More than a year had passed, and it was March when Malcolm was descending
the stone stair that leads so picturesquely beneath the archway of its
tower up to the hall of the college of St. Mary Winton, then _really_ New
College. He had been residing there with Dr. Bennet, associating with
the young members of the foundation educated at Winchester, and studying
with all the freshness of a recent institution. It had been a very happy
time for him, within the gray stone walls that pleasantly recalled
Coldingham, though without Coldingham's defensive aspect, and with ample
food for the mind, which had again returned to its natural state of
inquiring reflection and ardour for knowledge.
Daily Malcolm woke early, attended Matins and Mass in the chapel, studied
grammar and logic, mastered difficult passages in the Fathers, or copied
out portions for himself in the chamber which he as a gentleman commoner,
as we should call him, possessed, instead of living in a common dormitory
with the other scholars. Or in the open cloister he listened and took
notes of the lectures of the fellows and tutors of the college, and
seated on a bench or walking up and down received special instructions.
Then ensued the meal, spread in the hall; the period of recreation, in
the meadows, or in the licensed sports, or on the river; fresh studies,
chapel, and a social but quiet evening over the supper in the hall. All
this was varied by Latin sermons at St. Mary's, or disputations and
lectures by notable doctors, and public arguments between scholars, by
which they absolutely fought out their degrees. There were few colleges
as yet, and those resident in them were the _elite_; beyond, there was a
great mob of scholars living in rooms as they could, generally very poor,
and often very disorderly; but they did not mar the quiet semi-monastic
stillness within the foundations, and to Malcolm it seemed as if the
truly congenial home was opened.
The curriculum of science began to reveal itself to him with all the
stages so inviting to a mind conscious of power and longing for
cultivation. The books, the learned atmosphere, the infinite
possibilities, were delightful to him, and opened a more delightful
future. His metaphysical Scottish mind delighted in the scholastic
arguments that were now first set before him, and his readiness,
appreciation, and eager power of acquiring surprised his teachers, and
made him the pride of New College.
When he looked back at his year of court and camp, he could only marvel
at having ever preferred them. In war his want of bodily strength would
make real distinction impossible; here he felt himself excelling; here
was absolute enjoyment, and of a kind without drawback. Scholarship must
be his true element and study: the deep universal study of the sisterhood
of science that the University offered was his veritable vocation. Surely
it was not without significance that the ring that shone on his finger
betrothed him to Esclairmonde, the Light of the World; for though in
person the maiden was never to be his own, she was the emblem to him of
the pure virgin light of truth and wisdom that he would be for ever
wooing, and winning only to see further lights beyond. Human nature felt
a pang at the knowledge that he was bound to deliver up the ring and
resign his connection with that fair and stately maiden; but the pain
that had been sore at first had diminished under the sense that he stood
in a post of generous trust, and that his sacrifice was the passport to
her grateful esteem. He knew her to be with Lady Montagu, awaiting a
vacancy at St. Katharine's, and this would be the signal for dissolving
the contract of marriage, after which his present vision was to bestow
Lilias upon Patrick, make over his estates to them, take minor orders,
and set forth for Italy, there to pursue those deeper studies in theology
and language for which Padua and Bologna were famous. It was many months
since he had heard of Lilias; but this did not give him any great
uneasiness, for messengers were few, and letter-writing far from being a
common practice. He had himself written at every turning-point of his
life, and sent his letters when the King communicated with Scotland; but
from his sister he had heard nothing.
He had lately won his first degree as Bachelor of Arts, and was
descending the stair from the Hall after a Lenten meal on salt fish, when
he saw below him the well-known figure of King James's English servant,
who doffing his cap held out to him a small strip of folded paper,
fastened by a piece of crimson silk and the royal seal. It only bore the
words:--
'_To our right trusty and well-beloved Cousin the Lord Malcolm Stewart
of Glenuskie this letter be taken_.
'DEAR COUSIN,
'We greet you well, and pray you to come to us without loss of time,
having need of you, we being a free man and no captive.
'Yours,
'JAMES R.
'Written at the Castle of Windsor this St. David's Day, 1424.'
'A free man:' the words kept ringing in Malcolm's ears while he hastened
to obtain license from Warden John Bonke, and to take leave of Dr.
Bennet. He had not left Oxford since the beginning of his residence
there. Vacations were not general dispersions when ways and means of
transit were so scarce and tardy, and Malcolm had been long without
seeing his king. Joy on his sovereign's account, and his country's,
seemed to swallow up all other thoughts; as to himself, when he bade his
friends and masters farewell, he declared it was merely for a time, and
when they shook their heads and augured otherwise, he replied: 'Nay,
think you I could live in the Cimmerian darkness yonder, dear sirs? Our
poor country hath nothing better than mere monastery schools, and light
of science having once shone on me, I cannot but dwell in her courts for
ever! Soon shall I be altogether her son and slave!'
Nevertheless, Malcolm was full of eagerness, and pressed on rapidly
through the lanes between Oxford and Windsor, rejoicing to find himself
amid the noble trees of the forest, over which arose in all its grandeur
the Castle and Round Tower, as beautiful though less unique than now, and
bearing on it the royal standard, for the little King was still nursed
there.
Under the vaulted gateway James--with Patrick and Bairdsbrae behind
him--met Malcolm, and threw his arms round him, crying: 'Ay, kiss me,
boy; 'tis a king and no caitiff you kiss now! Another six weeks, and
then for the mountain and the moor and the bonnie north countree.'
'And why not for a month?' was Malcolm's question, as hand and eye and
face responded heartily.
'Why? Why, because moneys must be told down, and treaties signed; ay,
and Lent is no time for weddings, nor March for southland roses to travel
to our cold winds. Ay, Malcolm, you see a bridegroom that is to be! Did
you think I was going home without her?'
'I did not think you would be in such glee even at being free, my lord,
if you were.'
'And now, Malcolm, ken ye of ony fair Scottish lassie--a cousin of mine
ain, who could be had to countenance my bride at our wedding, and ride
with us thereafter to Scotland?'
'I know whom your Grace means,' said Malcolm, smiling.
'An if you do, maybe, Malcolm, sin she bides not far frae the border,
ye'd do me the favour of riding with Sir Patrick here, and bringing her
to the bridal,' said the King, making his accent more home-like and
Scottish than Malcolm had ever heard it before.
The happiness of that spring afternoon was surpassing. The King linked
his arm into Malcolm's, and walked up and down with him on the slopes,
telling him all that had led to this consummation; how Walter Stewart and
his brothers had become so insolent and violent as to pass the endurance
of their father the Regent, as well as of all honest Scots; and how,
after secret negotiations and vain endeavours to obtain from him a pledge
of indemnity for all that had happened, the matter had been at length
opened with Gloucester, Beaufort, and the Council. The Scottish nation,
with Albany at the head, was really recalling the King. This was the
condition on which Henry V. had always declared that he should be
liberated; these were the terms on which he had always hoped to return;
and his patience was at last rewarded. Bedford had sent his joyful
consent, and all was now concluded. James was really free, and waited
only for his marriage.
'I would not tell you, Malcolm, while there might yet be a slip between
cup and lip,' said the King; 'it might have hindered the humanities; and
yet I needed you as much when I was glad as when all seemed like to
fail!'
'You had Patrick,' said Malcolm.
'Patrick's a tall and trusty fellow,' said the King, 'with a shrewd wit,
and like to be a right-hand man; but there's something in you, Malcolm,
that makes a man turn to you for fellow-feeling, even as to a wife.'
Nevertheless, the King and Patrick had grown much attached to each other,
though the latter, being no lover of books, had wearied sorely of the
sojourn at Windsor, which the King himself only found endurable by much
study and reflection. Their only variety had been keeping Christmas at
Hertford with Queen Catherine; 'sorry pastime,' as Drummond reported it
to him, though gladdened to the King by Joan Beaufort's presence, in all
her charms.
'The Demoiselle of Luxemburg was there too, statelier than ever,' said
James. 'She is now at Middleham Castle, with the Lady Montagu, and you
might make it your way northward, and lodge a night there. If you can
win her consent, it were well to be wedded when we are.'
'Never shall I, my lord. I should not dare even to speak of it.'
'It is well; but, Malcolm, you merit something from the damsel. You are
ten times the man you were when she flouted you. If women were not
mostly witless, you would be much to be preferred to any mere Ajax or
Fierabras; and if this damsel should have come to the wiser mind that it
were pity to be buried to the world--'
'Sir, I pray you say no more. I were forsworn to ask such a thing.'
'I bid you not, only I would I were there to see that all be not lost for
want of a word in season; and it is high time that something be done.
Here be letters from my Lord of Therouenne, demanding the performance of
the contract ere our return home.'
'He cannot reach her here,' said Malcolm.
'No; but his outcry can reach your honour; and it were ill to have such a
house as that of Luxemburg crying out upon you for breach of faith to
their daughter.'
Malcolm smiled. 'That I should heed little, Sir. I would fain bear
something for her.'
'Why, this is mere sublimated devoir, too fine for our gross
understandings,' said James, ironically. 'Mayhap the sight of the soft
roseate cheek may bring it somewhat down to poor human flesh and blood
once more.'
'Once I was tempted, Sir,' said Malcolm, blushing deeply; 'but did I not
know that her holiness is the guardian of her earthly beauty, I would not
see her again.'
'Nay, there I command you,' said the King; 'soon I shall have subjects
enough; but while I have but half a dozen, I cannot be disobeyed by them!
I bid you go to Middleham, and there I leave all to the sight.'
The King spoke gaily, and with such kind good-humour that Malcolm,
humiliated by the thought of the past, durst not make fresh
asseverations. James, in the supreme moment of the pure and innocent
romance of which he was the hero, looked on love like his own as the
highest crown of human life, and distrusted the efforts after the
superhuman which too often were mere simulation or imitation; but a
certain recollection of Henry's warnings withheld him from pressing the
matter, and he returned to his own joys and hopes, looking on the
struggles he expected with a strong man's exulting joy, and not even
counting the years of his captivity wasted, though they had taken away
his first youth.
'What should I have been,' he said, 'bred up in the tumults at home? What
could I have known better than Perth? Nay, had I been sent home when I
came to age, as a raw lad, how would one or other by fraud or force have
got the upper hand, so as I might never have won it back. No, I would
not have foregone one year of study--far less that campaign in France,
and the sight of Harry in war and in policy.'
James also took Malcolm to see the child king, his little master. This,
the third king of James's captivity, was now a fair creature of two years
old. He trotted to meet his visitor, calling him by a baby name for
brother, and stretching out his arms to be lifted up and fondled; for, as
Dame Alice Boteller, his _gouvernante_, muttered, he knew the King of
Scots better than he did his own mother.
A retinue had been already collected, and equipments prepared, so that
there was no delay in sending forth Malcolm and Patrick upon their
northward journey. At the nearest town they halted, sending forward a
messenger to announce their neighbourhood to the old Countess of
Salisbury and her grand-daughter Lady Montagu, and to request permission
to halt for 'Mothering Sunday' at the Castle.
In return a whole band of squires and retainers came forth, headed by the
knightly seneschal, to invite Lord Malcolm Stewart and his companion to
the Castle; whereupon Sir Patrick proceeded to don his gayest gown and
chaperon, and was greatly scandalized that Malcolm's preparation
consisted in putting on his black serge bachelor's gown and hood of
rabbit's fur such as he wore at Oxford, looking, as Patrick declared, no
better than a begging scholar. But Malcolm had made up his mind that if
he appeared before Esclairmonde at all it should be in no other guise;
and thus it was that he rode like a black spot in the midst of the
cavalcade, bright with the colours of Nevil and of Montagu, and was
marshalled up the broad stairs by the silver wand of the seneschal.
Lord Montagu had gone back to the wars; so the family at home consisted
of the grand, stately, and distant old Countess of Salisbury, and her
young grand-daughter, the Lady Montagu, with her three months' old son.
Each had an almost royal suite of well-born dames and damsels in
attendance, among whom the Demoiselle de Luxemburg alone was on an
equality with the mistresses of the house. Even Queen Catherine's
presence-chamber had hardly equalled the grand baronial ceremony of the
hall, where sat the three ladies in the midst of their circle of
attendants, male and female ranged on opposite sides; and old Lady
Salisbury knew the exact number of paces that it befitted her and Lady
Montagu to advance to receive the royal infusion of blood that flowed in
the veins of my Lord of Glenuskie. And yet it was the cheek, and not the
hand, that were offered in salutation by both ladies, as well as by
Esclairmonde. Malcolm, however, only durst kneel on one knee and salute
her hand, and felt himself burning with crimson as the touch and voice
brought back those longings that, as James had said, proved him human
still. He was almost glad that etiquette required him to hand the aged
Countess to her seat and to devote his chief attention to her.
Punctilio reigned supreme in such a house as this. Nowhere had Malcolm
seen such observance of ceremony, save in the court of the Duke of
Burgundy, and there it was modified by the presence of rough and ready
warriors; but an ancient dame like Lady Salisbury thought it both the due
and the safeguard of her son's honour, and exacted it rigorously of all
who approached her.
Alice of Montagu had the sweet fragile look of a young mother about her,
but her frightened fawn air was gone; she was in her home, had found her
place, and held it with a simple dignity of her own, quite ready to ripen
into all the matronly authority, without the severe formality, of her
grand-dame.
She treated Malcolm with a gentle smiling courtesy such as she had never
vouchsafed to him before, and all the shyness that had once made her
silent was gone, when at the supper-table, and afterwards seated around
the fire, the tidings of the camp and court were talked over with all the
zest of those to whom King Harry's last campaign was becoming 'old
times'; and what with her husband's letters and opinions, little Alice
was really the best-informed as to the present state of things.
Esclairmonde took her part in the conversation, but there was no
opportunity of exchanging a private or personal word between her and
Malcolm in a party of five, where one was as vigilant and grave-eyed as
my Lady Salisbury.
However, the next was a peculiar day, the Fourth Sunday in Lent, called
'Mothering Sunday' because on that day it was originally the custom for
offerings to be carried from all the country round to the cathedral or
mother church on that day. This custom had been modified, but it was
still the rule that all the persons, who at other times worshipped at the
nearest monastery chapel or at a private chapel in their own houses,
should on that day repair to their parish church, and there make a
special offering at the Mass--that offering which has since become the
Easter dues. It was a festival Sunday too--'Refreshing Sunday'--then, as
now, marked by the Gospel on the feeding of the multitude; and from this,
as well as from the name, the pretty custom had begun of offering the
mother of each house her rich simnal cake, with some other gift from each
of her children.
Hearing a pattering of feet in the early morning, Malcolm looked out and
beheld a whole troop of small children popping in and out of a low
archway. If he could have peeped in, he would have known how many
simnals Ladies Esclairmonde and Alice were sending down--with something
more substantial--to be given to mothers by the children who as yet had
nothing to bring of their own.
But when the household assembled in the castle hall, they did see fair
young Lady Montagu kneel at the chair of the grave old Countess, and hold
up a silver dish, wherein lay the simnal, mixed, kneaded, and moulded by
her own hands, and bearing on it a rich ruby clasp, sent by her father,
the Earl, as his special gift to his mother on this Sunday.
And then, when the old lady, with glistening eyes, had spoken her
blessing on the fair young head bent down before her, and the grandchild
rose up, there was the pretty surprise for her of her little swaddled
son, lying in Esclairmonde's arms, and between the small fingers, that as
yet knew not how to grasp, the tiny simnal; and moreover a fair pearl
devised in like manner by the absent Sir Richard as a gift for his wife's
first 'Mothering Sunday.' There was no etiquette here to hinder sweet
Alice from passionately clasping her child, and covering him with kisses,
as many for his father as for himself, as she laughed at the baby smiles
and helpless gestures of the future king-maker, whose ambition and
turbulence were to be the ruin of that fair and prosperous household, and
bring the gentle Alice to a widowed, bereaved, and attainted old age.
Well that none there present saw the future, as she proudly claimed the
admiration of Malcolm for her babe!
She was equipped for the expedition to the parish church, as likewise
were Esclairmonde and almost all the rest; but the aged Countess could
not encounter the cold March winds, and had a dispensation; and thus
Alice, being the lady of the procession, contrived at the same time to
call Sir Patrick to her side, and bid Lord Malcolm lead the Lady
Esclairmonde.
For as the weather was dry and cold, Lady Montagu had chosen to go on
foot; and a grand procession it was that she led, of gentlemen and
ladies, two and two, in their bright dresses and adornments that
delighted the eyes of the homely yeomen and their wives, flocking in from
their homesteads with baskets of offerings, often in kind.
Meantime, Malcolm, holding the tips of Esclairmonde's fingers, durst not
speak till she began: 'This is a devout and pious household--full of
peace and good government.'
'And your time goes happily here?' asked Malcolm.
'Yes, it has been a peaceful harbour wherein to wait,' said Esclairmonde.
'And even if Alice were called to her husband in France, my Lady Countess
will keep me with her till there be a vacancy for me at St. Katharine's.'
'Have you the promise from Queen Joan?'
'Yes,' replied Esclairmonde. 'The Countess had been a lady of hers, and
wrought with her, so that whenever the post of bedeswoman is in her gift
I shall be preferred to it.'
'You, the heiress, accept the charity!' Malcolm could not help
exclaiming.
'The better for all remnants of pride,' returned the lady. 'And you, my
lord, has it fared well with you?'
Malcolm, happy in her interest, poured forth all that he had to tell, and
she listened as Esclairmonde alone could listen. There was something in
her very expression of attention that seemed to make the speaker take out
the alloy and leave only his purest gold to meet her ears. Malcolm
forgot those throbs of foolish wild hope that had shot across him like
demon temptations to hermit saints, and only felt that the creature of
his love and reverence was listening benignly as he told her of the
exceeding delight that he was unravelling in learned lore; how each step
showed him further heights, and how he had come to view the Light of the
World as the light of wisdom, to the research of which he meant to devote
his entire life, among universities and manuscripts.
'The Light of Wisdom,' repeated Esclairmonde--'so it may be, for Christ
is Heavenly Wisdom; but I doubt me if the Light of the World lies solely
in books and universities.'
'Nay,' said Malcolm. 'Once I was fool enough to fancy it was the light
of glory, calling knights to deeds of fame and chivalry. I have seen
mine error now, and--oh, lady, what mean you? where should that light be,
save in the writings of wise and holy men?'
'Methinks,' said Esclairmonde, 'that the light is there, even as the
light is also before the eyes of the true knight; but it is not only
there.'
'Where is it then?' said Malcolm. 'In helmet or in cowl, I am the sworn
champion of the Light of the World.'
'The Light,' said Esclairmonde, looking upwards, 'the true Light of the
World is the Blessed Saviour, the Heavenly Wisdom of God; and His
champions find Him and serve Him in camp, cloister, or school, or
wherever He has marked their path, so as they seek not their own profit
or glory, and lay not up their treasure for themselves on earth.'
'Then surely,' said Malcolm, 'the hoards of deep study within the mind
are treasures beyond the earth.'
'Your schoolmen speak of spirit, mind, and body,' said Esclairmonde--'at
least so I, an ignorant woman, have been told. Should not the true Light
for eternity lighten the spirit rather than the mind?'
Malcolm pondered and said: 'I thought I had found the right path at
last!'
'Nay--never, never did I say otherwise,' cried Esclairmonde. 'To seek
God's Light in good men's words, and pursue it, must be a blessed task.
Every task must be blessed to which He leads. And when you are
enlightened with that light, you will hold it up to others. When you
have found the treasure, you will scatter it here, and so lay it up
above.'
Esclairmonde's words were almost a riddle to Malcolm, but his reverence
for her made him lay them up deeply, as he watched her kneeling at the
Mass, her upturned face beaming with an angelic expression.
His mind was much calmed by this meeting. It had had an absolutely
contrary effect to what King James had expected, by spiritualizing his
love, and increasing that reverence which cast out its earthliness. That
first throb which had been so keen at meeting, and knowing her not for
him, had passed away in the refining of that distant worship he had paid
her in those days of innocence.
Lady Montagu was quite satisfied with him now. He was the Malcolm of her
first acquaintance, only without his foolish diffidence, and with a
weight and earnestness that made him a man and not a boy; and she
cordially invited him to bring his sister with him, and rest, on the way
southward. He agreed most thankfully, since this would be the only
opportunity of showing Esclairmonde and Lilias one to the other, as well
as one of his own few chances of seeing Esclairmonde.
Once they must meet, that their promises might be restored the one to the
other; but as the betrothal remained the lady's security, this could not
be done till she became pledged at St. Katharine's. When the opportunity
came, she was to send Malcolm a messenger, and he would come to her at
once. Until then he promised that he would not leave Great Britain.
On Monday the cousins proceeded, coming after a time to the route by
which Malcolm had ridden three years before, and where he was now at home
in comparison with Patrick. How redolent it was with recollections of
King Harry, in all his gaiety and grace, ere the shock of his brother's
death had fallen on him! At Thirsk, Malcolm told of the prowess and the
knighthood of honest Trenton and Kitson, to somewhat incredulous ears.
The two squires had been held as clownish fellows, and the sentiment of
the country was that Mistress Agnes was well quit of them, and the rough
guardianship by which they had kept off all other suitors. As mine host
concluded, ''Tis a fine thing to go to the wars.'
Hearing that Kitson's mother lived not a mile out of his way, Malcolm
rode to the fine old moated grange, where he found her sitting at her
spinning, presiding over a great plentiful household, while her second
son, a much shrewder-looking man than Sir Christopher, managed the farm.
The travellers were welcomed with eager hospitality so soon as it was
understood that they brought tidings of 'our Kit'; and Malcolm's story
was listened to with tears of joy by the old lady, while the brother
could not get over his amazement at hearing that Trenton and Kitson had
become a proverb in the camp for oneness in friendship.
'Made it up with Will Trenton! And never fought it out! I'd never know
our Kit again after that!'
His steady bravery, his knighthood, and the King's praise, his having
assisted in saving Lord Glenuskie's life against such odds, did not seem
to strike Wilfred Kitson half as much as the friendship with Trenton, and
Malcolm did not think the regret was very great at the two knights having
given up their intention of returning. 'Our Kit's' place seemed to have
closed up behind him; Wilfred seemed to be too much master to be ready to
give up to the elder brother; and even the mother had learnt to do
without him. 'I'll warrant,' quoth she, 'that now he is a knight and got
used to fine French ways, he'll think nothing good enow for him. And if
he brought Will Trenton with him, I'd not sit at the board with the
fellow.--But ye'll ride over, Wilfred, and take care the minx Agnes knows
what she's lost. Ay, and if you knew of a safe hand, Sir, when the
shearing is over I'd send the lad a purse of nobles to keep up his
knighthood in the camp, forsooth.'
'Certes,' said Malcolm, as after a salt-fish dinner he mounted again, 'if
honest Kitson knew, he would scarce turn back from the camp, where he is
somebody. Shall we find ourselves as little wanted when we get home,
Patie?'
Patrick drew himself up with a happy face of secret assurance. Nothing
could make Lilias forsake him, he well knew.
At Durham they found their good friend Father Akefield, erst Prior of
Coldingham, but who had been violently dispossessed by the House of
Albany in favour of their candidate, Drax, about a year before, and was
thankful to have been allowed with a few English monks to retire across
the Border to the mother Abbey at Durham.
The good father could hardly believe his eyes when he beheld Malcolm, now
a comely and personable young gentleman, less handsome and graceful
indeed than many, but with all his painful personal peculiarities gone,
with none of the scared, imploring look, but with a grave thoughtful
earnestness about his face, as though all that once was timid and
wandering was now fixed and steadfast.
Father Akefield could tell nothing of Lilias since his own expulsion, but
as the Prioress of St. Abbs was herself a Drummond, and no one durst
interfere with her, he had no alarms for her safety. But he advised the
two gentlemen to go straight to St. Abbs, without showing themselves at
Coldingham, lest Prior Drax, being in the Albany interest, should make
any demur at giving her up to the care of the brother, who still wanted
some months of his twenty-first year.
Accordingly they pushed on, and in due time slept at Berwick, receiving
civilities from the English governor that chafed Patrick's blood, which
became inflammable as soon as he neared the Border; and rising early the
next morning, they passed the gates, and were on Scottish ground once
more, their hearts bounding at the sense that it was their own land, and
would soon be no more a land of misrule. With their knowledge of King
James and his intentions, well might they have unlimited hopes for the
country over which he was about to reign.
They turned aside from Coldingham, and made for the sea, and at length
the promontory of St. Abbs Head rose before them; they passed through the
outer buildings intended as shelter for the attendants of ladies coming
to the nunnery, and knocked at the gateway.
A wicket in the door was opened, and the portress looked out through a
grating.
'_Benedicite_, good Sister,' said Malcolm. 'Prithee tell the Mother
Abbess that Malcolm Stewart of Glenuskie is here from the King, and
craves to speak with her and the Lady Lilias.'
'Lord Malcolm! Lady Lilias! St. Ebba's good mercy!' shrieked the
affrighted portress. They heard her rushing headlong across the court,
and looked on one another in consternation.
Patrick betook himself to knocking as if he would beat down the door, and
Malcolm leant against it with a foreboding that took away his
breath--dreading the moment when it should be opened.
The portress and her keys returned again, and parleyed a moment. 'You
are the Lord Malcolm in very deed--in the flesh?'
'Wherefore not?' demanded Malcolm.
'Nay, but we heard ye were slain, my lord,' explained the
portress--letting him in, however, and leading them across the court, to
where the Mother Abbess, Annabel Drummond, awaited them in the parlour.
'Alas, Sirs, what grievous error has this been?' was her exclamation;
while Malcolm, scarcely waiting for salutation, demanded, 'Where is my
sister?'
'How? In St. Hilda's keeping at Whitby, whither the King sent for her,'
said the Abbess.
'The King!' cried Malcolm, 'we come from the King! Oh, what treachery
has been here?'
'And you, Lord Malcolm--and you, my kinsman, Sir Patrick of the Braes,
how do I see you here? We had heard you both were dead.'
'You heard a lying tale then, good Mother,' said Patrick, gruffly, 'no
doubt devised for the misery of the--of my--' He could not finish the
sentence, and Malcolm entreated the Abbess to tell the whole.
It appeared that about a year previously the chaplain of the monastery
had learnt at Coldingham that Sir John Swinton of Swinton had sent home
tidings that Patrick Drummond had been thrown from his horse and left
behind in a village which the English had harried, and as he could not
move, he was sure to have been either burnt or hung. This conclusion was
natural, and argued no malice in the reporter; and while poor Lilias was
still in her first agony of grief, Prior Drax sent over intelligence
derived from the Duke of Albany himself that Malcolm Stewart of Glenuskie
had been stabbed in the forest of Vincennes. This report Malcolm himself
accounted for. He had heard a Scots tongue among his foes, though
national feeling had made him utterly silent on that head to the Duke of
Bedford, and he guessed it to belong to a certain M'Kay, whose clan
regarded themselves as at feud with the Stewarts, and of whom he had
heard as living a wild _routier_ life. He had probably been hired by
Ghisbert for the attack, and had returned home and spread the report of
its success.
Some few weeks later, the Abbess Annabel continued, there had arrived two
monks from Coldingham, with an escort, declaring themselves to have
received orders from King James to transport the Lady Lilias to the
nunnery at Whitby, where the Abbess had promised to receive her, till he
could determine her fate.
The forlorn and desolate Lilias, believing herself to stand alone in the
world, was very loth to quit her shelter and her friends at St. Abbs; but
the Abbess, doubting her own ability to protect her from the rapacious
grasp of Walter Stewart, now that she had, as she believed, become an
heiress, and glad to avert from her house the persecution that such
protection would bring upon it, had gratefully heard of this act of
consideration on the King's part, and expedited her departure. The two
monks, Simon Bell and Ringan Johnstone, had not returned to the
monastery, but had been thought to be in the parent house at Durham; but
Malcolm, who knew Brother Simon by sight, was clear that he had not seen
him there.
All this had taken place a year ago, and there could be no doubt that
some treachery had been exercised. Nothing had since been heard of
Lilias; none of Malcolm's letters had reached St. Abbs, having doubtless
been suppressed by the Prior of Coldingham; and all that was certain was
that Walter Stewart, to whom their first suspicions directed themselves,
had not publicly avouched any marriage with Lilias or claimed the
Glenuskie estates, or the King, who had of late been in close
correspondence with Scotland, must have heard of it. And it was also
hardly possible that the Regent Murdoch and his sons, though they might
for a few weeks have been misled by M'Kay's report, should not have soon
become aware of Malcolm's existence.
Unless, then, Walter had married her 'on the first brash,' as Patrick
called it, he might not have thought her a prize worth the winning; but
the whole aspect of affairs had become most alarming, and Malcolm turned
pale as death at the thought that his sister might be suffering
retribution for the sin he had contemplated.
The danger was terrible! He could not imagine Lilias to have the moral
grandeur and force of Esclairmonde. Moreover, she supposed her lover
dead, and had not the same motive for guarding her troth. Forlorn and
despairing, she might have yielded, and Walter Stewart was, Malcolm
verily believed, worse to deal with than even Boemond. As the whole
danger and uncertainty came over him, his senses seemed to reel; he leant
back in his seat, and heard as in the midst of a dream his sister's sobs
and groans, Patrick's fierce and furious exclamations, and the Abbess's
attempts at consoling him. Dizzy with horror at the scene he realized,
Lilias's cries and shrieks of entreaty were ringing in his ear, when
suddenly a sweet full low voice seemed to come through them, 'I am bound
ever to pray for you and your sister.' Mingled with the cry came ever
the sweet soft Litany cadences--'For all that are desolate and oppressed:
we beseech Thee to hear us, good Lord.' Gradually the cries seemed to be
swallowed up, both voices blended in _Kyrie eleison_ and then in the
_Gloria_, and at that moment he became aware of Patrick crying, 'I will
seek her in every castle in Scotland.'
'Stay, Patrick,' he said, rising, though forced to hold by his chair;
'that must be my part.'
'You--why, the laddie is white as a sheet! He well-nigh swooned at the
tidings. You seek her, forsooth!' and Patrick laughed bitterly.
'Yes, Patie,' said Malcolm, 'for this I am strong. It is my duty and not
yours, and God will strengthen me for it.'
Patrick burst out at this: 'Neither man nor devil shall tell me it is not
mine!'
'You are the King's prisoner still,' said Malcolm, rising to energy; 'you
are bound to return to him. The tidings must be taken to him at once.'
'A groom could do that.'
'Neither so swiftly nor surely as you. Moreover, your word of honour
binds you not to wander at your own pleasure.'
'My honour binds me not to trust you--wee Malcolm--to wander into the
wolf's cage alone.'
'I am not the silly feckless callant I once was, Patie,' answered
Malcolm. 'There are many places where my student's serge gown will take
me safely, where your corslet and lance would never find entrance. No
one will know me again as I am now: will they, holy Mother?'
'Assuredly not,' said the Abbess.
'A student is too mean a prey to be meddled with,' proceeded Malcolm,
'and is sure of hospitality in castle or convent. I can try at
Coldingham to find out whither the two monks are gone, and then follow up
the track.'
Patrick stormed at the plan, and was most unwilling it should be adopted.
He at least must follow, and keep watch over his young cousin, or it
would be a mere throwing the helve after the hatchet--a betrayal of his
trust.
But a little reflection convinced him that thus to follow would only
bring suspicion on Malcolm and defeat his plans; and that it were better
to obtain some certain information ere the King should come home, and
have to interfere with a high hand; and Malcolm's arguments about his
obligations as a captive, too, had their effect. He perceived his own
incapacity to act; and in his despair at nothing being done consented to
risk Malcolm in the search, while he himself should proceed to the King,
only ascertaining on the way that Lilias was not at Whitby. And so, in
grief and anxiety, the cousins parted, and Malcolm alone durst speak a
word of hope.