely fowl such as that.'
'While I,' replied the prisoner, 'feel so much with your fair sister,
that nightingales are a sort of angels that sing by night, that it pains
me, when I think of winning my freedom, to remember that I shall never
again hear their songs answering one another through the forest of
Windsor.'
Patrick shrugged his shoulders, but Lilias was so anxious to hear the
lay, that she entreated him to be silent; and Sir James, with a manly
mellow voice, with an exceedingly sweet strain in it, and a skill, both
of modulation and finger, such as showed admirable taste and instruction,
poured forth that beautiful song of the nightingale at Windsor, which
commences King James's story of his love, in his poem of the King's
Quhair.
There was an eager pressing round to hear, and not only were Lilias and
Malcolm, but old Sir David himself, much affected by the strain, which
the latter said put him in mind of the days of King Robert III., which,
sad as they were, now seemed like good old times, so much worse was the
present state of affairs. Sir James, however, seemed anxious to prevent
discussion of the verses he had sung, and applied to Malcolm to give a
specimen of his powers: and thus, with music, ballad, and lay, the
evening passed away, till the parting cup was sent round, and the Tutor
of Glenuskie and Malcolm marshalled their guest to the apartment where he
was to sleep, in a wainscoted box bedstead, and his two attendant
squires, a great iron-gray Scot and a rosy honest-faced Englishman, on
pallets on the floor.
In the morning he went on his journey, but not without an invitation to
rest there again on his way back, whether with or without his ransom. He
promised to come, saying that he should gladly bear to the King the last
advices from one so honoured as the Tutor of Glenuskie; and, on their
sides, Malcolm and Sir David resolved to do their best to have some gold
pieces to contribute, rather than so 'proper a knight' should fail in
raising his ransom; but gold was never plenty, and Patrick needed all
that his uncle could supply, to bear him to those wars in France, where
he looked for renown and fortune.
For these were, as may have been gathered, those evil days when James I.
of Scotland was still a captive to England, and when the House of Albany
exercised its cruel misrule upon Scotland; delaying to ransom the King,
lest they should bring home a master.
Old Robert of Albany had been King Stork, his son Murdoch was King Log;
and the misery was infinitely increased by the violence and lawlessness
of Murdoch's sons. King Robert II. had left Scotland the fearful legacy
of, as Froissart says, 'eleven sons who loved arms.' Of these, Robert
III. was the eldest, the Duke of Albany the second. These were both
dead, and were represented, the one by the captive young King James, the
other by the Regent, Duke Murdoch of Albany, and his brother John, Earl
of Buchan, now about to head a Scottish force, among whom Patrick
Drummond intended to sail, to assist the French.
Others of the eleven, Earls of Athol, Menteith, &c., survived; but the
youngest of the brotherhood, by name Malcolm, who had married the heiress
of Glenuskie, had been killed at Homildon Hill, when he had solemnly
charged his Stewart nephews and brothers to leave his two orphan children
to the sole charge of their mother's cousin, Sir David Drummond, a good
old man, who had been the best supporter and confidant of poor Robert
III. in his unhappy reign, and in embassies to France had lost much of
the rugged barbarism to which Scotland had retrograded during the wars
with England.